He glanced up from the paper. Annabelle seemed to have been in the kitchen for a long time. He picked up the teapot. Empty. Time for a fresh brew.
She was standing by the sink, staring at … he couldn’t tell what she could see. Annabelle didn’t turn as he entered; she didn’t even notice. She was lost somewhere in her own mind. Softly, he spoke her name. Nothing.
Sweet God.
Harper laid an arm around her shoulders and guided her back into the living room, until she was settled in her chair. She still had no idea he was there. A full minute passed before something seemed to change in her face. It came alive again. She blinked, and her mouth moved.
Annabelle saw him kneeling in front of her, looked around to see the room she’d known for years, and her expression fell as she understood what had happened.
‘How long?’ she asked.
‘Just a few minutes. You’re fine now.’
She brought her hands up to cover her eyes. ‘I’m not, Tom. I’m not fine. Not fine at all.’
The tears began and he pulled her close. What could he say? There weren’t any words that would make it right. There was no way to heal this. It was here, it would return again and again. The episodes would probably become longer in time. That was what the doctor had said. At some point she’d wander off into her own world and never return.
In the office on Park Square, when he’d listened to the physician, it hadn’t seemed quite real. It was something that might happen to someone else. Now, seeing it for himself, he realized he was completely helpless. There was nothing he could do to fight this. Nothing any of them could do, apart from stand and watch.
‘Come on,’ he told her. ‘Come with me and we’ll make that cup of tea.’
Something routine and familiar. A task she’d been doing since she was a little child. It seemed to help. She moved without thinking, the pot, the tea caddy, the kettle. By the time it was mashing she was more like herself again. But the sorrow in her eyes was enough to make him weep.
‘I could see you. But I didn’t know who you were. I didn’t who I was. I knew what room I was in. I just … I don’t know. I can’t explain it.’
‘It’s over.’
‘For the moment.’
‘And I’m here with you.’
They had no choice. They’d keep going and face it together.
AFTERWORD
The Great Pilgrimage did happen, more or less as described here. Suffragist women (as opposed to suffragettes) did start on routes from different parts of the country and converge on Hyde Park. From first step to London rally, it took six weeks, and one group of marchers did stop overnight in Leeds, with meetings in Roundhay Park and on Woodhouse Moor. Jane Robinson’s book The Great Pilgrimage (Black Swan, 2018) gives a very full account.
Davey Mullen is very loosely based on Owen ‘Owney’ Madden. He did start out on Somerset Street in Leeds. Some accounts have the family moving to Wigan as the father searched for work. But his mother did move to New York, initially to stay with her sister, and a year later sent for her two sons. Her husband remained in England; he may or may not have lived until 1932. Owen grew up in Hell’s Kitchen, belonged to a gang called the Gophers and developed a deadly reputation. He really was shot eleven times outside a dancehall, and he did recover to exact his revenge. Prohibition was good to him. He ended up owning the famous Cotton Club and eventually retired to Hot Springs, Arkansas, where he died peacefully in 1965. Supposedly he had a life-long love of the Yorkshire Post. There’s no record of him ever returning to Leeds, however.
Lilian Lenton existed, and was released from Armley Gaol under the Cat and Mouse Act. Her brazen escape from Chapel Allerton is well chronicled in Jill Liddington’s Rebel Girls (Virago, 2006). She did return to England and was re-arrested.
I’m grateful to all the staff at Severn House for their faith, especially Kate Lyall Grant, who gives the green light to my books, and my editor, Sara Porter. But the entire team do such a great job, and have kept going through lockdowns and the pandemic. You’re all remarkable.
Thanks, too, to Lynne Patrick. She’s dug down and corrected my ideas and spellings for over ten years now, as well as pointing out the errors of my ways when needed. A friend and editor, and appreciated on every level.
And it would be impossible not to thank my partner, Penny. She puts up with me constantly thinking about the book I’m writing, acting as a sounding board and first reader. How she’s done it for so long is a constant source of amazement.
Finally, thanks to all the staff in bookshops and libraries. They’re the lifeblood of it all. And then, every one of you who reads one of my books. Thank you.
Brass Lives Page 26