A Small Country (16 page)

TWELVE

Rose Fletcher, Edward’s fiancée, was the only child of doting, elderly parents.

Up to the age of fourteen she had been educated at home by a conscientious but dull governess. When she was fourteen, though, her father’s youngest brother, her uncle Charlie, had happened to visit them. He had a large family; three sons and three daughters, and had been appalled by his niece’s lonely life. He begged her parents to let her finish her education at the school his daughters attended; he was sure, he said, that she was taught efficiently at home, but managed to persuade them that companionship with other girls would help develop her character and make her more out-going; better fitted for the pace of life in the twentieth century.

After a week or two’s deliberation, her mother and father visited the school, and though they disapproved of the ugly uniform and the games they were most favourably impressed by the character of the headmistress, Miss Margaret Donnington, a young graduate with a deep hypnotic voice and a warm smile. She was not at all what they had expected.

They were completely won over when they met their nieces who seemed so happy and robust compared to their grave daughter. They made arrangements there and then for Rose to join her cousins after the summer holidays.

At the time, Rose, who was extremely shy and timid, had been dismayed; the only girls she ever came into contact with were those she met at the dancing class her governess took her to on Saturday mornings.

That she settled down so quickly and happily was due to her cousin Claire who took her under her wing.

Claire was a few months older than Rose and an exceptionally clever girl. She was also very attractive, with a warm, engaging personality. She had many friends competing for her attention, but she dropped them all in favour of her shy little cousin. Naturally, Rose idolized her.

Claire was determined to go to university like her brothers, and in order to keep up with her, Rose worked harder than anyone in the school; she was very far behind, particularly in maths and Latin.

At sixteen she was allowed to follow Claire to the upper sixth. She was careful, though, not to tell her parents that it was the form for those sitting their University Entrance.

In the sixth, Miss Donnington the Headmistress took over their History lessons. Under her influence – she was a socialist and a feminist – both girls became absorbed in current affairs and were able to see books and tracts on the Women’s Movement, then at the height of its power, which would certainly not have come their way in other schools.

By the time Rose’s parents had realized where Miss Donnington and Claire were leading their daughter, it was too late: she had dedicated herself to the cause.

They were adamant, though, that Rose should not go to university. They managed to persuade both the Headmistress and Rose herself that it was her duty to leave school to be with her mother, who was in her late fifties and delicate. Claire went to Somerville College, Oxford, and though the girls corresponded, Rose’s parents did everything possible to prevent them meeting.

Rose never fulfilled the role of decorative drawing-room daught-er that her mother had intended. The high sense of duty inculcated by the school comprised a duty to herself and society as well as to her parents. Her shapely nose was usually in a book or pamphlet and she insisted on attending meetings of the Women’s Social and Political Union; threatened to run away from home and become a stenographer or shop assistant if they tried to stop her.

Left to herself, Rose would have shown no interest in young men. Edward, though, she had known all her life, and since he was by this time a serious student preparing to go up to Oxford, she found his company interesting and stimulating and they were soon good friends. Within a few months he was taking Claire’s place in her life.

Some months later, after Rose had accepted Edward’s proposal of marriage, her father felt much happier about her. He agreed to her devoting some time to the cause of women’s suffrage on condition that she would not involve herself in any illegal action without consulting him and obtaining his permission. Rose decided that she had no right to disobey her father until she was twenty-one, when, due to an annuity left her by her grandmother, she would no longer be completely dependent on him. At that time she would tell him that she intended to act entirely according to her conscience.

So for two years she had stood at street corners selling ‘Votes for Women’, addressed envelopes, washed dishes after celebration meetings, and bided her time.

During those years she didn’t doubt that she could and would be a heroine when her time came. When she saw women newly released from prison, pale and thin from weeks of thirst and starvation fasts, and heard their descriptions of being seized and bound and forcibly fed, she thought the emotion she felt was horror for their treatment, not fear.

As soon as she was twenty-one she informed her parents that she intended to volunteer for disruptive work, and by this time, knowing how much in earnest she was, they realized that it would be in vain to try to forbid her. Her father admired her spirit although he worried a great deal about her. Her mother neither approved nor understood.

For five or six weeks Rose was not involved in dangerous work. At the time, there was hope that a bill concerning women’s suffrage would be brought before parliament, and whilst there was a chance of its being successful the militants had pledged themselves to a period of non-violence.

In June, though, due to the failure of the bill, the temperature was at fever pitch again, and she was chosen as one of three women to set fire to the empty country house of one of the prominent anti-suffrage MPs. Arson was the thing she particularly dreaded. All the same she followed her instructions carefully and well; at that stage, able to fight her repugnance and fear. After the ordeal of ensuring that the house was completely empty and getting the fire well and truly lit, she and her two companions were duly arrested.

She had expected it and had prepared herself for every step of the subsequent proceedings; all the same, the reality had been too much for her. Even the policeman’s grip on her wrists as he had jerked and pulled her roughly to the waiting Black Maria had been unbearable. Crowds had jeered as she and her companions were taken from the van to Cannon Row Police Station. Eggs had been thrown at them and a pleasant-looking young man had spat in her face. After only one night in the cells, filthy and evil-smelling, her nerve had failed her. The thought of having to endure a prison sentence filled her with panic. She tried to steady her mind by thinking of what the leaders had suffered; Mrs Pankhurst herself had been in prison nine times, enduring every humiliation; the others, one or two of them almost as young and frail-looking as she herself, had been released from prison almost at the point of death, only to defy the police by taking part in a further demonstration on the very first day of freedom. She thought about these women she so admired until tears ran down her cheeks, but their shining example failed to sustain her. She could admire, but couldn’t follow. All she wanted was her liberty at any cost. Her faith in herself was completely and utterly shattered.

This was the poor frightened creature, more pitiable since she had previously been so brisk and brave, so forceful and determined, that Edward was taken to see when he returned to London. He was moved to tears.

Rose’s father, his own father’s business partner and dearest friend, had met him at Paddington to put him in the picture. Rose had confessed that she would do anything to get out of serving the prison sentence she had thought to undergo with such cheerful stoicism. Now, while she was in such a reasonable frame of mind, could Edward not press for an earlier marriage and take her to Oxford out of harm’s way? Since he was twenty-three, there would be no difficulty in getting the college authorities to agree to his living outside; her father knew a man who knew the Dean; everything could be arranged. Rose was an only child and her father assured him that he would never regret the loss of his last year as a bachelor.

That was his duty, then. Edward could have as soon turned his back on a wounded child.

The next morning he was taken to the court and introduced to the barrister, who agreed that Rose’s plans for imminent marriage would greatly enhance the likelihood of her being released with a caution.

That afternoon, when Rose, free again as the barrister had predicted – it was her first offence – was in her own bed trying to recover from her ordeal, Edward and his future father-in-law had bought a special licence and arranged for the wedding.

The terrible doubts of his first evening at home had been partly dispelled on the second evening, spent alone with Rose – it was the first time they had ever been allowed so much time on their own – when he had found that the excitement which had engulfed him in Catrin’s presence was by no means absent when he was with Rose. And she was so nearly his; that in itself was thrilling, there would be no years of waiting; meeting and parting. And everyone was so happy and so pleased with them both. And besides, he had no choice. He had no choice.

In the depths of his mind, he realized that regrets would catch up with him, that he was being false to the revelation he had had of his own nature, but for the most part he was swept along on a tide of sensual well-being. He still thought of Catrin, he couldn’t help himself, but more and more she seemed a beautiful dream; seemed to inhabit the green fields of a dream.

It was three weeks before he could bring himself to write to her.

My too-beautiful Catrin,

Your anger bewitched me. Your slanting eyes were my undoing. So that I behaved in a way alien to my nature, in a way I feel deeply ashamed about. Please forgive me.

I hope you will think of me always as

Your devoted friend,

Edward Turncliffe.

It was over-written and artificial. Edward intended it to be so. He didn’t want to get too near the bare truth.

Catrin received the letter without emotion. It was only the confirmation of the truth she already knew. She had never allowed herself to believe that Edward loved her.

Even at that moment when he had pulled her towards him in the trap and kissed her and she had felt for the first time sensations which had bewildered her by their intensity, she had known that the love he was professing wasn’t love, but the other thing. He loved Rose.

But how sweet it had seemed, how right. They had looked at each other and had seemed to find the whole world. She felt almost giddy again at the memory of that look. And then the striving to get closer, her body melting. But the way that they had looked at each other had seemed a perfect thing; wide-eyed as they kissed they had seemed to be promising each other unknown certainties. Seemed. Seemed.

‘Is it your brother’s friend that you’re mooning about?’ Doctor Andrews asked her abruptly one morning after his now daily visit to her mother.

‘There’s nothing between us,’ she had said, before she could think of denying the charge.

‘That’s not what I asked you.’

‘Oh, please don’t tease. Don’t you realize how depressed I am about everything.’

Doctor Andrews was moved by her distress.

‘But if I’m going to get you into the nursing profession, I have a right to know that you won’t let me down by behaving like a love-sick schoolgirl.’

‘I won’t let you down, I promise you. When will you get in touch with the hospital?’

‘I have. I wrote to the matron three days ago and had a reply this morning. She wants to know if you can be ready to go at the end of next week. She happens to have a vacancy on the course; she’s sorry it’s so little notice.’

‘That’s marvellous. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’

A weight seemed to have been lifted from Catrin’s heart. She felt an upsurge of happiness which at once relayed itself to the doctor.

‘But can they let you go before the corn harvest?’

‘Yes. Lowri’s youngest sister is leaving school this month and she’s coming to be the little maid. Sali will take over the eggs and do my share of the dairy work, and more; I don’t do much, Mother doesn’t like it. And Sali’s mother who does the washing can come most days, and Davy’s wife and old Beti Pryce when they’re needed. They won’t miss me.’

‘No farmer will marry you, you know, if you haven’t had experience of running a farm house.’

‘No. Lowri is the natural choice here, I’m afraid. Benji Brynmoel is already looking her over; that one-horse place of his has killed two wives already but he doesn’t seem to have any objection to human sacrifice.’

‘You’re a hard woman, Catrin. Benji has two small children to bring up. How can he manage without a wife? He certainly doesn’t spare himself. He works all hours of daylight and then goes to bed to save a candle. He’ll go bankrupt if he doesn’t have a wife to help him.’

‘He shan’t have Lowri, anyway, I’m determined on that. I’m against marriage.’

They were silent for a moment. Then the doctor opened his bag.

‘I’ve got the forms you have to fill in. Your mother will have to sign one or two of them and send the money for your uniform; they’ll kit you out when you get there as long as everything is paid for. You go up now and let her know about it. Tell her how lucky you were to get a place for this year; the course started in May, you know, but you’ll soon catch up.’