‘Oh, I should think so. He usually is. And – I tell you what – let’s have our fortunes told this year.’
‘You said that last year. And then you lost your nerve and wouldn’t go!’
‘I did not.’ Cissy was indignant. ‘Wilfred wouldn’t let me – he said it wasn’t ladylike. Well he shan’t stop me this year, so there! Did you know Susan Batty was told that a golden future would be hers very soon and – presto! – a month or so later some old aunt or other died and left her all her jewellery! Pretty awful stuff, actually but – well, it just shows, doesn’t it? And Elizabeth Harvey—’
‘Oh, Cissy, you don’t really believe in all that, do you?’
The carroty curls tossed. ‘Oh, of course not. It’s only a bit of fun. But I shall try it just the same. So – what do you think? Shall we all go? And would you like to come back for supper afterwards?’
They were approaching the corner where stood the eccentric abode of Doctor William Patten, his family, his dependants and what seemed to Charlotte sometimes to be half the waifs and strays of east London. ‘That would be nice. I’ll ask them. Though I seem to remember that Ben and Hannah are organizing some meeting or other on Saturday night.’
‘That’s not to stop you and – well anyone else who wants to come, is it?’ Cissy was brightly nonchalant. Wild horses would not have dragged Peter Patten’s name from her again.
‘All right. I’ll see what I can do. Will you come here first? Say – four o’clock? Nothing really gets started before then, does it?’
They had reached the corner. Cissy reached up to peck a quick kiss upon Charlotte’s cheek. ‘Lovely. I’m quite sure Wilfred will want to come. And perhaps the Battys. I’ll see, shall I?’ She smiled, a sudden, gentle smile, ‘And who knows – perhaps Prince Charming will tire of his ivory tower and drop in to see the fun? And to discover his beautiful Princess Charlotte—’
Charlotte wrinkled her nose. ‘On the wasteland behind Fulton’s Hardware? Hardly!’ She lifted a hand in farewell, then stood and watched the other girl as she hurried down the street to catch the omnibus in the Commercial Road that would take her back to the neat, well-tended little road in a not-too-fashionable part of the West End where her father had his practice. Where her neat, well-kept, not-too-fashionable mother would be awaiting her with smiles and cups of tea and feminine gossip. Where a bath would have been readied for the young mistress – Cissy, these two years past, having had a maid of her very own – and a light and pretty summer dress laid out upon her bed. There would be tea in the garden with yet another maid, neat in black and white, to serve it. Charlotte sighed a little. The Barnes’s residence might not be the tall and elegant house furnished with taste and finesse and overlooking Hyde Park of which she so often – and she knew so absurdly – dreamed; but at least it was better than the lathe and plaster maze that had once in Tudor times been the famous Inn of the Dancing Bear and was now, with its jumble of dark rooms, its three staircases, its courtyard at the back that was the arena more often than not for tooth-and-nail battles between the urchins that Doctor Will – and Ben – seemed to collect as other people collected stamps or cigarette cards, her home.
Sighing again, her high spirits fled, she pushed open the door.
II
Hannah Patten surveyed with a rue that was still too coloured with the excitement of the day to be termed real regret, the broken brim and crushed roses of the object that had been her favourite dark straw hat, and the fraying rip in the sleeve of her best silk blouse. She’d had the hat for years, and had been rather fond of it, as hats went; an old friend which, anchored with a pin long enough to skewer the Sunday joint, sat upon her ridiculous hair with at least some semblance of – well, if not elegance, at least what might be termed style. She touched the broken rim with her finger and a few more strands crackled and snapped. Never again. Ah well. It had been worth it, and more than worth it. If she lived to be a hundred she’d never forget this day; never forget the feeling as she and her comrades had marched into Cavendish Square, white flags and banners brave in the sunshine, a small group of soldiers, the vanguard, pray God, of an army, come to demand justice and freedom – to demand! – no longer to beg. Now they would see – the Campbell-Bannermans and the Lloyd Georges with their sanctimonious, lip-service promises and the Gladstones and the Asquiths with their venomous but at least more honest opposition – now they would see that the women meant business. They would have the vote and they would have it now! And if it came to a fight, well then, so be it. One of the time-worn, arid arguments so often used against women’s suffrage was that since women were precluded by their gentle natures, tender sensibilities and lack of physical strength from fighting for their country then of course they must necessarily be debarred from taking any part in its government. So perhaps it was time to demonstrate to the tedious gentlemen who so conveniently believed it that gentle natures could be stubborn, tender sensibilities toughened, and physical strength reinforced by intelligence, guile and courage. There had been no obvious lack of muscle or determination in the East End working women who had marched side by side with her behind the deputation that had visited Mr Asquith’s house this afternoon! The gentlemen had had their chance – and look what a damned mess they’d made of it! Now let them look to their precious privileges; the women, and the workers, were snapping at their heels—
‘Hannah! What on earth—?’
Hannah turned to the open door, where stood Charlotte, staring, her wide eyes taking in Hannah’s dishevelled appearance, the torn blouse, the fast-purpling bruise on her cheekbone. Charlotte came into the room, hands fluttering like pretty, helpless little doves. ‘Has there been an accident? Are you badly hurt? Oh – let me call Doctor Will – or Ben!’
‘No, no, no. It’s nothing. I’m perfectly well.’ Hannah tossed the ruined hat upon the table. Excitement still sang in her blood, bringing colour to her usually sallow cheeks and putting something close to a sparkle into her unremarkable brown eyes. ‘Oh, Charlotte, you should have been there, my dear! What a day! What a splendid day!’
‘Hannah, what are you talking about? You stand there with your blouse in shreds, your hat ruined, your face looking as if you might have had an argument with a prizefighter and you talk about “a splendid day”? Have you gone mad?’
Hannah chuckled.
‘How did you hurt your face?’
‘A policeman hit me.’ The words were perfectly collected.
Charlotte stared at her for a very long time, then gave her head a sharp, perplexed shake. ‘Now I know you’re mad. I’m going for Doctor Will.’
Hannah laughed outright, detained her with a hand upon her arm. ‘No, really Charlotte. I truly am perfectly all right – there are no bones broken, and I do assure you that I am absolutely sane. Mrs Briggs is bringing me a cup of tea and that, I promise you, is all the attention I need.’
‘Then will you for heaven’s sake explain? For truly I can’t believe what I see!’
Hannah paced across the room, turned and paced back again, the always abundant energy that so characterized her, driving her to movement when any other woman – any normal woman, Charlotte found herself thinking a little tiredly – might be expected to collapse in an exhausted heap on the nearest sofa. ‘We went to Mr Asquith’s house to deliver a letter—’
‘But I thought you’d done that two days ago?’
‘We tried, but he avoided us, the coward. So today we went back to Cavendish Square determined to see him.’
‘And?’
‘And the police were waiting. The police! Can you believe it? We were not to be allowed to see Mr Asquith – were not even to be allowed near his house to post our letter through the letter box—’
‘What did you do?’
‘We marched in orderly fashion around the Square, at least that’s what we tried to do. But the police apparently were under orders not to allow us to do that either.’
Charlotte smiled faintly, irresistibly diverted by th
e thought of a gawky young police constable faced with the sight of Hannah in full, righteously energetic advance. ‘But you did it anyway?’
‘Of course. And in the ensuing—’ she hesitated, ‘—flurry my hat was spoiled and a young constable’s knuckles somehow caught my face.’
Charlotte had unpinned and removed her straw boater and dropped it upon the table beside Hannah’s larger, old-fashioned, ruined creation. She was shaking her head, very slowly, her expression an entertaining and entertained mixture of incredulity, amusement and downright shock. ‘You fought? With the police?’
‘I – don’t think I’d put it that strongly.’
‘You’d put it that strongly if Peter came home from an alehouse with a face like that!’
‘Really, Charlotte, that’s hardly a fitting comparison.’ The words were injured and faintly acid.
‘Hannah—!’ Charlotte lifted small hands, and let them fall in a gesture that conveyed exactly her inability to credit the bizarre story she had just heard. Well-brought-up young ladies – and however eccentric her background Hannah Patten was certainly that – simply did not brawl with policemen in the fashionable squares of London, whatever the cause. It was inconceivable. An aberration.
As if reading her mind Hannah swung upon her, excitement shining in her face. ‘This is the beginning, Charlotte! The beginning of a crusade! We will have the vote; we will not be denied! Whatever it takes to achieve our freedom, our full citizenship of our own country – whatever sacrifice – we are ready for it.’
Charlotte, hot, tired, but never less than graceful, sank prettily on to the sofa. ‘Hannah, you are crazed. You’ll stand alone, you and your handful of friends, don’t you see that? Most women – if they ever think of it at all – don’t want the vote. They don’t care! The poor ones are too busy wondering where the next penny’s coming from, scraping a living, feeding too many children and watching them die, even to think about such things. The rich ones that can be bothered have long since discovered other paths to influence. And most of the ones in the middle are far more concerned about the health of their children, their husbands’ dinners, the colour of a new hat—’
Hannah shook her head vigorously. ‘You’re wrong, Charlotte. Half the women who came to Cavendish Square this afternoon were working women from Stepney, Bow and Poplar.’
‘Dragged along there by that Pankhurst woman I suppose? What does she know of the East End? She comes from Manchester, doesn’t she? And she’s an art student, or some such thing—? Honestly, Hannah, can’t you see the trouble she’ll cause?’
‘Sylvia Pankhurst is a very fine young woman,’ Hannah said, stiffly, a dangerous gleam in the phlegmatic brown eyes.
‘I’m sure she is.’ Charlotte, in her turn, was conciliatory, but yet sharp impatience edged her tone like frost on a winter’s leaf. The thought had come to her that afternoon, as she had spoken to Cissy that perhaps she might talk to Hannah – try to explain her frustrations and feelings to someone who at the very least surely must understand her budding womanhood, her need for something other than causes and sacrifice and backbreaking labour. And as quickly as the thought had been born, so swiftly had it died. And this was why. Hannah inhabited such a different world from Charlotte that they might have lived in different hemispheres, spoken different tongues. Not in a thousand years would either one ever understand the other’s needs, views and aspirations, and no amount of affection, no amount of effort would ever change that. Yet still, with good will, they tried. ‘Hannah,’ Charlotte said now as patiently as she could manage, ‘working men don’t have the vote – who knows if they ever will, despite the promises? How will you ever hope to rally enough support for the women?’
‘We already have support. We have support in the country and support in Parliament.’
‘But you can’t get your Bills through, can you? Even though the Prime Minister himself says he’s on your side. Time and again they talk them out. Just last year it happened all over again.’
‘Next time we’ll win.’
‘How?’
‘In the same way the men did.’ Hannah, still pacing, lifted a prophetic finger. ‘Did men achieve the widening of the franchise by sitting on their hands and asking nicely? Of course they didn’t. They fought for it. They marched and they fought—’
‘They rioted and committed arson and were hanged and deported for it as I remember it,’ Charlotte said drily.
Hannah ignored her. ‘They heckled and they protested. They fought the politicians to a standstill. They refused to take “no” for an answer. They were in the right, and they knew it, and right prevailed, as it always must. And when you speak of the women who don’t support us – they will, Charlotte, they will. When they realize what we are doing and why, then they will support us. We live in a society that enslaves its women. You know it. At beck and bidding of husband or father, fortunate only if the yoke is a light one, held to be incapable of managing their own affairs. A mother doesn’t even have the legal right to the guardianship of her own children, no matter how much of a blackguard the father might be.’ She raised an arm, pointing through the tiny, multi-paned window to the shabby, sweltering streets beyond. ‘You know as well as I do what goes on out there! Women beaten and misused, with no redress, women – and children too – worked to blindness or to death in the sweatshops, women dying in childbed, children dying of neglect and disease – and these things are preventable! But they will only be prevented when women have a hand in framing the laws of the country. If now we protest we have no voice, for those that govern us tell us that – although, of course, they deplore these things and although, yes, they see the urgent need for reform, there are more pressing things to be dealt with. They are responsible not to women – not to the people – but to the men who voted them to power, and who, God help us, keep them there, playing their vicious games of wealth and war. And so there is no time for the reforms that women need. First the vote, Charlotte, and then see what we shall do for this country!’
Impressed despite herself, Charlotte said nothing. It was hot. So very hot. Suddenly self-conscious Hannah moved to the mantel mirror and tried without success to repin the hanks of shining hair that had fallen about her face. Charlotte watched her. Hannah’s only real physical beauty, her only claim to the attention of a casual observer, was her hair. It had the sheen of new-peeled chestnuts, and the colour, and was abundant and shining and straight as rain. And what did she do with it? She dragged it back from her plain, sallow face and stuffed it in ugly, old-fashioned nets. Or she filled it so hopelessly and inefficiently full of ill-placed pins that the things constantly slid out, and her only alternative to looking like a demented pincushion was an ineffective, constant and habitual search for them, a vague patting and pushing as she spoke or as she listened that could drive one to distraction on a bad day. Hannah leaned now closer to the mirror, looking at the dark smudge on her cheekbone. ‘Oh dear. That really has become rather more noticeable than I had thought.’ Her voice was vaguely surprised, had lost the fierceness and fervour of a moment before. ‘Perhaps I should pop along to the surgery and put something on it?’ She laughed a little, that sudden, mischievous chuckle that always came with such warmth and was such a surprise, ‘I can hardly walk around veiled for a week, can I? Charlotte darling – when Mrs Briggs brings the tea, ask her to be a love and bring me a cup in my room, would you? I really am very tired.’
‘Of course. Oh, and Hannah—?’
Hannah, on her way to the door, stopped.
‘—the fair comes on Saturday. Shall we go, do you think?’
‘Why of course dear. If you’d like to. We usually do.’
‘Cissy asked if we might like to go back to them for supper?’
Hannah thought for a moment. ‘You and Peter may certainly go, I should think. Ben, Ralph and I are expected at the Labour Committee Rooms at six, so it’s probably best if we come back here. But yes, do go, dear. I daresay there’ll be music. You’ll enjoy that – y
ou’ve such a pretty voice.’ Hannah stopped, surveyed for a moment the pale, pointed, lovely little face that was upturned to her beneath its halo of softly curling hair. The child – for so she thought of Charlotte despite the mere three years that separated them in age – disturbed her sometimes. Delightful, obliging, soft as a flower and as sweet, loving as a child, yet sometimes, when she had time to consider it, she found herself wondering if Charlotte were truly happy. Like a flower she sometimes wilted. Like a child she sometimes sulked. And her apparently placid obedience to the will of anyone who cared to impose on her more often than not gave the impression that was negative rather than positive: she simply could not think for herself of anything better to do. ‘I’m sorry I lectured,’ she said a little clumsily.
Charlotte smiled. ‘You didn’t. Well—’ she tilted her head prettily to the side and spread her hands, ‘only a little.’
Hannah looked at her with real affection, real pleasure in her loveliness. ‘We’ll go to the fair,’ she said, ‘you and Ralph, Peter and I. I don’t suppose for a moment we’ll be able to persuade Ben or Father along. But we’ll go. Perhaps the fire-eater will be there?’
Charlotte smiled a little and nodded.
‘Well,’ Hannah, big-boned and untidy, the bruise on her cheek darkening by the moment to a splendid purple, stood for one more oddly awkward moment, ‘if you wouldn’t mind about the tea?’
‘Of course not. I’ll bring it myself.’
Charlotte sat for a long, quiet time after Hannah had gone, her eyes fixed upon her folded hands, her thoughts not particularly good companions. Then she lifted her head and surveyed the room about her. It was, as always, gloomy, and untidy to the point of chaos. Doctor Will’s glasses lay discarded upon the table. He had, no doubt, she thought with fond exasperation, been searching high and low for them for hours. Several newspapers had been dropped on the seat of the fireside chair. A bright red waistcoat, Peter’s undoubtedly, lay upon a footstool, brilliant and abandoned. Untidy. The chairs which usually stood evenly about the table had been dragged and clustered in companionship at one end of the room and left where they stood. Poor Mrs Briggs. She would bustle in with her tea and click her tongue and set again about the helpless task of tidying a room – a family – a residence – so peculiar that it defied description, and that resolutely refused to be tidied.
Tomorrow, Jerusalem Page 3