Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  ‘I’m not interested in that. Regulations. It stinks the same, anyhow — even a little bit. Probably you can’t smell it, but it does.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. I’m sorry.’ She dragged herself to her feet, fumbled under the wooden seat, and lugged out the bucket. There was a small amount of urine in the bottom. As she walked past the wardress in the doorway, she looked the woman in the face, and was gratified when the narrow disapproving eyes met hers. It was the first time any of the prison staff had looked at her, or talked to her directly, since she had come.

  ‘Thank you. Miss Harkness, isn’t it?’

  ‘Down the corridor on the right. And no talking to other prisoners.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  For a moment Sarah felt almost happy. The freedom of the long corridor — nearly twenty, thirty paces without stopping or turning — that was a walk to be enjoyed! She went along it like a little girl swinging her bucket on the beach. There were half a dozen doors on either side of the corridor. She wondered if there were any other suffragettes in there. They must be in here somewhere — possibly even Mrs Pankhurst herself. But how could she find out?

  She began to sing:

  ‘And did those feet in ancient time

  Walk upon England’s pastures green . . .’

  ‘That’s enough of that!’ The wardress behind her shouted, but Sarah took no notice. What can she do now, anyway, she thought. Anyhow I like singing. If only my voice was not so cracked and feeble!

  ‘I shall not cease from mental fight

  Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand . . .’

  She stopped. Her throat hurt abominably, and the wardress’s hand was on her shoulder. But as she stopped, another voice took up the refrain. A squeaky, defiant whisper from behind the doors of — the last cell on the right, wasn’t it?

  ‘Until Jerusalem is builded here

  In England’s green and pleasant land.’

  At last! As she poured her bucket down the sluice and rinsed it, Sarah thought: I’m not alone, of course I’m not! There are other suffragettes here, probably dozens of them. It’s part of our duty to keep in touch — that’s how we’ll survive!

  And so, on her way back down the corridor, she sang again, and tried to stop outside the door of the cell which the singing had come from. But the wardress was ready, and grabbed her arm. All Sarah could do was shout out ‘Votes for Women!’ once before she was dragged away.

  The wardress pushed her back into her own cell, and stood in the doorway for a moment, glaring.

  ‘You only make it worse for yourselves, you know. You break the rules, you don’t behave like proper ladies, you lose people’s sympathy. I’d like the vote with the rest of you, course I would — but you’ll never get it like that!’

  Amazed at the woman’s admission, Sarah gazed at her for a second, open-mouthed. Then the great door slammed in her face. She lay back on the hard wooden bed, defiantly, smiling to herself for the first time that day.

  ‘Oh yes we will, Miss Harkness,’ she said. ‘Oh yes, my dear, we will!’

  Deborah had not been in the House of Commons before. She was curious, faintly amused at the pomp of it all. So this is what the men want to keep us out of, she thought. Where they deployed ranks of policemen to prevent Mrs Pankhurst presenting a petition to the Prime Minister. Yet if I go in dutifully on the arm of my brother, no one will stop us at all.

  Jonathan escorted her past the Master-at-Arms, who bowed with some deference but also with a touch, she thought, of suspicion — did he think she had a bomb in her bag? — and took her to the Ladies Gallery. He found her a seat in the front row.

  ‘There was a metal grille here until recently,’ he said. ‘But some of Sarah’s friends chained themselves to it and the police had to take it away, with the ladies still attached.’ He laughed. ‘It hasn’t been replaced. Don’t throw anything down on our heads, now, will you?’

  Deborah smiled nervously and leaned forward to watch. The whole atmosphere of the place intimidated her. She could not imagine herself, or any woman, doing anything of the kind.

  ‘Don’t worry, Jonathan, I’m on my best behaviour.’

  She found the story of the grille amusing. Why on earth had it been there in the first place? Had the men thought their female visitors were best kept locked up, behind bars, like concubines in some Middle Eastern seraglio?

  Already about half the seats on the green benches below were taken. The members were lolling or chatting quietly to each other, only a few listening to the Minister who was answering questions at the Despatch Box. How casually they take it all, Deborah thought. It’s like peeping down into a gentleman’s club.

  She noticed the gaps in the rail where the metal grille had been removed, and glanced round at the half dozen or so ladies who were in the gallery with her. One or two looked middle-aged and formidable, several others young and quite strikingly fashionable, but none looked at all violent. Just ordinary women like herself. Even without a grille, surely no woman in her right mind would dare to attack such a large gathering of men?

  No woman in her right mind.

  Perhaps it was true that Sarah and her friends were a little mad. Deborah did not like the thought, and pushed it away.

  Jonathan had left her and, a moment later, she saw him enter the chamber below. It’s a pity about the plaster on his cheek, she thought. Otherwise he looks truly handsome. As distinguished as any man there.

  There was a murmur as he came in — mixed sympathy and jeering, as far as she could make out. But the moment passed quickly. The chamber was filling up. As Jonathan took his seat, she realised that the stolid, grey-haired man strolling in behind him must be Mr Asquith, the Prime Minister. Opposite him, picking his teeth nonchalantly as he waited, was Mr Bonar Law, the leader of the Conservative Opposition.

  It is real, then, she thought, it is not just a theatre. They really do meet each other and argue here.

  She had arrived just before Prime Minister’s Questions, and for a quarter of an hour she watched one MP after another rise and put his question to Mr Asquith. Frequently there were shouts of anger or dismay from the Conservative side, while Asquith replied with heavy, imperturbable dignity. Throughout all this Jonathan sat quietly, very pale and still, on the front bench just below the gangway.

  Then suddenly, his name was called.

  ‘Statement by Mr Jonathan Becket!’

  As Jonathan stood up, Deborah thought: I have never seen him so pale before. He looks nervous, defiant, like Daniel in the den of lions. She felt afraid and wanted to hold his hand and give him support.

  It was clear, too, that what Jonathan had to say was of interest to most members of the House. Very few had left their seats, and the Prime Minister and Bonar Law were still there. Deborah noticed a rustle of dresses around her, too, and two women moved from the back of the gallery to the front bench, beside her.

  ‘Mr Speaker, sir, I crave the indulgence of this House for the chance to address you on a certain regrettable incident which took place in the National Gallery a few days ago.’ Jonathan paused, his thumbs hooked into the fob pockets of his waistcoat. Deborah could not be sure at this distance, but she thought one of his fingers was shaking. No one was talking in the House — all attention was focused on him.

  ‘As most members will know by now, my wife entered that building with a knife concealed in her muff, and deliberately slashed the painting known as the Rokeby Venus, leaving a number of gashes in the centre of it. I have been informed, to my great relief, that the damage, though serious, is not beyond repair. My wife has since appeared in court, and been sentenced to six months’ imprisonment in the Third Division.’

  A murmur of sympathy met this announcement. Encouraged, Jonathan threw back his head and continued in a slightly louder voice.

  ‘My wife has for some time been a member of the Women’s Social and Political Union, and she undertook this action for two reasons. Firstly, to demand votes for women; and secondly,
to put pressure on the government to release the WSPU’s leader, Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst, from prison.’

  A considerably louder murmur met this statement. One or two shouts of approval, but many more jeers — and, to Deborah’s annoyance but not surprise, some laughter. She thought — but could scarcely believe it — that someone below her had said: ‘Hang Mrs Pankhurst on the wall, to replace the painting!’ And the reply: ‘That’d scare the art critics away!’

  The women beside Deborah stirred indignantly, and Deborah glanced at them for the first time. A middle-aged matron and her daughter, both well-dressed, obviously prosperous. And another, rather smaller woman, with a yellow parasol.

  Through the hubbub Jonathan was saying: ‘I want to make it clear to this House that I myself was in no way connected with my wife’s action. I had no knowledge of it beforehand; I do not approve of it; and I have already offered my sincerest apologies to the curators of the Gallery.’

  Someone shouted: ‘What about the painting?’

  ‘I have offered to pay for repairs to the painting also, and the curator will be sending me the bill.’

  Sarah may have ruined him then, Deborah thought. The cost of repairing that painting may be enormous. And he has disowned her here, in public. What a terrible thing for a man to have to do!

  Jonathan had not finished his speech. He stood quite still, waiting for the noise to die down. Then he said: ‘Mr Speaker, Honourable Members will also know that in the past I have spoken in support of votes for women. I have even voted for it — as have many other members on both sides of this chamber.’

  There were cries of approval at this, and also derision. Deborah noticed Asquith, the Prime Minister, staring stolidly straight ahead, more like a marble statue than a man. At least he was not smiling. But then, Jonathan is a Liberal, one of his own supporters. He must be furious about that.

  Jonathan was having to shout now to make himself heard. Although he was facing the Speaker, Deborah was pleased to see that some of his remarks were directed towards the Prime Minister, a few feet away on the front bench.

  Sarah should be here to see this, she thought. Will he dare to defy them all, on her behalf? Speak up for the vote again, as she would like? That would be a fine thing to see.

  ‘But I have to say to the House that although I understand the frustration which women feel when their demands are not immediately satisfied . . .’

  At this point Jonathan had to stop, because the noise was too great. Someone, it seemed, had made a joke about Jonathan satisfying women, which had a number of members rolling in their seats with laughter. Others waved their order papers at them, either in anger or delight — it was hard to tell which.

  Deborah thought: Do they behave like this all the time? They are like schoolboys. Drunks in a music-hall, baiting the singer.

  The Speaker rose: ‘Order! Order, I say. The Honourable Member is making a serious statement to the House. It is not a matter for levity.’

  Jonathan resumed, red-faced, but grim, determined. ‘ . . I say to the House that my ideas have changed. I would no longer vote for female suffrage if a Bill was introduced again. In common with many members of this House, I feel that these dreadful acts of violence and damage to property — including the destructive and misguided action which my wife performed last week — have irrevocably damaged their cause. I would therefore like to offer my support to my honourable friend the Prime Minister in his resolute resistance to these acts of female terrorism!’

  There was a stunned silence, during which Jonathan hitched up his trousers and sat down.

  Then the House erupted. Members on both sides of the chamber stood up, shouted, and waved their order papers at each other. Some, it was clear, were cheering Jonathan; others seemed outraged. In the midst of it, Deborah noticed, the Prime Minister, Asquith, met Jonathan’s eye and inclined his head to him, with a calm smile.

  Deborah felt sick. How could he do such a thing? She knew, from his letters, that he had grown increasingly suspicious of female suffrage because he feared it would bring the Conservatives to power, and that he had been badly hurt by Sarah’s militant actions, but how could any man openly denounce his wife like this in the House of Commons? And this is the man I thought was charming, kind, understanding! What’s the matter with him?

  The smaller of the two middle-aged ladies beside Deborah seemed to feel the same. She had got to her feet and was shouting, furiously waving her yellow parasol at the men in the chamber below.

  ‘Traitor!’ she yelled. ‘Judas! How dare you betray your wife like that?’

  Hurriedly, two uniformed attendants ran down the steps towards her, seized her by the arms, and dragged her, protesting, away. Deborah and the woman with the young daughter watched, embarrassed.

  As the hubbub declined, a number of MPs immediately rose to their feet, to catch the Speaker’s eye. But the Speaker ignored them, calling out instead: ‘The Home Secretary!’

  So that was what Mr Reginald McKenna looked like, Deborah thought. The man who had introduced the dreadful Cat and Mouse Act, under which Mrs Pankhurst had been arrested six times for the same offence, of simply supporting protests for women’s votes. She hadn’t even broken a window herself. McKenna looked civilised, urbane enough. Standing relaxed beside Asquith at the Despatch Box, he looked pleased, as though Jonathan’s statement had amused him. But Deborah was delighted to see that his very appearance seemed to excite renewed fury amongst some members of the House, who were still on their feet shouting and waving their fists.

  He waited until the tumult died down and then spoke briefly and clearly. ‘The Honourable gentleman has my deepest sympathy, and I thank him for his explanation, which I am sure must have caused him considerable pain and embarrassment. I am also most grateful for his unexpected and wholehearted statement in support of the policy of His Majesty’s Government. With regard to this appalling act of vandalism . . .’

  Again the noise was rising. Don’t they ever stop this awful row? Deborah wondered. There seemed to be a number of members, on the opposite side of the chamber, to whom the very sight of Mr McKenna was an insult. Deborah wanted to weep. What chance did any woman have — even an impulsive mad-woman like her sister — when the country was in the hands of men like this?

  ‘. . . furthermore, I can reassure the honourable gentleman that, on the question of giving women the vote, His Majesty’s Government have not the slightest intention of giving way to threats of terrorism and vandalism of any kind. We shall consider the matter dispassionately on its merits alone, and I feel bound to say to him that actions such as his wife has committed make us even less likely to grant votes to women than before. If women want votes, they should show they are mature enough to deserve them!’

  He sat down to a roar of mixed approval and anger, and again, a number of MPs rose to catch the Speaker’s eye. But the speaker did not respond. Instead, he moved immediately ahead to other business, and to Deborah’s surprise the subject was dropped.

  Deborah turned to the only other woman who remained in the gallery with her daughter. She was a large, comfortable, motherly-looking woman, but Deborah thought she detected a slightly cynical, mischievous look in her eye.

  ‘That was a dreadful performance, wasn’t it, dear?’ the woman said.

  Ashamed for Jonathan’s sake, Deborah muttered: ‘Yes. I understand the militant suffragettes better now. Asquith’s the main cause of it all, isn’t he?’

  ‘Him and half the others in the Cabinet, I’ve heard. Need their bottoms smacked, in my opinion. They’re all terrified because their nannies knew best when they were babies. They think we’d make a better job of running the country than they did, if we got the chance. I think they’re right, too!’

  ‘Women Members of Parliament, you mean?’ Deborah was generally in favour of the women’s vote, but she was surprised to realise she had not thought much about this, the logical consequence.

  The woman smiled. ‘Why not? Don’t you think you and I cou
ld make a better job of it than all those schoolboys down there? Even my Belinda here could. Oh dear, me. Talk of the devil.’

  The woman’s gaze travelled past her, in surprise and distaste. Jonathan had come into the gallery. He sat down beside Deborah.

  ‘Well, that’s done,’ he said. ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I’d rather not say,’ Deborah said coldly. She avoided his eyes.

  ‘Oh come now, you don’t think I’ve let Sarah down, do you? That was the best thing I could possibly have done to get her released.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Now I’m in McKenna’s good books, he’s far more likely to listen favourably to any petition I put to him. It was pretty distasteful, I agree, but that’s politics. Now you and I have got another call to make. Come, my dear.’

  Deborah got to her feet automatically, and let him take her arm. She was horribly conscious of the eyes of the motherly woman burning into her back as they left the gallery. She felt ashamed. ‘Where are we going?’

  Jonathan smiled at her; that old, charming smile, which used to warm her so much.

  ‘To see a friend of mine, a doctor who works in the prison. Chap called Martin Armstrong.’

  12

  ‘I’M SORRY, Jonathan. Even I couldn’t do that.’

  ‘But surely you have influence?’

  ‘Of course. A great deal.’ Deborah thought she saw the man, Dr Armstrong, swell with self-importance as he spoke. He was already a very large man, with a round, fleshy, clean-shaven face. He had smiled at her briefly when she came in and then ignored her, addressing all his remarks to Jonathan, in the way that men often did. He sat behind his desk with big heavy hands clasped complacently over the expensive cloth of his waistcoat, wheezing slightly as though he were short of breath. She could tell Jonathan was getting angry, and wondered a little at the faith he had seemed to have in this man. On their way to this dreadful place he had spoken confidently of Dr Armstrong as the key that would unlock all doors. But it seemed it was one thing to get into the office of the Assistant Medical Officer at Holloway prison, and quite another to progress further and visit a prisoner in the cells.