Women of Courage (37 page)

‘No. But Martin — Dr Armstrong — said that he had persuaded her she was injuring herself to no purpose. He must have a silver tongue, that man.’

‘Do you trust him, Johnny?’ After yesterday’s meeting with Rankin, Deborah thought there was no man left in the world whom she could trust. Except possibly Charles. At least he was straightforward, and predictable. And about as sensitive as a stone.

‘Trust him?’ Jonathan glanced at her in surprise, then looked away, into the fire. ‘Yes, of course. Why should I not?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. He’s not — exactly my sort of man. Too full of himself, I thought.’

‘That’s just his manner. I’ve known him quite a while now. He’s a doctor, he understands — what people need.’ Jonathan glanced at her again, searchingly this time, as though trying to read her mind. Then he stood up abruptly and crossed the room to pour himself a drink.

‘So when can we see her, Jonathan?’

‘We can’t. That’s the worst of it. Not until she’s been inside a month, Martin says. Prison regulations.’

‘But that’s monstrous! You mean she can’t have any visitors at all for a
month?
’

‘Not if she’s confined in the third division. She’ll probably have to work, too, cleaning floors and so on. I can’t see Sarah doing that willingly, can you?’

‘Certainly not!’ Deborah stood up, and walked across the room distractedly. She pressed her forehead against one of the cool windowpanes, thinking. She had so many troubles of her own, now. She had not known life could be so difficult. Last night she had thought she might as well die, just throw herself into the Thames. But she couldn’t do that, because of her baby. A few minutes ago she had thought she should go back to Ireland, to be with Tom, and Charles, in this time of danger. But she had come to London, after all, to be with her sister. And there was something very strange in this news about Sarah.

‘Jonathan, I can’t believe this. It’s all wrong from beginning to end. I can’t understand it!’

‘What can’t you understand, Debbie? It’s simple enough, isn’t it? My good wife took it into her head to slash a famous painting with a carving knife, and as a result the courts of this country sentenced her to prison for six months in the third division. After a brief flirtation with self-starvation she has come to her senses enough to eat and obey the prison regulations, and as a result she will learn how to clean floors and wash dishes or whatever else they do. In just under a month I shall be able to go to see her. Meanwhile I have to arrange to see that odious little jack-in-office at the National Gallery to pay for the repairs to his painting. That’s all there is to it. End of story.’

He tossed back his brandy and turned away to pour himself another. How bitter he is, Deborah thought. Suave. Self-assured, like all men. But bitter. Even callous.

Callous?

‘Johnny, you can’t mean that!’

‘Can’t mean what?’ He held the brandy between himself and the fire, admiring the morning sunlight through the glass. It’s very early in the day to be drinking, she thought. She crossed the room towards him.

‘You can’t mean that this is the end of the story! That you’re not going to do any more to help her.’

‘What else can I do?’ Jonathan looked at her in surprise, one eyebrow raised, mocking. ‘Do you want me to break down the gates of Holloway with a hammer? Lead a march of suffragettes to storm the place like the Bastille?’

‘No, of course not, but . . .’

‘But you would like to do just that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Don’t be silly. I’m not a suffragette. But Johnny . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I would like you to care!’

‘Oh.’

Jonathan stepped away from her very deliberately, and stood with his back to the fire. There was still a trace of that charming, elegant smile on his face. But his voice was harsh, bitter.

‘You think because I face facts that I don’t care, do you? That because I accept that Sarah is a responsible woman who has brought all this upon herself that I somehow don’t love her, is that it?’

‘I didn’t . . .’

‘You haven’t had to live with her, Deborah! You haven’t had to put up with being constantly ignored, blamed for any and every illness or setback that she and all other women have suffered. You haven’t had your advice scorned, your help thrown back in your face. Damn it, I even voted for the female suffrage once! Never again. Anyway for Sarah it wasn’t nearly enough. Because they don’t get the vote straight away, because the Prime Minister has to take other matters into account — there
are
other issues in politics, you know — she has to turn everything against me. She blames all men, it seems to me. She actually enjoys throwing herself into prison by committing these outrages which are the very opposite of peaceful democratic persuasion. Why can’t she see that?’

‘Johnny, I . . .’

‘And even that’s not the worst! When I offered her sympathy and love she turned against me — do you realise she believes the miscarriages were my fault? She’s said that, you know — she even turned me out of her bed! I’m only a man, Deborah — I’m only human!’

As I saw the other night, Deborah thought coldly. She watched as he slammed the brandy glass down on the mantelpiece, and thought, this is another play for my sympathy. I might have fallen for it once. Not any more.

She said: ‘She wanted those children desperately, Jonathan. Perhaps, when she had the miscarriages, it hurt her more than you know.’

Jonathan shook his head, bewildered. ‘I know it hurt her, of course it did. It hurt me too. But that’s no reason to reject me in that way. You’re not saying she took up all this militancy because of the miscarriages, are you?’

‘No. I don’t know, Johnny, how can I know? I’ve never talked to her about it. But it is a terrible thing to do, to take up a knife like that and slash a painting — a painting of a woman! I think I sometimes think that our minds are not always in our own control, you know, especially for us women. Giving birth is such a hugely emotional matter that when you want it and it doesn’t happen . . .’

Jonathan laughed, mockingly. ‘That is the most convincing argument for not giving women the vote that I have ever heard!’

Deborah flushed. ‘Well, perhaps it is. I don’t care. I only meant that — maybe that is one reason why Sarah has turned against you. She wanted babies and couldn’t have them, so maybe she put all her energies into getting the vote instead. That doesn’t mean it isn’t a good idea for women to vote — it’s just the reason why Sarah is so passionate about it, perhaps.’

‘It’s hardly the same thing though, is it? Babies and the vote?’

‘No, but — women aren’t always entirely rational, are they? And before you say it, men aren’t either. I expect even you do things sometimes for reasons you don’t fully understand, don’t you? Like the other night.’

Jonathan was silent for a moment. A log fell in the fire and as he bent to pick it up with the tongs she saw again those lines by his eyes that she had noticed on her first day in London. Without looking at her he said: ‘Yes, perhaps. I’ve already said I’m sorry for that. I suppose I do.’

‘Well, then. You must be patient with her. Even more than you have been already.’

He picked up the poker and jabbed viciously at the logs, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.

‘I tell you I
have
been patient with her, Debbie. More than you can know. A lot of men in my position . . . ‘ He hesitated, then seemed to change his mind. ‘Well, anyway, patience is what I was talking about at the beginning, wasn’t it? The prison authorities have said Sarah cannot receive any visitors for a month, and so far as I can see, there is nothing whatsoever that I can do about that except be patient, as you suggest. So that is what I intend to do. What else do you want?’

‘I don’t know.’ Deborah took a deep breath. ‘But whatever happens, I intend to stay here until I can get into that prison to see her. She’s my sister, after all, I owe her that. And I hope that you can help me.’

Jonathan raised an eyebrow. She had the impression that he was surprised, perhaps, to see her so determined Surprised, and also a little uncomfortable. As though he would prefer she were not there.

‘Well, yes, of course. If you can find a way past the prison authorities where I have not, then good luck to you. But I warn you, it may mean that you will have to spend the rest of the month in this house. So long as you can put up with my company that long, you are welcome.’

19

T
WO DAYS later Deborah came down to the breakfast room and noticed a letter propped in the middle of the table, with her name on it. She helped herself to some bacon, eggs, and mushrooms from a silver tureen on the sideboard, warmed by a small spirit lamp, and opened it.

It was from Charles.

Glenfee

Monday 27th April

My dear Deborah,

I felt I should write to you because you will surely have read in the newspapers of the highly successful landing of guns here, and will want to know that all went well with the men under my command. I am happy to tell you that they could not have behaved better. On the night of the 24th April . . .

There followed a long, detailed account of the gun-running at Bangor. Deborah read it with surprise and intense interest. Many of the facts she had already gleaned from the newspapers, but the pride and excitement with which Charles told them gave them new life. It could so easily have gone wrong, she realised. It still could, if all this leads to a real shooting war.

The letter ended:

It will be a fine tale to tell Tom when I see him next weekend, as I hope. A soldier’s life really can sometimes be a matter of secret codes and midnight assignments as the storybooks tell! I hope that you too, my dear, will forgive me if I seemed a trifle abrupt at our last meeting. You and I are going through choppy waters at the moment but so long as we keep our chins up and pull together we shall not go under!

Yours as ever,

Charles

‘A fresh pot of tea, madam?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Deborah looked up to see Reeves, Jonathan’s butler, hovering near the table with a tray in his hand. To her surprise her eyes were full of tears, whether of surprise or laughter she could not tell. She brushed them away with her sleeve, and smiled.

‘Oh yes, please, if you would. And could I have a couple of slices of toast?’

‘Certainly, madam.’

As Reeves disappeared, Deborah read the last paragraph again, with astonishment and — hope? What had come over the man? Did he really miss her, care even a little?

It was so like Charles to see his exploits in the UVF as an exciting schoolboy’s game, something to boast about to his son. But that he should apologise to her, even briefly, was almost unheard of. Even if it was in such ridiculous boy scout language. Choppy water, chins up and pull together — did the silly man think their marriage was some sort of boat trip? If so, she thought, he doesn’t imagine me in the stern sheets cradling a gypsy child in my arms, surely?

But he does care. He realises there’s something wrong and he wants to put it right. Even if he doesn’t know how wrong. Maybe there is a faint hope.

What shall I do? Write back to him and put it all in a letter? I must write something back. She picked up a pen and wrote:

My dear Charles,

I was pleased and touched to receive your letter this morning. With all the difficulty and danger of landing so many guns it must have been hard for you to find time to write . . .

And harder still to find the words, she thought sardonically. That had never been Charles’s strong point. But then, it’s the same for me. What in the world can I say to him of what has been happening to me, and to Sarah and Jonathan? Nothing of that.

I had an uneventful journey over and Jonathan is well . . .

It was absurd. Her hand shook as she wrote the word Jonathan, and her eyes misted over with humiliation. If Charles knew how Jonathan had behaved towards her . . .

‘Excuse me, madam.’

‘Yes, what is it?’ Reeves was in the room again, waiting discreetly for her response.

‘There is a Mrs Watson at the door. She has heard, apparently, that you are here and has asked to see you.’

Not now, for heaven’s sake! ‘Mrs Watson? Who is she?’

‘She is a friend of Mrs Becket’s — her nurse, in fact. She was here most days during the past month to look after Mrs Becket during her convalescence. She is herself a member of the women’s suffrage movement.’

Reeves was a butler of the highest order; he might have approved of Mrs Watson or loathed her, it was impossible to tell which from his manner. Deborah hesitated a moment. She wanted to be alone, to think about her baby and Charles. But, after all, she had come to London to help Jonathan and Sarah too, if she could.

‘Of course! Show her into the front drawing room. I will be there directly.’

Mrs Watson proved to be a small, bespectacled, grey-haired woman of about fifty. She wore a long olive-green dress and matching short jacket over a cream-coloured blouse, and a small round hat with a single rose in it. On her lapel was the badge of the WSPU. She had been sitting on a chair by the window, but when Deborah came in she stood up and held out her hand.

‘Good morning! I am sorry to trouble you, Mrs Cavendish, but I am instructed by the officers of the union to find out if you have any more information about the imprisonment of our colleague, Mrs Becket.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Deborah was taken aback by the directness of the woman’s manner. ‘Well, of course I am pleased to see you. Won’t you sit down?’

They sat together on two upright chairs by a small table in the window, where the early morning sunlight streamed in through the leaves of the trees in the square outside. The window was open at the top, and Deborah thought how much quieter the hum of the traffic seemed in the daytime, when one was awake. She offered Mrs Watson coffee, but she refused. So this is an English militant suffragette, she thought, the first one I have ever spoken to. She seemed quite normal except rather brusque, somehow. Forceful and direct.