Old Baggage

by Lissa Evans

  ‘It happened in 1913,’ said Mattie, ‘when the house was being used as a convalescent home for hunger strikers. Who remembers the Cat and Mouse Act?’

  ‘Ooh, ooh!’ It was Avril, waggling her hand frantically, bouncing up and down with desperation to be asked.

  Mattie waited a second or two, on the off-chance that Inez might attempt an answer. Nearly every other hand was raised.

  ‘Ooh, ooh!’

  ‘Yes, Avril?’

  ‘They let you out when you were ill, and then made you go back to prison again when you were better.’

  ‘That’s right. Hunger strikers were released on licence, and given a date to return to Holloway.’

  ‘But lots of them didn’t, and when they were feeling better they went and hid, so the detectives couldn’t find them.’

  ‘That was the game what we played last month,’ added Elsie. ‘Mouse Hunt. Hildegard and Ida were the coppers.’

  ‘And we won,’ said Ida.

  ‘Boo!’ added Freda.

  ‘You were a good deal more astute and alert than the original detectives,’ said Mattie. ‘So, my story begins on a wild winter evening. One of the mice was upstairs in her room – it was at the back of the house, facing the Heath, and she was sitting in an armchair. She was a young woman, very brave and daring, and although she’d been greatly weakened by fasting, she was already making plans to leave the house in the guise of a visiting nurse, in order to avoid re-arrest.’

  ‘Dr Simpkin, can I ask something?’ said Winnie.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Is this story really about you?’

  ‘No. No, I was far from being a young woman when it took place.’

  ‘It’s about my mother, I expect,’ said Inez, because Miss Simpkin’s suffragette anecdotes were always about her mother. ‘What was she wearing?’

  ‘Wearing?’ said Mattie, rather thrown. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Was she in her day clothes, or a dressing gown because she was still ill? What time was it, exactly?’

  ‘I’m not altogether sure. Perhaps ten o’clock.’

  ‘So a nightgown, then. And maybe a wrap.’

  ‘Yes. And as your mother was sitting—’

  ‘And slippers, of course.’

  There was an outbreak of giggling from the more distant mattresses. ‘What was she wearing?’ repeated someone, wetly. Ida stared at the fire, only half listening as the anecdote progressed (… a scratching at the window, a scream, a white hand behind the glass …), thinking instead about what she’d seen from the bus on the way to the Heath. It had passed the Coronet and she’d spotted Kenneth Billson in the queue for The Mysterious Lady, together with that ninny Mary Corrigan. At the time, her only thought had been that Mary was welcome to him, more fool her and her tatty green boa, but now she felt a sudden yearning for a plush seat and a bag of toffees and an arm around her in the dark. The arm would have to belong to someone half decent, mind, who’d treat her properly and wouldn’t laugh in her face.

  There were one or two gasps beside her, and she realized that she had missed the entire climax of the story, though it had something to do with a detective who’d climbed up a mulberry tree in order to check who was in the house. Involuntarily, she yawned, and Inez turned to look at her, so that their faces were very close together.

  ‘It’s terribly bad manners not to cover your mouth when you yawn,’ said Inez.

  ‘Sorry, I’m sure.’

  The air between them seemed to scrape and flare, indifference sparking into dislike.

  ‘I think you’re actually quite rude,’ said Inez.

  ‘I can be a lot ruder than that.’ Ida held the stare a moment longer, and then rolled away.

  ‘So it wasn’t a real ghost?’ said Elsie, disappointed.

  Mattie shook her head. ‘No, not unless ghosts can fall out of a mulberry tree and break a wrist.’

  ‘But I’d say it’s the sort of house that would have a ghost, though,’ said Freda. ‘Did any suffragettes actually die there, Miss Simpkin?’

  ‘No, thank Heaven.’

  ‘I’m glad I live in a new house,’ said Winnie. ‘I wouldn’t want to have to worry every time I was opening a door in the dark, or looking in a mirror.’

  ‘Or mopping the floor,’ said Inez.

  The words were spoken so quietly that it took a moment for Ida to believe what she’d just heard, and then she threw off the blanket and stood up.

  ‘That’s it, I’m off.’

  She walked swiftly away from the circle, taking the path between the trees to the edge of the copse and then slowing, disorientated in the darkness. Sandy paths formed a pale web across the hillside.

  ‘Ida!’

  It was Miss Simpkin, actually running through the trees towards her, and Ida turned to run herself, but knew that she couldn’t bolt now and then arrive for work on Monday as if nothing had happened: Morning, Miss Simpkin. Yes, thank you very much, I enjoyed the camp out but I suddenly felt bilious. Excuse me, I just need to fetch the soap flakes from the scullery.

  She waited.

  ‘Ida, whatever is the matter? Are you unwell?’

  How could she not have noticed, thought Ida – a person who can point to a dot in the distance and know it’s a wren but who can’t see what’s happening an inch in front of her eye-glasses?

  ‘No, I’m not ill.’

  ‘Then what can be wrong?’

  ‘Inez just said something to me and it made me cross.’

  ‘But what on earth did she say that would make you want to run off?’ There was only a shaving of moon, so that Miss Simpkin’s face was unreadable, an oblong stitched with shadow, but her tone was one of bafflement at the idea that anyone could scarper because of mere words, and Ida didn’t know how to explain to someone who’d dodged truncheons what it was like to get sneered at for something that was just your life, something you had to do for money, not something you’d chosen for politics or the Greater Good. Because in spite of the fact that Miss Simpkin wasn’t like anyone else – that she threw words around like a circus juggler, that she didn’t care two pins for what people said about her, that she strode through life like a painting of a goddess in a helmet – she was still posh and, in the end, that made her more like Inez than Ida. Posh people saw things from a different angle, as if they were on stilts; they didn’t realize how much easier it was for them to step over obstacles, or catch someone’s attention, or keep out of the mud. The best of them might think that they were looking at you eye to eye, but they never were, they were always peering down, watching you mop, as if mopping was the thing that made you what you were, the identifier, like spotting a white throat on a crow and knowing that meant it was really a rook.

  ‘Ida?’

  ‘It’s not just what she said, it’s … it’s …’ There was too much to express; the words wedged in her throat like a ball.

  ‘Spit it out!’ said Mattie. ‘Dare to be a Daniel!’ And as she spoke, the moonlight blinked out, doused by cloud, and Ida could see nothing in front of her but a dark shape in darkness, with the campfire a distant flare of orange, and suddenly she could speak, because now it was like those furious conversations she’d sometimes have when she was on her own, arguing with the air as she peeled the spuds, as eloquent as a coster.

  ‘It’s not fair, Miss Simpkin. Just because Inez’s mother was a suffragette, she gets treated as if she’s more important than the rest of us, even though she doesn’t answer questions or volunteer or help anyone or have any ideas or even … even pick anything up. It’s like in the Bible when that son comes home, the prodigal son, and he’s been racketing around and spent all his money and he gets a whole party put on for him, and the other son, who’s been trying hard and done everything what he’s supposed to do, has to stand and watch while his brother gets a fancy dinner. For doing nothing!’ Her voice was a squawk of outrage.

  ‘Excuse me, is everything quite all right?’ called a voice from beside the fire.

  �
�Yes, thank you, Freda,’ said Mattie. ‘Would you like to lead some singing, perhaps?’

  There was silence until the first line of ‘Bread and Roses’ threaded between the trees. I’ve gone and done it now, thought Ida.

  ‘That was really rather an excellent analogy,’ said Mattie. Her tone was brooding.

  ‘Was it?’ asked Ida, confused.

  ‘Apposite.’

  ‘… to what?’

  ‘No, “apposite” means “appropriate”, or “befitting”.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And you are, in many ways, right,’ said Mattie. ‘Because of her … her parentage, I find myself expecting – hoping for – a great deal more from Inez. But as the backbone of our group, Ida, do you have any suggestions as to what it would take to turn her into a true Amazon?’

  A boot up the arse.

  ‘I would value your thoughts,’ continued Mattie. ‘Whatever they are.’

  Ida felt her face grow hot and was glad she was invisible. She made an effort to concentrate.

  ‘Maybe if … she never tries at anything, does she? So she doesn’t know what it’s like when you’re the person who’s done the thing that means your team’s won, and everyone’s congratulating you and you feel like a … a queen – and maybe if she could understand what that feels like, for once, it might …’

  ‘Buck her up.’

  ‘Yes. Maybe.’ Ida had her doubts.

  ‘Thank you. Extremely helpful.’

  Something small moved past them in the dark: a soft snuffle, a rustle of grass at ankle height. In the copse, Hildegard was singing a descant, her silvery voice lifting clear of the others.

  ‘And now let’s go back, shall we?’ said Mattie.

  Ida hesitated; somewhere to the west of them, Greta Garbo was gliding across a screen, and there were whispers and promises in the dark, and violet creams …

  Reluctantly, she plodded after Mattie.

  A wreath of white lilies lay on the purple-draped coffin, and there were swags of greenery and more lilies in vases beside the catafalque, whilst across the congregation the same colours were picked out in ribbons and badges, rosettes and sashes, lending an oddly carnival air to the proceedings. Mattie, for the first time, wore her medals: the miniature grille commemorating her incarcerations, the silver disc bearing the dates of hunger strikes, the pin topped with a chip of flint which signified that she had once (several times, as a matter of fact) thrown a stone through a plate-glass window. Similar awards winked from bosoms and lapels in every pew; St John’s Smith Square currently contained more convicted criminals than an East End beer-hall.

  ‘Not the best of views,’ said Dorothy, for the fourth time. The Mousehole party had arrived rather late, after meeting Roberta from the Ipswich train, and they were seated near the back of the nave.

  ‘I see Annie Kenney,’ whispered The Flea, half rising. ‘Annie Taylor, that is. And there’s Mrs Despard. And Sylvia and Christabel, of course. No Adela.’

  Alice Channing, beside her in the pew, craned her neck. ‘Dear, splendid Mrs Despard still wearing that extraordinary lace mantilla. Positively Victorian. Though I shouldn’t talk, not exactly a fashion plate myself …’

  Mattie, seated on the aisle, glanced along the row at her old comrades: Alice in black bombazine, her WSPU button badge fastened to her hat band; Dorothy, a whippet in her heyday, now grown rather stout; Roberta, who had proved momentarily unrecognizable on the platform at Liverpool Street, her greying hair newly shingled. And all around, other whispered reunions and half-familiar faces, every pew full, the gallery packed, a mass of sober female respectability – taxpayers, grandmothers, committee members and letter-writers, who had yet, in their time, rolled the world before them like a bowling ball. Lord, what a force they had been! What buoyancy, what momentum in their common aim; she could almost feel it lifting her again, even in these sombre circumstances. And if there had been no Great War, no halting of their forward surge, no splitting of aims, what more might they have achieved? Not painful inroads but a whole new map!

  ‘There’s Nellie,’ said Dorothy, nudging her, as two women walked up the aisle, bearing flags.

  ‘Nellie Hall?’

  ‘Yes, she was Mrs Pankhurst’s god-daughter, you know. A splendid girl, chip off the old block.’

  ‘Who’s the other?’

  ‘A Conservative Party member,’ hissed The Flea darkly, as a sudden flourish of organ notes heralded both the arrival of the clergy and the widespread creaking of stays occasioned by several hundred middle-aged women standing simultaneously.

  It was towards the end of the Reverend Cobb’s eulogy that the sudden sharp smell of whisky flooded the rear of the church, accompanied by the words ‘Damn it all’ and the sound of a glass bouncing twice and then smashing. Mattie’s head snapped round like a pointer, and then she was on her feet and moving swiftly towards a stooping figure.

  ‘Hello, Mattie! I only wanted a nip,’ said Aileen Gifford, attempting to pick up the shards.

  ‘Let me do that,’ hissed Mattie. ‘Go into the porch, I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘I want to see the service! Darling Mrs Pankhurst!’

  The Reverend Cobb had raised his voice, but there were heads turning all over the church and Mattie took Aileen by the elbow and frog-marched her through the door.

  They emerged into a gritty wind under a white sky. Two police horses were shifting and stamping at the foot of the steps and a large crowd had assembled on the opposite pavement, its attention immediately riveted by the sight of Aileen trying to ram a bottle back into her Gladstone bag.

  ‘Come along, dear girl,’ said Mattie, linking arms.

  ‘Can we not see the service?’

  ‘Perhaps after a little stroll.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve been so silly,’ said Aileen, starting to cry. Mattie guided her into an alcove containing an attenuated marble of the Evangelist, and stood directly in front, blocking the crowd’s view. To see Aileen in such proximity was almost painful; like all of them, she had aged – but she was also ruined, her skin rimed with scurf, her eyes the translucent gobstoppers of the alcoholic. ‘I missed the train,’ she said, Mattie’s handkerchief clenched in her hand. ‘Forgot to set the alarm, and then it was all helter-skelter, horrible to be so late. Though not as late as Emmeline.’ She gave a stifled shriek, a sob muffled in laughter, and looked down at herself, the stain on her blouse, her coat fastened wrongly.

  ‘Let me do that,’ said Mattie, starting on the buttons. ‘Try and give your nose a good blow.’

  ‘Can I go back in?’

  ‘I think not. I suggest we walk to the cemetery, and if we’re brisk about it we should get there before the cortège and then you can pay your respects with a clear head.’

  A fire engine passed, bell clanging, the ladder rattling on the roof, and Mattie took advantage of the distraction to guide Aileen down the steps, bypassing a hawker with a tray of memorial cards.

  ‘An angel,’ said Aileen, halting suddenly and wafting a hand towards the photographs of Mrs Pankhurst.

  ‘You know very well that she wasn’t, Aileen.’

  ‘An angel with a fiery sword!’

  ‘Tuppence apiece,’ said the seller, laconically.

  ‘I’ll take two hundred and forty.’ Mattie stayed Aileen’s hand, before it could unroll the note that she’d extracted like a cheroot from her pocket.

  ‘Six,’ said Mattie, handing over a shilling.

  Aileen fanned the souvenir cards like a hand of rummy. ‘Six queens,’ she said. ‘And you mustn’t say a word about her, Mattie.’

  ‘I will say only that she was human. A most magnificent human, but possessed of human failings. And, in the end, she paid no heed to those who had followed her most loyally. Did you have anything to eat this morning?’

  ‘Not a sausage.’

  There was a muffin seller at the corner of Smith Square, and Mattie bought three.

  ‘A lady doesn’t eat on a public thoroughfare,’ said Aileen
, who had once unbuckled a policeman’s belt, leaving him to choose between arresting a protestor and holding up his trousers. ‘Though I must say this smells nice.’ She took a tiny bite. ‘I was never a big eater.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘That first day at the Miss Bridges’, do you remember? The gravy soup that I poured out of the window?’

  ‘Where are you living now, Aileen?’

  ‘I was staying with my cousin in Woking until last month. Incident with an overflowing bath – very, very little damage to the ceiling, and it was only a minor Gainsborough, just a sketch, really.’

  ‘And since then?’

  ‘Lodging with a Mrs Allenthwaite in Winchester, although she mentioned just this morning that she wants me to leave by the end of the week. I’m looking for a country place. I may go in for dog breeding.’

  ‘Come and stay at the Mousehole.’

  ‘No thank you.’ She looked at Mattie, and there was a sudden clarity to her blue-green gaze, the lifting of sea-fret to reveal an unexpected calm. ‘I would let you down.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘I would, yes, and I can’t bear that. And Florrie shouldn’t have to look after me as well as you, silly girl that I am.’ And as she spoke, she was snapping open her bag and reaching for the bottle.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Mattie.

  ‘Just a chaser.’

  ‘Here’s a challenge for you: if we reach Brompton before the coffin, I promise to buy you a drink.’

  ‘Oh, cunning! I never could resist a challenge.’ She closed the bag again, and lengthened her stride, steering an approximate line down the centre of the pavement, Mattie’s hand on her arm giving little nudges of correction, as if to a tiller. ‘Do you remember the rowing boat we borrowed when we should have been at the Miss Bridges’? Four miles downstream in an hour, four miles back up in – how long was it?’