At first Alfie would not try at all, would not speak – just kept shaking his head and rolling his eyes around but then I whispered that I had brought something for him that he should only have if he did well. Then he tried very hard. First I took a book and showed him the letters that we had worked on before I went to Park Walk. He remembered some – no worse than Cook! But it was when I asked him his numbers that he got in a dreadful fret. I said them over slowly and told him to say them after. He could not do it. A full hour I sat with him and at the end we were both near to screaming, I think.
Ma came in. ‘Maggie, that’s enough for now. Alfie is tired, and you have a long journey home.’
I stared at her. ‘This is my home.’
Ma came over all hot and bothered. ‘Yes, yes, I know. I only meant…’ Just then Nan called out and she went to her. Lucy, the little worm, stopped her drumming and wriggling about and said in a sneaky little voice, ‘You see. It’s not your home any more.’ I felt near to throttling her but would not give her the pleasure of seeing I was rankled.
‘It is,’ I said coldly. ‘Same as it is Frank’s. Homes are homes. We don’t have to be here.’
Lucy gave a funny little choky sound. ‘Frank’s here more than you are now. See what he gave me.’ She reached down inside her dress and pulled out a tiny heart made of some shiny stone and hung around her neck on a bootlace.
‘When did he give you that?’
‘Last time he was here.’
‘It was meant for me. He didn’t know I’d be gone.’
Lucy gave me a real funny look. ‘No, that was the first time,’ she said. ‘He’s come back again since then. I’m his best girl now.’
I stood up and fully meant to slap her but just then Alfie flung his arms round me and begged me to give him his reward for all his learning. I was so angry – God forgive me, I never meant to do it – I pulled out the apple I had kept by for him and just flung it in the fire. Poor Alfie burst out with a mighty sob and rushed to get it back. I seized hold of him and clung with all my might, screaming at Lucy to fetch Pa. Ma came running and between us we pulled Alfie away before he could burn, but he was crying and throwing his arms around and several times we both took blows from him. At last Pa arrived and lifted Alfie clean up in the air and shook him like he was a sack of feathers till he had ceased howling. Ma threw a bucket of water on the fire lest he would try again.
And all that for an apple.
I took my leave, for I could not bear to think of what I had done, and most particular, that they had lost the fire. Ma came with me to the door and laid her hand on my shoulder. ‘Maggie, you are not to fret. Alfie cannot help it. He’s a good boy, but life is hard for him. Try to understand.’
I thought, my life is hard, too, but who understands that? Who understands me? Of course there is no need, for I am Maggie Robins. The clever one. The fortunate one. The favoured one.
The door closed. I stood in the dark street outside the house that was no longer my home, listening to the voices of the family I was no longer part of. I thought, yes, I am Maggie Robins, and I am clever and fortunate and favoured. But most of all, I am alone.
The Wednesday of the meeting I thought I should go mad. First Cook had a turn and could not walk for feeling dizzy and feverish. Mrs Roe said she should go to bed and she would make her a poultice. I was desperate I should have to cook the lunch and dinner and help Miss Sylvia, but Mrs Roe said I need not do so. She would fry up some chops for herself and the master and they could make do with the cold bacon and some pickles for their supper. I was heartily grateful for Cook had said I must be sure and polish the fender in the parlour and lay a neat fire and wipe the windows over with vinegar and water as well as all my usual chores.
At four o’clock Miss Sylvia returned from college. When Mrs Roe explained that Cook was ill the very first thing she did was boil a kettle and take her in some beef tea, although Mrs Roe had twice sent me up with soup and some porter ale, which Cook had drunk to the last drop, declaring all the while that she would be dead by morning. I did not think this likely as she asked if I could bring her some of the visitors’ jam pastries, for she fancied they might cool her head.
Then Miss Sylvia and I set to making sandwiches, enough for an army. There was paste and beef brawn and chopped egg and salmon. Next we made scones and some syrup cakes and a great jug of lemonade, and I laid out plates and glasses and little pretty bits of cloth for them to wipe their hands on. Mr and Mrs Roe dined early and retired to the parlour which was a great blessing, although Mrs Roe kept coming out to see if we needed anything and kept suggesting things, till in the end we wished she would go away and leave us alone to our muddle.
At seven o’clock the doorbell chimed. Miss Sylvia ran up the stairs to change her dress and came back within a minute but it was all buttoned wrong.
The first lady to arrive was very old. I thought she might have been a queen or something once for she was so stiff and noble and wore only black lace in her hair which was quite white like a snowball, and her hands were all crinkly and had brown spots on them like a tiger. I was very afraid, but when she had been shown a chair and was settled she seemed contented enough and took a glass of lemonade. Next came a very smart lady, though somewhat stout, who spoke most kindly to me, asking my age and how many children my mother had at home. I replied, ‘Four, ma’am, with one in the grave and one in the making,’ at which she gave me a very kind smile and said she hoped I was happy here.
More ladies came, most old like Mrs Roe but a few of Miss Sylvia’s age. They wore fine pretty garments and all had hats, though some were smarter than others. Last of all came Miss Christabel and Mrs Pankhurst and with them a tiny woman in very dull clothes but with the most sparkling dancing eyes and a laugh like a string of cans clattering.
At nine o’clock I took up the refreshments. The ladies looked mighty pleased to see me. I do not know what they had been speaking of, but they were very pink-cheeked and Miss Christabel leapt up from her seat when I entered, crying, ‘Manna from heaven, eh, Maggie?’ To which I replied, ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, it’s mainly sandwiches.’ Everyone laughed and I wished I had never spoken. Miss Sylvia came to my side and said in a nice still voice, ‘Maggie has positively slaved to get this ready for us. I am very grateful for her help,’ whereupon they fell quiet and gave me many smiles. I think, perhaps, ladies are nicer than men.
Three Wednesdays the ladies have now met at our house. Cook is recovered and we have served them anchovy toasts, as well as stuffed pigeons’ eggs and meat pâté with mustard and lemon sherbert. I think maybe I should cease reading so many recipes to Cook as she is getting more and more wild in her endeavours and sometimes poor Mr Roe looks quite bilious when I put a dish in front of him.
I asked her once what she thought the ladies talked of in their meetings and she screwed up her face and said it was mad things and not something I should be concerned with, but she is softer now since I gave her the jam pastries, and so I asked her over and over, and in the end she confessed that the meetings were all to do with votes. I was not overly sure what they might be, but Cook explained that men could choose who should govern them, but women could not. And Mrs Pankhurst and her daughters were foremost in protesting this. Then I thought back to how Miss Sylvia had asked me about brains, and it seemed to me that maybe she was not completely mad.
Last evening a strange thing happened. I had taken in the spiced pork tartlets and kippered slices and was about to fetch more lemonade when a discussion amongst the ladies burst into quarrelling. I had taken no heed of the talk till all at once they grew so heated. Miss Christabel uttered something of working women, whereupon Mrs Despard (she who, I think, was once royal) said firmly, ‘But do you not see, Christabel, that these women are useless to the cause? They cannot reason, they cannot debate. They simply work, give birth and die. How can they advance us in any way?’
Miss Christabel rose to her feet and looked Mrs Despard strong in the eye. ‘Without them
we are nothing.’
Then another lady with a very fine hat trickled her fingers into the air. ‘Christabel, think. Think how hard we have tried to persuade these creatures to stand by us. I agree with Mrs Despard. They are useless. They cannot think, they will not think. All our efforts are wasted in that area, as well you know.’
There was a horrible silence, then Miss Sylvia who had not spoken till then, held up her hand. ‘I should like, if I may, to ask Maggie why she thinks it is that working women will not support our cause.’
I felt quite sick, and held my peace, staring all the while at the tray I held. All fell quiet and I continued in silence, hoping mainly that I might die on the instant and so not have to answer.
Miss Sylvia, seeing this, rose and came to my side. ‘It’s all right, Maggie. You have nothing to fear. These ladies would like to know why so few working women – women like your mother, perhaps – are not interested in furthering their rights. In making a better world for themselves and their children.’
One of the ladies clapped. ‘Exactly. How can they not see how much their support is needed? Why are they so…feeble?’
I looked at her, with her fine hat with soft grey feathers and thought about Ma with her yellow skin and the bruises rising from where Alfie kicked her.
‘I think, ma’am, perhaps they are very tired,’ I said.
Miss Sylvia wishes me to attend the next ladies’ meeting. Cook looked very black when I told her and muttered about how was she to feed so many and make dinner for the master and mistress on her own? Was she a miracle worker? No. I said I would do all my work in time but still she rumbled on till I began to think it would be simpler to tell Miss Sylvia I could not go. I do not know that I would like it anyway. Particularly if I am to be questioned and held to account, but it is hard not to be a little interested for they are all such lively glittering souls; even Mrs Despard who looks as she could saw through iron with just one glance.
It is my belief that Cook fears I will be persuaded to the ladies’ thinking, but how could I be since I understand nothing of it, apart from men being cleverer than elephants, but even that I wonder about, since the animal book said elephants could remember for a hundred years and I’m sure no man alive could boast as much. Pa cannot mind where he has put his pipe ten minutes ago, and Mr Roe is forever asking where his slippers are.
Just when I had decided I should not attend, Mrs Roe came trotting into the kitchen and said, ‘I hear you are to be with us this evening, Maggie. I am so pleased,’ after which neither Cook nor I could dispute it, but it was a heavy day for me in the kitchen.
The evening was quite the strangest of my life. First of all I opened the front door to the ladies and took their coats as usual, all wet and smelling like mouldy cats for it had been pouring rain all day; then when they were settled I had to hurry up the stairs and join them. My heart was pumping ready to burst but Miss Sylvia drew me to a seat between her and the tiny lady with the clattery laugh, who immediately clasped my hand saying, ‘Well, Maggie, welcome. I am Mrs Drummond.’ She had such a funny way of talking that I feared she spoke a foreign language and, knowing none myself, stayed silent.
Mrs Despard talked a great deal in a fine ladylike voice and I understood not a word. It was all of education and ideals and symbols and the like and it seemed to me that some others of those present were also a little confused.
Just when I was wondering whether I could slip away unnoticed back to the kitchen, there was a heavy knocking on the door below. I hurried down to open it. There stood a woman, not old but drably dressed. Before I could ask her business she pressed past me, flung off her cloak which was drenching wet, and rushed up the stairs. I hastened after her, not knowing if I should first call the master for I did not think I could manage to force her out myself.
When I arrived my shock was even greater, for the person was being warmly embraced by Miss Christabel and several of the company. Miss Sylvia led me towards her. ‘Maggie, this is Miss Annie Kenney. A true friend of the cause.’ The person turned, smiled at me a great flashing beam of a smile and shook my hand like she was wringing out the washing. ‘Pleased to meet thee, Maggie,’ she said. ‘Looks like you and me are in it together.’ I had no faint idea what she might mean, but she seemed so cheery and had hold of my hand so hard, I thought it best to smile back at her for fear she would twist it off.
When everyone had settled once more Miss Christabel rose. ‘I have some excellent news. Sylvia has pulled it off. We have tickets for the Albert Hall. James Keir Hardie has excelled himself.’ She waved some slips of paper. ‘Annie here and Teresa Billington are to represent us. And, better still, Annie is to sit in a minister’s box.’ There was a general murmur of delight and admiration. ‘Now, who can lend her the clothes?’ Various of the ladies offered to produce whatever was necessary. I listened amazed, for it seemed to me a very strange thing that a poor working woman, as she plainly was, should be given tickets to the play and dressed up like Cinderella by ladies who would, you suppose, walk past her in the street.
Then came the biggest surprise of all. Miss Christabel turned and gave me a wonderful sparkling smile. ‘Of course Annie will need a maid,’ she said, looking straight at me, ‘and who better than Maggie? She will be quite perfect, I’m sure.’ My mouth came open like a codfish. The other ladies all nodded their heads approvingly. ‘Good. That’s settled then. We’ll discuss the details later. Sylvia, how are the banners progressing?’
Miss Sylvia said they were all but finished but her room was now so packed full she had no more room for storage. I thought if ever I were called on to speak, it should be to agree on that score, but I was not and it seemed I had been forgotten again, for they went on to talk about letters to the Prime Minister. Mrs Drummond said she could lay hands on a typewriter which made the ladies squeak with joy. Frank has seen one and says it is the finest thing. Nearly as good as a gun.
There was much talk of rallies and again the ladies began to complain about supporters. I feared I should be examined again, but luckily Miss Annie quite snuffed out their moaning. ‘Leave it with me. I shall sort out a regular crowd,’ she said, all purposeful, and Miss Christabel nodded and looked most satisfied.
When the ladies had left Miss Sylvia helped me put the room to rights. After a while she asked, ‘What did you think of the meeting, Maggie?’ I said I was not sure.
‘Are you happy to go with Annie to the Albert Hall? You do not have to, you know.’
I was surprised at this for I had thought Miss Christabel required me to most positively. As if she guessed, Miss Sylvia added, ‘My sister can be very pushy when she wants something done. You are under no obligation to put yourself at risk, however slight.’
‘What risk would that be, miss?’
She shrugged her shoulders, ‘None, really, since you would not be involved and so could not be blamed for whatever occurs.’
My heart ran cold. ‘Is it a…bad play, miss?’
Miss Sylvia looked truly confused. ‘What play, Maggie?’
‘That we are going to see. At the Albert Hall.’
She began to laugh. ‘It’s not a play, Maggie. Although it may end up like one. It’s a political meeting. There, I’ve told you enough. The more you know, the more you are complicit, and we have no right to drag you into something you do not fully understand.’
‘I don’t understand it at all, miss, but I should like to go to the theatre with Miss Kenney, only…’
‘Yes?’
‘Miss Kenney is to wear fine clothes to the Albert Hall.’
‘Yes, indeed. She is to sit in a minister’s box.’
‘And am I to sit in it, too?’ thinking it must be a very large box.
‘You are.’
‘So must I wear this dress?’
Miss Sylvia fair shook with laughter. ‘Don’t worry, Maggie. We’ll find you something nice, too. Fit for a lady’s maid.’
I was never so happy.
Next day Cook, although pr
etending not to care, asked me what had occurred at the meeting. I was not sure how much I should tell, although no one had said I must not and Cook has been very kind to me, for all her black days. I said there had been a great deal of talking of things I could not follow, but there was to be a visit to the Albert Hall and I was to go in attendance on one of the ladies. I did not say it was a dressed-up working girl for I know Cook would sniff herself blue at the very thought.
Miss Sylvia looks very tired. She works long hours at the art college and then late into the night in her room. Now my portrait is done I cannot sit with her on Saturdays, although she lets me read her books still and sometimes when I am choosing one she asks me what I thought of the last. At first I would say, ‘Very nice, miss,’ or ‘I liked the pictures,’ – dull things like that, but then she would ask me what I liked about them and I would have to think. Sometimes, after I had thought, I realised that maybe I did not like them so much after all. They were too plain or too fussy, too unreal, even. Then Miss Sylvia’s face would light up and she would nod happily, as though it was a good thing not to praise everything just because someone has made a book of it. So little by little I am learning, not just about dresses and ribbons and all the things I used to dream about, but a whole new world, for there is so much stuff in them. Birds and animals, kings and queens, foreign lands, stars, oceans… Words, so many words, like a great road stretching before me into a distant land, a road I long to travel.
If ever I do marry I shall make certain my man can read, else we shall do nothing but quarrel and make babies, like married people do.
I wonder how Ma is going on. Although we did not agree on one thing when I was living there, I find there is so much I should like to ask her and speak to her about. My chest is nearly like a woman’s now; even with my new dress, it shows out. The bread boy tried to feel it when I opened the door to him the other day. I hit him on the ear and he swore something awful. I don’t know what I shall do if it gets much bigger. Cook’s is down round her belly and I do pray that will not happen to me. I have wound a length of muslin around me, back and front, but it is wicked tight, and besides I shall have to return it come Thursday for that is when Cook plans to make her jam.
Crooked Pieces Page 3
