Women of Courage (24 page)

‘Traitor!’ she yelled. ‘Judas! How dare you betray your wife like that?’

Hurriedly, two uniformed attendants ran down the steps towards her, seized her by the arms, and dragged her, protesting, away. Deborah and the woman with the young daughter watched, embarrassed.

As the hubbub declined, a number of MPs immediately rose to their feet, to catch the Speaker’s eye. But the Speaker ignored them, calling out instead: ‘The Home Secretary!’

So that was what Mr Reginald McKenna looked like, Deborah thought. The man who had introduced the dreadful Cat and Mouse Act, under which Mrs Pankhurst had been arrested six times for the same offence, of simply supporting protests for women’s votes. She hadn’t even broken a window herself. McKenna looked civilised, urbane enough. Standing relaxed beside Asquith at the Despatch Box, he looked pleased, as though Jonathan’s statement had amused him. But Deborah was delighted to see that his very appearance seemed to excite renewed fury amongst some members of the House, who were still on their feet shouting and waving their fists.

He waited until the tumult died down and then spoke briefly and clearly. ‘The Honourable gentleman has my deepest sympathy, and I thank him for his explanation, which I am sure must have caused him considerable pain and embarrassment. I am also most grateful for his unexpected and wholehearted statement in support of the policy of His Majesty’s Government. With regard to this appalling act of vandalism . . .’

Again the noise was rising. Don’t they ever stop this awful row? Deborah wondered. There seemed to be a number of members, on the opposite side of the chamber, to whom the very sight of Mr McKenna was an insult. Deborah wanted to weep. What chance did any woman have — even an impulsive mad-woman like her sister — when the country was in the hands of men like this?

‘. . . furthermore, I can reassure the honourable gentleman that, on the question of giving women the vote, His Majesty’s Government have not the slightest intention of giving way to threats of terrorism and vandalism of any kind. We shall consider the matter dispassionately on its merits alone, and I feel bound to say to him that actions such as his wife has committed make us even less likely to grant votes to women than before. If women want votes, they should show they are mature enough to deserve them!’

He sat down to a roar of mixed approval and anger, and again, a number of MPs rose to catch the Speaker’s eye. But the speaker did not respond. Instead, he moved immediately ahead to other business, and to Deborah’s surprise the subject was dropped.

Deborah turned to the only other woman who remained in the gallery with her daughter. She was a large, comfortable, motherly-looking woman, but Deborah thought she detected a slightly cynical, mischievous look in her eye.

‘That was a dreadful performance, wasn’t it, dear?’ the woman said.

Ashamed for Jonathan’s sake, Deborah muttered: ‘Yes. I understand the militant suffragettes better now. Asquith’s the main cause of it all, isn’t he?’

‘Him and half the others in the Cabinet, I’ve heard. Need their bottoms smacked, in my opinion. They’re all terrified because their nannies knew best when they were babies. They think we’d make a better job of running the country than they did, if we got the chance. I think they’re right, too!’

‘Women Members of Parliament, you mean?’ Deborah was generally in favour of the women’s vote, but she was surprised to realise she had not thought much about this, the logical consequence.

The woman smiled. ‘Why not? Don’t you think you and I could make a better job of it than all those schoolboys down there? Even my Belinda here could. Oh dear, me. Talk of the devil.’

The woman’s gaze travelled past her, in surprise and distaste. Jonathan had come into the gallery. He sat down beside Deborah.

‘Well, that’s done,’ he said. ‘What did you think?’

‘I’d rather not say,’ Deborah said coldly. She avoided his eyes.

‘Oh come now, you don’t think I’ve let Sarah down, do you? That was the best thing I could possibly have done to get her released.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Yes, of course. Now I’m in McKenna’s good books, he’s far more likely to listen favourably to any petition I put to him. It was pretty distasteful, I agree, but that’s politics. Now you and I have got another call to make. Come, my dear.’

Deborah got to her feet automatically, and let him take her arm. She was horribly conscious of the eyes of the motherly woman burning into her back as they left the gallery. She felt ashamed. ‘Where are we going?’

Jonathan smiled at her; that old, charming smile, which used to warm her so much.

‘To see a friend of mine, a doctor who works in the prison. Chap called Martin Armstrong.’

12

‘I
’M SORRY, Jonathan. Even I couldn’t do that.’

‘But surely you have influence?’

‘Of course. A great deal.’ Deborah thought she saw the man, Dr Armstrong, swell with self-importance as he spoke. He was already a very large man, with a round, fleshy, clean-shaven face. He had smiled at her briefly when she came in and then ignored her, addressing all his remarks to Jonathan, in the way that men often did. He sat behind his desk with big heavy hands clasped complacently over the expensive cloth of his waistcoat, wheezing slightly as though he were short of breath. She could tell Jonathan was getting angry, and wondered a little at the faith he had seemed to have in this man. On their way to this dreadful place he had spoken confidently of Dr Armstrong as the key that would unlock all doors. But it seemed it was one thing to get into the office of the Assistant Medical Officer at Holloway prison, and quite another to progress further and visit a prisoner in the cells.

The office itself was quite comfortable. Large desk, leather armchairs, bookcases, thick woollen carpet on the floor. And in the far corner, a shelf full of strange medical-looking items in glass jars. Through a door at the side she could see a bed, a sink, a screen, instruments — a room presumably for examining patients.

Dr Armstrong was explaining, portentously, ‘You have my deepest sympathy, Jonathan. The first time your wife was imprisoned here I felt it my duty to stay uninvolved, so as to cause you the least embarrassment, but this time, since you insist . . .’

‘I do.’ A muscle twitched at the side of Jonathan’s jaw, and Debbie noticed a slight flush on his scarred cheek.

‘Then of course I shall do what I can. But I regret to say that my orders are quite clear. The Governor had them from the Home Secretary McKenna himself, and he took particular pains to stress them to me. From now on there is to be no exception to prison regulations for any suffragette, specifically including your wife, and Mrs Pankhurst as well for that matter.’

‘Even after my assurance in the House today?’

‘I have heard nothing about that, I’m afraid.’

‘No, well. Perhaps it’s too soon.’ Jonathan drummed his fingers impatiently on the edge of his chair. ‘Then I cannot see her?’

‘No, I’m afraid not. No visits, no letters. Not even if her charming sister comes all the way over from Ireland.’

‘It is not a matter for joking, Dr Armstrong.’ It was unusual for Deborah to interrupt a male conversation, but there was something about the man’s thick-lipped, ingratiating smile which deeply irritated her. And after this afternoon, she felt that men alone would never protect her sister. She glared at him, shaking slightly. Dr Armstrong looked offended.

‘No, of course not, madam. I didn’t mean that at all. But you have to understand that your sister has committed a most serious criminal offence.’

‘I know that, Doctor. But she needs help and comfort too. According to my brother-in-law she was not at all a healthy woman when she was arrested.’

He nodded sagely. ‘That may well be so. It is my belief, in fact, that many of these crimes may be connected with an undiagnosed medical condition. But in any case that is what I am here for. I have not had the pleasure of meeting your wife so far since her arrest, Jonathan, but I shall certainly make it my business to examine her as soon as possible, and convey your concern to her also. I have been away for the past three days, but I understand that so far she has refused to eat, as she did before.’

‘I was afraid of that.’ As Jonathan spoke. Deborah noticed one of his hands playing nervously with the arm of his chair. ‘So she will already be in a feeble condition, I imagine. I suppose it might have affected her mind. Can’t you arrange for her release as soon as possible, Martin, without her having to go through all this wretched charade of damaging her health first? I had an agreement with McKenna before that if she stayed at home without making speeches or involving herself actively in the movement she would not be rearrested.’

‘An agreement he regards as broken now, I suppose?’

‘Of course.’ Jonathan waved his hand dismissively, although there was something of anxiety in the gesture too. ‘But he can’t keep her in until she dies, can he? That is the nub of the whole dilemma these women confront the government with, you know that. The women cannot be allowed to die in prison, so they have to be released sooner or later. All I am asking of you is that you help me make it sooner. I’ve done you some service, after all . . .’

‘And I you.’

‘Yes, I know.’ There was a slight, infinitesimal pause, and, although neither of them looked her way, Deborah had the impression that both men had simultaneously become highly aware that she was present and wished she was not. But it was only for a second; then they both hurried on, as though concerned that the pause itself should not be noticed.

‘All I can say, Jonathan old chap, is that of course I’ll give her an examination and do my very best to get her out as soon as I can. If I certify that her health is likely to be damaged by further exposure to prison conditions then that’s it, no question. I can’t do it tonight because I’m leaving here in half an hour and if I barge in over the heads of the other medics the governor will smell a rat and say it’s political pressure — but first thing tomorrow morning, all right? I’ll let you know what I find. Can’t say fairer than that, now can I?’

Jonathan stood up. ‘You’re very kind.’ He held out his hand and as he did so Deborah had the impression of great tension throughout his body, as though he might start to shake or tremble or scream at any moment.

‘Not at all.’ Dr Armstrong took Jonathan’s hand in his, and shook it, and as he stood up Deborah realised he was not a tall man, just bulky. He took up more space than most men, breathed more heavily. He held out his arms to shepherd them out of his office and escort them to the main gate.

As they crossed the quadrangle Deborah glanced over her shoulder at the solid, gloomy building they were leaving. Everywhere tiny windows crisscrossed with iron bars. Which one was Sarah’s? None of them had a face behind it — perhaps they were too high up in the wall for the prisoners to look out? The building must be full of women but no noise came from it at all — the only sound was the pigeons cooing overhead, and the clatter of the traffic beyond the walls. It is like a great catacomb in the middle of the city, where people are buried alive, she thought. How can anyone stand it? It is worse than death.

And Sarah has come here twice before. She knew what it would be like before she slashed the picture. Perhaps Dr Armstrong is right, it is something to do with a strange medical condition. Perhaps her mind is affected.

Either that, or she is a very brave woman indeed.

By evening, Deborah was exhausted. She had travelled for two days, she had been to Parliament, and visited Holloway prison. She had seen her brother-in-law publicly disassociate himself from her sister in Parliament. And beneath that, like a whale just below the surface of her mind, was the constant question of the baby inside her, and what she was going to do about it.

When they returned to Belgrave Square, Jonathan’s housekeeper had already unpacked her bags in the guest bedroom, on the same floor as the separate suites that Jonathan and Sarah shared. Gratefully, she undressed, drew the curtains, took a teaspoonful of laudanum, and slept.

In her dreams she was looking for Rankin. She was standing in a crowd in Dublin, and she saw him speaking to a sea of people. Really a sea, for, as he spoke to them, the heads of the crowd rose and fell rhythmically as waves passed through them. Then a huge wave upset the cart and she was struggling on the ground with men and boots and sticks all around her. If only I could get up, she thought, I could find him and then everything would be all right. But each time she stumbled to her feet she was knocked down again and her belly was bigger and rounder and heavier, and the boots of the men ran faster and faster in every direction, kicking her and jumping over her until suddenly there was no one left . . . she was all alone, huge and pregnant like a beached whale, lying on the cobbles in the middle of an empty street, while the mounted police rode slowly down the street towards her, their long batons swinging in their hands. In front of them, smiling coolly down at her from his tall bay horse, rode her husband, Charles.

She awoke, sweating and uncomfortable, to the sound of movement in the room. A maid was there, with a candle. She hovered uncertainly at the foot of the bed, the light illuminating her white pinafore dress and frilled cap, but leaving her face dark, ghostly.

‘What is it?’

‘Oh, excuse me, my lady. Mr Jonathan sent to see if you were awake, and if you were, dinner will be served in quarter of an hour, but if you are not, or are indisposed and would prefer to have it served in your room, it’s all up to you, just as you wish. I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t mean to wake you.’

‘It’s quite all right,’ Deborah smiled at the girl’s confusion. It might have been tempting to stay in her room, but not after a dream like that. The best way to clear her mind of her own troubles would be to talk to Jonathan, see what comfort he could offer her. If he could be trusted, after this afternoon.

But then, who else is there?

‘Tell my brother-in-law I shall be down to dinner. And light the gas, would you please, before you go?’