Long Summer Day (84 page)
‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t, for in my opinion it’s all a game of bluff played by men like Franz and by others, bigger and more ruthless than he! I don’t think the Kaiser ever wants to use his Dreadnoughts; he simply has them so that he can strut about the decks in fancy dress but our people take him seriously—or they pretend to. No major power could afford that kind of war for more than a week or so!’
‘Well, I hope not,’ Claire said, ‘but the next time I see Franz I shall ask him that one!’
In the event they did not see Franz again. Within forty-eight hours of parting from him they were on the way home, bolting very much as Paul had bolted six years before. The Coronation procession proved even more spectacular than the newspapers had promised. Watching the cohorts of splendidly uniformed men march past, and hearing the deep-throated roar of the densely-packed spectators as the Royal coach and its escort of Household Cavalry came in view, Paul was gripped by a sense of climax about the spectacle, as though it symbolised the extreme high tide of the Victorian and Edwardian eras and had been deliberately staged to advertise the enormous thrust and weight of British Imperialism. It had seemed strident enough in the days of the Transvaal War but now, to him at all events, it was even more vociferous and glittering. He said, aloud, ‘My God! It’s like a Roman triumph!’ but his voice was lost in the wave of sound that seemed to rock the tall buildings and a moment later the coach and escort were gone, the roar moving forward like a boosted echo.
‘Did you say something, dear?’ Claire asked when the next military band was still a hundred yards off and Paul said nothing of any consequence but suddenly he felt homesick for the simplicity of a national celebration in the Valley, attended by no more than two hundred people and patronised by the beaming Henry Pitts and the biblical shepherd twins, who asked no more of a national holiday than a tug-of-war between ‘Outalong’ and ‘Downalong’.
The next afternoon they were given tea on the terrace at Westminster by a sprucely-dressed James Grenfell, who seemed optimistic about the prospects of getting ahead with the Liberal programme, provided nothing disturbed the existing arrangement with the Irish members and Labourites, whose support gave them, their overall majority in the House. They were standing near the West door of the great hall on the point of saying good-bye when Paul saw a party of police dash by, coming from the direction of Westminster Bridge and disappear, whistles shrilling, in the direction of the railings fronting the House.
‘Hullo, what’s happening there?’ he asked and James, looking anxious and uncomfortable, said, ‘Probably another raid by the Militants, their headquarters are just across the Square and this happens pretty frequently now that the Suffrage Bill looks like being talked out. I’ll get a cab, Paul, you should take Claire away.’
Although he did not say so it was obvious that he felt there was more than a likelihood of Grace being among the demonstrators and Paul, sharing this misgiving, said, ‘All right, James, let’s get away!’ but unexpectedly Claire spoke up, facing them and saying, ‘
Why
?
Why do we have to turn our backs on it? We backed you in two elections on this issue, James, and I think we ought to see for ourselves!’ Then, as neither made a reply, ‘It doesn’t matter if Grace
is
there! We ought to judge the issue on more than photographs, James!’
James said, uneasily, ‘I suppose she’s right, Paul, it might be important for you to see what I’ve seen often enough in the last year or so,’ so they moved towards the vortex of the disturbance under the statue of Richard I but were soon obliged to link arms to prevent being separated by the crowds now moving in from all directions.
‘Sometimes it’s no more than a scuffle,’ James said but they saw at once that it was more than a scuffle today, for the whole area in front of Parliament was boiling like the scene of a revolution, with mounted police laying about them with rolled-up capes and foot police fighting to seal the area in front of the statue where two prison vans were drawn up with doors open and police on the steps. Then a larger section of the crowd swept in from the far side of the Square and they were all three, together with a bearded police sergeant and two younger officers, washed back against the railings, the sergeant losing his temper and shouting to his men, ‘Get
through
to them, damn you! Use your fists if you have to!’ and after a renewed heave Paul was parted from the others and carried closer to the vans as the police drove a passage through the mob enclosing him in the cordon.
Here, the ugliness of the struggle was revealed to him far more vividly than in James’ photographs and scenes were being enacted that he would never have associated with an English political demonstration. The cordon re-formed behind him and although he looked everywhere he could see no sign of James or Claire and forgot them as he was swept closer to the heart of the riot. He saw about a score of women, most of them well-dressed, grappling with as many police and plain-clothes men and there was no evidence of docility on the part of the suffragettes, or of chivalry on the part of their assailants. It might have been a police descent upon a thieves’ kitchen, south of the river. Fists were flailing, hats and umbrellas flying, helmets skidding under the feet of horses and, here and there, police and women were rolling on the ground in a flurry of blue tunics and white petticoats. Paul stood aghast at the brutishness of the spectacle. He saw a middle-aged woman propelled up the steps of the Maria with a punch in the back aimed by a straw-hatted man whose face was distorted with fury and whose nose streamed blood; he saw that one van was already full to overflowing for suddenly a young woman, hair streaming over her shoulders and mouth open in a soundless scream, appeared for an instant at the door before being dragged back by someone inside; he saw an elderly man, whom he identified as a sympathiser by the rosette he wore, wave a banner on which the single word ‘Votes’ was distinguishable and then a mounted policeman tore the banner from him and began using it as a stave to clear the struggling pedestrians from the area about his horse. Then, almost under his feet, he saw a young woman in grey, crouched on hands and knees, hatless and with a mass of dark hair masking her face as she contracted herself to avoid being trampled.
He recognised her as Grace even before a young, helmetless policeman seized her by the shoulders and half raised her and he grabbed the man just as someone laid hold of him from behind, so that all four of them, locked in a grotesque chain, lurched and cannoned into the group struggling around the remains of the banner. The din was hellish for by now the cordon had broken and the crowd, predominantly men, were pressing in from all sides so that the van lifted on two wheels and would have overturned but for the plinth of the statue. A certainty that, in a matter of moments, Grace would be crushed to death in the mêlée, gave him the impetus to shoulder the young policeman aside and break free of the restraining hand on his collar. His hat flew off and his collar burst loose but he steadied himself by shooting out his arms and bracing himself against the plinth so that, for a moment or two, he formed an arch over Grace who now lay flat on her face, the man who had been holding the banner crouching almost on top of her. At that moment mounted police moved forward three abreast, clearing a small space under the statue and an inspector, running round the plinth, shouted to Paul, ‘Get her on her feet, man!’ and he shouted back, on impulse, ‘She’s nothing to do with the damned riot! She’s my wife, we’ve been in the House …!’ and taking advantage of the momentary lull, tore out his wallet and flourished Grenfell’s card under the inspector’s nose. The man glanced at it and shouted, ‘Hold hard, there!’ as if he had been in the hunting field and to Paul, ‘Work your way behind the statue! I’ll get the van moving! If some fools are run over so much the worse for them!’
Paul lifted Grace as the van began to plough through the mob, moving diagonally across the Square so that soon there was space enough to edge round behind the statue where there was a measure of sanctuary after the crowd had streamed away in pursuit of the vehicle. The inspector had forced his way round in their wake and said, breathlessly, ‘You can vouch for her? She’s your wife you say?’ and Paul said, savagely, ‘Yes, and I’m damned if I ever thought I should be ashamed to be English! What the hell has happened to people? Has everyone gone raving mad?’
‘It’s those women, sir,’ the inspector said, ‘it happens day after day but we weren’t prepared seeing it’s Coronation week. We thought they would have given over until the celebrations were done. Is she hurt?’
His manner was friendly but by no means anxious until James appeared, also waving a card and announcing that he was an M.P. and intended raising the subject of the riot in the House at the first opportunity. As soon as the link between the unconscious woman and a Member of the House was established the policeman’s attitude changed abruptly and he said, a little desperately, ‘I hope you don’t hold me responsible, sir! She was right in the thick of it, and so was this gentleman! You can see for yourself the hopelessness of our job when they start trouble at peak hours! They’ve been warned often enough, God knows.’ James said, with a glance at Paul indicating that he was to stay out of discussion, ‘Well, this one wasn’t, Inspector! I was showing her where English laws are made when this happened!’ and the man said, ‘I’m very sorry, sir, but how can we distinguish? Let’s take a look at her; maybe it’s only a faint!’ And then, as all three of them peered at the limp figure in Paul’s arms, Claire rejoined them and the crowd melted away, running towards the Abbey. A helmetless policeman, who seemed to have sized up the situation, bustled up and said, ‘I’ve got a cab, sir! Over there by the Members’ entrance!’ and the inspector, giving him a look of approval, said, ‘Good work, Crutchly! Get her in first and look for your helmet afterwards!’
James remained for a moment with the inspector while Paul followed the constable across the littered paving stones to the Members’ entrance and climbed into a four-wheeler. As they edged through the door he saw Grace open her eyes, then close them again, rather too swiftly. He thought, ‘Damn it, I don’t believe she’s hurt at all! She’s just using us to make the most of the situation!’ and instead of telling the cabby to drive to the nearest casualty ward he gave him the name of their hotel, saying, ‘All right, Officer, I realise you couldn’t help it and I’m a witness to that!’ The man saluted and looked very relieved, wiping the sweat and grime from his forehead as James rejoined them.
‘Well,’ he said, as they moved slowly across to Whitehall, ‘I’ve given him something to think about but I did it with my tongue in my cheek! The poor devils are in a hopeless position. It’s the politicians not the police who should be censured for this kind of thing! Is she hurt, do you think?’
Grace herself answered the question by opening her eyes and subjecting all three of them to an ironic scrutiny. There was, Paul reflected, an element of glee in her expression but as soon as she saw Claire she wriggled out of Paul’s grasp, tossed back her hair and said, carelessly, ‘Well, that’s one up for us anyway! I’ll wager that inspector has a sleepless night or two! Thank you, James, it was clever of you, and you too, Paul!’ and to their amazement she plunged her hands into a sachet fastened to her waistband, extracted a handful of hairpins and began to tidy her hair.
James said, with a note of mild reproof, ‘I guessed you were spoofing all the time, you little devil! But he didn’t, did you, Paul?’
‘No, I’m damned if I did!’ Paul growled, feeling very foolish and avoiding Claire’s glance. ‘She looked to me as if she was heading straight for martyrdom! The next time I’ll do what I intended to do then—keep well clear of a mess like that!’ and then he remembered the woman who had been punched in the back and the elderly man with the banner banged over the head with his staff and suddenly he felt neither foolish nor irritated, but almost proud of the way she had used them to save herself from arrest and another spell in gaol and also to hit back at her persecutors. He noticed too that she was much thinner than the last time he had seen her, with her pleasing roundness gone and a strained, white face that reminded him of an under-nourished adolescent. Her clothes, well-cut and once smart, were now wildly disordered. The shoulder of the blouse had been ripped across, exposing the strap of her petticoat and her skirt was stained with patches of manure and road dust. He said, with awe in his voice, ‘Is it worth all that? Isn’t there some other way?’ and James replied, quietly, ‘They’ve tried all the other ways, Paul,’ and a look of understanding passed between Grace and James so that Paul felt shut out of their confidence.
Claire said, as the cab stopped at the hotel, ‘You’d best come in and tidy up, Grace. Then we can all have tea,’ and when Grace hesitated she added, laughing, ‘You really do need a wash and brush up! They’ll probably arrest you if you go home in that condition,’ whereupon they all got out and whilst Paul was paying off the cab the two women went through the foyer, causing the commissionaire to open his eyes wide as they passed him on their way to the stairs.
The men remained below, James ordering two stiff whiskies, while Paul went into the cloakroom to make what repairs he could on his burst collar. When he returned James said with a grin, ‘Leave ’em to it, Paul, they understand one another well enough!’ and Paul thought that perhaps he was right for during the cab ride he had been aware of a curious intimacy between the women. He said, ‘Very well, but afterwards, I’m going straight home, James! Every time I come here something damned unpleasant happens and from now on I’m avoiding this blasted city as if the Great Plague was still raging!’ and James told him he was probably well advised to do just that but from now on he hoped Paul would support universal suffrage with more enthusiasm.
‘Yes, I’ll do that, James,’ Paul said, slowly, ‘but out of disgust, rather than conviction! I never thought to see Englishmen behave like that towards demonstrators. On the Continent, perhaps, but not here and not against women, however misguided! As a matter of fact I’m half-persuaded that people like Grace enjoy it in a way. Is that prejudice on my part, would you say?’
