The Wild Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Politics was Joe’s religion, and this chamber his pulpit, and only moments ago, he had been speaking with all the zeal and eloquence of a fiery evangelist preacher. He wished now that he had some brimstone to hurl as well, for he saw he would need it.

  “This is my last warning!” the speaker bellowed. “I ask the honorable gentlemen to sit down immediately! Or I shall have them removed!”

  One by one those who had been standing sat—Conservatives, Liberals, and Labourites. Joe saw that Churchill was glowering. Henderson and MacDonald were beaming. Asquith was rubbing his brow.

  Joe had opened today’s session by introducing his new education bill with its demands upon the state to enlarge existing schools, build seventy new ones, raise the leaving age, and inaugurate education programs in ten of His Majesty’s prisons. It had been given quite a reception.

  “This is preposterous!” Sir Charles Mozier, owner of five clothing factories, had sputtered, as soon as Joe had finished speaking. “Government cannot afford this bill. It will bankrupt the state.”

  “Government can afford it. The question is—can capital?” Joe shot back. “Educated children become smart children and smart children ask questions. We can’t have our seamstresses suddenly asking, ‘Why am I paid seven pence to make a blouse Sir Charles sells for two quid?’ They might take it in their heads to strike. And then it will be you, Sir Charles, not the state, who is bankrupt.”

  That had gotten half the room bellowing. What came next finished the job.

  “Perhaps we can mandate tea and crumpets in the prisons, too,” shouted John Arthur, whose Welsh mines had lucrative contracts to supply coal to prisons and Borstals. “We can have china teapots brought to the convicts on silver trays! Tell me, sir, have you any idea what such a program would cost?”

  “Nothing,” Joe replied.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I said, ‘Nothing.’ In fact, it’ll save the state money. Educate every man in Wandsworth, every woman in Holloway. Give them the opportunities education brings, help them lift themselves out of poverty, and you can close those hellholes forever,” Joe had said.

  He waited now, until every man had sat down, until it was quiet once more. He looked at the faces he knew so well, faces of friends and adversaries. He looked up at the Strangers’ Gallery, where his mother, Rose, his wife, Fiona, and his daughter Katie sat. Looking at them, he thought how easily they could not be sitting there. How easily he and his family could be shivering in some dank room in East London, with little to eat, not enough coal for a warm fire, or enough money to pay their rent. They had escaped that life, he and Fiona. But so many hadn’t. He thought about all the ones who were still there, still working for pennies an hour, still hungry, still cold. And then he started speaking again.

  “Prime Minister, Mr. Speaker, honorable colleagues, it is time. Time to educate every child in Britain to the fullest of his or her potential. Time to bring every girl and every boy in Whitechapel, in the Gorbals, in the Liverpool courts, out of destitution and hopelessness. Only education can accomplish this. Only education can empty the workhouses and prisons, the slums and rookeries.

  “Our government is, at last, beginning to recognize the dire plight of working people. It is beginning to work on behalf of the many, not the few. Look how far we have come in the last decade alone. Look at our accomplishments: better protection for children against abuse and exploitation, pensions for the aged, and national unemployment insurance—to name but a few.

  “The naysayers said these things could never be. They called those who proposed the Children’s Act and the National Insurance Act dreamers. As some of you—the kinder ones among you—have called me. If it is the dreamers who keep six-year-olds out of mills, if it is the dreamers who strive to end illiteracy and ignorance—then I am proud to be called a dreamer.”

  Joe paused for a few seconds, then delivered the closing lines of his speech.

  “We now come to a crossroads in Britain’s history,” he said. “Do we proceed down the new and shining path, and in so doing, secure the future for all of Britain’s children? Or do we turn back? Back to business as usual. Back to failure. Back to deprivation and despair. I cannot tell you how to vote. I can only tell you this: It is time to set aside self-interest, it is time to set aside politics, and it is time to consider the very ones who put you in the seats you now occupy. Look to your constituents, gentlemen, and to your consciences.”

  It was quiet when Joe finished speaking, so quiet that he could hear the chamber clock ticking. And then the applause began. And the cheering. Labour MPs to a man stood and clapped. Many of their Liberal colleagues joined them. Only the Tory benches were quiet. The applause lasted for two minutes straight, and then the speaker once again called for order.

  When the vote was called, enough ayes were counted to get Joe’s bill to a second reading. The ayes were not unanimous, not by a long shot. The bill still had a long way to go before it became a law, but at least it had passed its first reading; it had not been killed. It was as much as Joe could have hoped for today.

  As he wheeled himself back to his customary place near the front benches, he glanced up at the gallery. Fiona and Rose were smiling triumphantly. Katie, notepad in hand, gave him a quick wave.

  There was a brief break, and then the speaker called upon the Honorable Winston Churchill, first lord of the admiralty and head of Britain’s navy.

  “What’s Winston after now?” a man seated behind Joe whispered.

  “More bloody boats,” Lewis Mead replied.

  As Churchill began to speak, it became clear that it was not mere boats he was after, but dreadnoughts.

  Britain’s first dreadnought had been launched in 1906. An entirely new breed of battleship—one armed with enormous guns and driven by steam turbines—the fearsome dreadnought had sparked an arms race with Germany.

  After the kaiser had built two similar such ships, Parliament—in 1909—voted to fund the construction of four more dreadnoughts, with provisions for another four to follow in 1910.

  Authorizing the battleships had pitted the Liberals against the Conservatives in an epic battle. The Liberals, hoping to reduce military spending, had wanted to fund only four ships. The Tories would have none of it. Joe well remembered the scene in the Commons when the number had been debated, with the Tories yelling, “We want eight and we won’t wait!” until they’d defeated the Liberal chancellor, David Lloyd George, and won their boats. And now Winston wanted even more.

  Churchill spoke at length now, with great command of figures and facts, and in his usual impatient tone, about Germany’s increasingly aggressive stance toward France and Belgium. He raised the possibility of a coming conflict and the possibility of Turkey aligning itself with Germany should that conflict actually occur.

  “What would such an alliance mean for our ally Russia?” he asked the chamber. “For the Balkan states? And most importantly, what would it mean for Britain’s continued access to her Persian oil supplies and her Indian colonies?”

  He paced the chamber for a moment, letting those dark scenarios hang in the mind of every man in the room, and then he quietly said, “The country with the superior naval fleet is the country that will control the Dardanelles, gentlemen. And the country that controls the Dardanelles controls passage to the Middle East, to Russia, and to the Orient. I ask you today to authorize a new dreadnought to make absolutely certain that that country is Britain, not Germany.”

  The Conservative benches were not quiet at the end of Churchill’s speech, as they had been at the end of Joe’s. Instead, they positively erupted. Tory MPs whistled, cheered, shouted, and applauded. Joe expected them to burst into the chorus of “Rule Britannia” any second. The speaker nearly splintered his hammer trying to quiet them.

  “Hmm … slum rats or ships? Which will it be?” Lewis Mead said to Joe. “I know which one my money’s on.”

  “Mine, too,” Joe said. “When it comes to a second reading, Winston
’s bill will pass and mine will be killed. Winston’s got everyone convinced that the Germans are two seconds away from marching on Buckingham Palace. My schools won’t stand a chance, Lewis. Not against his ships.”

  A vote was taken, and Churchill’s bill, too, passed its first reading. The speaker then called a recess for lunch and the members stood up to leave.

  Joe, of course, could not stand, but as he wheeled himself out of the chamber, he could see. Quite clearly. He could see the writing on the wall. He could hear the conversations of the men around him. The chill wind he had read of in the papers only days ago was strengthening. A storm was gathering, blowing west from Germany across Europe and the Channel, all the way to London.

  Several MPs came up to congratulate him on his speech. Among them was the former Tory prime minister A. J. Balfour.

  “Fancy a spot of lunch, old boy?” he asked Joe. “Yes? Excellent! Brilliant speech you gave, I must say. Not that any of them gives a toss. They’ve all got a raging case of war fever. Time to give the kaiser a black eye and all that. Next thing you know, Winston will have them all marching up and down Trafalgar Square with saucepans on their heads.”

  Joe nodded solemnly. Balfour might joke, but they both knew he was right.

  “Now, now, old boy. Don’t look so glum,” Balfour said. “It’s all saber-rattling, really. We’ll stay well out of it, mark my words. You know as well as I do that a strong military is the best way to avoid a war.”

  “Not this time, Arthur,” Joe said, with a bitter laugh. “Not with that madman in Berlin,” he said. “In fact, I’m quite certain it’s the best way to start one.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Mum’s been asking me about you, Peter. ‘What’s he like, Gladys?’ and ‘What does he do, Gladys?’ and ‘Why don’t you bring him home, all proper like, Gladys?’ and I thought … well, hoped really … that maybe you could come for tea next Sunday.”

  Max von Brandt looked down at his hands, then back up at the dowdy young woman sitting across from him. He hesitated for a few seconds—just long enough to terrify her—then said, “I’d like that, Gladys. Very much.”

  “You would?” she whispered, her voice incredulous. “I mean, you would! How wonderful! Mum’ll be ever so pleased.” She looked at him shyly, her brown eyes blinking behind her thick glasses, then added, “I know I am.”

  Max smiled at her. “How about another shandy?” he said. “To celebrate.”

  “I shouldn’t. I’ve had two already,” Gladys said, biting her lip.

  “No, you’re absolutely right, pet, you shouldn’t,” Max said. “A moment like this deserves something better—champagne.”

  “Oh, Peter! Champagne!” Gladys said. “I love champagne, me. But we shouldn’t, really. It’s awfully dear.”

  “Nonsense. Nothing’s too good for my girl,” Max said, patting her hand.

  He stood, walked to the bar, and ordered a bottle of plonk and two glasses. As he waited for the publican to bring it, he watched Gladys in the mirror above the bar. She was fussing with her hair. Her cheeks were flushed. She was smiling. This was almost too easy.

  Tonight was the fifth time he had taken her out. They’d gone for drinks twice. A stroll in Greenwich once. To the music hall another time. And now they were here again, back to the pub where he’d taken her the night he’d staged their first encounter.

  He’d been a perfect gentleman on each outing. Solicitous, polite, happy to pay for everything. He’d taken her hand to help her on or off the omnibus, asked about her mother, talked of his work and his church and his parents up north in Bradford. He’d made sure to disappear now and again for several days at a time, as a seaman on a run north to Hull or south to Brighton would be expected to.

  “Here we are!” he said, bringing the champagne back to their table.

  He poured two glasses, then made a toast.

  As he leaned toward Gladys, her eyes flickered to his neck.

  “My goodness! What happened to you?” she asked.

  “It’s nothing,” Max said.

  Gladys hooked a finger in his collar, pulled it open. “It looks terrible,” she said.

  Max knew it did. It was a deep scratch, and livid.

  “I was carrying a trunk for the captain,” he said. “It had a rough edge. Caught me in the neck.”

  “Poor thing. Let me make it better,” Gladys said coyly.

  She kissed the tip of her finger, touched it to his neck, then giggled behind her hand. She always held her hand over her mouth; she was embarrassed by her large, crooked teeth.

  He caught her other hand in his and kissed it. “That’s much better. Thank you, darling Glad,” he said.

  Gladys blushed a deep, unbecoming shade of red. “Naughty boy,” she said, giggling again. “Don’t be going and getting any ideas, now.”

  Max felt leaden inside. It was awful to watch this sad, plain dumpling of a woman, with her thick stockings and her sensible shoes, trying to be flirtatious and gay. It was cruel what he was doing, and he suddenly wanted to stop this charade, to apologize to her, bundle her into a hackney, and send her home. But he did not. There were times he hated what he did—times when he hated himself for doing it—but he would no more run from his duties than his father would have in 1870 on the battlefield at Metz. Duty had always come first, for every generation of von Brandts, and it did now for Max.

  He closed his collar, wincing as the cloth rubbed against the wound, and feigned interest in Gladys’s chatter. He had lied to her about the wound, as he had lied to her about everything else. It was no trunk that had caused that scratch, or the ones on his back. It was his lover who had done it, Maud Selwyn Jones.

  As Gladys burbled on about the dinner she would cook for him on Sunday, Max remembered making love to Maud.

  The first time, in his room at Kedleston, they’d knocked over a table and broken a vase.

  The second time, at Wickersham Hall, her Cotswold estate, he’d had her in the woods. Or maybe it had been the other way around. He’d simply leaned over to kiss her as they stopped to rest the horses, and the next thing he knew, they were tumbling onto the ground. She’d somehow kept her riding hat on the whole time, and her silk stockings. Her teasing smile, just visible under the hat’s black net veil, had driven him mad with desire. They’d certainly frightened the horses.

  The third time, they’d been on their way to his flat after the opera. Just as the hackney driver had pulled away from the curb and into the dark London night, she’d kicked off her shoes, then lifted the hem of her dress, slowly, teasingly, an inch at a time, until it was quite apparent that she was wearing nothing under her gown. That time, they’d frightened the driver.

  And then there was last night. At her flat. She’d had what seemed like a hundred candles burning in her bedroom when he arrived. Champagne in a silver cooler. Oysters on ice. She’d trailed a chunk of that ice down his body when they started, and had held another chunk to the scratches on his skin when they finished. The memory alone made him hard as stone now. She was everything he craved in a woman—exciting, exhausting, beautiful, and wild. She gave him what he wanted most—a few hours in which he could forget what he was, and the things he did.

  “… or a Victoria sponge? Which one do you think, Peter? Peter?”

  Gott verdammt noch mal. He’d been miles away.

  “Yes, Gladys?” he said, quickly putting Maud out of his mind. Thoughts of her made it impossible to concentrate on Gladys, and that would not do. He had things to accomplish this evening.

  “I asked you which pudding you’d like,” she said anxiously. “For tea on Sunday. Weren’t you listening?”

  “No, not entirely.”

  “Oh,” she said, looking upset. “I’m sorry. I must be boring you, talking of puddings. How stupid of me. I don’t know why I rabbit on so, I just—”

  He took her hand in his. “If you must know, Gladys, I was thinking about how much I want to kiss you. It’s something I think about a lot. Mu
ch more than I think about puddings.”

  Gladys blushed again, visibly flustered. “Oh, Peter, I … I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you’ll give me a kiss, Glad. Just one.”

  Gladys looked around nervously, then gave him a quick peck on the cheek. He caught the scent of her as she did—wet wool, talcum powder, and camphor.

  “That’s much nicer than Victoria sponge,” he said. “Now, let me give you one.”

  He leaned forward and kissed her mouth, lingering slightly. She could barely look at him afterward. He looked at her though, and saw that her chest was heaving and her hands were trembling. Good. He poured her more champagne. Several times. And half an hour later, Gladys Bigelow was drunk.

  “Oh, Peter, this champagne is delicious!” she said. “Let’s have some more.”

  “I think you’ve had plenty, pet. It’s time we got you home.”

  Gladys pouted. “Don’t want to go home.”

  “Yes, you do. Come on now, upsy-daisy, there’s a good girl. …”

  Max got her up on her feet, into her coat, and out of the pub. She swayed a bit on the sidewalk. He had to take her arm as they walked toward the bus stop. Before they’d gone five steps, she tripped, and he only just managed to stop her falling flat on her face.

  Things were going perfectly.

  “Gladys, dear,” he said. “I think you’ve had a bit too much. You can’t go home like this. We’ve got to get some coffee into you first. Only there’s no place around here for tea or coffee, is there?” he said, pretending to look up and down the street.

  “Kiss me, Peter,” Gladys said. Only it came out sounding like Kish me.

  He sighed deeply. “I’d love to,” he said. “Only what sort of cad would I be, then? Kissing a girl who’s had too much champagne?”

  “Oh, Peter, you’re not a cad,” Gladys said; with feeling. “You’re the most wonderful, wonderful, wonderful man I’ve ever met.”

  Max smiled. “Now I know you’re drunk, Gladys. Listen, this is what we’re going to do. I’m going to take you back to my room.”