The Lost Girls

by Jennifer Wells

  I opened my mouth, but by then it was too late and I could hear the pant of its breath and the patter of its feet. I gripped the horse’s rope with all my might but the dog was not heading for me, nor Edelweiss – as Iris turned, it leapt up on her as if her open arms had willed it, nose sniffing and tail wagging.

  Iris laughed a little and cupped her hands against the dog’s wide muzzle, his tongue licking flat against her palms.

  ‘Get away!’ roared Sir Howard, his hand held high and his fist clenched.

  The dog dropped to the ground, cowering for just a second, its ears back and eyes wide. Then, just as soon as it had come, it was gone again, no more than a dark shape disappearing into the distance.

  It was then that I saw Iris – head bowed and shoulders hunched – her body turned away from her father and her arm drawn across her face as if she was shielding herself from the force of his fist. I had thought Sir Howard’s raised hand a threat directed at the dog, and intended only as a warning, but Iris had not seen it that way. I watched her now as she shrank away from her father – from the rage in his voice, and from the blow that never came.

  10

  I would not have come across the tall woman in the feathered hat again had it not been for her dog. I found him tied up outside the church hall one afternoon as I was returning from the bookstand at Partridge’s. When I set down my basket, he looked up at me, a whine straining from his throat. As I patted his head, his tail began to wag excitedly, sweeping crescents into the dust, his body circling close to the ground as if he found the commands of ‘sit’ and ‘stay’ too much to bear.

  His nature seemed changed now he was leashed, and I was reminded of the changes in others I had seen that day on the common barely a week ago: the docile horse that had reared at the sight of a little brown dog; the mild-mannered father, who had raised his hand to a small excitable animal; his headstrong daughter who had steadied a rearing horse then cowered at the sight of her father’s raised hand. So much had been said as we set out that day, but we had returned from the common in silence, with only the curses of the woman in the feathered hat carried on the breeze.

  The woman’s rant had made me blush and my mother shake her head. It was not so much what she had said but the ferocity of her voice that made each word sound like a threat, yet now as I petted the dog, I thought I heard that voice again.

  This time the voice seemed closer but muffled behind the windows and heavy curtains of the church hall, and every so often a word – representation, freedom, action – seemed to cut through the glass with the force of her breath.

  I climbed up on the bench under the window and knelt on the seat. I pressed my nose against the cold windowpane and squinted through a gap in the curtains. The hall was full of women seated in rows, their topknots and hats cast in silhouette by a hard grey light, the like of which I had not seen before and, as my eyes adjusted, I could make out the sparkle of dust caught in a glowing beam. A white bed sheet was stretched flat across the far wall, and on it rows of women dressed in Sunday best and large feathered hats marched onwards until they faded into the darkness only to be replaced by another row, and then another.

  I had heard descriptions of the new photoplays, but this was the first time I had seen anything like one. I had never been into London to see the electric theatres and Mother had even forbidden me from watching the magic lantern and bioscope shows that toured with the fairs, for she said they were ‘ungodly’. I stared at the flickering lights, bewildered, as if I was watching photographs brought to life.

  The women seemed blurred as if outlined in charcoal, their skirts and blouses dulled to grey and their movements swift and stuttering, reminding me of army troops on manoeuvre. They held banners aloft like battle standards, and I watched wave upon wave of them pass before me – banners waving, feet marching, hands waving, faces grim – until they seemed no more than a flicker as they marched past me and I felt as if I was among the crowd and could hear the trudge of their boots, smell their sweat and feel their elbows in my ribs and the warmth of their breath.

  Then the wetness of the dog’s nose in the palm of my hand. I looked down to see the little dog again, his head jerking back as he yelped, the sound now strained, and I realised that he must have been barking for some time. I turned to shoo him away but he had already scampered to the feet of his owner, the lady with the hard voice and the feathered hat – Iris’s Mrs Elliot-Palmer, the one we had run into on the common just a few days ago.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, feeling my face warm. ‘I was just passing and saw the dog…’

  But she hurried forward and took my hand. ‘Come on,’ she said briskly. ‘I know you. You are old Father Ryland’s daughter and your mother would not want to see you here.’ She pulled me from the bench and over the step into the hall, the dog’s bark now just a whimper behind me.

  The seated women sat entranced by the flickering grey images and did not seem to notice when we came into the hall. They turned to one another now and then or reached up to cast hazy shadows over the glowing bed sheet, their silhouetted fingers pointing out the words on a banner, or a face that they recognised.

  The only person to stir when we entered was a man who stood near the back of the room – a thin man dressed in a long black jacket with the collar turned high, which made him look like some kind of clergyman. It was Mrs Elliot-Palmer’s companion from the common, and the man with the gun case I had seen watching Haughten Hall. He looked up as I trailed in after Mrs Elliot-Palmer, his eyes lingering on me as he slowly turned a handle on the machine in front of him, the skeleton of dark metal spinning a shiny black ribbon between large spoked wheels as smoothly as if it were thread.

  Mrs Elliot-Palmer pulled a chair away from the back wall and put another next to it, patting it with her hand.

  ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ I whispered. ‘I just saw the dog. I thought he needed help…’ But the words stuck in my throat when I remembered how she had caught me looking through the window and ignoring the dog’s frantic barks.

  ‘You do not mean to join?’ she said, disappointed.

  ‘Join?’ I said. ‘No, I don’t really know what—’

  ‘Do not worry, we have a lot of women, like yourself, who share our sentiments but cannot join,’ she said. ‘We understand about a loss of social standing or childcare commitments…’ Her voice trailed off and she looked at me again as if realising that neither of those reasons would apply to me.

  ‘I am Grace Elliot-Palmer,’ she said, holding out a large hand, like a butter pat, ‘for we have never been properly introduced, and over there is my son, Francis.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, turning from her greeting, for I wished to see the name that I had heard on Iris’s lips, but I could not see anyone who was at all like the fair, muscular boy I had imagined.

  Mrs Elliot-Palmer was talking about Francis’s involvement in something called the men’s league and his studies at Oxford into Christian and pagan rituals, but all I could think of were Iris’s words – Francis Elliot-Palmer was the boy who had been intended for her, and the one who was now forbidden.

  The women who had been discussing the film were now rising, elbows angled into coat sleeves, hats pinned back on to heads and bags pulled from under the seats. I recognised the new vicar’s wife, the waitress from the tearoom and Miss Potter, my old schoolteacher. There were puffed blouses and long skirts, hair that was padded, rolled and tied in loose topknots, and hats with large brims – but only that, for I had seen only one man in the room: the one stood at the projector.

  ‘Grace Elliot-Palmer,’ the woman repeated briskly.

  I turned back to see her hand still held out to me and I shook it awkwardly. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said automatically.

  ‘You should wait a moment before you leave,’ she said. ‘For I know your mother’s cottage is also on the green not far from here and it would not do for her to look out of her front window and see you leaving with the ladies.’

  ‘I
don’t care what my mother thinks,’ I said, ‘I—’

  ‘Ah, Francis!’ she cried and at last I saw him, but he was not the fair and muscular boy that I had imagined. Francis Elliot-Palmer was the man that I had seen watching Haughten Hall and the one who had chased the dog across the common and made my heart skip a beat when he had stared at me for just a moment too long. He was the man who had operated the projector – the one who now stood next to his mother.

  ‘Do sit with us for a moment, Francis,’ she said. ‘This is—’

  ‘We have seen this lady before, Mother,’ said Francis, his voice deeper than I had remembered, but he did not sit, just looked right at me, his stare unwavering. I thought that he must be the first person to ever call me a lady rather than a girl, and I felt strange as if hearing the word had somehow transformed me.

  I should have guessed that the man who had accompanied Mrs Elliot-Palmer that day was Francis, but there was so much about him that did not fit with what I had imagined the heir to a grand house to be, and so much that did not fit with Iris. He seemed older than I had expected although I could not tell whether his high hairline was due to age or just large temples. His dark clothes made him seem quite serious and I could not imagine how the girl who wore childish dresses and her hair loose could ever be at his side.

  ‘I know that we have seen this lady before,’ said Mrs Elliot-Palmer. ‘I have seen her often. She is old Father Ryland’s daughter.’

  ‘I don’t mean that,’ he said. ‘She is the one that we saw on the common with the Caldwells. The one who excited the dog, although you would not know it – she was wearing a bonnet then.’

  Mrs Elliot-Palmer looked back to me. Her eyes were a little dulled with age but I noticed they were the same light blue colour as her son’s. ‘I do remember,’ she said, although right then I wished that she did not, as I felt I was somehow to blame for the excitable dog.

  ‘A friend of the Caldwells…’ she said, as if she was voicing a thought that was not yet formed.

  ‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘My mother gives religious instruction to Iris. I’m just a companion to her, like a servant.’ I added firmly, ‘I’m not a friend.’

  The last women were leaving the hall. Curtains were being opened and the bed sheet unpinned from the wall as footsteps and the grate of chairs echoed across the parquet.

  ‘I really should be leaving too,’ I said. ‘My mother thinks that I have only been to the haberdasher’s but I went in to Partridge’s also, so I am already late.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mrs Elliot-Palmer. ‘It was nice to meet you.’ But the strength had gone from her voice and she muttered the words as if deep in thought.

  I stood up and Francis pulled back my chair, but I realised that it was not due to manners when he followed me to the doorway and out into the chill of the afternoon.

  ‘It was nice to meet you properly, Miss Ryland,’ he said, his voice softening a bit now that we were away from the older women. ‘I am sorry about Charlie’s behaviour the other day,’ he continued, ruffling the ears of the dog as he strained towards him, ‘but my mother dotes on him and would never apologise for his lack of training. I think that you might have…’ Then he seemed to hesitate but did not take his eyes from the dog. ‘You saw me by the Caldwell place last week,’ he said quietly. ‘I would appreciate it if you would not tell anyone that you saw me there.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  He looked up sharply as if he had not expected me to question him. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘Iris and I should like to see more of each other but her father won’t allow us more than a few snatched words at society events. I was only near the house by coincidence, after all it is common land, but Sir Howard would still not be happy about it.’

  ‘I suppose you were not trespassing,’ I said. ‘Anyone may shoot on the common.’ I could not say any more. We both knew that he had not been stalking game when I had seen him, and that he must have been looking directly at the house in order to have noticed me at the window.

  ‘It was not a rifle that I was carrying,’ he said. ‘The long bag carries the tripod for my cine camera – many people make that mistake.’

  ‘You were filming Haughten Hall—’ I began.

  ‘No!’ he said quickly. ‘There is plenty to film on the common. There are foxes hunting in broad daylight this time of year and sometimes our stable lad will loose the horses on there to graze. It is all practice for when I film the May Day festivities, when I will begin my observations.’

  ‘Iris said you think that May Day is pagan,’ I said.

  ‘What I think does not matter so much,’ he said, ‘for the camera will not judge it. I think there is some honesty in capturing light and shadow on to diacetate film – a truth that cannot be questioned.’ He fixed his eyes on me again and I felt I had to nod in agreement because he spoke so earnestly as if he was repeating some great knowledge he had gained from his studies at Oxford.

  ‘I will not say anything,’ I said.

  Then he looked quickly back through the open door of the church hall and his tone changed again. ‘Here!’ he said loudly, thrusting a piece of paper into my hand. ‘Maybe you could show the leaflet to Iris and she could pass it on to Sir Howard. Her father clearly adores her; if we could have Iris Caldwell on board, he might listen to her.’

  I nodded, folding the paper into my pocket without looking at it.

  ‘Goodbye, Nell,’ he said and returned quickly into the hall, the door swinging behind him.

  The dog looked up at me silently.

  ‘He called me Nell!’ I whispered as I stepped back into the street. I had not told him my name. Nobody had told him my name.

  11

  They were the women I had read about in the newspapers. They were the ones who had smashed windows in the streets of London and attacked politicians with whips, acids and missiles. They were something new, brave and passionate, and now they were in Missensham.

  I had not suspected it when I sat among them in the village hall, but these women were the ones that the papers accused of waging war on government officials, Members of Parliament and common decency itself. They had not seemed dangerous as they chatted to each other in their respectable blouses, spectacles and churchy hats. It was only when I sat at the breakfast table the following morning and took the crinkled leaflet from my pocket that I realised who these women were and what they wanted.

  I pushed my plate of toast crumbs aside and spread the leaflet across the tablecloth, smoothing it with my sleeve and reading the words quickly as my mother banged pots in the kitchen.

  The leaflet bore a picture of a woman in a loose gown, with wings like an angel blowing a long horn, and it spoke of freedom and revolution. These women wanted a say in how their taxes were spent and a share in the making of the laws. They wanted a vote in parliament.

  The leaflet contained words that I had never heard or read before – things that I understood only a little of, yet enough to know that these women were right. These words were ones understood and believed by the women in the church hall that day – the faces I had grown used to seeing in the butcher’s and the grocer’s, the ordinary women all around me. They were women who would nod to me in the street, women who had known me in my childhood and watched me grow. They had seen me in the meeting and they would tell my mother that I had been there – and I liked that.

  I waited for my mother to return from the kitchen with her tea, then I leant back in my chair so that she would see the leaflet in front of me. She seemed to hesitate for a moment when she saw it but then set down her cup and snatched up the paper with my plate, saying nothing about it as she headed back to the kitchen again.

  ‘I went to that meeting,’ I shouted towards the kitchen where she had started clattering plates in the sink.

  The clattering stopped and she came back through, wiping her hands on her apron, the leaflet in her hand once more.

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ she said, handing it back to me, soapsuds bleeding i
nto the paper. ‘Now go and put your boots on or we will be late for our appointment at Haughten Hall. Sir Howard and Iris will be waiting for us. Sir Howard and I need to discuss a suitable Bible passage for Iris’s devotions, while you accompany Iris with some lighter reading.’

  ‘I saw the new vicar’s wife at the meeting,’ I said.

  She shrugged and took the teapot off the table.

  ‘Do you not think that any of this is important?’ I cried. ‘All you ever think about is an ancient book about what happened in the past and old buildings full of relics. This is now,’ I said jabbing my finger at the leaflet. ‘This is our future. You don’t even understand how important politics is!’

  ‘It is more important that I earn a crust at the moment.’ She tutted. ‘I can’t afford such high-minded things.’

  ‘You mean that you are worried about what those toffs at Haughten Hall would think if they suspected you were a window-breaker!’ I cried. ‘It is not the time to think of reputations – there is more at stake!’

  ‘You are right,’ she said, setting the teapot back down on the table with a crack. ‘This is about the toffs at Haughten Hall. This is about Sir Howard paying me five shillings on Friday for both our services this week. This is about me taking Sir Howard’s five shillings and paying the landlord three towards the rent. Then there is the five pence that I owe the grocer and coalman, not to mention the money you fritter away at that filthy bookstand in Partridge’s. Then once I am done paying everyone, I will have to go back to Haughten Hall and do it all again, because at the moment there is nowhere else that I can earn such money. I need what Sir Howard pays us and that is that!’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

  ‘I thought you said it was me who didn’t understand!’ she said. ‘Maybe it is you who have a lot to learn about politics.’ She held the leaflet up to my face, stabbing the angelic woman with her long fingernail. ‘Sir Howard is a Member of Parliament. He has voted against those women’s Conciliation Bills twice already, and these women cause him a lot of problems. He cannot think that we have sympathies with them or I will lose my job.’