Wayward Winds (39 page)

 76 
Derby Disaster

Notwithstanding Amanda's disenchantment with the suffragette cause, she remained moderately interested in the general theme of women's rights and voting in particular, and continued to follow developments in the news throughout the next year.

Aware that the militancy and violence which had forced her away had also driven a wedge between the two older Pankhursts and the younger, she was not altogether surprised when the telephone call came from Sylvia.

“I don't know if you are aware, Amanda,” said Sylvia, “that I have left the W.S.P.U.”

“I read something about it in the paper,” replied Amanda.

“I want to carry the cause of women's suffrage forward with less violence than my mother and sister,” Sylvia went on. “I am attempting to organize lower- and middle-class women. I am starting a new federation and wondered if you might consider joining me?”

The call resulted in a resumption of their relationship, and once again Amanda became involved for a brief time around the fringes of the movement. The boredom which had begun to set in—for Mrs. Halifax was away a good deal, Ramsay was at the paper night and day, and she was left to while away most afternoons with Mrs. Thorndike—Amanda thus relieved in the former baker's shop which Sylvia had rented on Bow Road down in the middle of the East End. The setting was not the most glamorous—grimy and with the stench
of soap factories and tanneries filling the air. But mingling with working slum women who sweated and slaved plucking chickens and packing biscuits and weaving ropes at least kept the face of humanity before her, to carry out its own special work of compassion in the due course of Amanda's destiny.

In May of 1913 Ramsay reminded Amanda of their first days of acquaintance.

“What would you think,” he said, “of attending the Derby again this year? A celebration of the second anniversary of our first formal outing together?”

Amanda happily accepted.

“I should say,” added Ramsay, “that the invitation applies only to
you
this time. Now that you are involved with Sylvia again, I don't want any surprise tagalongs.”

“Don't worry,” laughed Amanda. “I haven't seen or heard from Emily in I don't know how long. The last I heard she was in jail.”

“Oh, right, tried to kill herself, wasn't it?”

“That sounds like her!”

“But didn't they release them all?” asked Ramsay.

“I don't know. In any event, I promise she will not be along.”

Derby Day arrived on June 4. Ramsay and Amanda—not knowing that the ill-fated Miss Davison, who had accompanied them on the previous occasion as a preliminary to what she planned to do, had, the evening before, calmly placed a wreath at the foot of Joan of Arc's statue, then drove to Epsom Downs happily alone.

No sooner had they taken their seats for the beginning of the race than Amanda gave a little start.

“I don't believe my eyes!” she exclaimed. “There is Emily Davison after all!”

“Where?” asked Ramsay, following Amanda's pointing hand.

“Yes . . . I do see her,” he said, “there in the crowd at the rail along the track, just as the curve of Tattenham Corner begins. She is wild eyed even from this distance! I must say she is the worst dresser I have ever seen.”

Amanda's onetime colleague was wearing an unfashionable pale yellow dress which came down not far below the knees. On her feet were laced what appeared to be a pair of men's boots as if she intended to be off for a romp across the countryside. No hat covered her head of unkempt red hair.

“She is a sight,” agreed Amanda.

“It doesn't look like the stint in Holloway did her constitution much good,” laughed Ramsay, “—thin as a rail. But enough of her—let's look at the program.”

Their eyes were soon distracted by the pre-race activity, and trying to see the king, whose colt was one of the favorites.

“All right, we've got Whitey's Dream, Irish Pride, Aboyeur, Highlander, Centennion, Craganour . . . who do you like, Amanda?”

“I think I'll root for Medusa Lady—I like the name.”

“A fifteen-to-one shot—not a chance,” laughed Ramsay. “My money's on Craganour.”

The race was soon off.

Down the backstretch galloped the tight cluster of horses. As Amanda and Ramsay watched with the rest of the crowd, they did not see Amanda's former colleague inching closer and closer through the spectators toward the edge of the track.

Gradually the field separated into two clusters.

“Go, Medusa Lady!” yelled Amanda.

Leading the way sprinted the favorite Craganour, but with 100-to-one Aboyeur hanging surprisingly close. George V's horse led the following pack several lengths behind.

The field now raced through Tattenham Corner.

Suddenly a great unison gasp of panic went up from the crowd. The slight figure of a woman jumped the railing and now rushed into the middle of the track.

The lead pack thundered past. Into the gap between the two packs of horses ran the deranged red-haired suffragette. The king's horse and jockey crumbled into a heap. Those close behind pounded into them and crashed and fell across the track.

Shouts and screams sounded everywhere. Pandemonium erupted.

Dust flew amid shrieking whinnying. Horses tumbled over one another. Several jockeys flew through the air. At the bottom of the heap lay Emily Davison, crushed and beaten by powerful hooves and falling, struggling, kicking horseflesh.

Ramsay cast one quick glance toward Amanda. Her eyes were wide, her face ashen. She sat stunned as in a trance of horror at what she had just seen.

Ramsay leapt from his seat and ran toward the track. Stretchers and doctors hurried toward the scene. A few of the excitable horses
jumped back to their feet and were led away. Others lay with broken legs. Moans, yells, and innumerable horse sounds came from the scene.

Unaware of the tremendous accident, the lead pack of horses raced on to the post. Shoving Aboyeur momentarily into the rails, Craganour managed to hold his lead and win the race. All eyes, however, were on the site back in the final curve where two horses, a jockey, and Emily Davison lay on the dirt. The horses and jockey were alive, though badly injured. The woman lay motionless, awaiting ambulance transport to a hospital.

When Ramsay returned for Amanda, she still sat where he had left her. Her face was pale, her eyes staring forward at the scene. He took her hand and led her away.

As they returned to Ramsay's car the announcement came over the speaker that Craganour had been disqualified. Long-shot Aboyeur was declared the winner. In light of what they had just witnessed, and since Ramsay had laid his own bet on neither of them, the news hardly seemed to matter.

 77 
Confusion

The drive back to London was quiet and somber.

Amanda stared out the windows unseeing. Her shock was not so much from what she had witnessed, horrifying as it had been, but in the realization that she had been an integral part of a cause that had now taken such a bizarre turn. Both she and Ramsay could not prevent themselves thinking of the Derby two years earlier, when unbalanced Emily Davison sat in this very automobile accompanying
them
to the race. Amanda did not exactly feel responsible, but somehow she knew she had been
involved
.

Again feelings of horror rose up within her of betrayal, of having been used by the Pankhursts. Slowly her horror was replaced by anger. What right did the Pankhursts have to use everyone else for their own ends? They had used her. They had used Emily. How much did any of them really care, deep down, for Emily Davison? Had they perhaps encouraged her to do what none of the rest of them had the courage to do? Now Emily's body lay crushed and broken because of them.

They would all express words of sorrow at what had happened. But Amanda
knew
Christabel. She would secretly be delighted at the publicity this turn of events would bring the cause.

They drove on into the city. Gradually Amanda's agitation mounted. She had to get out of here.

“Stop the car, Ramsay,” said Amanda abruptly at length.

“What?” he said, glancing over at her.

“Stop . . . please—I'm sorry, I need to get out . . . I need to walk. I'm confused and upset and angry and I don't want to start crying . . . please, just let me out.”

Ramsay slowed. They were by now driving through Brompton and only two or three miles from home.

“If you need to talk, Amanda, I'll—”

“Please, Ramsay, I just need some time alone. I can find my way back. I'll walk or get a taxi . . . please.”

Ramsay said no more, pulled over, and stopped. Amanda got out and walked away without another word.

For the rest of the day Amanda walked and walked, heedless of direction, keeping mostly to smaller streets and parks, working her way along King's Road and through Belgravia into the middle of the city where so many of her activities with the Pankhursts had been located. She spent an hour in St. James's Park, then crossed the Mall, through some of the business district, and into the western edges of Holborn.

As she went, confused thoughts and angry questions kept her brain stirred in turmoil. Every street, it seemed, reminded her of a rally, a protest, a march . . . then later dirty tricks and fires and broken windows.

What had it all been about, these years in London? What had anything accomplished if it was going to end like this—a young lady probably no older than herself being trampled under dozens of pounding hooves at a horse race?

It was all so wrong!

Everyone was selfish. Everyone was out for their own gain. Emily Davison was just as selfish as the rest—she had killed a horse or two . . . if not a jockey . . . if not herself.

The cause . . . the cause . . . everyone spoke of the cause!

But what was
the cause
but an accumulation of selfish people all seeking their own selfish ends, using whoever it suited them? Where was the ultimate
good
 . . . good to humanity, to the country . . . good to individual men and women?

Hadn't she come here to accomplish something, to do good?

And now this!

Was there any
good
to be found in the world? If so where?

As she turned along Bloomsbury Way, she began to encounter more people, reminding her that she probably ought to be heading back.

Everyone had been nice to her, she thought, but for what? For their
own
ends?

The Pankhursts . . . what did she really mean to them? Nothing.

Cousin Gifford could pour on the charm, but she knew his type. Geoffrey hadn't yet mastered the art of his father's oily ways, but he was just the same. They wanted her for something—she could see it in their eyes. What, she wasn't exactly sure. How much did even Cousin Martha really care about
her
 . . . suddenly Amanda wasn't sure.

Ramsay . . . Mrs. Halifax . . . what did
they
want from her?

Everyone
wanted something . . . everyone was out for himself. Had she ever in her life met a single person who—

Suddenly Amanda stopped.

A face in the middle of the crowded sidewalk ahead arrested her attention. She stared for a moment in perplexity.

Why did she seem to recognize that face? Who could it possibly—

Had full knowing come in time, it is hard to say what Amanda might have done. She probably would have made a quick about-face and walked the other way without completing the encounter. As it was, though she had changed far more than he since the last time either one had laid eyes on the other, it was the man walking toward her upon whom recognition first dawned.

He broke into a slight run, and was standing in front of her before she could even complete the thought that had been poised on her lips.

“Amanda!”
he said, with a broad smile, in the tone of mingled exclamation and question.

Amanda began to nod, still with a look of uncertainty on her face.

“Timothy,” he said, “—it's Timothy Diggorsfeld.”

The words brought with them a flood of confused and mingled sensations into Amanda's brain, reminders of her past, of Heathersleigh, of her parents. Had she possessed leisure to rationally analyze the unexpected meeting, she would probably have turned a cold shoulder and walked away. Was not this the man who had started all the religious trouble in the first place!

But she did not have time to think about it. In the first instant she did not even remember that he was a minister. He was not quite so tall as she remembered him, and had lost a little hair since. But
his smile was so infectious—a result that genuine smiles usually produce—she could not help reflecting it right back to him.

“Hello, Mr. . . . uh, Mr. Diggorsfeld,” she said, smiling pleasantly, shaking his outstretched hand.

“It is so wonderful to run into you like this, Amanda,” said Timothy. “You have indeed grown up since I last saw you.”

Already, however, with recognition were coming into Amanda's consciousness hints of the man's profession, his visits to Heathersleigh, and his friendship with her parents. Reminders of her father's letter of the previous year were not far behind.

“I had heard you were in London,” he said exuberantly. “I am so happy to have run into you.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “It is . . . uh, nice to see you again too,” she added, though more as a reflex than because of the sincerity of her words.

Aware that the smile was already beginning to fade from her lips, and desiring to keep the interview a friendly one, Diggorsfeld brought it to a conclusion as quickly as possible.

“I don't want to detain you,” he went on. “I must be going anyway. If there is ever something I can do for you, or if you need a friend's ear, I hope you will call on me. Here is my card,” he said, removing a card from his vest pocket and handing it to her. “My church is right up the street—”

He pointed along Bloomsbury.

“—its steeple is just visible there.”

He turned and took a couple of steps away. “Call me anytime, Amanda. The Lord bless you . . . good day.”

And then he was gone. The entire episode had taken no more than twenty seconds, and was over before she could think what she might even have wanted to say.

Amanda watched the minister disappear in the direction of his church, then continued on her way, sobered, thoughtful, yet at the same time inexplicably warmed inside from the friendly encounter.

He
had wanted nothing from her . . . not wanted to
use
her . . . not tried to gain anything for himself from her. It had just been a friendly,
nice
exchange.

She had already forgotten the question she had been about to ask when Diggorsfeld's face had suddenly interrupted her step. Unbidden, however, out of her subconscious now came its answer.

She
did
know someone who didn't try to take from everyone he met. His name was Charles Rutherford. Her own father was such a man. Was he the only person who had allowed her freedom to be herself, to think and express herself without strings attached?

Stunned that such a conclusion would find its way into her brain, instantly she tried to stop it in its tracks.

No, she said to herself. There
were
strings attached! All his religious strings! It wasn't freedom at all, it was slavery . . . slavery to his ideals, his control, his trying to make her be just like he was.

Even as she tried to force them from her brain, she knew her counterarguments couldn't stand up. Her father
had
allowed her to be herself. He had even paid for her transportation to get here. He had
not
stopped her from coming to London. He could have, or at least made it very difficult for her.

But he hadn't.

Though he had objected to her decision, he had actually given her the money to come. He had expressed his opinion, but then had done nothing to coerce or force her. What else could it be called but giving her the freedom to direct her own course?

He had sent his ridiculous letter a year ago about the Halifaxes, yet the fact was, he had done nothing to prevent her from making her own decision in the matter. She had hated and resented him for years, yet had not her father actually been the only one who
hadn't
tried to use her or get something from her?

She had only been deluding herself that the Pankhursts loved and accepted her. She now saw so clearly that they had never cared about her. Had she been just as wrong about—

No! she screamed silently to herself. She would
not
listen to such thoughts! They weren't true.

Her father was manipulating and controlling. Nothing could change that. She remembered what it was like living under his roof. It was tyranny. She would not go back! She hated it . . . she hated him!

Amanda was running now, bumping her way through people . . . hands clamped over her ears as if to stop the voices trying to tell her she was wrong about her father. Battling them as if these inner cries were bombarding her as she ran, she shook her head and pressed her hands against the sides of her head more tightly.

No, no!
she cried.
I won't listen. I won't . . . I
won't! He doesn't trust me to be mature
enough to see dangers for myself. I'm old and
wise enough to handle it . . . I can take care of
myself . . . how dare him write me a letter like that . . .
it's an insult—I'm twenty-three years old.
Who does he think he is! I won't listen . . .
I won't. It's all lies. . . .