Octavia (16 page)

The table was ringed with approving faces, bright-eyed and soft-skinned in the candlelight. The conversation turned and continued; eloquent hands emphasised witty words; there was the occasional discreet flash of jewellery, the occasional waft
of expensive perfume; wine winked as the decanter was lifted, the cloth was snowy white, the epergne hospitably laden with fruit. But Octavia was thinking of stained pinafores and reach-me-down dresses, of collarless shirts, dirty waistcoats, cut-down trousers and the all-pervasive, shaming stink of poverty. What these children needed in their school lives was colour and a bit of fun. I shall draw a set of alphabet cards, she decided, and buy a lot of coloured pencils and they can colour them in and hang them on the walls. Big A, little a and a picture of an apple. That sort of thing. Then I’ll see if I can find something that will be more fun for them to do instead of that awful drill.

The alphabet cards were a great success. ‘Cor, miss,’ her pupils said. ‘D’you mean we can colour ’em in all by ourselves?’ and reassured that this was exactly what she did mean, they set to at once, faces bright with activity. It took a very long time. In fact the timetable was saying ‘mechanical poetry’ and they were still filling in outlines and admiring results. Eventually after much pencil licking, much happy chatter and some boldly peculiar colouring, they handed the cards in. ‘Ain’t we done ’em lovely, miss,’ they said.

Miss agreed and tried not to look askance at the purple horse. ‘It don’t matter do it, miss?’ the artist said. ‘We run out a’ brown an’ that’s ever so lovely.’

Even the headmaster admired the display and said it was a credit to her. She didn’t tell him that she was allowing her pupils to walk about the classroom to ‘borrow’ pencils when they were colouring in, nor that she was telling them stories instead of reading from one of his dull school books, nor that they were playing skipping games in the playground instead of waving their poor little skinny arms about beside their desks.
It was enough that he seemed to realise that she was teasing them into beginning to read.

‘That’s a C,’ she said. ‘Do you remember colouring it in? You did that one, didn’t you, Ethel? C for cat. And that’s an H. Can you tell me what H is for?’

‘’Orse,’ they said, happily. ‘H fer ’orse.’ Confusingly purple and non-aspirant he might be but a horse he most certainly and recognisably was.

That night Octavia wrote a long letter to Tommy telling him what a revelation Bridge Street School had been and how much she was enjoying her new life there. He read it twice and found it rather alarming. All this talk of learning and teaching seemed a little too permanent for his liking. After all, it was only a stopgap until they could get married. He didn’t want her getting used to it. That wasn’t his idea at all, by Jove it wasn’t. He wrote back carefully, saying it all sounded quite extraordinary to him, and adding,
‘I’m glad you enjoy it. That’s the ticket.’
Then he spent the rest of the letter detailing arrangements for his Christmas leave. Not being able to see her in term time was a great disappointment and he meant to make the most of the holiday.
‘I’ve got a charlady coming in to heat the place up,’
he wrote,
‘so it won’t be cold for us. I shall book tickets for all the best shows the first thing I do when I get back
. You must tell me what you fancy. Can’t wait to see you again.’
Then he added a postscript, just to make his feelings clear.
‘PS. I hope you haven’t forgotten me.’

‘How could I?’
she wrote back. Although privately she had to admit that there were times in her teaching day when she hardly thought of him at all because she was giving so much attention to her pupils and the progress they were making. Worse, she’d barely given a thought to the suffrage movement
either, certainly not since the term began. I must visit the shop, she thought, and see how they’re all getting on. I haven’t been near them since the funeral and that’s months away. I suppose I ought to resign from the committee. She felt that she was deserting the cause and that made her feel ashamed of herself. But of course it
was
what she was doing. It was why she’d taken the job. I owe them an explanation, at the very least, she thought. I shall go down and see them at the next committee meeting.

It was a delicately handled occasion, for she was being careful not to upset them by appearing to be critical of what other suffragettes were doing and they were mindful of the illness she’d suffered since she was released from that dreadful gaol and wanted to treat her gently.

‘We’re so proud of you, my dear,’ Mrs Emsworth said, when they were sitting round the table in the committee room. ‘To have run such a risk for our cause is admirable beyond words.’

But there
were
words and Octavia had to speak them. ‘I would be less than honest if I let you think I’m of the same mind now as I was when I was arrested,’ she said. ‘The truth is that being ill for such a long time has given me pause to think and I have to say I’m not at all sure that deliberately breaking the law and facing the punishment is the most effective way to further our cause. In fact, I’m afraid we are losing the support of the public the more violent we become – and the more violent our opponents are towards us – and unfortunately public support is something we must have if we are to prevail.’

‘But what else can we do?’ Betty Transom said. ‘We’ve marched our feet off and they don’t take any notice, we’ve
petitioned, we’ve written endless letters; what other way is there?’

Octavia had to confess that she didn’t know. ‘It must be democratic,’ she said. ‘I’m sure of that. It must be within the rule of law even though it’s the law we want to change. I shall give it as much thought as I can, I promise, and I shall keep in touch with you all even if I’m not your secretary any more. I haven’t deserted the cause. I should hate you to think that. I shall march whenever the march is legal, and I shall write letters and sign petitions until my arm falls off. It is just that I can’t break the law again.’

She was surprised by how sympathetically they understood. They are good women, she thought, as she walked home. They deserve the vote if anyone ever did and I shall do everything I can to make sure they get it. Then she felt she ought to correct herself,
that we all get it
, and was ashamed to realise that she had distanced herself from all these good women who had been her allies for so long. It was a relief to turn her attention to the next day’s lessons.

The autumn tumbled her along in a chorus of letters learnt. Soon it was November, London was muffled and snuffling in the first fog of the winter and gangs of scruffy children stood at bus stops and alongside underground stations with their straw-stuffed effigies propped against the nearest wall, begging, ‘Penny fer the Guy!’ Octavia’s new method of education continued and expanded. She drew a huge Guy Fawkes sitting on a bonfire and a display of exploding fireworks to stick on the wall above his head and her pupils coloured all that in too and sat enthralled while she told them the story of what happened to the real Guy Fawkes. By
November 5
^th
the class and the classroom were transformed.

‘I think,’ she said to her parents one fog-clammy evening over dinner, ‘that I have found the secret of teaching.’

‘That you must like your pupils?’ her father smiled.

‘That of course,’ she agreed. ‘Although I must say most of the teachers I’ve met so far don’t seem to like them very much. They’re always saying what a poor lot they are, which isn’t true at all. They’re lovely when you get to know them and so willing. No, the other secret, the one I’m talking about, is that it’s no good just telling them things and shouting at them to understand, you have to coax them and make them laugh. You have to allow them to do things and to enjoy what they’re doing. It has to be fun.’

Amy had been letting her mind wander as she usually did when the conversation turned academic but she caught the word ‘fun’ and latched on to it happily. ‘Just so long as you’re enjoying it, my darling,’ she said. ‘That’s the main thing. I wouldn’t want you to do anything you didn’t enjoy.’

‘That’s rather a sybaritic point of view, my love,’ J-J teased. ‘Would you not be better to urge her to strive for striving’s sake?’

‘Striving is all very admirable,’ Amy told him, ‘but I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t have fun while you strive.’

‘My point exactly, Mama,’ Octavia said.

‘Changing the subject,’ her father said. ‘I had a letter from Tommy Meriton this morning. He wants to know if he can – now what was it he said? –
‘be granted an interview with me’
when he comes home on leave. You wouldn’t happen to know what that’s about, would you, Tavy?’

To her horror Octavia could feel herself blushing. She pretended to drop her napkin so that she could duck her head
below his line of vision as she picked it up. For heaven’s sake! She was acting like some stupid heroine in a romance. ‘No,’ she said, as calmly as she could, folding the napkin across her knees so that she could keep her head down and not meet his eye. ‘Obviously something he wants to talk to you about.’ And she tried a joke. ‘Perhaps he’s taking up Mathematics.’

Her father gave her his most wicked grin. Really there were times when he was as bad as Bernard Shaw. ‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘All will be revealed in time I daresay.’

The interview was arranged as soon as Tommy got home and J-J found it fascinating, if prolonged. He was intrigued to see this handsome, confident young man so obviously ill at ease, and to wonder what words he would use when he finally got to the point. He was taking long enough to get there in all conscience. They’d talked about the weather – endlessly – and some of the shows that were running in the West End, including the one he and Octavia were going to see that evening, and even the possibility of a war with Germany, which he said was looking extremely likely. Surely he should broach the main topic soon.

‘I gather you had something rather particular you wanted to say to me,’ he said at last.

‘Yes, sir,’ Tommy agreed. ‘Rather.’ But then words failed him and he sat silent, his hands on his knees.

‘Something about Octavia perhaps?’ the professor prompted.

‘Rather. Oh, I should think so. Yes indeed.’ But he still couldn’t say so and he was still looking at his knees.

‘In my limited experience,’ the professor prompted again, ‘I believe the correct form of words is something in the order of
“I have the honour – or may I have the honour – of asking for your daughter’s hand in marriage”.’

‘By Jove, yes,’ Tommy said, looking up in relief. ‘I mean, rather. She’s such a corker, you know, sir, but she does need looking after, what with the suffragettes and everything. Not that she’s weakly or anything like that. I’m not suggesting that. Far from it, as you know, sir. Very far from it. What I mean to say is I’d like to look after her, sir, being she’s such a corker. I can provide for her and all that. Might have to live abroad now and then but she would live well, you have my word. Wouldn’t want for anything.’

The thought of his darling living abroad stabbed at J-J’s heart. ‘So, when were you hoping to marry?’ he asked, carefully calm.

‘Not till the summer, sir. August I hope. I’m taking up a new appointment in September. In Paris. But it depends on Tavy. She wants to see the year out at this school of hers. Says she’ll get the sack if she marries. Sounds absolute tosh to me but I daresay she’s right. Anyway, she wants to wait until the summer. I’d marry her now if it were up to me. Like a shot. But there you are, sir, it’s her decision, and I’m bound to honour it.’

There was a pause while both men wondered what should be said next. Then Tommy ventured. ‘Do we have your blessing, sir?’

J-J smiled at his prospective son-in-law. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘If that is what you need. Although I would have thought good footwork might be an advantage too. Octavia is an affectionate young woman but her determination can be prodigious.’

Tommy grinned. ‘I know, sir. That’s why I love her. May I go and tell her now?’

J-J watched as the young man strode from the room. There was such strength in that walk and, now that he’d made his declaration, such happy confidence, as if his life were charmed. And so it is, he thought, if he’s going to marry my Tavy. He could hear her running down the stairs and Tommy’s voice murmuring to her. They are lovers, of course, he thought. He’d never seriously believed in Octavia’s
‘suffragette friend’
who had to be visited so often and at such length and was never invited back to meet her parents – although he’d never admitted as much to Amy, who needed to believe it for her own peace of mind. The young are not the same as we were at their age, he thought, and hoped for all their sakes that this marriage would be a good one. We know so little when we set out, he thought, and life is full of hazards.

But then Tavy and her mother were in the room and both talking at once, and Tommy was standing behind them, beaming so widely it was a wonder he didn’t crack his jaw, so they all had to be gathered into a circle round the fire for the delightful business of drinking champagne and making plans.

‘Now for a start,’ Amy said happily, ‘we could have an engagement party on New Year’s Eve. How would that be?’

It would be wonderful, as the engaged couple were happy to tell her.

‘Oh, I’m so happy for you, my darling,’ Amy said to her daughter, for the third time since she’d heard the news. ‘What a splendid way to start the New Year. You must lay on plenty of champagne, J-J. It isn’t every day of the week your daughter gets engaged.’ She was into her full planning stride now and thoroughly enjoying herself. ‘We must have a cake and a band for dancing and a buffet supper. It’s all going to be perfectly
splendid. I can’t wait to tell Maud and Emmeline.’ Although of course Emmeline had known there was a romance ever since that holiday at Eastbourne.

‘And after that you must choose a date for the wedding,’ she went on, ‘and we can start organising that.’ She gave them both a rapturous smile. ‘Have you any ideas?’