by Mary Mackie
‘No result,’ I sighed, turning my head away as I huddled deeper into the seat and the warmth of the rug. ‘I think he half suspected, anyway. Do… do you know how he is? They didn’t arrest him, did they?’
‘I gather not. If they had arrested everyone implicated by every unfounded rumour of recent days, half the county would be in gaol. Kate, my dear…’ He hesitated so long that I looked at him in puzzlement and saw him flick a shamefaced glance at me. ‘I want to apologize for my behaviour that last evening. I’m very conscious of being a good deal older than you are. I’m afraid I let the teasing irritate me. And you seemed strangely withdrawn. Yes,’ he added as I opened my mouth. ‘Now, belatedly, I understand why. You were burdened by the bad news about James Lacey.’
The reminder made me feel even colder. ‘How did Emmet take it?’
‘Badly, I think, though he put on a good show. He asked me to give you his love and say he’ll see you next time he gets leave.’
‘He’s gone back?’
‘Yesterday.’ Taking my hand, he squeezed it in understanding. ‘Will you forgive me for my selfishness, my love? I’m ashamed that I lost control. My only excuse is that I love you too well. I was afraid I might be losing you. And… I wanted you desperately. I’ve tried to be patient, but…’
‘I know. I know.’ I wanted to forget about that night. All of it.
‘You do realize,’ he said, ‘that, by giving you an alibi, I irrevocably sullied your reputation? When word gets out, as it will, we shall both be undone. Shall we forestall the gossips? I’ll apply for a special licence. We could be married next week. What do you say?’
If I hesitated, it was for only a blink. ‘I say yes. Yes, Oliver. The sooner the better.’
* * *
And so, Oliver and I stood before the registrar to exchange wedding vows and rings. It was not the way I had dreamed of being married, but dreams had always played me false.
As a honeymoon, we spent three days in the cathedral city of Ely. Our hotel was cosy, our room comfortable, our marital bed a haven for both of us, with no further reason for precautions. I tried not to think of anything else. The pattern of my life was set, for better or worse, until death did us part.
Though Oliver did not object to my continuing to work, after my public arrest in the Chef factory everyone agreed it might be politic for me to find another place of employment. Unfortunately, word of my supposed enemy sympathies went with me, like a brand on my forehead, and more than one employer turned me down. So I followed Saffron’s example and allied myself full-time with women’s charity groups – the Red Cross and the Women’s Volunteer Reserve.
I enjoyed living in Lynn, in Oliver’s comfortable flat. His Mrs Petrie declared herself glad to see him married at long last, but she wasn’t the gossipy sort. We soon established a routine: he had his work and I mine, but we met over dinner and later, in bed, we regularly employed the ‘remedy against sin’ for which marriage was secondly ordained.
The war impinged on everyone: the need for blackout curtailed evening life; shops closed early, and some foods, such as sugar, became scarce. Newspapers told of continuing sorrow, of battles fought and young lives lost in the glorious cause, of the valour of the British Tommy, the cowardice of the Hun. The true picture, as many of us knew, was not so black and white. I could not delight in news of bread riots in Berlin, German housewives queuing to buy potato peelings, or the victories of our ally, Russia, on the eastern front – Schloss Lindhafen lay somewhere in the east. But after their initial success the Russians were slowly pushed back and I had every hope that Mother and the Menschen were safe, for now.
From Emmet we heard regularly, always requesting some small comfort such as cigarettes, or socks, or chocolate. After James Lacey’s death he no longer compared the war to a game of cricket, but he continued to gloss over the real horrors. Anyone with an ounce of imagination knew about them – one had only to scan the picture weeklies, or read between the lines of reports from the front.
Uncle Frank wrote that he was on special assignment and might not be in touch for some time; we were to take no news as good news. I consoled myself that my sixth sense would tell me if anything bad happened to him, though the reality of my married life had distanced me from that unseen other world. My ghosts – even John – had stepped back into the shadows.
* * *
That summer, Saffron and I took part in a march of willing women workers, in London, where the WSPU had turned its attention to the war effort. Oliver accompanied us, taking the chance to do some business, but we left young Eddy with his nurse. Since I was obliged to obtain permission to leave Norfolk, we decided to stay for the weekend, using the Mayfair flat as a base – which seemed to please Oliver, who said it made him feel a real part of the family. Some of Frank’s possessions remained on view, but, according to the doorman, my uncle had not been seen for months.
That Saturday afternoon, the seventeenth of July, 1915, Saffron and I made our way to the Victoria Embankment, where, despite pouring rain, thousands of women turned out to support ‘Women’s Right to Serve’, calling for more female volunteers to join essential industries, and for improved standards of comfort and cleanliness. One of the main speakers was my old sparring partner, Hermione Harmistead. ‘Is that your friend? Goodness!’ Saffron was impressed.
Promptly at three thirty we set off, banners and flags waving, and at Downing Street our deputation, led by Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst, presented our petition to the Prime Minister, Mr Lloyd George.
That evening, Oliver took us to dine and dance. Above the hum of a darkened city, blinded windows and blinkered headlamps, searchlights probed the night skies and heavy guns waited, poised for action – the Zepps, having improved their navigation techniques, had begun aerial assaults on London a few weeks before. Even in the West End, the war laid its mark on the gaiety, uniforms much in evidence. But, as Oliver and I danced to a ragtime band, rediscovering the sensual pleasure of moving in unison, he held me close and smiled possessively into my eyes, reminding me of the early days of our courtship.
Later, at the apartment, Saffron and I agreed that we were both drained after an exhilarating and emotional day. I hoped Oliver would take the hint, but I had hardly climbed into bed before he came in, in a wildly lustful mood that made him ignore my protests of tiredness. He opened the blind so that the glow from a nearby searchlight lit the room; then he tore off my nightgown and, without preamble, fell upon me. Afterwards, while he subsided to sleep, I lay feeling used rather than satisfied, wondering what had roused him so – was it the dancing, or the wine? Was it the risk of an air raid, or being in the Mayfair flat for the first time? Or was it Saffron’s proximity? Unkind thoughts, but I couldn’t help them: something other than I had excited him.
On Sunday morning we attended church and walked in the park, seeing recruits at drill while other troops marched proudly along the roads, on their way to and from the front. Later, Saffron and I paid a visit to Lincoln Square and had tea with Mrs Armes. Oliver said he could better occupy the time by visiting an acquaintance in connection with Freemason matters, but I suspect he didn’t want to meet Hermione Harmistead. My aunt, however, declared herself ‘thrilled’ to discover Miss H at home. Having congratulated her on her speech the previous day, Saffron invited her to come to Lynn, to address our branch of the Women’s Volunteer Reserve. Miss H readily agreed. She had lost none of her drive and fire, but like most suffragettes she had turned her energies to war work; our struggle for the vote had taken a back seat for the duration.
‘As for you, Kate,’ she admonished, ‘it’s high time you had a real job. We’re looking for people to oversee recruitment and welfare of women workers in local areas. You know the sort of thing – making sure they get proper training and decent facilities, finding suitable accommodation… Just the ticket for you. I shall put your name before the Central Committee. And if that husband of yours has any objection, tell him to take a running jump. How you could ever marry a ma
n like that…’ She would never forgive Oliver for denying her a refuge in our taxi that night so long ago.
Since my aunt said her feet were aching, I left her talking while I went to find Win Leeming, who had gone to the park to do some studying in the sunlight. Despite the death and disorder in the world, Win still lived in and for her books. As usual, she had become so absorbed that she had forgotten the time. When she saw me coming she jumped up in consternation.
‘Goodness, Kate! Is it three o’clock already?’
‘It’s nearer four,’ I laughed.
We walked back together, past posters showing, ‘The Girl Behind the Man Behind the Gun’, or demanding, ‘Is YOUR “Best Boy” wearing khaki?’ Yes, I thought: my own ‘best boy’ had worn khaki from the beginning.
‘You look well,’ Win told me. ‘Married life must suit you.’
‘You always said Oliver would make a good husband,’ I reminded her.
‘But?’
Had my voice revealed doubt? ‘But nothing!’ I denied.
‘You’re happy?’
‘No one can claim to be happy all the time. I’m contented enough.’
‘That’s good.’ But mouse-brown eyes behind gold-rimmed specs saw too much. Win hadn’t changed. I had a feeling she would go on for years and years, looking the same and following the same habits, avoiding emotional upheaval while too clearly seeing it in others.
Win’s perception crystallized an underlying uneasiness that stirred in me whenever I glimpsed that other, harder Oliver. But Saffron had warned me that the first flush of married bliss would wane. Oliver worked long hours, not only for his clients but for the Freemasons, and the Fabian Society. Was it any wonder if at times his energies ebbed and his temper grew short?
Twenty-Two
When Saffron and I returned to Mayfair, we found a message from Oliver, saying he would spend the evening with his friends; so we treated ourselves to dinner at the Dorchester. Waitresses outnumbered waiters, making us remark on seeing women workers all over the city – operating elevators, conducting buses, sticking bills – replacing men in many jobs.
‘They can’t deny us the vote much longer,’ I observed over hors-d’oeuvres. ‘Not after we’ve proved our worth. Women are at last taking their rightful place alongside men, in the workplace. It’s much more effective than laying firebombs, or breaking windows.’
‘I’m not sure your husband agrees,’ Saffron commented. ‘He tries to be modern, but he still believes a woman’s rightful place is in the home.’
‘I know,’ I smiled. ‘But I’m educating him. Slowly.’ She gazed at me over a napkin pressed to her lips, then, ‘To be honest, I’m not sorry he found other things to do this evening. However hard I try – and I do try, for your sake, Kate – I can’t feel comfortable with him, somehow. D’you know what I mean? I suppose it’s because Harry didn’t like him. And Frank felt – feels – the same.’
The slip made us both silent for a moment. If only we knew where Frank was! ‘That’s a hangover from boyhood,’ I said. ‘They always resented Oliver as the interloper.’
‘Yes… Yes, I know.’ But she sounded dubious, her fingers worrying at a jet earring. ‘He is good to you, isn’t he?’
The concern in her hazel eyes made me wonder whether she had sensed, or heard, something of our violent coupling the previous night. ‘He’s the perfect husband,’ I said.
‘No man is perfect,’ my aunt rejoined. ‘According to Hermione, your particular “perfect husband” is more of a pompous prig.’
‘He’s not complimentary about her, either,’ I said, amused, though my disquiet stirred again. Were my marital troubles really so evident?
Saffron sat up, more animated as she confided, ‘Speaking of Miss H, I’ve been meaning to tell you – while you were out meeting Win, we talked about your difficulties with the police. Mrs Armes said something rather interesting. It seems someone approached her, while you were staying there, asking about your movements, who your friends were and so forth – d’you know what I mean? Mrs Armes thought the man had been sent by Lady Vi! But it must have been the police, don’t you think?’
‘Possibly.’ If my movements had been noted ever since I arrived in England, that explained a lot.
‘Did you know Mrs Armes was reporting back to Denes Hill about you?’
‘I suspected it, on occasion.’
We took a taxi through the blackout. I don’t know what time Oliver came in; I was asleep and he didn’t wake me. Next day, on the early train back to Norfolk, he said he was not surprised that I had been watched: Britain had long been paranoid about German spies. ‘But I’m sure they know by now that you’re no threat, my dear,’ he added with an indulgent smile.
He was less pleased to hear that Miss H had offered me a job. ‘I hope you won’t try to emulate that type of woman. While you have the time and the leisure for it, you must, of course, “do your bit”. But it’s my earnest hope that the time may soon come when you are not so free.’ Giving me an intimate, meaningful look, he retreated behind his paper.
Saffron’s speculative glance made me flush. Oliver longed for a child, but that was the first time he had hinted at it in public.
* * *
As the toll of dead and wounded in the trenches mounted, the flood of eager volunteers faltered. The dreaded word ‘conscription’ arose from many quarters. When David Lacey was blinded, his sweet, gentle mother – who had never recovered from losing James – organized a group of bloodthirsty Valkyries to send white feathers to men who they considered ought to volunteer. I expected Vicky to join them, but, though the news of David’s injury moved her to tears, her grief was no more intense than it had been for James. If ever she had loved one of the Laceys, it must have been a temporary affliction; she seemed content to remain at Denes Hill, nursing convalescent officers, attending the rifle club, and playing the piano for fundraising concerts organized by her mother.
For me, a new role opened, thanks to Hermione Harmistead. Within a month, I had a new title – inspector for the National Union of Women Workers. It was my job to recruit girls and women to fill places in public services such as munitions factories, road works, the police force, and agriculture, to ensure safe and healthy work conditions, and to organize decent accommodation where needed. At last I had something really useful to keep me occupied.
I was assigned a motorcycle, and one of the local men to teach me how to ride it. Up and down the riverbank at first, with a few spills, and much sweat when I had to lift the heavy beast upright again. Many times I silently cursed my instructor, but soon I was out on the road, bruises fading as I mastered the machine. For riding I dressed in practical shirts and trousers, heavy boots, long leather coat lined with sheepskin, and a leather helmet and goggles. In fine weather the roads threw up clouds of dust; in wet weather mud spattered freely. I loved it. I grew to adore the freedom it brought – and to enjoy the surprise that resulted when I removed my helmet and goggles and revealed myself as female!
My work took me all over west Norfolk, from aeroplane and munitions works in Lynn and Thetford to tiny fishing villages along the coast and farms lost among gently rolling hills. On heathy tops, with room enough for planes to take off and land, airstrips formed. A field at Sedgeford, only two miles from Denes Hill, had been a night landing station for Royal Naval pilots; it became a training station for the Royal Flying Corps, where young pilots learned aerial fighting, zooming about our skies in daring displays of skill. In wooden huts that sprouted there, I installed some of my girls as clerks and drivers. Every day brought more work, more problems to solve, filling my waking hours.
I loved the work, I loved the people I met, the feeling that I was really being useful, and most of all I loved the freedom. I hardly had time to think, let alone worry about personal problems.
* * *
Early in November, when the weather turned wet and foul, my work took me out to a farm near Thornham. One of my land girls had been hurt when an RNAS aeropl
ane, returning from a mission and unable to make the landing strip at Sedgeford, crashed into the barn where she was working. Having seen that she was well looked after in her lodgings in the village, I battled homeward, fighting to hold the bike steady against a howling gale from the sea. By the time I reached Hunstanton, exhaustion drew me to call at Denes Hill, hoping for a respite. But no respite waited.
‘Thank goodness you’ve come, Mrs Wells,’ was the greeting I had from Mrs May, who still acted as head cook in the house. ‘Lady Rhys-Thomas is in a right old stew. Mr Tom have now gone missin’.’
Racing up the back stairs, I found Grandmother, and Anderson, in the delicate blue and white sitting room. To my concern, Grandmother was in tears – even her indomitable spirit had cracked under the strain: her home had been invaded; Frank had not been heard from in months; Emmet was in constant danger, and now Tom, the last and most vulnerable of her sons, had vanished.
‘He must have gone early this morning,’ she told me, blotting her tears on a damp handkerchief. ‘They’ve searched the woods and all his usual haunts, but to no avail. And then we discovered that some of his things are missing from his room. All his favourite treasures, Kate. And Jim’s gone, too – his little dog. Oh… I should have taken more notice! Lately he’s been talking about going to find Emmet. Only yesterday, Vicky and I were discussing the Laceys – how they must be feeling with both their sons dead, and—’
‘Both?’ I breathed. ‘I heard David was only—’
‘He died of his wounds. Two days ago.’
Dear God! Poor Mrs Lacey.
‘And Tom…’ Grandmother went on, ‘he jumped up and shouted that if only he had a gun, he’d go and kill all the Huns and stop them doing these…’ As her feelings overwhelmed her, Anderson bent over her solicitously, glancing up at me to add, ‘One of the nurses found him trying to break open the gun cabinet. If she hadn’t stopped him…’