by Maggie Ford
Even after all this time, she couldn’t ever forget. The last thing she’d want to do would be to hurt him by her selfishness. But nature being what it was she felt sullen, especially when Connie told her the next day that George had given her permission to go.
As things turned out, there was no Hyde Park rally that Sunday. All plans were washed out by the worst thunderstorm in living memory. It raged over London like an Armageddon with several people killed as four inches of rain falling in three hours caused disastrous flooding.
Eveline, never happy with thunderstorms, crouched in a corner as the thunder cracked and roared simultaneously with blinding and continuous flashes of lightning, sheets of rain beating at the window panes threatening to break the glass. She thought of Gran all on her own in her flat but there was no way she could have gone out to keep her company.
After the storm it was obvious that Hyde Park would have been turned into a quagmire by all those feet, similar to the Mud March in 1907 when some thirty thousand women trudged through fog and slush until they’d more resembled mudlarks, their skirts and shoes covered in muck, a laughing stock.
No one wanted a repetition of that humiliation but by the end of the month, anything to do with the suffragette movement was threatening to be eclipsed by events beginning to take place in Europe.
George was one who found his interest pricked by it on Monday as he opened his London & Manchester Daily News during his brief midday break at his desk.
He’d have preferred to go home to eat, as Bert Adams did, working just around the corner to his. It would be nice to see a bit of Connie at midday to break up his working hours, but it took a good ten minutes by bus to get home from the City and another ten minutes getting back, and that only if his bus arrived on time or wasn’t too crowded to get on. Returning late would be frowned on; banks were very hot on punctuality and all in all it wasn’t worth the anxiety. His father had always said, when he’d first been taken on, ‘If you’re punctual, no one notices. If you’re not, everyone notices. Avoid being noticed for the wrong reasons, lad.’
Settling down to the cheese and pickle sandwich Connie had made for him this morning to be followed by an apple and a cup of tea in the three-quarters of an hour allowed for lunch, he acknowledged a slightly older colleague at the next desk, Mr Bertram – all employees were addressed by their title – who said something about trouble in Europe and opened his own paper.
‘Hmm,’ he murmured absently across the desks at the headlines: ASSASSINATION OF AUSTRIAN HEIR TO THRONE.
His eyes wandering to the sub-headings, he read aloud. ‘“Consort also shot dead. Two attempts with revolver after bomb fails. Warning of a plot disregarded by Archduke Franz Ferdinand.”’ Always something, isn’t there!’ he laughed, but George was already reading for himself
Further down was the account of the assassin, a nineteen-year-old student named as Gavrilo Princip, darting out from the crowd as the Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his Duchess drove through the streets of Sarajevo in Bosnia. It was reported that on their way to the town hall a bomb was thrown but the Archduke had picked it up and thrown it into the road where it had exploded, injuring the occupant of a following car.
He had complained to the Burgermeister that he hadn’t come to Sarajevo to have a bomb thrown at him. But on his return from the town hall a shot hit him in the neck, a second shot piercing his wife’s stomach as she threw herself across him while trying to protect him, killing her instantly. The Archduke died ten minutes later.
George sighed and turned the page. There always seemed to be some conflict or other going on in that far-flung part of Europe. But page two was unrelenting, reporting that Serbia was said to have been at fault in not providing soldiers to guard the royal route and that if the country were found to be implicated in a plot, Austria could be expected to take strong action against her.
At that point Mr Bertram came over to ask if he fancied a beer in the pub next door before starting work again. It sounded tempting and, nodding agreement, George neatly folded his newspaper, slipped it into a lower drawer, and leaving his tea untouched followed Bertram – titles were dropped once outside – from the bank into the bright sunshine, plucking his bowler hat off the hatstand as he went.
Chapter Twenty-two
George felt worried and exhausted. It had been a day such as he had never known or wanted to know ever again. All the time his job had felt only a hair’s breath from being taken from him as he began to flag. Had it gone on much longer he’d have walked out in frustration and really would have been given his notice. The bank manager himself had looked near to breaking point and one wrong word would have sent the unfortunate packing.
What with events in Europe on a knife’s edge, the bank rate had suddenly risen to ten per cent. The Stock Exchange closed its doors and long lines of people queued outside the Bank of England, all seeking desperately to exchange bank notes for gold. With dire rumours flying around, more or less every bank had been in uproar, including his, small though it was.
As soon as he walked in through his front door he could see Connie had noticed how weary he looked. ‘I should have guessed something like this would happen,’ he said after he’d told her of the day he’d had.
She’d put his Saturday tea in front of him as he came to the table but he could only toy with it. ‘I should have guessed,’ he repeated. ‘But like the rest of us blessed British public, I’ve watched Europe dissolving into anarchy this past month, us thinking we were untouchable, spectators. Yet we have been touched by it all. What if it gets worse and my job goes?’
Connie ceased nibbling on a Peek Frean biscuit she’d chosen to eat after her meal to regard him anxiously. ‘It won’t do that.’
‘It could,’ he replied as she got up to remove his cold, untouched lamb cutlet. ‘What happens in the world will always rebound on us, banks, business, everything. I should have known good things never last.’
He should have seen it coming. He read the newspapers, watched it all building up. He ought to have known it wouldn’t go away as one country after another began baring its teeth at its neighbour: the Vienna government demanding Serbia allow Austrian officials to investigate the plot to kill the Austrian heir to the throne; Serbia mobilising its army in retaliation; the Kaiser pledging support of Austria; Vienna declaring war on Serbia, Austria invading; the Czar mobilising; the Kaiser warning that if he did not cease, Germany would mobilise; his warning ignored, asking France for assurance of its intentions seeing that the French president had been on a recent state visit to Russia, then today’s news that Germany had declared war on both Russia and France. All this had been happening with bewildering speed while the British Government had been preoccupied with the Irish question, merely offering to mediate in the Austrian crisis which the Kaiser took as British insolence.
Everyone here had thought that it would all blow over. But with the Kaiser declaring war on his cousin, the Czar, it didn’t bode well for finance.
Connie was obviously searching her soul to cheer him. ‘It’s Sunday tomorrow,’ she said, rather inadequately he thought. ‘Try to make the most of it and rest and not worry, darling.’ She came and dropped a kiss on his furrowed brow. ‘I’m sure things at work will have calmed down by Monday.’
She was right. Everything had calmed; his branch had got back to normal, thank God. Apart from noting that the government had informed Germany that Britain would stand by its 1839 treaty guaranteeing Belgian neutrality and would protect French coasts, George breathed a sigh of relief that all seemed well and settled himself down to his normal work routine.
It was the third of August and a fine and sunny day.
While people in Britain slept, thousands of German troops had crossed the Belgian border in the early hours of Tuesday morning as a back door into France, defying the Treaty of London and despite the King of Belgium’s refusal.
George awoke at seven thirty, got ready for work, and made his way into Bethnal Green station to fin
d it seething with the news of Britain having declared war on Germany. Buying a paper, he reached his bank through cheering crowds, men waving hats in the air, some off to gather at Downing Street, others making for recruiting offices.
With the excitement transferring itself to him, George found the normally calm atmosphere of his bank gripped by as much euphoria as that outside, despite staff trying to do their best to contain themselves. It was hopeless to think of work with people rushing into the bank and out again, telling of crowds gathering outside Buckingham Palace and Downing Street. In the end employees and management alike gave up and George went home looking for calm and reason. What he found was Connie wringing her hands and saying she didn’t want him to go to war and fight and maybe be killed.
‘Don’t worry, darling,’ he said, trying not to chuckle. ‘I’m not going anywhere. Besides it’ll all be over by Christmas. That’s what’s being said.’
On Monday, six days after war being declared, Albert came home all agitated to say that more than half his workmates had left to join up.
‘A dozen of ’em went off this morning ter enlist.’ His good intentions to speak well had long faded. ‘The factory’s ’alf empty and Mr Smart says the place can’t keep going with only a third of us there. There’s only older blokes left, an’ me an’ another bloke, Stan Briggs.’
‘He’ll probably take others on,’ Eveline suggested, but he shrugged.
‘Where from? Everyone’s joining up. Yer can’t move in them recruiting offices. I’ve seen ’em. Stan’s talking about going too.’
‘Well, good luck to him,’ Eveline remarked, but Albert was excited.
‘I feel out of it, the only young one left there. I can’t ’ave ’im thinking I’ve got cold feet. Anyway, it’ll be over in a month once we’ve shown Germany it can’t just walk into a neutral country and get away with it.’
Knowing what he was getting at brought cold fear. The assassination of that Austrian archduke had happened so far from home as to hardly concern her. Despite Albert reading out snippets from the paper about the bothers in Europe, it had still seemed too far away as she went about her chores in her new flat. Now, having him talk excitedly of joining up brought it all home.
The flat still felt new to her despite having been in it for over a year. She took pleasure in keeping it as spick and span as Connie kept hers. She had enough housekeeping now and had even opened a post office savings account, despite the fact that she was still paying off the money she owed to Gran, and she would buy bits and pieces for the home, each new little purchase a joy.
These last few days she’d felt like one suddenly set free as suffragette agitation ceased abruptly on Britain declaring war. The NUWSS promptly suspended all political activity and had begun setting up Red Cross centres and canteens to help Belgium refugees, with advice centres for those whose husbands had volunteered to fight. Their policy had always been a pacifist one whereas the WSPU had always been militant. But even they had laid aside the sword, turning their attention to East London privation caused by men rushing to join up, leaving wives and families to carry on as best they could without a man’s support.
They too had begun setting up kitchens to feed the hungry. The East London Federation of Suffragettes, now called the Workers’ Federation, had taken over the disused Gunmakers’ Arms pub as a clinic and a day nursery for the children of women now forced to go out to work to keep their families.
It made Eveline think: if Albert were to enlist, his wages would stop, and he too would be on only a serviceman’s pay, she on a pitiful allowance. She felt faintly angry. Let single men enlist but surely his family should come first.
She thought too about Connie. What if George was having the same idea as Albert? That Monday when Albert had gone back to work after his midday dinner she went across to her. She found her excited.
‘Have you seen this morning’s paper? It says the government is releasing the remaining eleven women left in prison. And they’re not going to pursue any others expecting to be rearrested under that beastly Cat and Mouse Act of theirs. Eveline, we’ve won! We’ve triumphed!’ She ushered her into her living room. ‘Pity it had to take Britain going to war for us to achieve our goal. It would have been lovely if we could have done it all on our own.’
She seemed oblivious to the chance of George enlisting and Eveline decided to say nothing about Albert, glad to go home and escape Connie’s exuberance. Albert came in soon afterwards, surprising her, his expression growing cautious when she asked why he was back home so early.
‘I’ve been thinking about this recruiting business all morning,’ he said, avoiding her searching eyes. ‘In the end I decided I couldn’t be left out. I left work early and went with Stan to our local recruiting station to—’
He broke off as she gasped, her worst fears realised. The next moment he’d cut through her horrified protests. ‘I had to, Ev. I couldn’t be the only one not to put me name down. I couldn’t ’ave looked the others in the eye.’
She began to stutter another protest, but was again interrupted.
‘Look, it’s only going ter last a few months, maybe just a few weeks once we’ve shown Germany we won’t put up with ’em cocking a snook at us, walking in ter someone else’s country what we swore to protect.’
‘But you’re not a soldier,’ Eveline cried, finally getting a word in. ‘Let the regulars do the fighting if there is any. It’s their job, not yours. Albert, didn’t you stop to think what you were doing, leaving us here on our own?’
Her heart was beginning to thump, making her feel sick.
‘You’ll be orright,’ he soothed. ‘It’ll only be for a little while. I’ll be ’ome again before yer know it.’
‘But what about your job?’ She wanted to tell him that even in a small skirmish he could be the one to be killed, but all she could think to say was what about his job. It was like something being acted out in a play.
‘They promise to keep our jobs open.’ He was even smiling. What did he have to smile about? She hated his obvious excitement.
‘Even they know it ain’t goin’ ter last long. But I’ve got ter go with the others, don’t yer see? I know a soldier’s pay ain’t much but we’ve got savings now and I’ll be ’ome again before yer know it, and we’ll soon save up again.’
‘But we still owe Gran.’ How could she think of Gran and paying her back when Albert was going away, perhaps walking into danger?
‘She did say she wasn’t anxious ter ’ave it back that quick,’ he said evenly, relaxing before this domestic concern. ‘I’m sure she’ll stretch a point for a few months. When I’m back, we can pick up where we left off with my firm saying they’ll keep me job open for me, fer everyone what’s volunteering, and they’re good sort, is Smarts. They’ll be taking on older blokes, temporary like. Don’t worry, Ev, it’ll be over in no time. I won’t be in any danger.’
He was like a little boy with the promise of an adventurous holiday from school and all the while Eveline’s insides were still tight with the fear of what could happen to him, but what could she say? She who’d fought for a cause all these years, attending her branch meetings, walking the streets with a sandwich board, selling copies of The Suffragette on street corners, often with rude remarks from male passers-by, going on rallies and marches and protests and putting herself in danger, expecting him to understand, to sacrifice normal family life for her cause, how could she protest now it was his turn to fight against injustice?
She tried to force her heart to stop its sickening thumping. ‘I suppose I can’t hold you back with everyone else joining up.’
She thought of George Towers. He was the steady sort, worked in a bank, not the type to get all excited and do something silly just on a whim. Connie was lucky to have someone like George. Yet wouldn’t every man feel it his duty to fight for his country with this crisis hanging over their heads?
Moments later she was scolding herself for condemning Albert. She should feel proud that he w
as doing something heroic. Suddenly she felt strong, not happy, but strong. Would Connie feel as strong if George went? Connie who relied on him for everything, who these days seemed to have everything, comparatively speaking? If he did go … She almost felt sorry for her.
‘I’ve been to volunteer,’ Bertram Miller whispered across from his desk on the Tuesday. ‘First thing this morning before work. Thought I’d never get away in time to get here, so many chaps there, crowds of ’em!’
George looked up from the bank receipts he was counting. ‘Have you told Mr Grossman?’
‘Not yet,’ came the whispered reply.
Mr Arnold Grossman was the bank manager, a man looking earnestly for promotion to manager of a much larger branch and making sure his staff helped by behaving soberly and sensibly at all times and seeing that no mistakes occurred or that any slightest error was put right before it reached the ears of Head Office.
‘I’m plucking up courage to tell him,’ Bertram went on, still in a whisper, which made George smile – a man willing to fight for his country yet scared out of his wits by his boss.
At the same time he felt a sudden sense of loneliness. He and Bertram Miller had become good colleagues over the years, sharing a beer or two in a nearby pub and something stronger prior to bank holidays. The rest of the staff, including the assistant manager, consisted of four older men, an office boy, a young lady on the switchboard and several in the typing room. It didn’t bear thinking about being the only young man to be left here.
At lunchtime, instead of eating his sandwich, he hurried down to a hastily set-up recruiting place he remembered passing the day before and added his name to a lengthy list, returning to bide his time before conveying his actions to his manager.
When he told Bertram what he’d done, the man leaped up, suddenly a soldier and afraid of no one, to shake his hand, congratulating him and nodding at Grossman who’d poked his face around his open office door at this interruption to the calm of his branch. Obviously Bertram Miller had told him of his deed. And now another of his staff was off. In a way George felt utter relief at not having had to break the news himself.
