The Poor Relation

by Susanna Bavin

  One evening, the talk turned to forcible feeding. Mouths slackened as everyone’s credulity stretched to snapping point.

  Josephine shivered. ‘It’s abominable if it’s true. Fancy! One minute you’re protesting and the next you’re in prison, having food forced down your throat.’

  ‘Hunger-striking has been a good strategy so far,’ Ophelia Cardew observed. ‘It put the frighteners on the authorities.’

  ‘And now they’re putting the frighteners on us with these rumours. It has to be rumour. This is England, for God’s sake.’

  Mary shivered. When the conversation moved on, no one attempted to steer it back, falling instead into the familiar subject of women in the sweated industries.

  ‘Here – borrow this,’ Angela said, handing her a copy of The Sweating Debate.

  ‘Thanks.’ She couldn’t take it home for fear of provoking an untoward reaction, but she could read it in her dinner hours.

  ‘Would you like this as well? It’s Three Weeks by Elinor Glyn.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve read it.’

  ‘Really?’ Josephine perked up. ‘What’s it like? I’ve heard it’s rather saucy.’

  Everyone looked at her. Did they expect her to condemn it as fine for uneducated girls, but beneath the likes of themselves?

  ‘Well, when I say I read it, actually guzzled it would be nearer the mark.’ She was rewarded by smiles and laughter. ‘It took the town hall by storm.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘In deadly secrecy, of course. The lady-clerks passed it round behind the men’s backs.’ She grinned. ‘It fell open at all the best pages.’

  This was greeted by more laughter. How wonderful to feel accepted.

  She held up the volume. ‘Who wants it first?’

  Two or three girls made pretend lunges; Bobby Kennett yelled, ‘Me first!’ and made a grab. Mary laughed. If there hadn’t been young men present, she might have shared the naughty poem that had done the rounds of the town hall, in which the author’s name had been rhymed with ‘sin’ and ‘tiger skin’. ‘Undulate’ had become the word of the moment, though she couldn’t recall whether Miss Glyn had used it or it had been coined by one of her colleagues in a fervent moment at the stationery cupboard.

  ‘Lucy’s having it first,’ said Angela.

  ‘Shall I put that in the minutes?’ Mary teased.

  Minutes hadn’t been kept before, but it was one of her skills. At the town hall, she had been one of only two lady-clerks entrusted with the duty – not that they had received any recognition, least of all financial.

  ‘Your minutes are frightfully good,’ said Angela. ‘No one need worry about missing a meeting now.’

  ‘They’re readable, too,’ said Josephine. ‘You have a knack for writing. You’ll have to rejig our dry-as-dust pamphlets.’

  ‘Happy to,’ she said and set to with a will, producing results that were admired at the next meeting.

  ‘Ever considered getting published?’ Ophelia asked.

  Thinking it a joke, she smiled, then realised everyone was looking at her. Her heart gave a leap of pleasure. She felt drawn to the idea. But was she good enough?

  ‘We wouldn’t suggest it if we didn’t believe in you,’ said Angela.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to say, ‘Thanks. I’m flattered,’ but that wasn’t how she felt. Well, yes, she was flattered, of course, but mainly what she felt was … determined. Here was something fresh to strive for.

  During her dinnertimes, she ensconced herself in the meeting area, studying the pamphlets and booklets. At home, she examined the Manchester Evening News and looked through recent copies of Lilian’s Vera’s Voice, which was principally a story paper but also ran articles, from how to soothe eczema to how to wash a sheepskin rug. Although most articles were of a domestic nature, one copy included a piece on the benefits of fresh air and another had one on working wives.

  That gave her an idea.

  Ophelia had told her about the Happy Evenings club she ran, which aimed to tempt poor children and youths off the streets before they fell into bad ways.

  ‘That’s what I’d like to write about,’ she told Ophelia. She hesitated before asking, ‘Lady Kimber isn’t your patron, is she?’

  ‘What an odd question.’

  ‘I know she does charity work.’ No one at the agency knew of her link to the Kimbers. Were this one of Lady Kimber’s pet projects, she might be able to come clean at home. So far, she had kept quiet about her ambition to write, uncertain whether it would be regarded as a worthwhile activity or a horror to be forbidden lest she make a show of herself.

  ‘Sad to say, no, she isn’t,’ said Ophelia. ‘We could do with a benefactor to stump up cash.’

  Mary skipped the meeting the following Tuesday, pretending at home it was on Thursday, which enabled her to go to Happy Evenings instead. She couldn’t risk Dadda’s forbidding it.

  Ophelia and her cronies had the use of a church hall. When Mary arrived, a game of skittles was in progress, the onlookers’ whoops and jeers suggesting things were hotting up. Younger children were seated at a table, playing pick-up-sticks or Happy Families; further down, girls clustered together, with slates and chalks. At the far end of the hall, older boys had commandeered the bagatelle board.

  One of them noticed a couple of little lads watching. ‘Yeah, come on, you two,’ he said and the older ones made room.

  ‘Join in,’ Ophelia advised Mary. ‘You’ll find out more and the youngsters will enjoy it. They don’t get much adult attention, or if they do, it’s more likely to be a clip round the ear.’

  Mary used a deck of cards to teach beggar-my-neighbour and clock patience, produced silly chalk drawings beside which the children’s efforts looked like masterpieces and handed round lemonade and buns at half-time, but the crowning moment was leading a motley team to victory at skittles.

  ‘It’s been a good evening,’ she told Ophelia as they locked up. ‘The older ones take care of the young ones, don’t they? And the young ones hero-worship them in return.’

  She spent a few days writing and perfecting her article. When it was ready, she tried to give it to Ophelia to read before she submitted it to the Manchester Evening News.

  ‘Heavens, don’t do that or everyone you write about will be chopping and changing what you’ve put. I know you’ll have done a good job. Good luck getting it in print.’

  A problem remained.

  ‘I can’t use my own name. My family doesn’t know I’m doing this. It could be tricky using our address too.’

  ‘Use ours,’ Angela offered.

  ‘Sign the article with a pen name,’ said Josephine, ‘but put your own name on the covering letter. It might be a good idea to be M. Maitland rather than Mary.’ She shrugged. ‘Sad but true.’

  Mary instantly knew her pen name: F. Randall. Mam had been Florence Randall.

  As she dropped her article into the pillar box, her hopes soared.

  The office door flew open and Josephine rushed in, a smile lighting her face. Mary had always thought of Angela as the pretty one, but now she saw how lovely Josephine could look. One hand clamped her straw hat to her head while the other brandished an envelope.

  ‘Urgent delivery for Mr Maitland.’

  Mary came to her feet. Angela tweaked the letter from Josephine’s fingers and thrust it at her. She didn’t know whether to be excited or frightened silly. She ripped open the envelope and pulled out a letter.

  ‘Dear Mr Maitland, Thank you …’ Her eyes rushed ahead. ‘They’ve accepted it. It’s going to be published on Saturday. Please find enclosed a postal order …’ She stood staring. Seven and six!

  ‘Your first earnings as a writer,’ said Angela. ‘Congrats.’

  Josephine laughed. ‘That’s put a sparkle in your eyes.’

  ‘This calls for cream buns,’ said Angela. She settled her cartwheel-hat with its profusion of silk forget-me-nots, jabbed in a hatpin, snatched up her handbag and disappeared.
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br />   ‘Now you have to decide what to write next,’ said Josephine.

  ‘When I started work, my father sent me to night school to learn to use a typewriting machine. I could write about things women can learn that will help them get better jobs.’

  At the next meeting, she glowed with joy as her friends made much of her.

  Ophelia had another idea.

  ‘Remember what you said to me at the end of the Happy Evenings? Did you mention it in this article? No? Then write another Happy Evenings piece concentrating on that. It might appeal to Vera’s Voice.’

  ‘Thanks. I will.’

  ‘I’ve heard about a new clinic for the poor in Moss Side,’ added Katharine Fordyce.

  Mary felt bubbly inside, but there was another sensation too, like an itch under her skin. She had to come clean at home, but it wouldn’t be easy. Dadda was bound to feel she should have sought permission – but what if he had said no? Besides, she hadn’t wanted permission. She had wanted to act independently.

  But that didn’t mean she didn’t want her parents to be proud of her.

  She couldn’t wait for the Manchester Evening News to drop through the letter box that Saturday teatime. She snatched it from the mat, aching to find her article but knowing she must wait.

  When at last her father set the paper aside, she couldn’t stop herself reaching for it.

  ‘May I? There’s something I want to find.’

  ‘Mother has it next.’

  ‘Let her, love,’ said Lilian. ‘I’m busy with my sewing.’

  She scanned the paper. There it was! She knew what it said, word for word, but she read it anyway, the newsprint causing her heart to pitter-patter. Folding the paper open, she held it out.

  ‘Dadda, did you read this?’ If only he would say what an excellent piece it was!

  ‘Can’t say I did.’

  ‘Oh. Only I wish you would read it.’

  ‘What for?’

  Suddenly it felt grubby, trying to get him to read it first. ‘Because I wrote it.’

  ‘What d’you mean, you wrote it?’ His gaze dropped to the paper. ‘But this was—oh. I see.’ His lips clamped shut and he inhaled through his nostrils. ‘F. Randall.’ A short silence, heavy with displeasure. ‘F. Randall.’

  ‘Who’s F. Randall?’ Emma piped up.

  ‘Your mother.’

  ‘Your real mother,’ Lilian added softly when Emma looked at her in confusion.

  ‘Leave the room, Emma,’ Dadda ordered. ‘This isn’t for your ears.’

  Mary had to drop her gaze to conceal her vexation. ‘Really, Dadda,’ she said in her mildest voice, ‘you make it sound as if I’ve desecrated Mam’s memory.’

  ‘You knew you were doing wrong or you’d have used your own name.’

  ‘I don’t believe I’ve done wrong.’ How unfair that she had to moderate her tone while he could be as brusque as he pleased. ‘I didn’t use my name because I thought you wouldn’t wish it.’

  He expelled a sound that was part exclamation and part laugh. ‘You’re right about that. Whatever possessed you?’

  ‘I’m good at writing. I can write letters and minutes—’

  ‘Which is a far cry from this.’

  ‘It was suggested at work—’

  ‘I might have known.’

  ‘Please, Dadda, if you’ll just listen. It was suggested at work, but it was my choice to do it and I think I’ve done it rather well. Certainly the Evening News thinks so.’

  ‘Don’t get clever with me, miss.’

  ‘I’m not. I wish you’d read it, Dadda. The Happy Evenings movement is growing and if someone reads my article and decides to take an interest, then—’

  ‘You’ll have changed the world single-handed? Don’t be an ass, Mary. And what do the Kimbers think of’ − he made a point of searching the article, though she knew this was for show − ‘Happy Evenings?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Suppose it’s something they don’t approve of and it gets back to them that a Maitland has endorsed it?’

  ‘There’s no reason they should ever know. They won’t recognise Mam’s maiden name.’ Anyway, weren’t the Maitlands entitled to their own opinions?

  ‘That’s beside the point. You should have asked my permission. The only thing you can do now is promise not to act so inappropriately again.’

  ‘If by that you mean—’

  ‘I mean that you will not write anything else for publication.’ He looked at her expectantly – and confidently. ‘I require your promise on this, Mary.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘A perfect afternoon – but you always pick a glorious day,’ said Aline Rushworth. ‘I don’t know how you do it.’

  Lady Kimber smiled. She was famous for garden parties soaked in sunshine. The rear of Ees House with its flower-bedecked terrace running the full width of the building formed a handsome backdrop to the sweep of lawn, where her guests mingled.

  ‘How lovely our girls look. A delight to the eye.’ And the most delightful was her own daughter. ‘I always dress Eleanor in sweet-pea colours. So suitable for a young girl and perfect with her fair colouring. Sweet-pea for day and for evenings at home, and white for evenings out.’

  ‘Who are those young people coming down the steps from the terrace?’

  Lady Kimber, who never missed the smallest detail, affected to see them for the first time. ‘Friends of Charlie – at least the fellow is. He’s a Cambridge man: Bobby Kennett. His mother was a Chisleden. The girls are his sister and her friend, Miss Lever. They dabble in social reform. They have an agency that seeks out better jobs for women with some education.’

  ‘Is Charlie interested in one of them?’ asked Aline.

  ‘Gracious, no. They’re girls only in so far as they’re unmarried and under thirty. To them, he’s nothing more than the younger brother’s friend.’

  ‘You’ve met them before?’

  ‘No, but when Charlie asked me to invite them, I found out everything I needed to know.’

  ‘Background?’

  ‘Good families, untitled, old money.’

  ‘Votes for women?’

  ‘They wear the jewellery and attend the rallies, and I believe Miss Kennett once knocked off a policeman’s helmet, but they’ve never chained themselves to anything or set fire to pillar boxes.’

  ‘I should hope not. They’d do better to find husbands.’

  They wouldn’t be half so interesting if they did. Lady Kimber watched as Charlie brought them to meet her. Bobby Kennett, dark-haired, lanky, cutting a dash in a cream linen suit and a jaunty boater with a striped band. The girls – stupid convention – the young women were several years older. One was tall and dark; she must be the sister. She and the Kennett boy shared the same good cheekbones and oval faces – a pair of thoroughbreds. The friend’s face was heart-shaped and, beneath her flower-strewn hat, she had eye-catching hair, somewhere between fair and red.

  When introductions had been performed, she questioned the young women about their work and wider interests. She had plans for them. Charlie lacked the advantage that applied to most heirs: he hadn’t grown up on the estate he was to inherit. His father had died in the gales back in ’01, which, tragic though it was, should have provided the ideal opportunity for Charlie and his mother to move into Ees House, but Dulcie had wanted to live near her own family. She had brought Charlie to Ees House for holidays, during which he was made much of, not just by the Kimbers but by their staff and tenants. It had afforded him masses of experience in the happy side of privilege without exposing him to the responsibility side and she feared he was … lightweight.

  There. She had said it, though only to herself. He was a dear boy, honest and generous and a good sport, and he could charm the birds out of the trees, but the Kimber inheritance required more – and she wanted more for Eleanor.

  Which was where Miss Kennett and Miss Lever came in. Their society would rapidly educate Charlie in the matter of social res
ponsibility in a way he would readily embrace, as coming from a young, modern source that included the opportunity to make new friends.

  It would be good for Eleanor too. Lady Kimber was drawing her into charitable works; but it was with the Miss Kennetts and Miss Levers of this world that the future lay. The women’s movement, as long as it wasn’t crushed to smithereens by public opposition to the radical element, was set to do good things – was already doing them – and Eleanor needed a voice in that, as well as on the age-old charity committees. She must bring together modern social reform and traditional good works.

  And she deserved a worthwhile husband at her side when she did it.

  ‘I’m sorry you got stuck with Colonel Fawcett,’ Nathaniel told Imogen as they were returned home by cab. Had he been alone he would have marched home, letting the night air refresh his mind after an endless evening of enforced fraternisation with strangers. They had come from a function hosted by the colonel for local do-gooders with money burning holes in their pockets. The colonel had cornered Imogen and regaled her with tales of the Empire. ‘You must have been bored silly.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t – well, maybe a little. I hope it didn’t show. I’d hate to let you down.’

  ‘You’d never do that.’

  The evening had been a trial. He was happy to talk about rats pouring down the chimney and bugs spewing out of the walls, and rickets and ringworm, and any other complaints you cared to mention, but stick him in a room with a load of strangers who expected a bit of charm and he was lost. He never had been able to make conversation for its own sake. Small talk? Small minds, more like.

  What he felt like now was a long run across the meadows to clear his head and tax his body. Well, it would have to wait until morning; he would run before breakfast. He enjoyed the sense of freedom and the challenge of pacing himself across a long distance. After a good run, he was too invigorated to feel tired.

  The next morning, when he came home after his run, the first post had arrived.