Old Baggage

by Lissa Evans

  The Flea opened her mouth and then closed it again. The phrase ‘And some fell on stony ground’ might have been written with Ruby Chase in mind; years of delicate suggestion – Perhaps start baby off with a little mashed carrot, rather than kippers? I happen to have a bottle of Jeyes Fluid with me – might you find it useful? – had made no difference at all to the sticky chaos of her home or the random mixture of whim and superstition by which she lived. And yet she was cheerful, her husband grimily affectionate, her children hugged and dandled.

  Occasionally, though, it was necessary to be blunt.

  ‘Mrs Chase, I really think your friend’s baby shouldn’t go with you. The infection could be very dangerous for a newborn. It would be wrong to bring him.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I don’t know …’ Ruby Chase looked around helplessly. ‘His mum’s out and his grandma’s all the way up at Mornington Crescent, Orgreave Road. I can’t go all the way there with this to push.’ She paused, and fixed The Flea with a hopeful gaze. ‘She’s at number 6, I think. Mrs Rains.’

  ‘I’ll take him,’ said The Flea, resignedly. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Edgar.’

  ‘Come along, Edgar.’ She extracted him from the carriage, a stiff little figure, dressed in a petticoat over layer upon layer of knitted garments, his face pink and damp. ‘Let’s get you to Grandma.’

  ‘There’s a definite whiff in here,’ said Mattie, that evening, pausing in the hall with her sherry.

  ‘It’s my coat. I had to carry a baby rather a long way. I shall steep it in soda.’

  ‘The baby?’

  The Flea managed half a smile. ‘As a matter of fact, the baby wasn’t terribly well. Impetigo, but also, I think, a temperature. I had a word with the grandmother about giving him a luke-warm bath, but she was horrified at the idea, you’d have thought I was suggesting an ice-bucket – the last I saw, she was wrapping him in a blanket. I sometimes wonder if I make the slightest difference.’ There was, unusually, a note of frustration in her voice. Mattie reached for an antidote.

  ‘Small sherry?’

  ‘No thank you.’

  ‘Or a toddy? Buck you up a bit.’

  ‘It always gives me a thick head.’

  ‘Glass of crème de menthe?’

  The Flea wavered; she had a weakness for peppermint. ‘A very, very tiny one, then. I must write up my notes before bed.’

  ‘I shall pour you a measure that Thumbelina would deem inadequate. And then I’d like to read you my latest column for the Ham & High; I have given Mussolini a roasting.’

  ‘Should you? You know they keep on asking you to limit yourself to strictly local affairs.’

  ‘And what could be more local than a military bugle drowning out the duck-calls by the Upper Pond?’

  ‘Oh, you’re going for Jacko?’ said The Flea, visibly brightening.

  ‘Did you think I might not?’

  The Flea smiled; a proper smile this time.

  ‘I’ve lit the fire in the drawing room,’ said Mattie. ‘Let’s vamoose.’

  Ida stood by the exit of Westminster Underground station, and counted heads.

  ‘I have ten,’ she called.

  ‘Ten in my group’, said Freda.

  ‘Ten in mine,’ echoed Bessie.

  ‘Six,’ said Hildegard Collings-Waverley, in the startled squeak of a voice which always made her sound as if she’d just been jabbed with a pin. ‘But I’m meant to have six,’ she added. ‘I didn’t have ten to start with.’

  ‘So are we fully present and correct?’ asked Miss Simpkin. ‘No one still on the Northern Line, rattling towards the fleshpots of Tooting?’

  ‘We’re all here,’ said Ida.

  ‘Excellent. Good work, group leaders – bullseyes all round. Now, before we make our way to Parliament Square I suggest we cross the road and examine the magnificent statue on the Embankment.’

  ‘Could I take a photograph of us all first?’ asked Freda, who had received a Box Brownie for her fifteenth birthday, and had appointed herself documentarian of the Amazons’ Especial Outing.

  ‘How would you like us arranged?’ asked Mattie.

  ‘You in the middle, please, and the group leaders flanking you, like a bodyguard, and all the others surrounding. The little ones could kneel at the front.’

  ‘Kneeling on stone gives you housemaid’s knee,’ said Winnie.

  ‘You’ve already got housemaid’s knees,’ said Avril. ‘Big, puffy ones.’

  ‘You could crouch,’ said Ida, rustling the bag of bullseyes under Winnie’s nose. The twins always seemed to end up in her charge; the most recent star on her sash had been awarded for ‘Commendable Diplomacy’.

  ‘You all need to squash together a bit more,’ said Freda, peering down at her camera. ‘That’s it. And then I’ll count to three and everyone should say, “Cheese”.’

  ‘Or maybe we should say “Amazons”,’ suggested Hildegard.

  ‘But you hardly have to open your mouth to say “Amazons”. We’d all look po-faced.’

  ‘We could shout it,’ said Mattie. ‘With brio.’

  ‘All right then. One. Two. Three.’

  ‘AMAZONS!’

  The pavement was suddenly a frieze of startled faces, all pointing in their direction.

  ‘That was a noise all right,’ said Avril, giggling. ‘Like the trumpets at Jericho.’ And the giggle swept through the whole group because there was something almost intoxicating about making a racket on a public street, and not having to worry about being told off; being praised for it, in fact.

  ‘A splendid effort,’ said Mattie. ‘Now, let us cross the road towards the Embankment. If we all look both ways, it’s just possible we may return to Hampstead with the same number of girls as when we left.’

  Elsie O’Brien, a recent recruit from the Wilson Road flats, held on to Ida’s hand as they crossed; she was a wizened little thing in a coat too large for her, gloveless, despite the cold wind, her fingers lumpy with chilblains.

  ‘Is that the sea?’ she asked.

  ‘The sea?’ repeated Avril, derisively.

  ‘It’s a river. The Thames,’ said Ida, giving Avril a pointed look. ‘And anyway, it goes down to the sea, doesn’t it, so Elsie’s half right.’

  ‘I think I knew that,’ said Elsie, blushing. ‘But I forgot. I never saw it before.’

  ‘Never …?’ This time, Ida got the look in early, and Avril subsided.

  ‘When I seen the Thames the first time I thought it was going to wash me away,’ said Bessie Pritchard, who worked on the manicure counter at Bourne and Hollingsworth, and who had won the recent Amazons’ wood-chopping competition without breaking a single nail. ‘I didn’t know water ever moved fast like that – I’d only seen the canal before.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Avril, who was slightly in awe of Bessie.

  ‘So let us contemplate one of London’s most famous statues,’ said Mattie. ‘And unlike Nelson, who stands so high above the spectator that he appears as a mere dot on a pedestal, this subject seems almost to gallop among us. We are looking at Boadicea, Queen of the Iceni, scourge of the Romans, a gallant fighter, a martyr for freedom.’

  ‘Who are the other girls in the chariot?’ asked Winnie.

  ‘Her daughters, cruelly ravished by the Romans.’

  ‘What does “ravished” mean?’

  ‘Treated brutally,’ said Mattie, after a slight pause.

  ‘You can see their bosoms,’ whispered Winnie.

  ‘The Britons fought gallantly under her command, but were finally routed by the general Suetonius Paulinus, whom, as a child, I always imagined having a face like a steamed pudding. Rather than be captured alive, Tacitus records that the Queen and her daughters took poison. Would anyone care to comment on the chariot wheels?’

  ‘There’s daggers sticking out of them.’

  ‘Traditionally, scythes,’ said Mattie. ‘But yes – sharpened blades, very good. Just imagine those whirling through a cluster of Roman legs. Like an ax
e through rhubarb.’

  There was a shriek of delighted horror.

  Winnie put up her hand. ‘But in the battle were they in the actual nude?’

  ‘I think it unlikely,’ said Mattie. ‘Just as I deem it improbable that David felled Goliath of Gath while dancing around in his birthday suit. Sculptors, like painters, seem to prefer the depiction of naked flesh, rather than, say …’

  ‘Drawers,’ suggested Elsie.

  ‘Indeed. No, I think Boadicea and her daughters would have had armour – at the very least a breastplate, to protect the most vulnerable areas of the body. I have, in the past, when anticipating rough handling, fashioned my own out of cardboard, and it has proved quite effective – we should go, now, to Parliament Square, the very site of such bruising encounters. Are you taking another photograph, Freda?’

  ‘I wanted one of the statue,’ said Freda, ‘but the sky’s too bright – all I can see is a silhouette.’

  ‘What about recreating it as a tableau?’ asked Hildegard. ‘I was cast in one at school, as Brutus killing Caesar. I held a kitchen knife covered in crimson lake and I had to maintain an expression of implacable hatred for nearly a minute, and people clapped an awful lot and said it was exactly like the real thing.’

  ‘Can we do that, Miss Simpkin?’

  ‘I think it’s a rather good conceit. Would you like to be Boadicea, Hildegard?’

  ‘Didn’t Ancient Britons have red hair?’ said Freda. ‘I think it should be Ida.’

  ‘What? Oh no …’ said Ida.

  ‘Yes, I’m more of a Roman type,’ said Hildegard, rather complacently. ‘You’ll need to let your hair hang loose, Ida, to match the statue – and what about Winnie and Avril as the daughters?’

  Winnie went scarlet. ‘I won’t take off …’ she began.

  ‘Miss Simpkin, could we borrow your mackintosh for Boadicea’s cloak?’ asked Freda. ‘There’s a bit of a breeze, and if we face the right direction, it’ll fly out behind and look just right.’

  And thus, Ida found herself standing on Westminster Bridge with a rolled umbrella for a spear, arms raised, hair streaming out in a wild halo, Winnie (fully dressed) to one side, Avril to the other and Miss Simpkin’s oilskin rattling in the gusts. It was the most public, the most embarrassing, the most exhilarating thing she had ever done.

  ‘It looks absolutely topping,’ said Freda. ‘Hold steady, I’ll take one more.’

  ‘Remember – fierce and commanding,’ said Hildegard, just as a fat man stuck his head out of the cab of a passing lorry and shouted, ‘Oi, oi, Ginger, fancy a lift?’

  ‘A Queen with her own chariot has no need of lifts,’ called Miss Simpkin.

  ‘So, what was my name?’ asked Winnie afterwards, as they walked towards the Houses of Parliament.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ida. ‘Miss Simpkin, what were the names of Boadicea’s daughters?’

  ‘I don’t believe they were ever recorded. Innumerable are the unnamed women of history. Which brings us very tidily to the reason why we are here today – gather round for a moment, girls. Tomorrow, in the House of Lords, there will be a second reading of the Representation of the People Act. If it is passed, then its recommendations will almost certainly be framed in law before the year is out. And, if you remember, those recommendations are …?’

  ‘All ladies older than twenty-one will be able to vote,’ said Bessie. ‘The same as the men.’

  ‘That is correct. Regardless of whether they are …’

  ‘Tenants or property owners.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Spinsters or married,’ said Ida.

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘Tall or short,’ suggested Elsie.

  There was a shout of laughter. ‘That, too,’ said Mattie, kindly. ‘But let us not forget the efforts it took to get this far. I can recall occasions – one in particular – when merely seeking to cross Parliament Square towards the Commons was enough to provoke violence or arrest.’

  ‘Were you smashing windows there, Miss Simpkin?’

  ‘Not on the day I am thinking of. I was part of a peaceful deputation attempting to speak to the Prime Minister. So great were the number of police officers that it took upward of an hour to cover ten yards, and there were many, many injuries – it became known as Black Friday.’

  ‘Was you hurt, Miss Simpkin?’

  ‘I was, though not as severely as others. And my younger brother, Angus, who was in the Men’s Political Union – supporting the aims of the suffragettes – had all the fingers of his left hand broken, when a policeman repeatedly stamped on them.’

  ‘Bloody coppers,’ muttered Elsie, under her breath.

  ‘So,’ said Mattie, ‘perhaps we should think of an activity that might symbolize our current freedom to pass unimpeded not only across the square, but also to the polling booth. Any suggestions?’

  ‘Three-legged relay races,’ said Mattie.

  ‘Across Parliament Square?’

  ‘Yes. Four teams. In a closely fought final, Marie Curie pipped Elizabeth Fry at the post. I was informed that it was a “ripping” outing and Decima Cornish has decided that she would like to be the first female Prime Minister. Shall I put the kettle on?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said The Flea. ‘There is, actually, a girl here to see you about joining. I popped her in the conservatory, and I presume she’s still there – I’ve been writing a report on the Parson Street overall workshop – the owner hasn’t acted on a single recommendation – and I have to confess I completely forgot about her until you came back.’

  It was more of a lean-to than a conservatory, but on sunny days it stored the heat wonderfully, and the girl had fallen asleep on the window-seat, her head resting against the glass. She had an unusual face, almost wider than it was long, the cheekbones very marked, the eyes aslant, like a faery from a Richard Dadd painting. Angus (still bobbing near the surface of Mattie’s thoughts) had looked rather similar; they had called him Elfie as a child.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Mattie.

  ‘Oh, hello.’ Far from looking discomfited, the girl stretched and yawned before standing. ‘Golly, I must have been here hours,’ she said. She had strikingly light blue eyes, with a dark ring around the irises.

  ‘I’m Miss Simpkin,’ said Mattie, indicating a chair and herself taking a seat on the sofa. ‘And what is your name?’

  ‘Inez Campbell.’

  ‘And how old are you, Inez?’

  ‘Fourteen.’

  ‘And why do you want to join the Amazons?’

  The girl sat and looked at her patent-leather shoes, apparently admiring their shine, tipping her feet from side to side to send reflections scuttling across the conservatory walls.

  ‘I don’t know, really,’ she said, at last. ‘My stepmother said I needed to find a hobby. And I do quite like nature.’

  ‘Excellent – we spend a great deal of time on the Heath. And what is your favourite tree?’

  There was a pause. ‘Laurel?’

  ‘That’s a domesticated shrub, rather than a tree.’

  ‘Oh. Do I need to know about trees to join, then?’

  ‘Not necessarily. Though, as a member, you might find yourself climbing one and you wouldn’t get much of a view from the top of a laurel!’

  Inez nodded inattentively, her gaze drifting around the room. If she were a horse, thought Mattie, one would advise blinkers.

  ‘Do you like sports? Running, for instance, or swimming?’

  ‘No, not really. We play lacrosse at school but I have weak wrists so I’m allowed to do Grecian dancing instead.’

  ‘Do you enjoy that?’

  ‘I think I might enjoy it more if we didn’t have to wear these awfully stupid tunics. And the dance teacher is a pill.’

  ‘What about your wider interests? Is there an ambition you cherish?’

  ‘An ambition?’

  ‘Yes. An achievement or career that you aspire to.’

  Inez appeared to give the question
some thought, using her shoes as inspiration.

  ‘Well, in the shorter term, I’ve never been to Harrods; and in the longer term, I’d rather like to go on a sea cruise.’

  Mattie felt as if she were trying to sharpen an India-rubber pencil.

  ‘Could you name three women you admire?’

  ‘I like Louise Brooks. And Dolores del Rio.’

  ‘Perhaps someone who isn’t a film actress?’

  ‘Gladys Cooper?’

  ‘She’s a theatre actress, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. We saw her in Lights over Leicester Square last Christmas. She’s very pretty. Could I ask something?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘There isn’t a uniform in the Amazons, is there?’

  ‘Not as such. The girls wear green sashes over ordinary clothes. And shoes they can run in,’ she added, pointedly.

  ‘You see, my brother’s in the Empire Youth League and he has to polish his belt and buttons every week. I wouldn’t like that at all.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mattie, stiffening; she had long been awaiting a spy from the other camp, though this colourless creature seemed an unlikely choice for the role of Mata Hari.

  ‘And are there any other reasons why you would rather join the Amazons than the Empire Youth League?’ she asked, dangling the bait.

  ‘Yes, actually – they start awfully early in the League. Ralph has to leave the house at eight o’clock to be on parade. I don’t get up till eleven, usually, at the weekend.’

  Mattie brooded for a moment. She had never yet turned down an applicant for the Amazons, however unpromising, but there was usually something about the girl – a glimpse of backbone, a flicker of originality – that offered hope.

  ‘What I’m going to suggest,’ she said, ‘is that over the next fortnight or so, you spend a little time deciding whether you truly wish to join a club that is dedicated to open-air activities and enthusiastic conversational interchange, or whether, perhaps, there is another hobby that might suit you better. The Amazons are a very … energetic group of girls.’

  Inez nodded, apparently unruffled by the rejection. ‘Actually,’ she said, looking directly at Mattie for the first time, ‘there was another reason why I came here.’