by M J Lee
'Indeed I am,' said her father still shaking David's hand, 'Rose's mother, God rest her soul, would be proud of her daughter, as is her father. It is only right women should have the vote as well as men, don't you agree, sir?'
Rose stared at David. 'Father always supports me going on demonstrations, don't you Father?'
'Of course, Rose, but I don't agree with the planting of bombs in letter boxes and throwing stones through windows. That's going too far, far too far.' He glanced across at his daughter. 'After the last time, Rose promised me no more of those shenanigans, didn't you, Rose? All demonstrations should be peaceful, don't you agree, Mr Russell?'
The man finally let go of David's hand. 'I don't know what to think, Mr Clarke.' He patted the inside pocket of his jacket. 'I actually came to return this to your daughter.' He pulled out the silver medallion and the ribbons. 'She dropped it when the policeman attacked her.'
'Oh, bless you, sir. It's Rose's medallion, given to her by Mrs Pankhurst, her prize possession.'
David passed the medallion to Rose.
'Thank you, Mr Russell, it's kind of you to take the trouble to return it to me.'
'It's no trouble, Miss Clarke, it's the least I could do. And, whilst I'm here, let me buy some of your wonderful leather gloves. For my mother, of course.'
As he was speaking, the bell above the door rang again and an old man stepped into the shop.
'Please serve Mr Russell, Rose, whilst I deal with this customer.'
Rose placed the box on the counter. David walked over and pretended to sort through the gloves.
'How did you find me?' she whispered.
'You told the cabbie the name of your road, it was easy to find a shop with your surname.'
'You are too bold, Mr Russell,' she whispered before raising her head and saying, 'Perhaps this pair would suit your mother, Mr Russell. It's calf skin from Ireland.'
David smiled. Out loud he said, 'I'm afraid my mother's hands are much larger.' Turning his face away from her father, he whispered. 'I'm a soldier, remember? I'm meant to be bold.'
'But coming into the shop?'
'I wanted to see you again.'
'Perhaps this size would suit her better?' Rose shouted so her father could hear. The man looked up from serving his customer and smiled.
'Perfect, Miss Clarke.' David wasn't looking at the gloves but at Rose.
'Are you sure, Mr Russell? They might be a little tight for your mother.' She leant in and whispered once more. 'You're embarrassing me.'
'I didn't mean to, Rose.'
'You shouldn't have come.'
The father appeared beside them 'Don't worry, see if they fit your mother. If they are too small, just return them and we'll find a bigger size.'
'Sounds perfect, Mr Clarke. I'll take them.'
'Very good, Lieutenant Russell. Please wrap them for the customer, Rose.'
Rose glared at him but began to wrap the gloves. 'That will be 30 shillings.'
David fished for the money in his wallet, finally finding two notes and giving them to Rose.
The father handed over the wrapped parcel. ’I do hope your mother likes the gloves, Mr Russell. They are made by the late Queen's glove maker in Dublin. Wonderful quality even if I do say so myself. Now, remember to bring them back if they are too small.'
'I will, Mr Clarke, and I thank yourself and your daughter for your excellent service.'
'And I thank you, Mr Russell, for the service you did my daughter. Women must have the vote, Mr Russell, and we must help them in any way we can, don't you agree?'
David bowed slightly in the direction of Rose and placed his hat on his head and the parcel of gloves under his arm.
'Come again, if they are too small.'
So David went back the following week. And the week after. And the week after that. He hadn't meant to of course. But he found Rose's face and smile haunted his thoughts.
At first, she wasn't pleased to see him, positively cold in her attitude. But gradually, she warmed up, until he realised she began to look forward to his Saturday morning visits almost as much as he enjoyed making them.
The father always seemed pleased to see him, especially as each time he bought something new for his mother, gradually building up a whole cabinet of ladies' accessories in his room at the club. Anybody finding them there would have thought he was quite peculiar.
One day, he summoned up all his courage. Over a tray of tortoiseshell hair clips, he finally asked her. 'Would you like to go for tea with me tomorrow?'
'I'm afraid I'm busy,' she whispered.
'All day?'
She nodded. 'Haven't you read the news?'
'Remember, I never read the papers.'
She snorted. 'You don't know about Emily Davison's death?'
Her father looked up from serving a customer.
'Who is she?' asked David.
'A suffragette, killed by the King's horse at Epsom. Her memorial service is tomorrow at St George's. We have arranged a procession to escort her hearse to the station for the last journey to her home in Morpeth.'
'Can I escort you to the procession?'
Rose smiled and lifted her head. 'Father, Mr Russell would like to escort me to the funeral procession tomorrow.'
'I feel your daughter needs protection… just in case the police attack again, Mr Clarke.'
The man looked up from serving his customer. 'My daughter needs no protection, Mr Russell, but she, and other women, need support.'
Rose looked at David. ’There you have it, Mr Russell. Will you give me, and the other women, your support tomorrow?'
David smiled. 'Of course, Miss Clarke, you will always have my support.'
Chapter Sixteen
Rusholme, Manchester. March 29, 2016.
Maeve held the medallion up to show Jayne the woman's picture. 'I thought you would have recognised Emmeline Pankhurst.'
'Votes for women and all that?'
'The one and only. And you see the colours of the ribbons?'
'Purple, white and green.'
'These colours appear on all of the suffragettes' emblems. I forget what they're supposed to represent. Purple was dignity, white purity and green was hope, I think.'
'So, let me get this right, my client's great grandmother was a suffragette?'
Maeve nodded. 'Probably. These medallions are extremely rare. I've only seen one other like it, in the Museum of London. It was probably given to her for a service she had performed.'
'Such as…?'
'Such as being imprisoned, or arrested. Or worst of all, being one of their hunger strikers.'
'Why do you say “worst of all”?'
'The government of the day instituted force-feeding for many of the women. A tube was inserted up into their nostrils and soup poured down it into their stomachs. Many suffered lasting trauma for years afterwards, both physical and mental. It makes our PTSD look like a walk in the park.'
'Don't do that.'
'Don't do what?'
'Don't minimise your suffering. Listen Maeve, you were the victim of a horrendous attack. Nothing and nobody, least of all you, should ever trivialise your suffering. Do you understand?'
Maeve nodded.
'There's something else troubling me about my client’s great grandmother, Rose Clarke. I can't find her on the census. She may have been outside London, I guess. Or travelling. But somehow I doubt it.'
'I can help you there. Many of the women boycotted the census. Their slogan was “I don't count so I won't be counted”. Some spoiled their papers with slogans such as “No persons here, only women!”; they gave their occupations as “suffragette”, and listed their “disenfranchisement” in a column headed “Infirmity”. There was even a mass demonstration in Trafalgar Square against completing the form.'
'So our Rose Clarke could have been one of those women?'
'Possibly.' Maeve looked at the medallion, turning it over to read the inscription once again. 'I will tell you though, th
is Rose was an extremely brave and determined woman.'
'Not the sort to end up in an asylum for the rest of her life?'
'These women were angry, not mad.'
Jayne put the medallion back in its envelope and unfolded the drawing of the young woman from the other envelope.
She passed it over to Maeve who adjusted her glasses and stared at the picture. 'Who is she?'
'I don't know. I was going to ask you the same question. This drawing is one of the only possessions left by my client's great grandmother.'
Maeve turned the picture over. ‘Doesn’t say who she is. Could be anybody.’ She brought the picture closer to her face. ‘Is she wearing a uniform? Can’t recognise it, if she is.’
'Did the suffragettes wear a uniform?'
'I don't think so. There were many different organisations involved in the fight for women's suffrage, Emmeline Pankhurst was the head of the most militant section. The Woman's Social and Political Union.'
'Most militant?'
Maeve laughed. 'They were the ones who planted bombs in letter boxes, chained themselves to railings and smashed windows.'
'Proper little anarchists.'
'They were committed to the cause and prepared to fight for it. Funny thing is, today we don't remember all the women who protested peacefully, we just remember those who broke the law.'
'So you don't recognise this woman?'
Maeve laughed again. 'Sounds like the sort of thing you asked me four years ago in the identity parade.'
'You remember?'
Maeve put the picture down and picked up her cup of tea. Jayne noticed her hands were shaking as she brought the cup to her mouth. 'I remember it every day of my life, Jayne. But to answer your question, no, I don't recognise her.'
Jayne took that moment to put the drawing back in its envelope. Maeve slowly sipped her tea.
'You should make an appointment to see the psychiatrist again. She could help, you know.'
Maeve looked over the top of her cup. Her eggshell blue eyes were clear and piercing. 'And you, Jayne, do you still see your counsellor?'
Jayne shook her head. 'I don't need her any more.
'Are you so sure?'
Chapter Seventeen
Buckingham Palace Road, London. June 14, 1913.
The mood was sombre as the women assembled to form the cortege at Emily Davison's funeral. David had taken a taxi to Shoreditch that morning to pick up Rose from her father's shop. She was waiting outside dressed in white with a purple sash across her right shoulder.
'I'm glad you've come,' she said as he approached her.
'I said I would support you, so here I am.'
They both jumped into the back of the waiting taxi.
'Is this your uniform?'
'Not really. I'm to be one of the women walking behind the bier with the coffin. Emmeline has asked us all to dress in white.'
'A strange colour for a funeral.'
'But not a strange colour for a suffragette.'
The taxi weaved its way through the streets of London, packed with shoppers as it always was on a Saturday at midday.
Rose was in a quiet mood, staring out of the window at the crowds.
'Did you know Emily Davison well?'
'I met her a few times at meetings and she was in prison at the same time as I was. A quiet, intense woman, born in the north of England. She didn't talk much. A doer not a talker.'
'Was she on hunger strike?'
'Nine times, I believe. Emmeline told me they force-fed her more than 30 times.'
'A brave woman.'
'More than brave, I think.'
She lapsed into silence again. The taxi turned onto Buckingham Palace Road. They could see the funeral procession already beginning to form. Horses were being jostled into position. Women dressed in white assembled. A row of clergy, robes blowing in the breeze, were being chivvied into their place behind the coffin by a tiny woman wearing an immense hat. A funeral of undertakers marched past in a column, and everywhere, purple, white and green flowers, strewn on lorries, in the manes of horses, and lying in piles along the side of the road.
'You can stop here,' Rose told the taxi driver. David paid the driver and they stepped out.
Rose took David by the arm. 'Come on, I'll introduce you to Emmeline.'
'Mrs Pankhurst? Are you sure?'
'Of course, she'd love to meet our latest supporter, come on.'
Rose hustled a reluctant David across the road to where a tall, elegantly dressed woman was barking rapid orders to a crowd of white-robed women.
'Mary, have you checked if the London delegation is ready?'
'Rachel, do tell the Reverend Baumgarten where he needs to stand when we reach St. George's.'
'Helen, have you passed out the Madonna Lilies yet?'
The tall woman spotted Rose in the crowd, waved and beckoned her forward.
Rose edged through the crowd, holding David's arm tightly.
'You're a little late, Rose.'
'Sorry, Emmeline, the traffic was heavy.'
The voice was patrician and commanding. ‘Well, dear, now you're here, you need to find Miss Tyson. You're in section D, walking in front of the hearse.' Emmeline Pankhurst finally appeared to notice David. 'And who do we have here?'
'Mrs Pankhurst, let me introduce our latest supporter, Lieutenant David Russell.'
The tall woman held out a gloved hand. David didn't know whether he was supposed to kiss it or shake it. He decided the latter was probably the correct course of action and took the gloved fingers gently in his own hand.
Mrs Pankhurst stared down at him. 'Russell, you wouldn't be one of the Holton Hall Russells, would you?'
'Lord Lappiter is my father, Mrs Pankhurst.'
Rose stared at him directly, her eyebrows raised.
'A lovely man, your father, and a wonderful botanist. You know he sends the Manchester branch ten pounds every year to support our work.'
David was surprised. 'I didn't know…' he stammered.
'Your mother however, is not a friend of the cause. I asked for her help three years ago and she rejected me quite rudely.'
'My mother is a law unto herself.'
'Hmmm,' was Mrs Pankhurst's reply, 'well, at least you are taking after your father.' She checked the programme in her hand. 'Supporters walk in Section J under Miss Virtue, a woman whose name describes her perfectly.' She held out her hand once more. 'I hope we meet again, Lieutenant Russell, and please give my regards to your father.'
She turned away to bark more instructions at the women dressed in white.
Rose led him away. 'You didn't tell me you were a Lord,' she whispered.
'I'm not, my father is.'
'You should have told me.'
'I wanted to but it was never the right time.'
A woman waved her arm and shouted at Rose. 'You're in my section, Rose, we're ready to move.'
'We need to talk, later…' she said as she ran off to take her place at the front of the procession.
Within a few minutes, the funeral cortege had formed itself into a coherent organisation and begun to move off.
At the front, a large banner read 'Fight on and God will give the victory.' This was followed by sections of women dressed in white carrying a single flower, each separated by carriages filled with purple, white and green blooms. The clergy came next, their robes still blowing in the wind.
David saluted as the hearse passed him, its pale wood draped with a suffragette flag and festooned with more blooms. Following it was Mrs Pankhurst herself, head erect, walking proudly, surrounded by what David presumed were Emily Davison's relatives. Above them another banner proclaimed 'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.'
A woman walked past and put a programme of the day's events into David's hands. At the top, a headline in block capitals: 'SHE DIED FOR WOMEN' and at the bottom a quote David recognised from the bible: 'Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.' The pr
ocession itself was ordered with military precision. Indeed, David believed the trooping of the colour itself was not as well organised.
The procession drifted past him, more women walking behind the hearse, some in white, some in black, others wearing their university gowns.
Crowds had already begun to form at the side of the street; policemen lined up to clear the way on either side.
A woman at the head of one of the sections in the rear waved at David. 'Lieutenant Russell, cooeee, Lieutenant Russell.'
David walked over to her as she marched at the head of her section.
'Mrs Pankhurst said you were to join my group.'
'It would be my honour, Miss Virtue.'
The elderly woman blushed a bright crimson. 'As you can see there are a lot of us today.'
'More than I thought.'
'Mrs Pankhurst wanted to make it a special occasion. It's a wonderful sight, don't you agree?'
'I do, Miss Virtue, a wonderful sight.'
David let himself drop back to join the rest of the mourners behind Miss Virtue. There were a mixture of men and women from all social classes, but all with their heads held up, walking proudly in the procession.
As they marched through Piccadilly and down Shaftesbury Avenue, the crowds on either side increased, sometimes swamping the policemen with their numbers. At one point, the watchers were standing ten deep on either side of the road. Most, if not all, were men, jostling with each other to get a better view of the women as they marched behind the hearse. A few shouted obscenities, but most were intent on seeing these strange creatures who were fighting for the right to vote.
David ignored these men, finding a strange camaraderie in being in the group with Miss Virtue. People didn't talk much, respecting the solemnity of the occasion, but there was a sense of unity and purpose brought by a common understanding and comradeship. It was as if he were marching in a parade with his men, all together, all united as one; an army on the march.
As they neared St George's Church, the crowds became even more numerous, breaking through the police cordon and stumbling into the paths of the mourners.
The women just walked past them, heads erect, looking neither left nor right.
