Sophie tried to hide her shock. She had never had her hand shaken by a female before.
Dodders turned to Doris.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Sophie. ‘This is …’ she was going to say ‘my maid’ but something stopped her ‘… Doris Green.’
‘Wonderful to meet you, Miss Green. May I call you Doris? And you Sophie, Miss Higgs? We’re all on first-name terms here. Come and I’ll get you aprons.’
‘I saw the Workmen’s Friendship Club sign as we came in.’
‘I know, it’s a bit wobbly. None of us is an artist.’
Sophie stared at the simmering pots. ‘You provide meals for workers here?’
Dodders looked at her speculatively. ‘And their families. And … other things too. It’s stew and bread and scrape at night, bread and cocoa for breakfast. It’s the only food some of the children around here see. Oh, thank you,’ to an older woman who handed her the required aprons. Sophie fumbled as she put hers on, she had never worn an apron. She saw Doris resist the instinct to help her with the bow.
‘This is Mrs Henry Fordyce, but call her Lizbeth. Lizbeth, two more recruits —’ (Are we? thought Sophie) ‘— Miss Higgs and Miss Green, Sophie and Doris. Doris, could you help peel the vegetables? Sophie, would you mind going on the bread table?’
She’s wondering if I’ve ever sliced bread, thought Sophie. She smiled at the memory of Miss Lily’s teatime lessons.
‘Stir the cocoa too, or it catches. The mugs are over there … Mrs Gibbs, how good to see you.’ Dodders darted towards the door again. At first Sophie thought Mrs Gibbs must be another volunteer — or someone else who had been shanghaied into helping like them, as dexterously as any white slaver would. But one look at the woman’s face, her darned hem, the two children clinging to her skirt, told a different story.
‘Sophie, this is Mrs Gibbs, and these are Billie and Jenny. Sophie is going to give you some nice cocoa and bread and dripping till the stew is ready. Thank you,’ she added to Sophie, who somehow managed to fill three mugs without spilling more than a few dribbles, and passed them over.
An hour later the room was full. It smelled of damp and river mud; of sweat and desperation. Children with dribbling noses and grimy faces; men with swollen red ‘gin noses’, who looked at the floor, not even muttering thank you for the swede and turnip stew, the slabs of bread and dripping. The women rarely spoke, even to each other — they came, they accepted what was offered, they ate and then they left.
Sophie looked at the knot of children in front of her trestle. Five of them, from knee high to twelve years old, perhaps. Had that hair ever been combed? Faces the brown of grime, clothes the grey of repeated washings or years of fading, stringy colourless hair; the only colour in the whole room seemed to be the dresses of the servers and the yellow light, now that the gas lamps had been turned on.
She hated it. Hated the smells, the hopeless faces, the children who grabbed and never gave their thanks. The children in her father’s factory had been hungry, but they’d never had the quietness, the hopelessness of these. At least her father’s employees had food and sunlight. These people knew nothing but this stretch of laneway and the river. Even their accents were almost impenetrable.
She had talked to the labourers at Thuringa and Shillings. But these shrunken, slum-twisted people …
… were people. What would Miss Lily say? Try to think like them, be like them, feel what they are feeling.
She looked at the child in front of her again. A girl with a wizened monkey face and already rotting teeth, the too-long skirt rucked up with a piece of rope. How many adults had worn that dress, for how many years, before this child was given it? The girl stretched out both hands, red and scarred from chilblains, to take the mug.
What did she feel? Hunger, thought Sophie, and I’m giving her food. Hopelessness, but I don’t have any hope to give her. Drabness.
The girl seized the cocoa, then rubbed her sleeve across her running nose.
‘Here.’ Sophie pulled her handkerchief out of the almost invisible pocket Madame had sewn into her skirt.
The girl looked at the scrap of lace and linen with a look of disbelief. She touched it with one shining finger, then grabbed it and ran for the door.
‘It’ll be in a pawnshop by breakfast time,’ said Doris. She looked shocked, and wary too. She laundered and ironed that handkerchief, thought Sophie, and keeps count of the numbers and state of all my linen.
‘Have you any more?’
‘Handkerchiefs, miss?’
‘Yes. Please, Doris.’
Doris looked briefly mutinous, then reached into her larger pocket and brought out three: two obviously spares in case Sophie needed them, and one without lace and less neatly hemmed, with a D embroidered in one corner.
Sophie handed it back to her. Doris put it away. ‘My sister Dorcas gave me that for Christmas. But them, those others, miss, that’s Belgian lace at four guineas a length.’
Sophie wished she had brought money with her. Ladies did not carry money. Even the ‘pin money’ she had for tipping servants would be a fortune here.
She met Dodders’s eyes. Dodders nodded, satisfied. ‘Lady Mary said you’d be a good ’un.’ She shrugged. ‘We can give them food, but what they need is real change: housing projects, health clinics, schools. Decent jobs with decent wages.’
‘Don’t you worry none about jobs, miss.’ The man was tall, thin, and had only three teeth. ‘We’ll have jobs soon enough when we attack the Kaiser.’
War, thought Sophie. It’s not a matter of if now. It’s when.
She kept cutting bread. At least there was no need for thin slices here. The thicker the slices the better. Doris stood by her side, now the swedes and turnips had been chopped, slathering on dripping, which smelled of rosemary.
Sophie wondered which kitchen it had been collected in. Would Her Grace’s kitchen supply dripping if she asked? Or was that something a guest might not ask her hostess? Alison would know.
But on Saturday her Mouse would be married. For the first time, she realised how Alison’s marriage might affect her too. No more after-dance confidences; so many house parties Alison simply wouldn’t attend.
It’s not fair, thought Sophie. I’ve only just found a friend. I don’t want to lose her already.
Nor could she see herself coming back here, to cut bread and butter. Yes, these people deserved her help. But her money could do that far more efficiently than her hands. She should be feeling happy to be of use, especially when her life consisted of the dinners and parties of the season. But if Miss Lily was correct, this season might lead to another life, with far more purpose. Her hands were worth, what, a shilling a week?
‘Sophie?’ Dodders was at her side again. ‘There are some people I’d like you to meet.’ She smiled. ‘We won’t be long, Doris.’
Doris looked uncertain, clearly knowing her place was at Sophie’s side, but just as clearly too used to obeying orders to object. Sophie followed Dodders curiously.
The room at the back of the hall was smaller, containing twenty or so chairs arranged in a circle. Only two were vacant. The women in the others were well dressed, though only two others as fashionably as Sophie. This group was not part of the ‘six hundred first families’ of England.
‘Sophie Higgs,’ said Dodders shortly, waving Sophie to a chair. ‘Lady Mary vouches for her.’
The others scarcely looked at her. She and Dodders had evidently interrupted a heated discussion.
‘But the workers want war.’ The woman who had spoken wore a white shirt and tie under her cloth coat. ‘Giving working men the vote will make things worse. Only the educated should have a voice. Men and women.’
‘You mean rich women. If men are to fight a war, they have the right to vote as to whether there should be one.’ This speaker’s accent pronounced her as upper class, as did her shearling coat.
‘Palmerston said it best,’ argued the first speaker. ‘“What every man and woman too have
a right to is to be well governed and under just laws.”’
‘Every man?’ said Dodders disgustedly. ‘I bet those women out there don’t want their sons going off to war.’
‘Just starving here?’ The third speaker wore pantaloons and a jacket just long enough to hide the way her nether garments divided below her hips. ‘That’s what I was saying before. We need to educate the workers before they get the vote …’
Sophie sat, fascinated. Words flashed past her … an even more passionate discussion about whether the group should stay with the Women’s Freedom League, or participate in direct action with Emmeline Pankhurst’s ‘Deeds not Words’ Women’s Social and Political Union; whether they should focus on women’s rights, or on votes for all.
‘Don’t you see?’ said Dodders passionately. ‘The Labour and Liberal Parties will never agree to female suffrage if it just means getting more Conservative voters.’
‘Karl Marx says —’
‘Don’t bring that man into it,’ said Dodders heatedly. ‘There’ll never be a workers’ revolution in England.’ She turned to Sophie. ‘Miss Higgs, is it true that all men and women in Australia have the vote, even those who don’t own land?’
‘Yes,’ said Sophie, then stopped as Doris appeared at the door, looking both determined and terrified.
‘Miss, it’s time to go. The carriage is here.’
Sophie shook her head. For the first time since she had left Shillings, she was with a group of women with whom she felt a true bond. Women who were doing something with other women, not waiting for a man to shape their lives.
‘Her Grace will be waiting for you, miss.’ Doris’s voice was urgent.
Doris might get into trouble if she were late. And it would be discourteous and ungrateful to prevent Her Grace from honouring an invitation she’d accepted, to an event she might even be looking forward to, for she certainly wouldn’t go before Sophie returned.
Dodders stood. ‘Lady Mary said you’d need to leave early. I’ll see you out.’
Which decided the matter. They slipped out a back door, into the full stench of the river again. ‘We’re not usually as scatty as tonight,’ said Dodders. ‘The talk of war’s got everyone on edge. There’s some decent work going on here. Night classes for everyone, men, women and kids — most of the youngsters work around here. The bloated capitalists don’t have to pay them much.’
What are ‘bloated capitalists’? thought Sophie as she stepped towards the opened carriage door.
‘And there’s the lending library, and the Support for Mothers, and the Marie Stopes Clinic. Contraception for the working class is so important …’
‘Miss,’ said Doris, pleading. Sophie stepped into the carriage.
Dodders peered up at her. ‘You’ll come again?’
It had been fascinating to see the world from such a different perspective, although it was impossible not to feel that James Lorrimer’s insights were far deeper than those of the women she had left. But this evening had also shown the possibilities of friendship beyond Mouse, Hannelore and Miss Lily.
Suddenly she liked Dodders enormously. Trusted her enough to say, ‘You need decent organisation. All that arguing. Why not just break into groups to do what you are best at, instead of everyone having to agree? And why waste educated women’s abilities on slicing bread?’
‘To feel solidarity with the workers,’ said Dodders.
‘Which is more important — privileged women like us learning “solidarity” or actually getting the most done for the most people?’
Dodders stared at Sophie, her smile growing. ‘Is that what you’ll tell us, next time?’
Yes, there would be a next time. Sophie nodded. ‘It may take a few weeks, or even more than that before I’m free to come again.’ She grinned. ‘In the meantime I’ll send a cheque so some of the women who come here for bread can be paid to slice it instead.’
Dodders held out her hand. Sophie took it, suddenly no longer finding it strange to shake another woman’s hand. ‘You’re on,’ said Dodders.
Chapter 38
I am against the new fashion for brides to wear white. It implies the girl is a blank canvas, to be designed and painted on by her husband after the ‘one crowning hour’ that is her wedding. Too often the symbol mirrors the reality.
Miss Lily, 1914
1 AUGUST 1914
The Times lay on the table at breakfast. Sophie refused to look at it, even at the headlines. Today was Alison’s, not the Empire’s.
‘No regrets, Mouse?’ she whispered, so Ffoulkes didn’t hear as he brought in fresh toast.
‘No. Thank you, Ffoulkes. Could I have a kipper, do you think?’
‘Of course, Lady Alison.’ Ffoulkes left the room.
‘I’ll miss you,’ said Alison abruptly.
‘I’ll still be here when you get back from your honeymoon.’ Sophie didn’t say she had been feeling the same thing.
‘I just have a feeling that things are ending. Good things. I wish Hannelore could be here. I wish …’ Alison’s voice trailed off.
‘Darling Mouse, you don’t have to go through with it.’
‘I’m not scared of marriage to Philip. I’m scared I’m going to trip over my train, or get the hiccups when I’m supposed to say “I do”.’
‘I’ll take care of the train. That’s what bridesmaids are for. And if you get the hiccups, I’ll put a cold key down your back.’
‘Where will you get a cold key?’
‘I’ll tie one especially under my shoe for emergencies.’
‘Your kipper, Lady Alison,’ said Ffoulkes. ‘And may I say on behalf of all the staff, how happy we are that …’
The bride wore lace and an expression that was half terror and half happiness as she rested her hand on the arm of her cousin, the Duke of Wooten. Above them, royalty gazed down with practised smiles and eyes that only those who looked closely would find preoccupied. The groom also looked preoccupied at times, as well as happy. Alison had told Sophie that under the circumstances he had withdrawn his resignation from the Guards. He had been given only five days’ leave for a honeymoon.
One of the bridesmaids floated down the aisle like a swan, in pale blue deeply embroidered with crystal; the other four, Alison’s young nieces, walked with the happy anticipation of those who know they are on display, with their seasons yet to come.
This is it, thought Sophie. A season almost over; everything she had ever hoped for almost achieved.
She caught Emily’s eye from one of the pews, gave her a fraction of a smile and swam on. Emily too had succeeded. Her engagement had been announced the week before, to the Honourable Colonel Gilbert Sevenoaks. Not the most brilliant match of the year — had Emily wasted too many of her few months trying for James Lorrimer? Colonel Sevenoaks had wealth and breeding, but no political connections.
But I will have, thought Sophie, if I marry James Lorrimer. She had already asked him, carefully casual, what he felt about extending votes to all men, as well as women. He had both seen through her casualness, and given the answer she had hoped. ‘Universal suffrage may not be politically expedient. But it is just. And in the end, justice should prevail.’
She had a brief vision of Emily, sitting well below the salt at her dinner table, hoping for a glimpse of the world she hadn’t quite been able to enter. But perhaps this was just the first step in Emily’s campaign to raise her husband to prominence. Emily had been right about the need for England to mobilise; Sophie would need to acknowledge that somehow — at the reception later, maybe.
I will not think about the war right now, she thought. Just about today, and Mouse. Just happiness, for today.
She looked for James Lorrimer in the crowd, but he wasn’t there.
Chapter 39
When an animal comes into season it means mating, short and to the point. The London season is much the same, the girls briefly the subject of an enormous amount of attention. Few realise quite how brief their season is.
Miss Lily, 1914
The marquee was white, the champagne bubbly. Sophie sipped it cautiously. Her Grace had decreed that she could drink champagne now the season was almost over, a half-glass, no more, without risking censure.
It was three days after Alison’s wedding, and her host’s birthday — a second cousin of Alison’s. She wasn’t sure she even knew his full name. Nor, perhaps, did many of those here. His wife had organised the luncheon, or rather his wife’s secretary had, using the list of acceptables edited during the season, a list Miss Sophie Higgs was securely now on.
‘A beautiful hat, Miss Higgs.’
‘Mr Lorrimer! How lovely to see you.’ She carefully didn’t mention how many days it had been since she’d seen him last. He looked preoccupied, as though ‘Attend garden party, meet Miss Higgs’ had simply been on his list for the day, among many other duties. Even she could see England sliding into war: Sir Edward Grey, the Foreign Secretary, had tried to conciliate between Austria and Serbia and received a stern rebuke from Kaiser Wilhelm for his impudence in interfering with Austrian and German affairs.
Belgium had refused to allow German troops across its territory to invade France. If Belgium were invaded, England was bound by treaty to assist. Even attempts at peace were taking Europe closer to war. Yet Mr Lorrimer had still found time to be here.
‘I have a table under the trees.’ James Lorrimer was already moving her away from the crowd as neatly and quickly as a sheepdog might.
He held out a chair for her until she sat, fleetingly aware that her skirts had fallen perfectly. She could see hats, trimmed hedges beyond and the high bulk of the house.
‘I’d like you to see Halburton. My home.’ He spoke quickly and efficiently, not in the relaxed tones of a garden-party guest.
‘I would love to.’
James Lorrimer didn’t mean his London house. No Englishman she had met meant that when he said ‘my home’.
‘Next week, perhaps.’ He hesitated. ‘It depends on how things develop. I have checked with Her Grace. She says you are both free.’
Miss Lily’s Lovely Ladies Page 29
