Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  Deborah shook her head, puzzled. ‘How awful! But — what has this to do with Dr Armstrong?’

  ‘Nothing, directly. But this was not the first time this woman had been convicted and she was sent to prison for some time. Her man was imprisoned too. And the problem was that the pair had three children — three girls. The eldest was not yet twelve, and so, of course, when the parents were imprisoned the children were unable to care for themselves. This is where Dr Armstrong came into the picture.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, he is a doctor at Holloway and he is also on the board of a charitable institution for the children of prisoners. So apparently, when the mother arrived in Holloway, he arranged for her three daughters to be taken there.’

  ‘So — what is wrong with that?’

  ‘Nothing, of course — but wait. Remember, the mother was, sent to prison for four years, and we did not hear of this story until she was released a few days ago. She went to collect her children — and it was because of the state she found them in that the poor woman came to us.’

  ‘Why? Were they badly fed or clothed? They could not expect, all that much, after all, I suppose, from a charitable children’s home. I have cared for the poor myself, Mrs Watson. I have seen these places.’

  ‘I see.’ Mrs Watson looked at her with increased respect. ‘Well, then, you will understand that these children had not been used to much, Mrs Cavendish. They were children of the streets, after all, and their mother was a criminal. But, in fact, they were well clothed and fed; that was not the problem. The problem was that while they were living in the institution they had been going out in the evenings to work, to earn that food and clothing. And the work they did . . .’ Mrs Watson sighed, and looked down at her hands a moment, before saying: ‘They had been earning their living with their bodies, you see. They went to a house where they were visited by men, most evenings, and these little girls had been taught to — well, you can imagine, I suppose. It seems that there are men — quite a number of men — who will pay a lot of money to deflower and — abuse young girls in this way. By the time the mother found them her daughters were quite used to this; they were proud of it, even, because of the money they earned. The eldest was fifteen by this time, the youngest — eleven.’

  Mrs Watson paused, and again Deborah was aware of the silence in the room. Occasional sounds — the ticking of the mantelpiece clock, the clop of a horse’s hooves outside — oppressed her. And there was something else: a singing in her ears, the pounding of her own blood in a pulse at her neck. She knew these things happened, of course — so why was she blushing? I am like these girls, she thought. They could have been me!

  ‘And you say that . . . Dr Armstrong arranged this?’

  ‘It is possible. We are not quite sure. He is a careful man, he covers his tracks well. But since we heard this story some of our ladies have investigated this charitable institution and it is clear that such stories are not uncommon. He is the doctor there and has treated some of the girls for venereal disease. They wrote a report for our files, which I have just read. It is hard to imagine he does not know exactly what goes on.’

  ‘My God!’ And Jonathan knows this man — he introduced me to him, he calls him his friend. He has asked him to talk to Sarah! ‘Have the police been told?’

  ‘Not yet, no. It is a difficult matter, you see. The complainant, the girl’s mother, is a convicted thief, and the girls themselves want nothing to do with her. They seem to like their work, that is the worst of it. They did not want to go home with her. They said they could earn more money by themselves. That is the cunning of it, you see — many of the girls in this place are the daughters of convicted women who have very loose morals anyway, so the parents are usually pleased because of the money the children bring in. This is the first time any parent has dared to object.’

  ‘But this is a scandal! It’s monstrous!’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Mrs Watson looked at Deborah quite simply across the table. She did not look pleased or triumphant, nor did she apologise for the appalling story she had told. Her lined, resolute face looked quite calm, composed. Thin lips pressed closely together, grey hair, brown quiet bespectacled eyes watching curiously for Deborah’s reaction. Her expression said: this is the truth, lady, this is what life is like. How are you going to face it?

  ‘But why are you telling me? I mean — did Sarah know this?’ Deborah suddenly thought of the knife again. If Sarah had known about something like this, that knife would begin to make sense. If I myself had a knife, Deborah thought, and that Dr Armstrong were here now . . . but I wouldn’t know what to do, I wouldn’t have the strength or courage. Anyway they weren’t my children. If they had been . . .

  ‘Well, I am not sure.’ Mrs Watson looked suddenly embarrassed, hesitant. ‘Certainly, she knew nothing of the story I have just told you. She couldn’t have. We only learnt about it after she was arrested. But nonetheless, on the last day I saw her — Monday — she did ask me about this suffragette investigation. She must have heard something about it, I suppose, so I told her what I knew. It was all in fairly general terms because I hadn’t read the files properly then. But now I think of it, she went very quiet. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. But since then I have consulted the files more closely, and the name of this Dr Armstrong you mentioned was in there. Under suspicion, no more.’

  Thoughts were crowding into Deborah’s head, too quickly for her to make sense of them all. She said: ‘And two days later she took that meat-knife and slashed the picture?’

  ‘Yes, she did. But that was a political act, it had nothing to do with . . .’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Silence. Why does this woman look so cool, as though she knows everything and feels nothing, Deborah wondered. Why did she tell me this story, anyway? Oh God, Jonathan. What did he know?

  The blood singing in her ears was worse now. To calm herself, Deborah got up and walked across the room, twisting a little piece of her skirt unconsciously between her fingers. She felt her horror and disgust turn to anger suddenly – it was a blessed relief. She turned and almost shouted at Mrs Watson.

  ‘You were supposed to be looking after my sister, weren’t you, Mrs Watson? As a sort of paid nurse? And you knew she was still weak from her last stay in prison. But you told her this horrible story about children being prostituted by this monster Armstrong who is a friend of her husband’s . . .’

  ‘I didn’t say that! Please, Mrs Cavendish, credit me with some sense!’

  ‘What did you say, then?’

  ‘I only answered her questions in the most general terms because she asked me, that’s all. I didn’t even know the name Armstrong at the time and I certainly had no idea that he was a friend of her husband. Of course, if I had known that, I would have been much more careful about what I told Sarah, given her state of health and knowing that she is, well . . .’

  ‘She is what?’

  ‘An impulsive, strong-minded woman, given to dramatic, forceful action on behalf of the movement.’

  ‘Exactly!’

  The two women stared at each other. The anger was still trembling in Deborah and she had an ominous feeling that there was more to this, more than Mrs Watson had already told her. Why are men so foul, she thought. And why is this woman so calm? There are more threads to this story than I can follow yet. Where does Jonathan fit in?

  ‘You don’t think my brother-in-law knew anything of this? You’re not saying that, are you? It would be terrible!’

  ‘No.’ Still that infuriating calm. And something else – almost pity in the older woman’s expression. ‘I have no reason to think that. Mrs Cavendish, I am sorry if I have shocked you.’

  ‘Then why did you tell me this?’

  ‘Why? Because of your brother-in-law’s faith in Dr Armstrong, Mrs Cavendish. He said, if you remember, that Dr Armstrong had spoken to your sister and persuaded her to abandon her hunger-strike. And you
implied that your brother-in-law believed this because he trusted Dr Armstrong. I had to make it clear to you why I do not believe it. Your brother-in-law has nothing to do with this story, as far as we know.’

  As far as we know, Deborah thought bleakly. But it’s not impossible, either. I could believe anything after the way he behaved the other night. She felt herself trembling, and clutched the back of a chair for support. Mrs Watson watched her, choosing her words carefully.

  ‘As I said, I had no idea before I came into this room that Mr Becket even knew Dr Armstrong. But when you told me he did, I felt it was my duty to make it clear that this friend of your brother-in-law’s is not a trustworthy character. Especially since he claims to have persuaded Sarah to give up her hunger-strike. Added to which we both agree that it seems strange that Sarah should give up her hunger-strike for no apparent reason. That’s all. I don’t know why she’s given it up, if she has. I’m just saying that I don’t understand it and I’m not sure I believe it. And, since she’s your sister, I believe you should know.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But . . .’ Once, when she was young and on holiday in Ulster, Deborah had gone for a swim in what she had thought was a calm mill-pond, only to go too near the leat and be caught in the swirl and rush of conflicting currents which swung her this way and that and threatened to suck her under and drown her. The same sense of shock and panic seethed her now. Charles had thrown her a rope to rescue her then, it was the first year she had met him. But this time . . .

  ‘Why should Dr Armstrong lie to Jonathan? Even if he is a scoundrel as you say he has no reason to do that. This business of the poor abused girls has nothing directly to do with my brother-in-law or Sarah, has it?’

  ‘Not so far as we know, no. But I wish now that I had not told Sarah about it. I assure you I would never have done so if had thought there had been any connection with anyone she knew.’

  ‘I see.’ Deborah wandered distractedly up and down the room for a moment longer, then sat down abruptly at the little table by the window opposite Mrs Watson. ‘No, I’m sure you wouldn’t. I’m sorry. You meant well, I’m sure.’ She passed her hand distractedly across her brow. ‘But if you’re saying Sarah hasn’t given up her hunger-strike, then that means she’ll be released soon, doesn’t it? Otherwise she’ll die.’

  ‘It does. And, to do men credit, they have not so far been barbaric enough to let any woman starve herself to death.’

  ‘So if I stay in London for a few more days I may see her after all. And then I can ask her if she knew anything about this dreadful business of Dr Armstrong — that is, if she is strong enough . . .’

  ‘Yes, perhaps.’ A slight frown creased Mrs Watson’s forehead. ‘Unless, of course . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Unless of course she has given up her hunger-strike. That’s what worries me. Not because Dr Armstrong talked to her, but for some other reason. In which case your brother-in-law is quite right, she will stay in prison and no one will know what is happening to her for at least a month. And she was not a strong woman when she went in.’

  Deborah searched the dark brown bespectacled eyes of the older woman for reassurance, but found only, beneath the surface calm, a reflection of her own anxiety and confusion. I shall have to find out more about this, she thought, before I go home to Charles.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said at last. ‘Perhaps I will come to the WSPU offices with you, if I may. I should like to have a look in those files.’

  20

  LIGHT BEGAN to filter through the curtains. As it did so, it caught the colours of the material, and patterns of orange, green, yellow and blue appeared on the ceiling. Faintly at first, then more strongly as the sun came up. Sparrows began their relentless chirp outside, and dustbins clattered as the cooks in the hotel across the yard began their morning’s work.

  Five o’clock. Ruth Harkness sighed, and sat up in bed. It was Wednesday, her day off. She had hoped to sleep in until six, but in fact she had scarcely closed her eyes all night. If only George were back, she thought. He would know what to do. But her fiancé was visiting his sick mother in Berkshire, so he would not be back until Monday. Ruth had to decide on her own.

  She gazed at the swirling patterns on the ceiling. The curtains were the first things she had made when she moved into her own two-room flat, and she had bought the best material she could afford from the market. When she had discovered the way the sunlight glowed through them and filled the room with colour, she had been delighted. The colours were a symbol of everything the flat meant to her — security, prosperity, a good job, the hope of a happy marriage in the future. Her own private rainbow.

  Now all that was in danger, because of this wretched suffragette, Sarah Becket. For the hundredth time Ruth went over the interview with Dr Armstrong in her mind. She wanted to believe him. It was enormously tempting. He was a man, a doctor, a figure of authority. All you have to do is believe me, young woman, his voice said in her mind. Say nothing, and nothing will happen to you. You will keep your job. I may even put in a word to help you get promotion. You will have your happy home, your security, your marriage.

  Founded on a lie.

  The sun outside was obscured by a cloud, and the colours in Ruth’s bedroom faded. She saw the damp stains discolouring the ceiling, the peeling wallpaper in the corner which she had tried to paste back a dozen times and which always came loose. So much work to do, so much money to save before she could really afford somewhere decent. And there, on the wall, the framed and embroidered text which George had given her for her birthday. ‘He that putteth his trust in The Lord, shall never be confounded.’

  If I keep my mouth shut and do nothing, I shall be damned, Ruth thought. Perhaps nothing will happen and I shall marry and be prosperous but I shall know, all my life, that I turned and passed by on the other side of the road. I will have ignored, not an injured Samaritan, but little orphan girls who are being corrupted and abused, and a woman who is being forcibly fed.

  But she’s a madwoman, the doctor’s voice inside her said. A liar, a slanderer, a sufferer from paranoid delusions. A woman who could perfectly well eat if she chose to. A militant suffragette — Oh, leave me alone! I don’t know which is right! What am I going to do?

  Ruth flung the bedclothes aside, got out of bed, poured some water into a basin from a jug beside her bed, and began to wash herself briskly. The cold water revived her. For a moment she felt fresh and healthy and forgot all about the torments in her mind. Then as she was soaping her neck and under her arms she caught sight of her breasts in the little cracked mirror and thought: Oh no. This is what the doctor was thinking of when he looked at me that time. He thought of me as a naked woman to exploit as he does those poor little girls.

  It’s because of that look that I know he’s not telling the truth. It’s not proof, any more than Sarah Becket has clear proof. I just know.

  As she does.

  Ruth got dressed and had breakfast and did her housework and went shopping — and still the dilemma was there. What to do. Who to approach for help. Which choice was the right one.

  She boiled herself an egg at lunchtime but she could not eat it because it was slightly underdone and the white reminded her of the bile that had come out of Sarah Becket’s mouth after the forcible feeding last night. Sarah had continued retching long after all the soup had come up. That woman will die of it if we go on, Ruth thought. Bromide treatment or not. She is being tortured. And I am one of the torturers.

  At one o’clock she got up, put on her coat and a long scarf over her head like a factory girl, went out into the street and caught a tram. Half an hour later she was in Clements Inn. She walked up and down it for another half hour.

  Each time she came near number 4, she screwed up her courage to go in, and failed. It was a double-fronted shop entrance with plate glass windows either side and a large clock projecting out into the street above the heads of the shoppers. The window frames and doors were painted blue and slightly tatter
ed, as though they had been damaged by vandals. On the face of the clock, in place of the numbers and across the middle, were the letters VOTES FOR WOMEN. And in the shop window were dozens of posters, books, leaflets and newspapers, all proclaiming more or less the same message. There were also hats, scarves and handkerchiefs in the suffragette colours of purple, white and green.

  As Ruth went past she saw a number of women going in and out. A few were well-dressed, but most, she saw with relief, wore quite ordinary, even dowdy clothes. There were a number of young girls who looked more like shop assistants or factory workers than anything else, as well as middle-aged matrons and the sort of women who might well have been running a small hospital or giving orders to half a dozen servants in their own homes. The distinguishing feature, Ruth thought, was the business-like, purposeful air they all had. A cheerful energy which suggested that there were a dozen vital things that had to be done and they all had to be finished now.

  Ruth felt superfluous and embarrassed. I don’t belong in there, she thought, I’m not like them at all. I might agree with their aim but certainly not with their methods. Most of them are militants — criminals, for heaven’s sake!

  They don’t abuse children, though . . .

  The fifth time she walked past, she turned and went in.

  The door did not have a bell that rang when it opened, and nobody looked up when she came in. The inside of the shop was filled with a number of tables, piled high with books, newspapers, pamphlets, leaflets and clothes. Around and behind the tables women were writing, typing, reading or talking busily. They all seemed to belong and know exactly what they were doing.

  Ruth almost walked straight out again.

  ‘Ah, good. Lucy Shaldon?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Ruth turned and looked into the face of a cheerful, fair-haired young woman of about twenty. There was a welcoming smile on her face and she was holding out a large bundle of copies of a newspaper called The Suffragette. She smiled and said: ‘These are yours.’