A Time for Courage

by Margaret Graham

  ‘I hear that Sir Armstrong’s boy is back from the Rand where the gold mines are working well again after being shut down when the war was at its height. He’s bought a house in Eaton Square and is only twenty-five. He made a lucky strike, I gather.’

  She waited then but knew that she had played her best card and felt no remorse for using Harry, for hadn’t he taken more from her?

  It was during Sunday dinner three weeks later, when the Vicar was seated opposite and her mother had been forced to join them, that her father informed her that he was about to approach Miss Fletcher with a view to Hannah earning her own living in the capacity of a pupil teacher.

  Hannah flushed with joy but, raising her eyes, saw a warning, quickly gone, in her mother’s face and dropped her head to her plate, uncertain of its meaning.

  Her father then said in his cold black voice. ‘You do well to bow down in distress for you must learn that girls obey their fathers and cast aside all thoughts but those of humility. This is not university but work, hard work and you are also to act as chaperon to your cousin. You will remember your place.’ She looked at him then and saw the triumph in his eyes and understood her mother’s look. Permission had only been granted because he felt that he had asserted his power and caused her pain. How little he knew her; and she was glad that inside the shell of her body she was hidden from him.

  7

  The June sun was still warm even though it was early evening as Hannah stood by the window of her mother’s bedroom and looked out, seeing the last remnants of the white pear blossom still faintly visible between the fresh green of the new leaves. The tree standing beyond the lawn was old; the bark gnarled and rough, though from here this could not be discerned.

  ‘Is that tree older than the house, Mother? It must be, I suppose.’

  She looked across at her mother, who sat in the chair that Hannah had moved to the window, and smiled.

  Her mother glanced at her, her face fuller now with pregnancy, her body large with the child that had been conceived in 1901 but which would, if Hannah had anything to do with it, safely arrive in 1902 at the prescribed time.

  Her mother nodded. ‘Yes, long before this was built, I should think. The bark is thick and rucked, if you peel some back there is another layer underneath.’ She hesitated. ‘If you know what I mean.’

  Hannah nodded, surprised. So her mother had done as she had done; rubbed her hands across that uneven surface, dug her fingers into a crack and prised at the warm flaking bark. Her hands would have been dirty as Hannah’s had been and at this thought Hannah sat down in the wicker chair which she had made more comfortable with white linen cushions. But first she adjusted the carefully worked fine wool shawl around her mother’s shoulders.

  ‘It is cool under the tree in the height of summer, isn’t it?’ Hannah murmured. Contact had to be made with her mother through sleights and images because words of tenderness were still too bold, too personal in this household ruled by him; that man, her father. But she pushed the thought of his darkness from her and watched the smile appear and grow on her mother’s face and they nodded at one another. Both remembering a place neither knew the other had visited and enjoyed until this moment.

  Hannah was glad that the St John’s nursing was bringing an increasing intimacy between them, allowing her to touch and soothe as she had never been able to do before. And now her mother was stronger and Hannah dared to hope that all would be well. She turned again to the garden, relaxed now, her back easy against a cushion. There were daisies on the lawn, not blackened and destroyed yet, and their whiteness, together with the yellow of the buttercups in the old guinea-pig area, added a freshness to the garden which the formal rows of tulips, waxed and stiff, had not achieved. The gardener’s besom, the broom which she and her mother had watched him make from gathered twigs, lay against the glasshouse where he had left it before leaving for home.

  Hannah grinned. She must tell Beaky Brennan it was there in case she decided to go shopping, the old witch.

  ‘Did you have a good afternoon, Hannah?’ her mother asked as her hair lifted in the warm draught from the window, which was fully opened to admit the evening air.

  Beaky had closed it when Hannah had left after lunch today and that would not happen again, Hannah determined. That woman would do as she was told. Her mother needed fresh air, fresh food and rest as her St John’s instructor had explained.

  ‘It went well,’ she answered. ‘We struggled with geometry this afternoon and English, which I find easier, I have to admit.’ She laughed and her mother joined her.

  Hannah reached across to the table and the bowl of fruit which stood at her mother’s side. ‘Do have a banana, Mother. Dinner is not for a while.’ She took one out and peeled it, knowing that her mother’s sense of waste would not now allow her to refuse, watching as the frail woman took the plate from her and cut and ate with the small knife and fork which Hannah insisted Beaky renewed throughout the day. Her mother’s hands were white still but the blue veins were no longer as prominent as they had been last year. There was even a hint of colour in her cheeks which looked healthy against the white of her cotton night-gown with its wide collar and full sleeves and Hannah felt a sense of satisfaction. She had bought the bananas herself from the high-class fruiterers which she passed in London on her way to King’s College. They were firm and unblemished in their yellowness and had been wrapped individually in cotton wool to travel all the way from the West Indies, the shopkeeper had informed her. And sold at an individual price too, she had thought as she paid him, but it was worth forfeiting some of her wages to provide the essentials that her father considered indulgences and would therefore not provide for his wife. Hannah had wanted to scream at him that it was a potential son, too, but had sat meekly as she always did now because that was the price she had to pay for her new life. The shadows were long in the garden but there were still many hours of daylight left. Through the window they could hear the sounds of the newspaper sellers calling the headlines, the rattle of a child’s metal hoop on cobbles, the ever-present rumble of carriages and horses and in the distance, from this height, they could see the distant smoke which belched continuously from factory chimneys. Beyond them would be the docks which transported the finished goods halfway round the world.

  At least, thought Hannah, the industrial revolution had made her future possible and for that she should be grateful; and I am, I am, she thought, and sighed deeply, sitting with her eyes closed, seeing the white flashes of sun beneath her lids, smelling the lilac which her mother loved to have in her room but which Beaky grumbled over, saying it was bad luck to have it in the house. Hannah loved its small fragrant flowers gathered in a plume, several to a stem. She loved the lush way the blooms filled the vase, spilling and lolling so that some bent and touched the dresser whilst others stood proud. So far bad luck had not struck and she felt a coldness settle at the thought. Should she remove them, she wondered; but turning to look at them decided that it gave her mother pleasure, and since the season was almost finished, there was a natural solution to the problem. She sighed. But did they really bring bad luck as the Romanies said?

  She frowned and her mother looked concerned, so quickly Hannah smiled instead, taking the plate from her. ‘Are you tired, Mother? Would you like to rest in bed?’

  ‘No, Hannah. That was lovely, my dear. I should like to stay here for a while longer but if you have work to do don’t feel you must sit with me.’

  ‘I’d better prepare for tomorrow’s lesson soon but for now I’m enjoying the quiet.’ She watched as her mother settled in her chair, resting her head back and slowly closing her eyes. It was good to say that, to think of her class tomorrow. This year had been so good. She was so busy, useful. College was hard and stimulating, pupil teaching filled her with excitement.

  She breathed deeply and only now remembered the dress hanging up behind her on the wardrobe door, its crinoline bulging out into the room, the green shot silk dull and faded. Sh
e turned and looked at it and then at Arthur’s invitation propped against the clock.

  How dare Harry put her in this position. She turned again to the window and now heard her mother’s voice.

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear, that your father does not consider that there is enough money to provide you with a new dress, one more suitable for the ball.’ Edith Watson’s face was sad and her voice uncertain. Hannah rose and walked quickly to the dress, her back to her mother, her face hidden for a few important moments. She stood there, stroking the smooth silk of her mother’s old dress and then turned, her smile broad.

  ‘I love it, Mother. I shall be the belle of the ball.’ And she knew that her voice sounded convincing and was glad.

  The invitation had not been a surprise, for Harry had written to tell them that Arthur’s family were having a ball on 26 June to celebrate the coronation of Edward VII on the same day. Esther would be receiving an invitation, he had said, and so would Hannah in order to release Aunt Camilla from chaperon duties.

  How Hannah had laughed while wanting to cry. There seemed no end to her brother’s ability to wound. Was that the sum total of her worth in his eyes too? Chaperon to the wonderful Esther?

  She turned now and walked back to her mother who was struggling up from her chair, her shawl slipping from her shoulders.

  ‘I think I’ll settle into bed now, Hannah, I’m tired again. I saw your father in the garden so dinner will soon be served.’ Her mother’s face was tense now, her arm in Hannah’s hand was shaking. Hannah threw back the bed covers and eased her mother on to the bed, lifting her legs and drawing up the covers.

  She brought over a pillow from the chair on the other side of the bed and then the hairbrush which her mother always asked for at this time of day. It seemed to calm her. Slowly she unpinned her mother’s hair and it fell to her shoulders, thick now and shiny and Hannah wanted to take it in both her hands and bury her face in its loveliness, in its smell, and be taken back years to a time when the sun always shone and her brother loved her and her mother was strong. Her mother was coiling her hair up now in a loose pleat, holding hair pins in her mouth, her lip pulled down, her teeth white, her eyes nervous. Was it in case he came, or in case he did not come? Hannah was not sure.

  Dinner was served in the dining-room as it always was. The soup tureen had been cleared from the table. Hannah sat upright in her chair looking at the candlestick, which shone from the maid’s polishing. She did not look at her father who had been seated by the time she had reached the dining-room. He was wearing his new red corduroy smoking-jacket and that ridiculous fez with a tassel. Would he jump like a monkey on a stick if she pulled it?

  Hannah pleated her napkin between her middle- and forefinger. Did the fez really keep the smoke from his hair? Would the lamb never come? But then why hurry it? This was the moment she savoured each day. The moment when she sat like a meek, dutiful daughter, crushed beneath the righteous father, and told the candlestick how much she hated its master with his coal-black heart which shadowed the lives within his orbit. She waited until she was sitting here, with him, to think of the discussions that she had with Miss Fletcher about the rights of women and the vote. This was her continuing rebellion, her reply to his power and she would think and absorb and consider the battle which had gone on in the past without her and would go on in the future but include her, his daughter. She would fight to make sure that women were freed from tyrants such as this man. She would work with Miss Fletcher and others to ensure that women not only became equal but, deep inside, felt equal. She had become a suffragist, posting letters through doors, painting posters, speaking at meetings which other suffragists attended, learning all the time.

  Hannah looked up as her father carved the lamb. Steam was rising and blood oozed as he sliced and sliced again. He passed her plate without looking at her and she took it.

  ‘Thank you, Father,’ she said quietly. The room was growing darker now and soon Beaky would be in to light the gas lamps which ranged round the walls. The potatoes were crisp and the carrots cut into slim sticks. She ladled the gravy on to her plate and then passed it to within easy reach of her father. Eliza would approve of her demeanour, her subterfuge, for hadn’t she said in Cornwall last year that sometimes such behaviour was necessary to achieve one’s aims?

  Hannah looked down the table. Her father still hadn’t finished serving himself and by now the steam was no longer rising from her plate and her food would be cold, again, for she could not begin until he had lifted his knife and fork. Did he do it deliberately? But she did not care, because she could, with a flick of her mind, repay his actions.

  Yes, she thought, the women will go on fighting for what is their right. We’ve been balked up to now, but soon people like you (and here she glanced at her father) will have to listen to us.

  ‘You may begin, Hannah.’ Her father’s voice was cold.

  Just like my food, she thought, but merely replied, ‘Thank you, Father,’ and was glad that her mother was upstairs and able to eat in peace.

  It was a problem though, Hannah thought, reverting to the inside of her head again. Do we go for votes for all men and women, irrespective of property, and frighten the middle class? People like you, dear Father, with your fear of the masses forgetting their place and forcing you to move over and make room for them. Or do we go for the present property limits and urge votes only for the better class women, which many of the suffragists think would be the best starting point? But, dear Father, is anyone out there listening to any of our polite requests? Did any politicians rush to push the 1897 Franchise Bill into being? I don’t think so, do you? And have they listened to us since then? No. Are they deaf, or do they see us as irritating children who ask for attention and are placated with a pat on the head? But we’re not irritating children, which is why some of the women are withholding tax, boycotting the census. But does it work?

  The cold doors don’t listen as we knock. The mean streets don’t welcome us as we walk through the fog to our meetings, nor the hard chairs and cold halls, nor the men who loiter and heckle and laugh. Does anyone listen as we canvass to elect Frances to the Guardians’ Board? Perhaps, Mr John Watson, upright and respectable, we need to shout a little louder, tug at jackets, kick at shins until you all listen.

  She wondered who these Pankhursts were who worked in Manchester and shouted. She felt excited. Would they come down here? Would they make London listen? She hoped so, how she hoped so, and when her mother had borne the child she too would be free to leave here and make people listen.

  ‘The Peace Treaty was signed last night,’ her father said. Hannah dragged her attention back to the room, to the gas lights which were now spluttering. She must have missed Beaky coming in to light them.

  ‘The Peace of Vereeniging?’ she replied, glad that she had caught his words.

  Her father frowned and Hannah knew that she had made a mistake to expose her knowledge.

  ‘I had to explain it to the children today,’ she added meekly and watched as he nodded and returned to his meal.

  Hannah played with her cold potato. She could not put down her knife and fork before he did; it would lead to a lecture on good manners. But thank God the South African war was now finally over. It had been fought to promote the rights of the Uitlanders – those miners with no votes – and so perhaps now there would be more hope for the rights of the women of the country, but she doubted this somehow. The Uitlanders were men, weren’t they?

  ‘Perhaps now the income tax will go down,’ her father grunted, his meal finished at last.

  Hannah placed her knife and fork together neatly and sat quietly with her hands crossed in her lap.

  ‘We showed them, didn’t we, those little Boers. We showed them what happens to those who rebel.’ He was sitting back in his seat now, drawing a cigarette from his case, his long nails tapping on the silver surface.

  Hannah sat still, thinking how ugly her father was and how stupid, but she must say nothing.
He must think of her as broken if she was to be left in peace to live her life. She thought of the shouting in Manchester. Yes, one day soon, when Mother was well enough, but only then, she would leave this house, she would be financially independent and nothing could stop her. How he would rage when it happened. Let him sit there talking of rebellion, breathing his smoke over my hair which does not have the protection of a silly hat. Yes, go on then, she thought, though her face was impassive. Go on and tell me about how rebels are crushed, the glory of war, for I know that you will, with your eyes glinting and your nose sweating.

  ‘I said,’ her father repeated in a louder voice, ‘we showed them, didn’t we, Hannah, that rebellion must be crushed. That obedience and respect will be forthcoming at all costs. They mistook their enemy, forgot he was the proud British soldier.’ His eyes were clenched tight against the smoke which rose in a spiral past his face, but Hannah could see that they were looking straight at her. His mouth pursed and he exhaled smoke in streams through his teeth.

  ‘Yes, Father,’ she replied, fighting the surge of fear which his rantings still aroused, forcing her feelings into anger instead, waiting until it came. And here it was and now she wanted to grip his lapels and force him to look at the photograph she had of Uncle Simon in her room, at the photographs that other mothers must have; Boers and English. She wanted to force him to see, really see, pictures now being shown in newspapers of the concentration camps. The anger was too much now, soon it would show. She clenched her hands because it must stay within her, for now at least.

  ‘Humility is everything, Hannah,’ he said, waving Beaky away as she brought in dessert.

  Hannah saw Beaky smirk as she came round the table and stood on her left, waiting for Hannah to serve herself.

  Yes, she would just suit a broom, Hannah thought, breaking free from the pictures, the rage, the sadness, and returning to the glinting candlestick, the cigarette smoke which now hung above the table. Feeling glad that the fear had been diverted, that she had won again but knowing that the anger, though used as a weapon against her father, was one that was truly felt.