by M J Lee
'We know. But how do you know?'
David threw up his hands. 'A demonstration outside Buckingham Palace and you don't think the army will be warned? It's a set-up, Rose, you're all going to be arrested.'
Rose looked down. 'We know.’
'And you're still going?'
'I have to, Mrs Pankhurst wants me to be with her.'
'And what about me, don't I have a say in this?'
Rose looked back up at him, her eyes burning with anger. 'David, I have to go. You promised me your support; now is the time to deliver your promise.'
'Of course, I support votes for women, but…'
'There are no buts, David.'
It was his turn to look down. 'You know I can't be with you, Rose, as a soldier, not outside the Palace.'
She took his hands in hers. 'I know, but I have to go. Mrs Pankhurst needs me.'
Of course, she had been one of the first to be arrested. The trial had been quick and brutal, the revenge of the stubborn men in Parliament complete.
A clock on the wall chimed the hour, 10 a.m. Immediately, the mass of men and children stood up. A female warder opened a door at the side and the people all rushed, pushing and shoving, to enter.
David hung back, letting the crowd sort itself out before finally walking through the door.
The female warder stopped him with her arm. 'You can't take flowers in there.'
'But they're for my friend.'
'I don't care if they're for the Queen, you can't take them in. Nuffin' allowed in ‘e prison 'all.'
David thought about arguing, but saw the intransigence on the woman's face. 'Here, you have them instead. A present for all your good work.'
He gave the bouquet to her and walked through the door. A large cavernous hall with high ceilings and small desks scattered throughout its length greeted him. Women prisoners were sat behind the desks, all wearing the same dirty brown prison clothes and white pinafores. Most had men and children in front of them, talking in subdued voices.
In the far corner, a woman sat by herself, looking out of the large picture window up into the grey sky. David walked towards her, avoiding all the other visitors and their children.
'Hello,' he said.
Rose turned towards him. Her face was thin, almost haggard. A thin strand of lank hair hung down from the grey cap on her head.
She didn't say anything.
He pulled out the rickety hard-backed chair and sat down opposite her. Her hands lay on the table in front of her, the sharp edge of her wrist bones pushing through her shirt sleeves. He couldn't think of anything to say. 'How are you?' eventually came out of his mouth.
She shrugged her shoulders. 'As well as can be expected.'
'Happy Birthday.'
For a moment he saw the old sparkle in her eyes. 'What day is it? July 23rd already?'
He nodded.
'22 years old today.' She lapsed back into silence.
'Are you on hunger strike?' he asked.
'I look so thin?'
'N-no, I meant…'
She reached out and touched his hand. He felt how cold and slight the touch was.
'No, not yet. Not my turn yet.'
'You're going on strike too.'
'Eventually. They still won't give us Category One Status.'
'But you'll just starve yourself and then they'll release you, arresting you again when you've recovered your health.'
She shrugged her shoulders again. 'It's the game they play…'
'Cat and Mouse.'
She smiled. 'You're catching on.'
'I'm also reading the papers.'
'And what do they tell you?'
'There's a war coming soon.' He took a deep breath. 'I've been recalled to my regiment in the country.'
Her face fell. 'So you won't be coming any more?'
'I don't know. I'll try…'
The silence lay between them.
It was David who spoke first. ’When you are released…'
'Don't talk about getting out of here, I can't think so far ahead. Just one day at a time. One night at a time.'
'When you are released,' he continued, 'I want us to get married.'
She took her hand away. 'No,' she answered firmly.
'Why not? I…'
'Your family would never agree. The next Lord Lappiter, marry a shopgirl? Never. And especially not one who had been in prison. Twice.'
'I'll talk to them, they'll come round. You'll see…'
'The answer is no, David. I don't want to marry you. Not now. We’re too different, coming from different worlds. It wouldn't work.'
He reached for her hand again. 'It would work. We would make it work. My family doesn't matter, you're all that matters to me, Rose.'
A warder rapped the table between them with a truncheon. 'No contact with prisoners.'
They both stared at her. She rapped the table again, this time harder. 'No contact with prisoners,’ she repeated.
Rose pulled her hand away.
The warder strolled away, keeping her eyes on them all the time.
'David, you have to understand. You're going off to war and I am locked up in here with no hope of release for another four months. I can't plan so far ahead. I survive today, hope to be alive tomorrow, not thinking about the day after. You can't ask me to marry you now, not here.'
'But, Rose…'
She stood up. 'Perhaps, when all this ends and we have the vote and the war is over. But not now, not now.' She stood up without looking at him and walked away from the table with her head held high.
David sat still, ignoring the noise of the children as they played around him, watching her approach the warder and pass through the door into the prison without looking back.
He didn't see the tears in her eyes as she went through the doors. He didn’t see her collapse against the wall on the other side of the door. He didn't know she spent the night on her bunk huddled with her knees pressed into her chest, rocking herself to sleep.
He sat there on his own, staring into mid-air until a warder finally tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Visiting time’s over, sir. Time to go.’
He stood up slowly and went out of the door on the opposite side of the room. Down the long corridor with its stench of cabbage and carbolic soap, under the stone gateway and out through the iron gates, into the fresh, coal-soaked air of London.
Up above, the sky was a dull, lukewarm grey. He put his hat on his head and walked down the street in a daze, ignoring the newspaper boy at the corner.
'AUSTRIA-HUNGARY ULTIMATUM TO SERBIA' was the headline on the Evening Standard in the boy's hands.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Didsbury, Manchester. March 29, 2016.
Jayne stretched and blinked her eyes three times. The computer screen was beginning to go in and out of focus. After her discovery of the surveillance photograph, she had pushed herself even harder to find out as much as she could.
Paul had vanished into the spare room three hours ago. She decided to climb the stairs to listen at the door, thinking it wouldn't hurt to talk a little more. As her dad said, 'Never go to bed angry, lass. Screws up the bowels it does, anger.'
But just before she knocked on the door, she heard a loud snuffle, followed by a long, rickety snore.
He was fast asleep. So much for being upset.
She crept back down the stairs and made herself a cup of tea. Despite the tension with Paul, she felt she had made a breakthrough with her research. She still hadn’t discovered the marriage certificate, but she felt she was getting to know, and like, Rose Clarke. A woman such as her wouldn’t lie about a marriage.
She sat down at her laptop; just one more search to complete before she would have to climb upstairs to bed.
The part of David's life she was missing was his army records. She typed 'London Gazette' in the search field and was led straight to the website. Here, she would find the records of serving officers in the First World War. She typed i
n 'David Russell' and three records popped up immediately.
The first recounted his promotion to Captain on May 1st, 1915. The second detailed his award of the Military Cross for Bravery in September 1915. The citation read 'For conspicuous gallantry in action. He led forward to their final objectives companies who had lost their officers. Later, while consolidating his position, he was severely wounded, but remained at his post directing the fire of his men to repel the enemy.'
A brave man, she thought. The Military Cross was second only to the Victoria Cross as an award for bravery.
The third and last was spare in its simplicity. 'Captain, the Honourable, D W J Russell, to Brevet Major (since killed).'
The two little words in brackets punched Jayne in the stomach; 'Since Killed'. She checked the date – 8th July 1916. 'It makes sense,' she said out loud. 'Mark said he was killed on the first day of the Somme.'
She logged out of the London Gazette and into Find My Past. In the section entitled, 'Soldiers, died in the Great War' she typed David's name.
The result came up and she clicked on it.
First name(s):DAVID WILLIAM JOHN
Last name:RUSSELL
Service number:9603
Rank:CAPTAIN
Regiment:DERBYSHIRE FUSILIERS
Battalion:1st Battalion
Birth place:Bakewell, Derbyshire
Residence:Holton Hall, Derbyshire
Enlistment place:
Death year:1916
Death day:01
Death month:07
Cause of death:Killed in action
Death placeFrance & the Somme
Theatre of war:Western European Theatre
Supplementary notes:Body not recovered
There it was. Captain David Russell had died on the first day of the Battle of the Somme. End of story.
Had he married Rose Clarke before he died? The Russells believed it was a possibility, but there was no proof. Her searches had discovered nothing. And certainly, when the last Lord Lappiter died, the heir-hunting firms had discovered nothing either.
But there was something missing, something bothering Jayne. Why did Herbert Small have such a gloatingly smug look on his face? And why did Rose Clarke insist till the day she died that she had married Captain David Russell in Gretna Green?
Jayne closed the lid of her laptop. She knew what she had to do. Paul wouldn't be happy of course, but she had to go through with it, whatever happened. She owed it to the old woman who had spent 50 years in an asylum.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Didsbury, Manchester. March 30, 2016.
The following morning, Paul left the house early for his meeting without saying a word, ignoring Jayne completely.
She tried to break the ice, hoping he would respond. ‘Did you sleep well?’ she asked.
There was no answer.
Instead, a few moments later, she heard the door slam as he left. She would try to talk to him tonight, perhaps he would be in a better mood then.
She glanced at the Ikea clock. Its big red numbers shouted 9.45 at her.
'Shit, shit, shit.'
She grabbed the acetate folder with the two envelopes inside, snatched her car keys from the hook beside the door, and ran out of the kitchen, returning a few seconds later to check Mr Smith had some water and some nibbles. He liked to snack when she wasn't there, in between naps, saving his main meal for when she arrived home.
Both bowls were full.
Jayne met Mark and his father in the same cafe as before. They were already waiting for her when she arrived and their body language was stiff and formal towards each other. Another couple in the middle of an argument.
After ordering a latte, she joined them at the table.
'How's the research?' asked Mark before she had even sat down.
Jayne put her bag on the chair next to her and took off her coat. 'It's moving forward, I've had some success.'
'You've found the marriage certificate?'
'Not yet, but…'
'What did I tell you?' interrupted the father. 'These people are just stringing you along, making money out of you.'
Jayne put her hands on the table. 'May I remind you, Mr Russell, I am performing this research for nothing. You only pay me if I find something proving they were married.'
The old man scowled and looked down at his tea.
'You were saying, Jayne…'
The woman arrived with the latte. Jayne took a sip and began talking. 'I'm afraid I've checked all the online records and I can't find any proof or certificate of the marriage.'
'We already told you,' sneered the father.
'But what I did find was your great grandmother was a suffragette, one of the more militant ones.' Jayne showed them printouts of the newspaper articles and the prison records. 'Prison was tough in those days. Many women were force-fed after they decided to hunger strike. Not a pleasant experience.'
'Good old Rose. And I thought you were just an Edwardian wallflower,’ Mark said.
Jayne pulled out the medallion and ribbon. 'This led me to her. Apparently, the colours are specific to the suffragettes. My source tells me it's quite valuable.'
The father interrupted Jayne. ’She always kept it locked away in a small case. Wouldn't let me see it when I visited her in the hospital. She became upset whenever I went near the case.' Richard Russell stared off into mid-air as if reliving his time as a young boy, visiting his grandmother in her hospital. 'Used to hate going there, I did. Stank of piss and disinfectant. There was one woman, in the cell next to my grandmother, who spent the whole time screaming for her lost baby. She never stopped, on and on and on.' The old man shivered. 'Gives me the creeps just thinking about it.'
Mark turned back towards her. 'Did you find out anything else, Jayne?'
'Well, there is this.' She pulled out the surveillance picture of Rose. 'This is your great grandmother in Holloway prison in 1912, the first time she was imprisoned.'
Mark looked at the picture. 'She looks so thin, yet with so much dignity and strength.’ Then, just like Jayne, he did a second take. ‘But, that’s…’
Jayne nodded and produced the drawing. ‘I’m pretty certain it’s the same woman.’
Mark placed the two pictures side by side. ‘It is the same woman, but here she looks happy and content.’ He pointed to the drawing.
The father snorted and looked away.
Jayne ignored him. ’I agree, a happy woman, at ease with herself. It’s almost as if she is in love.’
Mark passed the surveillance picture to his father.
‘Is that her? She looked so much older when I met her. I didn’t recognise the drawing at all.’
‘The picture is fascinating, Jayne. At last, we are beginning to discover a little about my great grandmother.’
The old man snorted again. ‘Have you found anything to prove she married David Russell?’ he asked Jayne directly.
Jayne shook her head. 'Not yet.'
‘Told you these genealogists were hopeless. We’ve only got five days left after today.’
'I am aware of the timing, Mr Russell, but it's a difficult case.'
'Any next steps?’ asked Mark quickly.
Jayne thought for a moment. She knew the choice she had to make but Paul wasn't going to be happy. 'I think I have to go to Gretna Green,' she finally said. 'Sometimes records get misfiled or mislaid. It's a long shot but it's worth a visit.'
'A little trip on our money, huh?'
Jayne ignored the old man.
'I'll drive up tomorrow.' Jayne wondered how she was going to tell Paul. It wasn't going to be an easy conversation.
'Sounds good. What time are you leaving?'
'Why?' asked Jayne.
'I'd like to go with you.'
'I don't think it's a good idea.'
'Why not?'
'I-I-I like to work alone. You'd just slow me down.'
'That's a bit insulting, Mrs Sinclair.'
Jayne couldn't tell
him the real reason. She just wanted to be away from men, all men, for a short while. 'I'm sorry, Mr Russell, I didn't mean it in that way, it's just…'
'Good, what time do we leave?'
Jayne shrugged her shoulders. ‘You’re my client, Mr Russell, I can’t stop you from accompanying me, but…’
‘That’s settled then. I’ll see you at eight tomorrow morning.’
Jayne nodded her head. He was the client and it was his family she was researching, but here was another man who didn't listen. Would she ever meet one who did?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Buxton, near Manchester. March 30, 2016.
After the meeting with the Russells, Jayne decided to drive slowly down the A6 to Buxton to see her father.
'How's he been?' she asked the receptionist.
'Not bad. Still a little grumpy and he called Mrs Guthrie an old cow, but other than that, not bad. No more midnight rambles, I'm happy to say.'
Her father was sitting in his usual place, in front of the picture window, facing the old oak tree dominating the garden.
'Squirrels have been fighting again.' He pointed up into the tree. 'It's the time of year. And how are you, lass?'
Jayne could see one grey squirrel chasing another through the branches. 'Not bad,' she answered noncommittally, and then continued, 'Dad, you should know, Paul's come back.'
'Thought he would, men always do.'
'You knew.'
'Hard not to know, lass. Marriage is hard, you have to make a lot of compromises. And compromise isn't your strong suit.'
'So you think it's my fault.'
'I don't care whose fault it is, lass. None of my business. But I can see when you're not happy.'
'Dad, can I ask you something? How did you manage to stay with my mum for so long?'
Her father scratched his nose. She could see the wrinkled, liver-spotted hands and the thick nail at the end of the index finger.
'It wasn't easy, I'll tell you. She weren't an easy woman your mother.'
'I know more than most.'
'But I did love her and she loved me, even if she weren't very good at showing it.' Then he looked up at her. 'And there was always you to keep us together.'
