A Time for Courage

by Margaret Graham

  ‘This really is the end, Hannah,’ she heard Frances say, her voice loud, but Hannah did not want to listen, it drew her from inside her head. ‘Your fellow suffragettes have burnt down another building.’

  ‘Ssh,’ Hannah said, her fingers white from gripping the wood. It was close now, almost… here.

  But Frances’s hand was on her shoulder, pulling her round away from the centre of her mind and she had been so close, so very close and anger flared, harsh and ugly because something important had been about to crystallise. She lifted her head and Frances was close, her face tight and cold.

  ‘They have burnt Benson House. It was beautiful. I use the tense with great care, Hannah.’ Hannah could feel her breath and still the older woman’s hand held her shoulder. ‘It is a disgrace. An absolute disgrace and to think that you are involved with this behaviour. Can none of you see the damage which has been inflicted not just on property and works of art which have been an expression of a man or woman’s genius but on the suffrage movement?’

  She took Hannah’s arm, and pushed her to the window, drawing back the curtains, opening the casement. ‘Take a deep breath, Hannah. Can you smell it, can you picture the flames, hear the crackle of the wood, the rush as the bricks fall in?’ Frances was shouting now and Hannah had never heard her do so before; had never seen this usually calm face distorted with anger, with frustration. ‘We women should be asking for the vote as responsible people who deserve it,’ Frances said, through lips that were thin.

  Hannah watched as Frances walked from her towards the desk. She tried to snatch back the thoughts and the decision which had been nearly within her grasp. In her desperation she wanted to cry, ‘For God’s sake, be quiet.’

  From the sudden turn of her friend’s head she realised that the words had indeed struck across the room. Frances paled; her mouth slackened for a moment and then her lips grew tight again and though she did not shout there was a chill to her voice, to her body.

  ‘No, Hannah, the time for being quiet is over. Yes, the suffragettes have made us visible. Yes, Asquith is making our task difficult. But no to this behaviour.’

  ‘But who are you to say no to anything?’ Hannah wanted to know. She really wanted to know if Frances could produce a reason to say no, for her, for everyone, because for any one person to have such authority would make her life so simple. There need be no thought, no decision taken, it would all be so easy, but after all, wasn’t that the right she was fighting for; the right to decide her own life? But there were too many things to decide about. Too many.

  ‘Who are you to say no?’ And this time her voice was more than a shout, it was a howl of rage. Her hands were bunched into fists, the dog came into the room and whined, looking from one to another knowing that there was too much tension, too much feeling and she left to lie by the front door.

  Frances did not answer her question but clasped her hands beneath her chin and spoke quickly, almost without drawing breath. Her grey dress was wet at the hem and smelt of smoke. The white lace at the neck was spotless though. She stood straight, looking at Hannah, her back to the fire.

  ‘Violence becomes a way of life, the aim is forgotten, our influential friends are alienated. The work of years has been ruined. Women are being sentenced to long terms of imprisonment. The Cat and Mouse Act has been introduced to overcome hunger striking. Women are released when they are too weak to survive and then re-arrested to continue their sentence. Some have died as a result. One of them could be you. It is all madness. The vote is no nearer, damage and violence are everywhere. I cannot condone it. I cannot condone this senseless suffering and damage or anyone who subscribes to it.’

  ‘But remember what Asquith said,’ Hannah shouted now, wanting to push everyone away. They were all too close, all pulling at her, wanting her to go in their direction. Arson or lobbying, which should it be? Marriage or not? There were too many loyalties tearing her apart.

  ‘Yes, but what have the suffragettes really achieved? Have you been given the vote? No. There is just a great deal of suffering for the rank and file whilst Christabel Pankhurst has exiled herself to France and directs you all from there, out of reach of imprisonment and hunger strikes. Can any member put forward an opposing point of view within the organisation, Hannah? Can you object and argue if you don’t agree?’ Frances was pointing her finger now, her head shook with each word. ‘No, of course you can’t. You have no democracy in the WSPU, have you? Even Sylvia Pankhurst has left to start campaigning on her own for universal suffrage because there is no room for dissent. Others are leaving. You are in disarray. Think, Hannah, about where this is leading.’

  Hannah could not think, there was too much noise. Esther, Maureen and Ann had not left, they still fought on. How could she leave them? And what about Arthur? Frances was still making too much noise.

  ‘You do not deserve the vote if you hurt others and it could come to that. Do your campaigning in the constitutional way, Hannah.’ Frances’s voice was quieter now and she sounded tired suddenly. She moved towards Hannah. ‘Let the Government handle the Irish Question, the Reforms, the arms race. Let them keep our country free from war. Come back with us. Lobby constitutionally. Violence is never justified.’

  Her hand was on Hannah’s arm now and her smell of lavender eau de cologne was faint on the air between them. It would be so easy but Esther’s contempt was sharp in Hannah’s mind and Arthur was there too, pulling at her, demanding her life. She felt Frances’s hand guiding her towards the chair, pulling her as the others were doing and she stopped and moved her arm from the grasp of her Headmistress.

  Her face was still, her mind also. There were no clear thoughts; nothing was there at all but a need to breathe. The books were closing in on her, the people were dragging at her clothes, the gas lamps were hissing too loudly. The oil lamp smelt too strong. She must get away from them all, leave so that she could think and breathe. That is what she must do and quickly, before she drowned beneath them all. Why had she not seen it before?

  ‘I shall leave in the morning, Frances,’ she said and there was no anger in her but a great certainty. ‘We cannot go on living together while we are so very different.’

  There was red now on the other woman’s cheeks and her hands came to her lips. There was silence for a moment. The gas lamp threw her face into shadow and Hannah turned to look at the mantel, blue and yellow.

  ‘Very well,’ Frances said and her voice was calm now but it was high and Hannah knew she would speak again and she did not want to hear any more words. She just wanted to go to her room and pack her clothes, quickly. Some into her trunk, some into the valise. She wanted to go to a room like Joe’s and sit in the quiet and try to find the thought which Frances had chased away earlier.

  ‘Hannah, please listen.’ Frances was struggling to keep her voice level but she wanted to reach out for this girl who was now a woman, hold her, not let her go, but she knew that during the last year a darkness had settled on Hannah, a tension which had distanced them and she, Frances Fletcher, had not helped at all. Was it Arthur? Was it the arson? She did not know, but now Hannah must be allowed to find out for no one could help her, least of all her; or Joe. But somehow contact must be kept. Frances ran her hand over her forehead, watching Hannah as she moved towards the door. She must speak but she must be calm and clear and without emotion for Frances suspected that there was already too much emotion tearing at Hannah.

  ‘I shall expect you to continue in my employment. It is not good for the girls to be subjected to an abrupt change in teacher. Please also continue to come on a Sunday. You cannot desert your women and children, you know.’

  She smiled. Somehow she had to keep hold of Hannah until she had come to a decision but if she turned towards violence, then Frances knew that there would be no understanding left between them, no future for their friendship, and that thought broke her heart.

  Hannah had wanted to rent Joe’s old room but it was too far and there was already a tenant.
She walked down the street, passing the grey washing rigid with frost and an old man had answered her knock, shaking his head and pointing to the matchgirl’s room. It was empty, he had said, but Hannah had wanted only Joe’s room.

  She looked around the one she had moved into two months ago. The bed was in the corner as Joe’s had been and there was a grate with a small fire which had not yet warmed the room for school had only finished two hours ago. Books for marking were piled high on the small table and the single gas lamp on the wall by the sink gave off a light which did not in any way illuminate the walls; it was as well, she thought, for they were spotted with mould and the plaster had crumpled near the ceiling and floor. She only noticed the smell of damp when she first entered the room and what did it matter anyway? Mary, the matchgirl had not had any light and neither did many of her Sunday ladies; they only had rickets and consumption and would take no money from her.

  She had no mirror to see whether the cream shot silk dress she wore was creased so she smoothed it with her hands. There was a mug of tea on the table but it had cooled. She sat on the upright chair and shrugged on her working coat around her shoulders. She was cold but not hungry. She was never hungry at the moment and her thoughts were no clearer. There was always too much noise in her head to think. She picked up the ivory fan that Joe had made when the sun seemed to shine and they were little more than children and her mother was alive.

  What would Lady Wilmot have planned for dinner, she wondered, drawing her coat closer. Arthur was going to Europe for four months and she knew he would require the answer which she had promised before he left and she would not think of love because she still did not know what it meant.

  She heard his footsteps on the stairs and he did not knock but walked in. His silver-tipped cane was tucked under his arm and his pale hair flopped across his forehead. His cloak was heavy with beaded moisture and she rose as he walked to her and kissed her with cold lips.

  ‘I hate this place, Hannah,’ he said against her mouth. His breath was scented with champagne but she did not wish to know where he had been.

  ‘Sit down while I fetch my cloak,’ she said and walked to the hook behind the door. She had taken it from the bed earlier since she did not want to draw his eyes to where she slept though she did not know why. When would he ask her and what would she say? She still did not know. The cloak caught on the hook so he came to her and took it, taking the old coat from her shoulders and throwing it over the chair. He drew the cloak around her and the satin lining felt cold on her bare neck. She felt his lips on her hair, her skin and knew that he was beautiful, but he took away her air, made her feel as though she would never breathe again, never fly free.

  ‘I’ve been patient, Hannah,’ he said, his voice muffled by her skin. His arms were round her now, pulling her close to him. ‘Marry me. Say you will. I need a good wife, someone to bear my children. My family have accepted you and I can take you away from all this. You and I understand one another, you don’t cling, you let me live my life.’

  His arms were tight around her and she could not breathe. She was tired and he was pulling at her again and Esther had said that she owed it to him. He kissed her again, talking into her neck, and her head ached with his words and perhaps if she answered he would stop. And so she said, ‘Yes, Arthur.’

  His lips were not soft as he kissed her now and his hands were pulling her tight. She still could not breathe.

  On Tuesday morning four days later Hannah arrived at school. Arthur had left for Switzerland and he had agreed that they would not announce the engagement, for they were not to be married until December 1914 and it seemed a long way away and that made the air clearer. She did not want anyone to know before Harry, she had said, and wondered again where her brother was.

  She walked across the black and white tiled entrance porch and then the assembly hall towards Frances’s study at the end of the dark passage-way remembering how she had bought glucose sweets from the Emporium for Esther when they were children. Now they barely spoke.

  Frances did not answer her knock and so Hannah walked in. Her Headmistress was not there and the room seemed dead without her. Hannah looked at the letters unopened on the blotter. She looked at her watch; school would start in half an hour. She ran her fingers along the polished desk. The fire was not lit and the dog was not lying on the rug.

  Hannah left and walked past the wall where once Queen Victoria had hung and then her son. It was now King George V but she did not notice. She used to curtsy and Frances would laugh but that no longer happened and still she had come to no decision. She walked through the shrubbery towards the house. The leaves were deep on the ground but not crisp because the air was so damp.

  As she rang the house-bell it chimed deep in the hall and when Beatrice did not answer her knock she walked into the house and called. She moved into the sitting-room and the curtains were still drawn. Was Frances ill? Now she hurried down towards the kitchen. Cook would know, but Frances had been well yesterday. No, she couldn’t be ill and for a moment she saw the pear tree, the weak hand of her mother, but pushed it away. No, Frances could not be ill.

  She knocked, not waiting for a reply but entering. Cook was sitting at the table, her cap as white and starched as always, her overalls too and she turned, her plump arms crossed, her hands gripping her flesh tightly.

  ‘I’m glad you came, Miss Hannah. I’ve just sent Beatrice round to fetch you. Did you see her?’ Her eyes were red and Hannah shook her head. She could not ask why Cook was crying, she did not want to know. She stood by the door. It was light in the kitchen and warm. The fire was red in the grate of the bread oven. No, she would not ask why. So she stood and looked and did not want to listen as Cook told her how Frances had been attacked as she had walked home from a suffragist meeting and was in hospital.

  ‘They thought she was one of them suffragettes, like you, Miss. Them girls had fired another house, you see.’

  Hannah did not move, she could not. Neither could she speak. All she could see and hear was Frances as she stood grey against the fire, her hands clasped as she spoke out for moderation.

  Cook gave her tea. It was sweet and she did not like sweet tea but it tasted good and the fire was warm and the chair she sat on was firm and familiar but Frances was waiting; she knew she would be waiting.

  She did not wait to tell Esther where she was but told Cook to ask her to run two classes together until she returned. She waited all morning in the hospital passage. It was tiled and the nurses’ shoes seemed loud on the floor and the light was too bright.

  ‘Miss Fletcher will survive,’ they told her, ‘but she is very poorly. They struck her rather hard on the head and one arm is cracked, the other badly cut.’

  Hannah was glad it was cold in the passage and that her back ached for she deserved no less. She would not leave to eat or to drink, though Maureen came and sat and held her hand and said she was sorry and perhaps it had all gone too far.

  At three o’clock they let her into the ward and pointed to the bed nearest the long green curtains which cut off the ward from the annexe. The bed was surrounded by screens and Hannah did not want to part them because she was afraid of what she would see. She lifted her hand and took the heavy iron frame which was flaking and uneven beneath her hand and moved it back just enough to pass through.

  Frances lay with a bandage round her head. It was stained with blood, so red against the white. Her face was almost blue and her breathing was light and rapid. She looked older than her years as Hannah sat down and laid her hand lightly on that of her Headmistress. She did not hold it because there were bandages down both arms and the fingers of both hands were swollen. Yes, she thought it has gone too far, and she knew that at last her decision had been made.

  She sat there all afternoon and into the evening, watching and waiting. At eight o’clock Frances lifted her eyes and smiled and Hannah said, ‘I’m so very sorry.’

  There were no words from the blue lips but Frances sm
iled again and Hannah bent and kissed her cheek for now she had to go. It was perhaps too late already.

  Maureen had told her that Esther had planned the fire at the old Methodist church for this evening but did not know whether it was nine o’clock or nine-thirty. Hannah ran through the fog, hearing the clink of the horses drawing the hansom cabs carefully through the gloom. She had forbidden Maureen to come too. Her hair was wet and her breath hurt in her throat for it was cold.

  She knew she had to turn right past the park, but was the road clear to cross? She listened but did not know how close the car was that she could hear, and the old cart which was rattling somewhere in the fog. Did she have time? She lifted her skirt and ran and the car horn was loud as it braked to avoid her headlong rush but she was across and unhurt. She did not stop when the driver stopped and called for she must reach Esther. This must all be stopped.

  She walked as she drew near the church because she did not want to draw attention. People were passing now because it was busy here and there were houses either side of the street with soft light dissipating in the mist before it could reach her. She turned down the alley which ran beside and then behind the church. There was not even the dim glow of the fog-bound gas lamps here and she put her hands to the wall which was slimy and cold, hearing her own breath coming in sharp pants. She had to stop them. She reached the railings at the bottom and followed them round to the rear of the church.

  Esther was there, heaving at the petrol can in the light of a shaded hurricane lamp before pouring the fuel over old rags. She whirled round when she heard Hannah and then laughed, her face eager and welcoming.

  ‘Where are the others?’ Hannah asked quietly.

  ‘They wouldn’t come. Too scared.’ Esther was pouring more petrol and the smell was strong in the heavy air. ‘They think someone’s tipped the police off. Stupid fools. Oh, Hannah, I’m so glad you’re here, that we’re together again. Mother thinks I’m marking homework, she believes me every time.’ She was panting. ‘It’s so glorious, isn’t it?’