Miss Moonshine's Emporium of Happy Endings: A feel-good collection of heartwarming stories

by Helena Fairfax

  Chapter Two

  For the rest of that week, the sun shone on the heather in bloom on the moors. Every morning, Beatrice and Sylvia would carry a freshly fed Evie in her basket down the steps and into Dr Lawrence’s waiting motor. Sylvia had cleverly rigged up a strap for the basket, adapting some of the leather harness from the captain’s stables. She would fasten the basket securely onto the rear seat, and then away they would drive, climbing up and up out of the town and right onto the tops of the moors, where Dr Lawrence would park. They would spread a blanket over a patch of heather each day and sit among the drowsy bees and the curious pheasants. They brought a picnic with them and feasted on cheese and freshly baked bread, and ripe tomatoes from the greenhouse. They lay Evie beside them on the blanket, and she’d wave her chubby little arms in the air and gurgle. In just a few days, the pink returned to Evie’s cheeks. The doctor leaned over her, pulling faces, and on the third day Evie actually smiled at him. A real smile that delighted Beatrice, but not as much as the smiles of her sister. Sylvia, too, was gradually transformed. The pallor left her complexion, and nothing made her happier than to practise driving the doctor’s car, while he and Beatrice looked after Evie.

  On the final day of the doctor’s holiday, when Sylvia had driven herself quite a way up the road and was happily practising reversing, baby Evie began to grizzle in her basket. The doctor picked her up and cradled her to his shoulder, where she promptly let out a loud burp.

  Beatrice laughed. ‘I think she’s taken to you, Dr Lawrence.’

  ‘For a small creature she has a potent smell,’ he said, wrinkling his nose. ‘I’m afraid my medical tutors didn’t teach us how to change a baby.’

  Beatrice pulled a disbelieving expression. She held her arms out to take Evie back. ‘It’s strange how men are quite capable of academic study, but when it comes to simply changing a baby’s napkin, they’re helpless.’ She drew out a large square of linen from Sylvia’s bag and laid the baby down on it. Then she swiftly unpinned the soiled nappy. Evie kicked her legs, delighting in her freedom.

  ‘There.’ Beatrice rooted through the bag for clean things. ‘Now watch and learn, Dr Lawrence.’

  ‘I wish you’d call me Edward.’

  Beatrice lifted her head. The doctor was looking at her with a half-diffident, half-earnest expression. Honestly, Beatrice thought, he’s asking me to call him Edward right this moment, just as I’m changing a soiled nappy. But nevertheless, she couldn’t help smiling at him. The doctor – Edward – smiled back. He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped abruptly, turning to look at the road. There was the sound of the car chugging back up the hill.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry I was so long,’ Sylvia cried. She switched the engine off and jumped down. ‘I went much further than I meant. I’ve had a wonderful time. I drove past Mr Jacks, the farmer. You should have seen the look on his face.’ Her eyes sparkled. Then she looked from Beatrice to Edward and back to Beatrice again, and something seemed to dawn on her. ‘I shouldn’t have left you both alone so long.’

  ‘We won’t tell Charles if you don’t,’ Beatrice said. She pinned Evie’s new nappy on and finished dressing her, and rose to her feet.

  ‘Time to get back,’ Edward said, drawing out his watch. ‘All good things must come to an end.’

  The doctor’s words were apt, in more ways than one. Dr Lawrence was starting his new job at the Infirmary the next day. There would be no more picnics on the moors. The drive home was a subdued one. Edward was concentrating on the road ahead, a small crease on his brow. Sylvia also was quiet in the back seat, and when Beatrice turned to see how she was, she caught her looking from Edward to Beatrice, a thoughtful expression on her face. She looked away when she caught Beatrice watching her.

  After reaching home, and after Beatrice and Sylvia had thanked Edward, and wished him all the very best in his new post, Sylvia pushed open the door while Beatrice carried Evie inside. There was a letter lying on the doormat, addressed in Captain Osborne’s strong, distinctive hand. Sylvia snatched it up and began reading at once.

  Beatrice carried Evie, who was beginning to grizzle for her feed, into the front room. She was standing by the window, cradling and crooning to her, when Sylvia rushed in, clutching the letter to her.

  ‘Beatrice! He’s on his way home!’

  Beatrice turned, forcing a bright smile to her face.

  ‘He’ll be here in two weeks.’ Her sister rushed forward and kissed the top of Evie’s head, swooping her into her arms. ‘Daddy will be home soon, darling, and he’ll get to meet his lovely, chubby little daughter and dote on her as much as Mummy does. Let’s come and do your feed, you sweet old grizzly thing.’

  She carried Evie from the room, chatting and murmuring to her. The smile vanished from Beatrice’s face as soon as the door closed behind them. Of course she was happy Sylvia’s husband would soon be home. She was happy he was returning safe from India, and happy for him that he’d finally meet his daughter and be at home with the wife he adored. Captain Osborne was a good man. He was a little rigid in his manner for Beatrice’s liking, but he had been besotted with Sylvia since the day they first met, and Beatrice had no doubt the captain would be equally besotted with his daughter.

  She turned to the window and gazed out at the rose garden. With her brother-in-law home, she would soon have to leave. She was sure Sylvia would try to persuade her to stay – Charles, too, to be perfectly fair to him. But two was company – three was a family, if you counted Evie – and four was distinctly like a crowd. Sylvia and Evie no longer needed her, in any case. Since their daily drives onto the moors in Edward’s car, the sparkle had returned to Sylvia’s expression, and Evie’s complexion was now pink and rosy. With Charles returning, there was no need for Beatrice to remain.

  She rested her head against the window frame. Where on earth would she go? Her stay with Sylvia had been a wonderful taste of freedom after living with their parents. Their mother would love for Beatrice to go back to Lancashire and help them with the farm, but the thought of returning – and of burying herself in the middle of nowhere again – was more than she could bear. Besides, when her father died the farm would go to her younger brother, William, and what would Beatrice do then?

  She sighed. If she had been born a man, she would have inherited the farm. She would have given the farm willingly to William, who loved the life, and if she were a man, she would have gone to university to study medicine. Being born a woman was just so unfair. Why was it Charles was allowed to join the army and do exciting things like travel to India, and Sylvia, who was so skilful with mechanics, and knew all the workings of every engine, was left at home, unable to practise her talents? Why could Edward go off and become a doctor, and Beatrice couldn’t even earn enough money to support herself?

  Beatrice ran over her options. She could be a writer, like Constance Lawrence. But Mrs Lawrence was fortunate to earn so much. So few women earned money from writing. In any case, unlike Mrs Lawrence, Beatrice had little imagination. She preferred medical books, where everything was hard, reliable fact. Perhaps she could find work as a teacher. That seemed more likely, but the thought wasn’t at all comforting, because she wasn’t cut out for teaching, either. But if she couldn’t find employment, then the future looked bleak indeed.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning Beatrice left the house soon after breakfast and began the long walk down the hill to Miss Moonshine’s shop. Baby Evie was developing a rash where her napkin rubbed. Beatrice had told her sister she would buy some of the wonderful ointment Miss Moonshine sold, which always cleared the redness like magic. Secretly she was also hoping Miss Moonshine would give her some advice. The wise old shopkeeper always had the answer to any problem Beatrice confided in her.

  So Beatrice strode past the terraced houses tumbling down the hills around Haven Bridge, over the bridge and into the town. She ducked under the roses blooming over the shop’s archway and came to a halt. The sign on the shop’s door said ‘
Closed’. Miss Moonshine’s shop was never closed! But even more astonishing, the entire shop front was decked with banners in the green, purple and white of the Women’s Social and Political Union. There were posters in the window declaring ‘Votes for Women!’ and ‘Rally for Women’s Suffrage!’

  Beatrice stared in amazement. She had heard of the suffragettes’ marches in Manchester and London, but never imagined their movement would ever reach Haven Bridge, or that the struggle for equality would touch her life at all. She was standing pondering it all, when the door opened and Miss Moonshine stepped out. She was dressed very conservatively in a high-necked blouse, a trim boater, and a navy skirt, and was clutching an umbrella in one hand and a carpet bag in the other. Napoleon’s tiny head poked out of the top of the bag, the side of which was embroidered with the slogan ‘Votes for Women!’ in large purple letters. There was a resigned expression on the dog’s face.

  ‘There you are, Beatrice. I’ve been expecting you.’

  ‘Really?’ Beatrice’s mouth opened in surprise, but there was no time to ask how Miss Moonshine knew she was coming, because now another woman was stepping out of the shop, causing Beatrice’s jaw to drop further. Constance Lawrence! But of course Miss Moonshine had said Mrs Lawrence was an old friend, and since she was also Edward’s mother it was to be expected she’d visit him in Haven Bridge. Nevertheless, Beatrice couldn’t help staring, star-struck.

  Mrs Lawrence stepped forward to greet her, gloved hand outstretched. She was very different in appearance from her son. Edward was rather tall, but Mrs Lawrence was almost as tiny as Miss Moonshine. She looked like an older version of one of the glamorous heroines in her books. Her hair – still a youthful gold – was just visible beneath her straw hat. She gave Beatrice a wide smile, as though she’d been longing to meet her. Beatrice couldn’t help but notice that Edward’s mother was wearing lipstick, in a dashing shade of cherry red. Lipstick – how daring! Whatever would Charles say?

  Beatrice’s shyness fled and she couldn’t help a wide smile of her own as she shook Mrs Lawrence’s hand. A pair of brown eyes met hers, and now Beatrice noticed the resemblance to Edward in their intelligent gaze.

  Mrs Lawrence put her head on one side. ‘You must be Miss Diamond.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’

  Beatrice felt her cheeks redden a little. Had Edward been speaking of her?

  But then Miss Moonshine broke in, ‘If you’re marching with us, Beatrice, you’ll need an umbrella.’

  ‘Marching?’ Beatrice glanced at her, aghast. ‘Me? You mean with the suffragettes?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Miss Moonshine said briskly. ‘Isn’t that why you came? There’s a march planned in Hepton. Mrs Lawrence and I are on our way now.’

  Beatrice had a fleeting, cowardly desire to say she’d only come for some baby ointment. She thought about the suffragettes, and the enormous scandal there had been about them. She thought of how they’d marched on the House of Commons, chaining themselves to railings, and breaking windows. She thought of how some of them had even been arrested and imprisoned. A frisson of fear ran down her spine. Associating with suffragettes was dangerous. And scandalous, many people might say. Beatrice pictured Charles’s shock if he knew Beatrice was marching for the vote.

  And then a strange feeling came over her. It started in the pit of her stomach, travelling all the way up, making her lift her head and stand erect. Her eyes narrowed and she set her mouth in a grim line. So what if she got arrested? What had she got to lose? After all, what had the world of men ever done for her? If women got the vote, she’d jolly well vote for the party that allowed women to become doctors and mechanics if they wanted.

  She gave Miss Moonshine a smart nod. ‘That’s right. I’m here for the march.’ And then she hesitated. ‘But you said I needed an umbrella.’ She looked up at the cloudless summer sky. ‘Is that really necessary?’

  ‘You should always carry an umbrella in a demonstration,’ Miss Moonshine told her, bringing her brolly down with an alarming swish. ‘You never know if there might be trouble.’

  Napoleon ducked back into the bag. Beatrice, too, was taken aback.

  ‘I don’t think I could use an umbrella to strike someone. No matter what happened.’ Then she thought again of the marches in London, where the police had brought horses, and there had been so much trouble. She tried to stiffen her resolve and to remember her medical studies and women’s rights to a democratic vote. Even so, it was hard not to feel a great deal of trepidation at the thought of violence. How brave these suffragettes were!

  Mrs Lawrence patted her arm. ‘Don’t be anxious, Miss Diamond. Look at us.’ She made a gesture that took in her own sober grey jacket and Miss Moonshine’s unusually conservative clothes. ‘We don’t want people thinking we’re hooligans. We’re just respectable women asking for the right to vote. Nothing to alarm anyone. Now come along!’

  She and Miss Moonshine strode off. The village of Hepton lay on the other side of the valley to Sylvia’s house. It was a tiny place – no more than a few streets and a pub, and a little church and schoolhouse, perched at the top of a very long, and very steep, cobbled path.

  Mrs Lawrence was right, Beatrice thought, as she followed in their wake. They were just ordinary women, causing no trouble to anyone. And what could possibly happen in a quiet village like Hepton? She fell into step beside them. After a few minutes, they reached the start of the path, which lay on the other side of a high stone wall. As they rounded the corner to join it, Beatrice’s nerves were jolted again by the incredible sight in front of her. Hundreds of women were already on the march. Women of all ages. Women in clogs, with shawls around their heads. Women tottering slowly on walking sticks, supported by their daughters. Young girls in straw hats and striped jackets, walking arm in arm. Dozens of banners were waving, some neatly embroidered, some with the words ‘Votes for Women’, crudely drawn. There was a beautiful appliqué of the mill chimneys and the moors, all greens and golds, with the letters WSPU stitched to it. Beatrice had never seen anything like the glorious spectacle of the female crowd in all her life. She turned to find more women were joining them at the rear.

  One of the girls ahead began to sing, in a loud and clear soprano.

  ‘Rise up, women, for the fight is hard and long;

  Rise up in thousands, singing loud a battle song.

  Right is might, and in strength we shall be strong

  And the cause goes marching on.’

  Miss Moonshine and Mrs Lawrence joined in, and soon all the women were singing, ‘Glory, glory, hallelujah!’, and Beatrice’s voice swelled with theirs.

  Slowly, slowly, they made their way up the steep path and precipitous stairs that led to Hepton, their ranks growing. Beatrice glanced around her at the determined faces. In this crowd of women, it seemed anything was possible. The march had grown so quickly, and the streets were so narrow, it was difficult to gauge just how many they were, but she guessed there must have been near on a thousand. Surely people would take notice? Surely their voices couldn’t be ignored, and surely things would change for women?

  When they reached the top of the climb the women began to spread out. A hush fell. A woman began to address the crowd from somewhere on the other side of the village square, but Beatrice and her companions couldn’t catch her words or see beyond the sea of banners and hats. They began to work their way round, dodging through groups of mill girls, who were listening intently.

  In the quiet, a man’s voice rang out. ‘Go ’ome and get yer ’usband’s tea!’

  The woman speaking to the crowds made some reply Beatrice couldn’t catch, and there was a ripple of laughter. Her heart was pumping with a mixture of excitement and nerves. They pushed their way past a group of smirking lads – Beatrice recognised little Alfie among them – and found themselves at the opposite side of the square. They were at the top of a narrow set of stone steps leading back down to Haven Bridge. A strapping policeman stood, arms folded, watchi
ng the proceedings.

  Beatrice turned to speak to Miss Moonshine, but at that very moment, to her surprise and dismay, one of the boys behind them in the group with Alfie threw a stone.

  ‘Go ’ome to yer wash-tubs!’

  The stone flew past Beatrice’s head, narrowly missing her, and clattered down the steep steps.

  Mrs Lawrence whirled round, umbrella raised.

  ‘Who threw that?’ Despite her small stature, Mrs Lawrence had a voice that was enough to quell the boldest schoolboy.

  But then a cry came up from all sides of the square. Beatrice discovered later, after all the commotion was over, that the women marchers were being jostled and pushed and harried on all sides in an organised attack by groups of youths. In Beatrice’s own small field of vision, the moments that followed passed in swift, terrible chaos. The policeman turned to find out what the trouble was. Beatrice was to remember forever afterwards his red face, sweating under a heavy blue hat, the fierce, bristling whiskers, and his hard expression. He reached out a burly arm to grasp Mrs Lawrence’s raised umbrella. As he did so, he jostled Miss Moonshine. Napoleon raised his head from her bag, outraged, his tiny mouth open in a snarl. He snapped at the policeman’s arm, nipping the blue fabric.

  Miss Moonshine bristled.

  ‘No!’ Beatrice cried, but too late. Miss Moonshine raised her umbrella and brought it down smartly on the policeman’s forearm, causing him to give an astonished grunt.

  ‘Keep away from my dog,’ she said.

  ‘Right, missus.’ He clasped hold of Miss Moonshine’s arm. ‘You’re under arrest. Assaulting a police officer.’

  ‘Oh no, please –’ Beatrice began, but the policeman’s eyes were hard as stones. He began to drag Miss Moonshine away. Her tiny frame was dwarfed beside his massive bulk, but she managed to turn round and give Beatrice a reassuring wave of her hand, still clutching her carpet-bag. Napoleon’s head bobbed and fell back inside, and then they were pulled into the crowd and all Beatrice could see was the policeman’s hat, moving relentlessly forward.