by Lissa Evans
‘Yes, what did you do during the war, Miss Simpkin?’
‘I neither abandoned my beliefs nor relinquished my aims.’ Only The Flea noticed the slight hesitation that had preceded the answer. ‘Any more questions?’
‘I have a question,’ said a woman from near the back of the hall; a deep voice, with a slight colonial accent. ‘Does the name Agnes Bostock mean anything to you?’
Mattie started.
‘Who is that?’ she asked, peering into the darkness.
‘Can’t you guess?’
The audience were craning round now, curious.
‘I’ll give you a clue,’ said the woman, and, astonishingly, she began to sing:
‘Allons les femmes de la patrie,
Le jour de gloire est arrivé!’
‘Good Lord!’ crowed Mattie. ‘It’s Jacko!’
Jacqueline Fletcher looked altogether more elegant than when Mattie had seen her last, in the exercise yard at Holloway. Fourteen years on, studying the menu at the Sprite Café, she resembled a photograph from the society pages, hair artfully waved, a burnt-orange stole draped over a frock the shade of a conker.
‘The gammon’s good in here,’ said Mattie.
‘I think I’ll have poached eggs,’ said Jacko, closing the menu. ‘I missed them in Queensland. No one can cook there; the national dish seems to be steamed bread. Richard and I had a cook who served it at every meal, even with roasts, and we were supposed to dance with delight whenever it appeared. You know, you look just the same, Mattie, apart from the colour of your hair.’ Her eyes flicked down towards Mattie’s blouse and cameo brooch, her tweed walking-skirt.
‘Now please don’t start talking to me about fashion,’ said Mattie. ‘The woman who makes my skirts keeps hinting that I’d be more à la mode in those dreadful narrow sacks that everyone wears nowadays, but I’m sure if I wore one I’d scarcely be able to walk, let alone run.’
‘Do you run much these days?’
‘No. But if I needed to, I’d rather not have to hitch my clothing up round my armpits.’
Jacko sniggered. ‘Should we order for … I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your helper’s name.’
‘Florrie. Florrie Lee, hence the fact that she’s often referred to as “The Flea”. No, she’s packing the slides away, won’t think of coming here before they’re all perfectly arranged. In any case, she’s rather like Shakespeare’s chameleon – survives largely on air.’
‘And she was in the offices at Kingsway?’
‘Yes. And now she lodges at the Mousehole, with me.’
‘I don’t remember her. Never gaoled?’
‘No, far too useful behind the scenes – mind like a filing cabinet. What, incidentally, did you think of the lecture?’
‘Oh, I thought it was splendid. Quite brought back the old days.’
There was a whisper of dismissiveness about the comment. Mattie leaned forward.
‘I’m not in the business of nostalgia, Jacko. The lecture is supposed to be a clarion call to those who think that feminism is safely in the past.’
‘Well, isn’t it? Aren’t there other fish to fry?’
‘But we still await parity. It was our most basic aim, and it’s not yet been achieved. Do you know that The Flea has never voted? Forty-nine years old, a qualified sanitary inspector, a scrupulous taxpayer and yet still, by dint of her lacking a property qualification, denied the most basic right of the citizen. Doesn’t that make you absolutely boil with the injustice?’
‘You’re lecturing me, Mattie. Though you lecture very well, of course. No, I know all this, and you’re right, it’s the absolute pip, but it’ll be rectified sooner rather than later and then what are you going to do? There’s a wider battlefield these days, and a younger generation to address. Do you think, incidentally, if I asked for a slice of lemon in my tea I’d be regarded as a dangerous troublemaker?’ She beckoned to the waitress and was immediately supplied with a saucer of slices. ‘Well, now,’ she said, approvingly, ‘that’s something that’s definitely changed since I’ve been away.’
‘So what have you been doing in Australia?’ asked Mattie. ‘You’ve married, obviously.’
‘I’ve married. A wonderful chap called Richard Cellini, he was a friend of the cousin who invited me out there. I felt a bit of a deserter, flitting off when the war started, but I was so tired, Mattie, absolutely wrung out – all those months of hide-and-seek with the police, I was a rag. I was twenty-six and felt eighty. I think I weighed seven stone and I simply didn’t have the energy to start driving buses or making tanks or whatever it was we were all suddenly supposed to be doing instead of campaigning for the vote. And halfway across the world there was somewhere where the sun always shone and where women already had the vote, and … well, it was bliss.’ She paused. ‘Please don’t tell me off, Mattie. I’m sure you drove ambulances or something equally valiant.’
‘I went to the Balkans,’ said Mattie. ‘And worked with the Serbian Relief Fund.’ Which was true, though in the partial way that one number out of a safe combination can yet be described as a number.
‘Goodness,’ said Jacko, ‘did you really?’ The food had arrived and she began to eat neatly and quickly. ‘And have you stayed in touch with any of the other mice? What’s Alice Channing up to?’
‘Oh, poor old Alice. She very nearly ran the Civil Service during the war and then was dropped in an instant when the men came home, and after that she had TB and spent half a decade in a sanatorium. She doesn’t have a bean – in fact, I don’t know whether you saw the legend on the poster, but the entrance money goes to the Suffragette Club, helping out needy ex-prisoners.’
‘How about Helen Deale?’
‘Teaching at Girton. We meet occasionally, but she’s rather tiresome on the subject of theosophy – every subject leads inexorably into the immanentist theory of cosmology, so it’s like trudging around a giant loop.’
‘Brenda Tooley?’
‘Mad for Ireland. Calls herself Briege and talks only of Home Rule.’
‘Aileen?’
‘Our dear hooligan? On and off the sauce, I’m afraid. It was always her weakness.’
‘And that artist – what was her name? Chained herself to the statue in the British Museum.’
‘Oh, you mean Roberta? Married after the war, domestic bliss in Ipswich, three children, paints song-birds. I travelled there for an exhibition last year and it was really rather good. I bought a wren and a robin for the drawing room.’
‘And what about you, Mattie?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, what do you do beside the lectures?’
‘I write a weekly column for the Ham & High – it’s called “Heath Musings”, but it tackles the major issues of the day.’
‘But are you actually involved in politics?’
‘I’m a member of the Women’s Freedom League.’
‘But surely that’s just the fag-end of the suffragettes? Isn’t there a particular party you’re digging in with?’
There was an intensity to Jacko’s enquiry, palpable through the lightness of the phrasing. Mattie hesitated, rather as she’d hesitated in the polling booth in 1918, the ballot sheet before her, a pencil in her hand. The grand and glorious fight had shrunk to this: three choices on a scrap of paper, three parties who had consistently lied, prevaricated and backtracked on their promises to women, three potential governments who would make laws which she, Mattie Simpkin, would then be obliged to obey, under threat of further imprisonment. It was as if the sun had risen after an age-long night only to illuminate a landscape littered with traps. She had stood for ten minutes, unable to formulate a decision, and then her very soul had rebelled, and she had struck her X beside the fourth candidate, an Independent standing on a ticket of ‘A Licence for Every Dog’, and at the next election, four years later, she had stood herself, as an unaffiliated candidate for Equality In All Things, losing her deposit but gaining a stimulating few months of campaigning. She had toyed, si
nce then, with the idea of labelling herself an anarchist, in the true sense of the word – ἀναρχία, ‘without a head of state’ – though The Flea had tutted at this: ‘In other words, Mattie, you simply can’t bear someone telling you what to do. “Contrarian” would be a far better description.’
Jacko was still waiting for an answer. ‘I can’t say that I have ever “dug in” with any party,’ said Mattie. ‘My fight has always been for the right of women to be treated as equal citizens.’
‘And now they are, very nearly. Shoulder to shoulder with the finest of the men, they’re beginning at last to address a world-wide—’ Jacko broke off as Mattie waved a hand; The Flea had entered the café and was scanning the tables.
‘Are you going to have something to eat, Florrie?’
‘Just a cup of tea, if you don’t mind. I have rather a headache from the lantern fumes.’ The Flea removed her grey cloche and sat with it on her lap, stroking the velvety nap as if it were a cat. ‘I didn’t mean to interrupt,’ she added. She had the peculiar sense that Jacqueline was not altogether pleased that she had arrived.
‘You’re not interrupting at all,’ said Jacko, still smiling. ‘Incidentally, I think I saw you give a little hop when I first spoke. Was the name Agnes Bostock familiar to you, too?’
‘Of course. One of my jobs was to memorize the list of aliases. Agnes Bostock was Mattie’s. You yourself were Thelma Harker for a few months, and then, after you left Aylesbury Prison, you became Gladys Freeling.’
‘That’s right – how extraordinary that you remember!’
‘Florrie forgets nothing,’ said Mattie. ‘I’ve long thought that she should tour the Halls attired as a gypsy. “Challenge the Memory of Madame Lee!”’
‘So,’ said The Flea, inured to this sort of hyperbole, ‘are you in England for a holiday?’
‘No, not a holiday. Richard and I are forging international links; we’ve had great success at home with our youth section and, now that things are beginning to move forward in this country as well, I’ve been asked to help with a recruitment drive for younger women.’
There was a short pause.
‘What “things” are you talking about?’ asked Mattie.
‘Have you heard of the Australian New Guard?’
‘No.’
‘It’s a forward-thinking group, bringing together some of the finest political minds in our country. There are those who’d like to drag the country down, whereas we want to focus our gaze on a brighter future for citizens who are prepared to work for it, and we’ve been talking to an English organization with similar aims.’
‘Which organization?’
‘The Empire Fascisti.’
There was a sharp clink as The Flea set her cup down. Jacko must have heard it, but she surged onward, her voice as warm, her blue eyes as bright as if she were discussing a particularly gorgeous Christmas gift – a cashmere shawl, perhaps, or a jar of marrons glacés. ‘There’s a new spirit of the age, Mattie, that we need to capture and cherish before it’s too late. Young people should be allowed to spread their wings, not to have them clipped by the shears of Communism. They need to be free to love their country unashamedly, they need to feel that their wonderful youth is valued by a strong leadership. Look at what’s happening in Italy! Look at the pride that shines from the populace! And then look at this country, brought to its knees by strikes, by pinko weaklings stirring up the underclasses, by outside agitators poking their horrid great noses into British business. We need to inspire youth with a creed of unity and a sense of hon—’
The Flea stood up. ‘Please excuse me,’ she said, replacing her hat with unfussy speed. ‘I simply can’t listen to any more of this nonsense. Goodbye.’ And then she was threading between the tables like an eel, her exit so rapid that a draught ruffled back along her path, swaying the tablecloth. The café door closed with a thump.
Jacko sat with her mouth open, her expression wavering between astonishment and affront. ‘Well!’ she said, turning to Mattie. ‘What a reaction! I hope you’re not going to do the same thing.’
‘I shan’t leave before my steak arrives,’ said Mattie, ‘but that’s solely because I’m hungry. I mean to say, fascism, Jacko? Militarists covering themselves with gold braid and shaking their little bundles of sticks at one another? And lauding Italy, of all places, where women don’t even have the vote yet! But then, of course, no one in Italy has the vote any longer, do they? It’s equality of a sort, I suppose.’
Jacko coloured. ‘Our version of fascism is rather different.’
‘So you also eschew murdering political opponents? I’m happy to hear it. Ah, thank you,’ she said, as the waitress arrived with the meals. ‘That looks splendid.’
Jacko made a quick gesture towards the girl. ‘Could you stay just a moment, please? I want to ask you something.’
The waitress looked worried. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am. The cook said she’d never seen such small tomatoes.’
‘No, it’s nothing to do with that. How old are you?’
‘Seventeen, ma’am.’
‘Who’s your favourite film star?’
‘Douglas Fairbanks, ma’am.’
‘And which politician do you most admire?’
There was a pause. The girl’s eyes flicked uneasily around the room.
‘Never mind. If you could vote tomorrow, who would you vote for? … Any thoughts … No?’
‘My dad, he votes for the Labour Party.’
‘I see. And are you proud of being English, dear?’
Another pause and a shrug. ‘I suppose so.’
‘And why are you proud?’
‘Well … we won the war, didn’t we?’
‘Thank you, dear. You can get on with your work now.’
The waitress hurried away and Jacko leaned back with an air of triumph that Mattie found irritating.
‘And what does that prove?’ she asked.
‘You know as well as I do, Mattie, that that girl wouldn’t know what to do with a vote. She has no aspirations, no wider knowledge, no whisker of suspicion that the tentacles of Bolshevism are everywhere, and that foreign adventurers are treating this government like glove puppets. The war is over and the enemy is within.’
‘Oh, nonsense,’ said Mattie. ‘The enemy hasn’t changed in the slightest – this country’s still run by stuffy old club-men who’ll be rubbing their hands together at the prospect of women voluntarily forgoing their vote for the sake of patriotism.’
‘I am not talking about forgoing the vote, I am talking about giving young women the wisdom to use it correctly. We need to educate them, we need fine speakers to inspire them and exciting activities to—’
‘Oh, I see!’ exclaimed Mattie.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘That’s why you came to the lecture. You want to recruit me.’
‘Well, I was rather hoping that you’d like to lend your oratorical skills to a living cause. However, if you wish to retread old ground …’ Jacko sat back with a little moue of frustration. ‘You carry on dabbling,’ she said.
‘Dabbling!’ The word was almost a shout; silence fell, and there was a rustle as the other diners turned to look at Mattie.
‘Isn’t that what you’re doing? A little of this, a little of that …’
‘I never dabble. Dabbling implies half-heartedness. I would hope that I bring the full weight of my beliefs to everything I do.’
Jacko smiled slightly. ‘But your beliefs aren’t reaching very far, are they, Mattie? How many young women were in the audience today? When was the last time you even spoke to one? Next week, the Empire Fascisti are giving a demonstration of horsemanship in Hyde Park, introduced by a film actress who also happens to be a staunch supporter of the cause. Which of the two events do you think that little Fairbanks-follower would rather attend?’
In the silence that followed, the other diners went back to their meals and Mattie sawed her steak into two halves.
‘Perhaps
you’ll think about it,’ said Jacko, in a more conciliatory tone. ‘I can give you a pamphlet that Richard wrote which will explain more fully the philosophy behind the New Guard. You’ll find it awfully interesting …’
It was The Flea who actually sat and read the pamphlet, later that evening, tutting sharply as she did so. ‘It’s the usual hateful nonsense,’ she said. ‘Praising the strong and sneering at the weak and painting anyone on the left as mentally abnormal. And whenever they talk about the “enemy”, they always mean Jews – “outside influences” means Jews, “Bolshevik” means Jews, “foreign” means Jews, “wealthy” means Jews. Wealthy! When I think of some of the families I see …’
‘Please throw the damn thing away,’ said Mattie, giving the fire a violent poke.
She had been uncharacteristically silent since returning from the café, and even half an hour spent chopping kindling – usually an infallible restorative – had failed to improve her mood.
The Flea crumpled the leaflet and tossed it into the fire, where it flared briefly.
‘I think it’s going to snow,’ she said, resuming her careful transcription of work notes.
Mattie grunted. She’d long considered herself impervious to insult, but Jacko had delivered a stiletto to the heart. The mimsy, ephemeral implication of dabble was almost unbearable; it was a word that walked hand in hand with trifle and dilly-dally, flirt, toy and tinker – terms that could scarcely be uttered without an enervated sigh. And, of course, the accusation was untrue, completely untrue. Was it possible, though, that she had lost a degree of momentum …?
She selected a log from the basket and heaved it on to the fire, where it burned briskly.
‘That’s a pleasant smell,’ said The Flea.
‘Ash,’ said Mattie. ‘I found a dead branch last week, up near the Round Pond.’ She’d dragged it back over a mile to the house – the grain of the wood was so pale and delicate that its heaviness always came as a surprise. She thought, with regret, of the ash club that had been in her handbag. There was another one somewhere in the house; she was sure of it.
