by Lissa Evans
‘Are you comfortable?’ asked Roberta, raising her voice above the engine. The constant vibration made her sound as if she were gargling.
‘Not particularly,’ said Mattie. ‘This seat would seem shaped for someone with a single buttock.’
‘Yes, Edward says the same, but I love this little motor-car – Veronica tells me I have four children – her, Crispin, Roger and the Austin – and that I’m fondest of the Austin. And I couldn’t manage without it – you know I’m a prison visitor at Norwich? There’s no other way to get there apart from a motor-bus that takes hours.’
‘You could thumb a lift in a Black Maria.’
‘I’m far too stout these days, they’d never fit me into a cell … I’ve forgotten, did you ever drive?’
‘In Serbia. Ambulances. Though one didn’t so much drive as wrestle; it took two hands to change gear while one steered with one’s knees.’ She looked over her shoulder at the boxes, wedged in the gap between the seats.
‘I’ll go very slowly,’ said Roberta. ‘We don’t want to break anything else. Oh, that poor boy, though, I thought he would die of mortification – you were very restrained, I must say.’
‘Tout passe, tout lasse, tout casse,’ said Mattie. ‘Casse being the operative word in this case.’ Twelve slides had been broken. ‘Frankly, short of felling him with an upper cut and then setting fire to the hall, I really could think of no adequate response. And in any case, I must shoulder my share of the blame. I confused the boy.’
‘But what on earth will Florrie say?’
The Austin turned a corner and the headlights caught a fox in the lane ahead, its eyes like silver buttons.
‘Shoo!’ shouted Roberta.
It fled into the verge.
‘I may as well tell you,’ said Mattie, ‘that I haven’t spoken to Florrie since July.’
‘What?’ Roberta actually turned to look at her, mouth open, before snapping her gaze back to the road. ‘What do you mean? You’ve not talked to each other in four months?’
‘She is no longer living at the Mousehole.’
‘But – no, hang on, we’re nearly back home, I can’t drive and think about this at the same time. This lane is all pot-holes.’
Frowning, she fixed her gaze on the untarred track, and Mattie looked out of her window at the overgrown hedgerow, though the darkness had stripped it of all texture; they might have been passing a cement wall topped with spikes. A visit to Roberta had always been a treat – a house full of pets and jolly children, a river where one could fish, long walks and rooks roosting in the stubble, and gentle, kindly Edward, a classicist who handled books as if they were made of gold leaf, and played chess like a devil. But now there was a conversation to be had. A headache dropped behind her eyes, like someone lowering a heavy crate.
Roberta turned off the road and eased the car to a halt. Lights were on in the windows of the large, square house, and a lamp in the porch threw a pale semicircle across the gravel. Above the ticking of the engine, Mattie could hear the river.
‘Tell me in here,’ said Roberta. ‘Otherwise we’ll have to fight to find a quiet space. Tell me why The Flea has gone, and where she’s gone and why you’re not speaking.’ Roberta, for all her artistic bent, had a lawyer’s brain.
‘We had a disagreement.’
‘So Florrie isn’t unwell?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘But you said in your letter that she wasn’t coming to the lecture because she was ill. Mattie, you never lie.’ Roberta was looking aghast, her round face hatched by shadow, the effect almost cubist in the half-light. ‘So what was the disagreement? Surely you’ve had a thousand disagreements before – neither of you has ever fought shy of having an opinion.’
There was a long silence.
‘Do tell me, Mattie.’
‘Should I pretend that I’m a prisoner you’re visiting?’
‘If you like. There’s very little I haven’t heard.’
‘To be frank, I’ve made a hash of things.’
The dark booth of the motor-car was somewhat reminiscent of a confessional, with its lure of absolution. Best out with it, thought Mattie; best admit the whole, ghastly chain of events. Roberta listened carefully, with the odd painful interjection.
‘So she’s Angus’s child?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, he was always something of a lecher – yes, he was, Mattie, there’s no need to flinch. He stroked my bottom once, in Hyde Park, when I was already engaged to Edward, and I wasn’t the only one, far from it. Anyway, go on.’
A lecher. The word seemed to stay in the air, reverberating thinly beneath the narrative. The car grew chilly. There was an odd dislocation to seeing one’s breath whilst talking about a day of exceptional heat.
‘And what did the journalist write?’
‘A rather bald description. “Day of Sports marred by accusations of Unsporting Behaviour”. I received five letters of complaint from parents.’ And on the following Sunday, and the three after that, she had waited on Parliament Hill at the usual time, but no girls had arrived. Each week, the summer had retreated a little further, the leaves dulling, the baked grass regaining its colour in the rain. Once, she had seen Freda and her white dog in the distance, but neither had come any nearer, though Mattie had waved.
‘So did Florrie leave a note?’ asked Roberta.
‘Merely one stating that she would send a carrier for her trunk. He came a day or two later.’
‘But no address?’
‘No.’
‘But presumably her employer will know her whereabouts.’
‘Presumably.’
‘You haven’t asked?’
‘Florrie wrote to Alice Channing to say that she would rather not see any of her old friends for a while, and charged her to tell me.’
‘Oh dear. And what about the girl?’
‘Inez?’
‘The one you hit with a bottle.’
‘Ida. I must assume she has found alternative employment.’
‘You haven’t seen her, either?’
‘No. Not since the Sports Day.’
‘Good God, Mattie, you’re like Rapunzel in the tower. What on earth have you been doing with yourself?’
It was difficult to give a precise answer, to define the hiatus that had begun with the serial removal of every normal activity. First had come the cancellation of her weekly column in the Ham & High (‘the Editor regrets that, following the recent events …’) and then – after three weeks of dropped-jam-jar-induced limping, her big toe resembling an illustration of a bletted plum – came the diagnosis of a fracture, with the injunction from the doctor that if she didn’t rest with her bandaged foot on a stool, like some gouty dowager, she would be forever impaired.
As autumn splashed and loured outside, she had sat in the drawing room in a state of ghastly impotence, unable, in her usual manner, to stride away from introspection; stewing in it, in fact, like a dumpling in mutton soup. She had let the Amazons down, she had hitched her wagon to an ersatz star, she had ignored the obvious, she had embraced the unlikely, she had chosen speculation and ignored truth, she had gilded the past and pawned the present. She had rewarded loyalty with blows; she had accepted ammunition from the enemy; she had chosen a missile which might wound, and had flung it, deliberately, into the face of a friend. She had embraced pride and made a sad fool of herself, at the expense of others.
And then, since one could only self-flagellate so many times before numbness set in, she had sat and read: all her favourites, Sterne and Fuller, Boswell and Eliot, the crystal labyrinth of Browne and Dickens’ foggy alleyways, Montaigne and Surtees, and Somerville and Ross. She had finished one book and picked up another. The house had grown dusty and she had eaten bread and cheese for nearly every meal, and apples from the back garden, before the first hard frost had blackened them. And when she could once more manage without a stick, she had begun to walk a little further each day, and walking, as ever, h
ad uncoiled her thoughts, so that she could follow them again – each a guideline rather than a noose.
‘I have, I suppose, been listening to the metaphorical voice of the magistrate.’
Roberta gave a cluck of amusement. ‘Well, that would make a change – you were certainly splendid at ignoring the real ones. Do you remember King’s Thursday? – fourteen of us in the dock, one after another, brought in and then removed for misbehaviour? Genevieve tried to climb over the rails and I think Aileen threw a boot at the constable and I kept shouting, “Shame! Shame!” until they dragged me out again, but you managed the entire catechism, I think – “I believe in Votes for Women on the same terms as men, I believe in … in …”’
‘“ … in the policy of the Women’s Social and Political Union. I believe in the equality of the sexes, Representation for Taxation, the necessity for militant tactics and Freedom Everlasting!”’ How clean, how simple, the aims had been – an arrow, straight and true; one fight, one victory. How muddy, by comparison, the present.
‘So what’s to be done?’ asked Roberta. ‘I presume that part of the reason Florrie was upset was because you implied that her friendship was unnatural, though why on earth you would listen to the insinuations of Jacqueline Fletcher I have no idea, when Florrie’s worth fifty of her. And in any case, aren’t Sapphists allowed friendships, too? Just think of Ethel Smyth and Mrs Pankhurst. Besides – oh!’ she added, startled, as a tall shape loomed at the side window of the Austin.
‘Good evening, ladies,’ said Edward, bowing like a butler. ‘I gather that a conference is in progress, so I have brought refreshments.’ Two glasses of punch steamed briskly on a tray.
‘Oh, you are thoughtful,’ said Roberta, opening the window. ‘Are the children in bed?’
‘No. They never listen to me and, besides, they want to stay up in order to see Mattie.’
‘Tell them we shan’t be long,’ said Roberta.
‘Chess later, Mattie?’
‘Of course. I shall be storming your Sicilian Defence.’
They watched him walk back to the porch, his shadow impossibly long.
‘He’s a dear man,’ said Mattie. There was a liberal measure of brandy in the punch.
‘He is,’ said Roberta, rather sombrely. ‘I know that I’ve been fearfully lucky to have Edward and the children – and of course I have brothers that I love, just as you did, but I still think that there was never a family as close to me and as true as the one I had with my sisters in the cause.’ With her free hand, she reached out and squeezed Mattie’s arm. ‘And all families have their disagreements.’
‘And some are forever estranged.’
‘Oh, Mattie!’
‘I am under no illusion as to the amount of damage that I have wrought. I must try to make amends.’ But she felt ready, now – as if visiting Roberta were a stirrup-cup, rallying her for the journey. ‘Do you remember the lyrics of “March of the Women”?’ she asked. ‘“Life, strife. These two are one.”’
‘“Nought can ye win but by faith and daring,”’ capped Roberta, smartly. ‘Shall we go in?’
Miss F. Lee
c/o Public Health Department
Pancras Road, NW1
November 20th, 1928
Dear Florrie,
After living like an anchorite for much of the last few months, I have now exited my cell, free, I think, of the peculiar obsession that gripped me over the summer. During our last exchange I spoke to you in anger, after a day – after an entire season – ruined by my own folly. I am profoundly sorry. You have been the most loyal and perceptive of friends, and I was a clod not to recognize the wisdom of your words. The past, I have realized, should not be revisited; one is but a spectator there, stamping one’s feet in impotent anguish. Better, always and ever, to raise one’s eyes to the road ahead. I hope you will forgive me, Florrie. As you correctly pointed out, I can be an awful fool.
By way of a handshake, I would like to offer you a parcel of domestic news, though little of it is cheering, and most of it reflects badly on myself.
Having neglected the garden to the extent that I feared that one day soon I would open the back door only to be felled by a poison dart from a tribe of pygmy head-hunters, I have now set to with pruning-hook and hoe, and last week built a splendid bonfire; so splendid, in fact, that Major Lumb threatened to telephone the London Fire Brigade. It occurred to me that learning to transmit smoke signals would have been an excellent activity for the Amazons – we could have had two fires separated by the brow of a hill, and a vaporific conversation; however, this cannot be; a flourishing meadow has been scythed and ploughed, and in its place grow rows of turnips – by which I mean that, due entirely to my actions, the Amazons is no more, while the League appears to have doubled in size, so that one can hear their profoundly dissonant rendition of ‘Salute We the Flag’ from as far away as Parliament Hill. More of this, later.
Besides the garden, you may be astonished to hear that I have – at last – cleared the attic, discovering several items dating back to suffragette days, and even earlier, judging by the patent bustle that I found in a trunk. One might wish that there was a Museum of Obsolescence to which it could be donated, so that future schoolgirls could marvel at the idea of attempting to run and jump with what appears to be a giant tea-strainer buckled to one’s rear end. The saleable items I donated to a bazaar to raise money for the Six Point League and, having been recruited (by Alice Channing) to run a bric-a-brac stall, I am delighted to inform you that I sold every item thereon, including three bundles of stair rods and a Tyrolean walking stick of unsurpassed ugliness.
To further prove that I have not been entirely inert, I have visited an exhibition of Brancusi sculptures (covetable), attended a lecture given by Maud Hepplewhite of the National Spinsters’ Pension Association (overlong) and attempted to make apple jelly using your own recipe. Should you need a strong and pungent adhesive, I have fourteen jars of the stuff.
To return to news of the Empire Youth League: I’m afraid, Florrie, that I have twice glimpsed Ida marching among their ranks; were a vengeful God to choose my punishment, He could scarcely have come up with an improvement. Like yourself, Ida has left the Mousehole, sending me her notice in a letter (incidentally, she writes clearly and well). I’m sure she has no wish to see me, but, equally, I feel that I should apologize to her in person, not to mention handing across the week’s wage that she is still, after all this time, owed. I don’t suppose, Florrie, that you could drop me a line with Ida’s address? I remember you mentioning that she lived with an aunt.
If I don’t hear from you I shall visit the continuation school on the Euston Road and try to find her there. I shall send her your best wishes; your kindness to her has been unfaltering.
In friendship,
Mattie
‘Ida Pearse,’ repeated Mattie. In the room next door to the secretary’s office, a class was chanting French verbs, and the secretary herself had a head cold, her strained wisp of a voice scarcely audible beneath the bellowed declension of être.
‘Oh, you mean the redheaded—’
‘ILL AY ELL AY.’
‘Yes.’
‘She stopped coming. I don’t think we’ve seen her this term.’
‘But why?’
‘Often when our—’
‘JER SWEE TOO AY.’
‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you.’
‘If our pupils change jobs, their new employers often refuse to give them leave to take time off, and we really have no—’
An electric bell shrilled and the secretary sat back with a sigh, indicating with a wave of her handkerchief that, for the time being, further speech would be impossible.
Mattie turned to watch the stream of young people passing the open door, and then stepped to one side as three girls entered.
‘Miss Hopkins, Monsewer Bernard isn’t feeling well,’ said one of them. ‘He says he’s sorry but he’s not going to be able to take the three o’clock cla
ss.’
‘He’s sweating like a horse,’ added one of her companions, with relish.
‘Oh dear, what’s wrong?’
‘He says it’s the grip.’
‘The grip?’
‘Influenza,’ said Mattie. ‘La grippe.’
‘Goodness, I hope not,’ said Miss Hopkins. ‘Perhaps he’s just caught my cold. Oh, Olive,’ she added, as the girls turned to leave. ‘Don’t you know Ida Pearse?’
Olive had a great bush of hair, anchored with a grid of pins. ‘Yes,’ she said, cautiously.
‘This lady is looking for her.’
Olive shifted her gaze, and her eyes widened. ‘Oh!’ she said, and her mouth contracted into a smirk.
‘Miss Simpkin,’ said Mattie, extending a hand. ‘I gather that you recognize me.’
Olive nodded, her hand limp in Mattie’s. ‘I saw you on …’
‘The Heath. The Sports Day. When I admitted to having cheated.’
Olive reddened. ‘Yes.’
‘Then I surmise that you’re in the Empire Youth League, with Ida. I would very much like to speak to her.’
‘I haven’t seen her for a fortnight – or three weeks, maybe. She got ill when we were on parade.’
‘Dropping like flies,’ said Miss Hopkins, blowing her nose.
‘Mrs Cellini had to take her home. In a motor-car, the lucky thing.’
‘In that case, could you tell me where she lives?’
‘Top floor of Alma Buildings in Wilson Road. My cousin lives just downstairs and he says Ida’s aunt’s a right old … not very nice,’ she amended.
‘You mean she’s une vraie vipère?’ asked Mattie. ‘It’s the French equivalent for “a right old cow” – literally, “a true snake”. Though I suspect Monsieur Bernard hasn’t taught you that.’
Mutely, Olive shook her head.
‘Are you fluent, Miss Simpkin?’ asked Miss Hopkins. ‘Only we’re always on the look-out for fresh blood …’
