Suffragette Girl

by Margaret Dickinson

  As they sat over their tea, Mrs Atkinson said, ‘Word’s goin’ round, miss, that you’re going to nurse our lads at the Front.’

  ‘Maybe, Mrs Atkinson. I haven’t heard yet if I’ve been accepted, but if I can get some training and they’ll let me go . . .’

  The woman nodded and gave a weak smile. ‘Oh, they’ll take you, miss. I don’t doubt that.’

  A little later as Florrie got up to leave, she took hold of the woman’s careworn hands. ‘If there’s anything – anything – we can do for you, you let my grandmother know. Promise me!’

  Mrs Atkinson nodded and her voice was husky as she said, ‘Thank you, Miss Florrie. And – and if you see my boy out there, you’ll take care of him, won’t you?’

  The poor woman had no inkling of how vast the theatre of war would be, but Florrie nodded and said quietly, ‘Of course I will. And try not to worry. I don’t think they’ll send him abroad yet and, if the newspapers are right, it’ll all be over by Christmas.’

  The woman smiled thinly, but did not answer. Her fear outweighed her hope.

  Twenty

  Florrie itched to be gone, though Isobel, caught up in the flurry of wedding preparations, was unconcerned.

  ‘Once the Hon. Tim’s gone, Florrie dear, I’ll be only too delighted to have something to do. It’ll take my mind off worrying about him. And Lady Lee has promised to speak to one of her friends in the Red Cross about arranging for us to do some nursing training at one of the London hospitals. She’ll let us know as soon as she has something to tell us.’

  But no news came from Lady Leonora, and Florrie was still at Candlethorpe Hall when James arrived home unexpectedly one Friday afternoon at the end of September.

  Clara cried at the sight of him. ‘Oh, my darling boy! You’re so thin and pale. Are you ill? Aren’t they feeding you properly?’ She hugged him to her and sent for Cook at once to discuss the most nourishing meals they could devise to ‘build the boy up’.

  ‘But build me up for what?’ he muttered when he and Florrie were alone in the former nursery.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ she frowned, concerned too by his thin face and anxious eyes.

  ‘For war,’ he said flatly.

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s as bad at school as it is here – with Father,’ he blurted out, tears in his eyes. He brushed them away, embarrassed at such an unmanly display of emotion, even in front of his beloved sister.

  Florrie drew him to the sofa and held his hands. ‘Tell me,’ she said gently.

  He leaned his head against her shoulder and sighed. ‘More than half the sixth form have volunteered already and with the headmaster’s blessing.’ James was now in the Lower Sixth. ‘Can you believe that? He says it will bring glory and honour to the school. I think he wants a plaque in the school hall bearing all the names of the fallen and everyone paying homage to it,’ he added bitterly.

  ‘And you’re feeling pressured to go too?’ Florrie said softly.

  ‘What with Father and – and all the chaps at school. . .’

  ‘What about the rest of the sixth form? Are they all going to volunteer?’

  He nodded miserably. ‘The talk in the common room was of nothing else. Several said they’re going to volunteer at half term. They’re – they’re not even going to wait until Christmas.’

  ‘And what did the Head say?’

  ‘Patted them on the back and wished them well. Told them that somehow he’d see that there’d always be a place for them back at school when they’d done their duty – “Done the honourable thing,”’ he said.’

  ‘But you can’t go,’ Florrie cried. ‘You’re much too young. You don’t want to go.’ She paused and twisted round to look directly into his eyes. ‘Do you?’

  James bit his lip and lowered his gaze. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

  ‘Then why?’ She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. ‘You’re thinking of volunteering just because Father and the headmaster say it’s what you should do? Is that it?’

  When he didn’t deny it, she said, ‘Oh, James, that’s ridiculous. Stand up to him – to them both.’

  ‘I – I tried. Before I went back to school. B-but Father said I was being cowardly. And that’s the feeling around school too. Even those that haven’t actually done it yet – they’re all talking about the day they’re going to. And if a chap doesn’t join in . . .’ He faltered and stopped, but Florrie understood. ‘And – if I can’t stand up to him – to them – then I must be a coward.’ He laughed wryly. ‘Whatever I do.’

  Florrie sighed and squeezed his hand. ‘Not really. Grandpops evidently didn’t stand up to his father. Gran told us, didn’t she? That didn’t make him a coward, now did it?’

  James shrugged as if he didn’t know how to answer. ‘But he isn’t here any more to understand me – to help me.’

  ‘No.’ Florrie smiled suddenly. ‘But Gran is. She’ll stick up for you and so will I. And I’m sure Mother will too,’ she was unable to keep the doubt out of her tone now, ‘in her own way.’

  ‘I think Gran’s changed her mind,’ James’s tone was flat.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘I – I think she agrees with Father now.’

  ‘Agrees with Father?’ She gaped at him. This was a first. She grabbed her brother’s hand and pulled him up. ‘We’ll see about this. Come on.’

  Down the stairs from the old nursery and along the landings until they came to Augusta’s sitting room. So angry was she that Florrie forgot to give the usual courteous knock and barged into the room unheralded.

  Augusta was sitting in the window seat, looking out over the front garden watching Ben Atkinson rake up the leaves on the lawn. The boy was leaving the following day for training camp. At the sudden unannounced intrusion, she turned. She opened her mouth to admonish her grandchildren, but, seeing at once the look of agitation on Florrie’s face and the fear in James’s eyes, she bit back the retort.

  ‘Is James right in what he says?’ Florrie burst out.

  Augusta glanced back out of the window once more as she said quietly, ‘That rather depends on what he’s been telling you.’

  ‘That you agree with Father? That he should volunteer?’

  Her gaze still on the boy on the lawn below her window, Augusta said slowly, ‘Young Ben has volunteered. Caught up in the passion of the moment at a recruiting rally on the sea front.’ She was pensive for a moment, remembering the day she had spent there with Florrie, James and Gervase. Despite the cloud of war hanging over them, they had managed to make it a happy, carefree day.

  ‘I know all that,’ Florrie cried impatiently. ‘But there’s nothing we can do about it now. It’s done. But this is James we’re talking about.’

  Augusta continued to look out of the window.

  ‘Grandmother – about James.’ Florrie released her hold on James’s hand and moved towards Augusta, leaving her brother standing where he was just inside the doorway.

  Florrie, her gaze still on her grandmother’s face, sank on to the window seat beside her. ‘I don’t understand. When all this started, you said – you said James should finish his education before even thinking about it.’

  Augusta sighed and then held out her hand towards James. ‘Close the door, my dear, and come and sit with us. Let’s talk this through.’

  The young man did as she bade him and then sat on a footstool facing the window, whilst Augusta and Florrie sat on each side of the seat, facing each other.

  ‘Now, what is it that you don’t understand?’ their grandmother asked.

  Florrie glanced at James, but when he made no effort to explain, she spoke for him, telling Augusta all that he had told her about the patriotic fervour at school, egged on by the headmaster. ‘Father is calling him cowardly because he won’t volunteer. And – and he seems to think you might be agreeing with him now. Gran, James is only sixteen.’ She leaned forward earnestly. ‘He has his whole life in front of him.’ She b
it her lip, glanced again at her brother, apology in her eyes, but it had to be said. It had to be voiced aloud. ‘You’ve seen the casualty lists in the paper already. And we’re scarcely two months into the war. It’s carnage out there. “A Bloodbath at Mons” – that’s what the papers called it. Our troops were forced to retreat two hundred miles as far as the River Marne.’

  ‘But they saved Paris,’ Augusta murmured.

  ‘So – are you really telling me you want James to go into that?’

  Augusta was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t look as if this war is going to be “over by Christmas” like they’ve been saying. I’d hoped they were right, that if we hung on, James wouldn’t even be faced with such a dreadful decision.’ She reached out and ruffled his hair fondly. ‘But, you see, if it goes on for – for a while, they’re going to have to bring in conscription.’

  Florrie glanced at James, but he was resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers linked, his gaze on the floor.

  ‘Conscription?’ she asked. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘All men between certain ages are called up to go into the armed forces. To – to refuse is classed as an act of cowardice and punishable. Either prison or – or worse.’

  ‘My God! What is this country coming to?’

  For once, her grandmother did not check the girl’s blasphemy. Instead, she sighed heavily. ‘I don’t want James to go any more than you do. But if he doesn’t volunteer, then it’s likely he’ll be called up anyway eventually.’

  ‘But it might all be over by then. And surely they won’t call anyone up who’s still at school, for Heaven’s sake!’

  Augusta looked out of the window once more. ‘Your father’s view is very simplistic. If Ben Atkinson – the son of one of his tenants – can go, then the son of the biggest landowner and employer in the district should do no less.’

  ‘But James is the only male heir to the Maltby estate.’

  Augusta faced her squarely. ‘Hence his ambition for you to marry Gervase Richards and provide him with a grandson. He still hasn’t given up that hope entirely.’

  Florrie gasped. ‘How – how,’ she searched for the right word, ‘calculating of him! Doesn’t he care about either of us?’

  ‘In his way, I’m sure he does. But pride and tradition and the family’s good name are everything in Edgar’s eyes.’ She sighed as she added in a whisper, ‘Everything.’

  Florrie couldn’t ever remember having felt so shocked about anything in the whole of her young life. It was not what Augusta had said about their father’s attitude – she’d expected as much – but never in a million years would she have anticipated that their grandmother would agree with his sentiments.

  As if still needing, yet at the same time fearing, to hear the words from her own lips, Florrie said, ‘And – and is James right? Do you agree with Father now?’

  Augusta was silent for a long moment, still gazing down at Ben. Slowly she turned to look at them both, glancing between them, her fond gaze resting on them in turn. ‘I can understand your father’s reasoning.’ As Florrie opened her mouth to argue hotly, Augusta raised her hand and her face broke into smiles. ‘But, no, of course I don’t agree with him. I don’t think James should volunteer. I think he should wait until he has to go, whatever it looks like to other people.’ She cocked her head on one side and said impishly, ‘Florrie, how could you ever think any differently of me? When have I ever cared for the opinions of others?’

  ‘Oh, Gran, Gran! I knew it!’ Florrie flung her arms around the older woman. ‘I knew you wouldn’t be so – so heartless.’

  ‘Now, now, I can’t have you implying such a thing about your father,’ her grandmother admonished, but her eyes were twinkling as she added slyly, ‘But you seem to be forgetting, Florrie dear, that your idol, Mrs Pankhurst, is in favour of the war. That’s why you find yourself at home once more, isn’t it? Fidgeting because you’ve nothing useful to do.’

  ‘Yes,’ the girl admitted.

  ‘And Emmeline Pankhurst always advocated any means by which to achieve one’s aims? Even violence?’

  ‘Well – in a way.’

  ‘So why are you against our country defending itself?’

  Florrie blinked. ‘Oh, I’m not against the war,’ she said blithely. ‘I just don’t want James to go, that’s all.’

  For a moment there was silence between them as Augusta and James glanced at each other. Then they both burst out laughing.

  ‘What? What have I said?’ Florrie demanded.

  ‘Oh, my dear girl,’ Augusta said, wiping the tears of laughter from her eyes. ‘Never mind gaining the vote for women – you should be Prime Minister.’

  Twenty-One

  Florrie hoped the matter of James enlisting would end there and she was thankful to wave him off on the Monday morning to return to school. But the same night, as the family was rising from the dinner table, the ladies to the drawing room and Edgar to his study to smoke a cigar and drink brandy, they heard the noise of a pony and trap drawing up outside the front door.

  ‘Now, who on earth can that be at this hour?’ Edgar muttered crossly. He enjoyed his solitary hour in the study after dinner and hated interruptions to the routine of the household.

  Bowler opened the door as the family crowded into the hall.

  ‘James!’ Clara hurried forward, her arms outstretched. ‘What’s happened? Has there been an accident? Are you hurt?’

  Florrie sought her brother’s face as he moved into the light. There was a strange mixture of emotions in his expression: triumph and yet a dreadful fear too and, worse still, a sense of the inevitable.

  Clara was still gushing over her son, but Florrie gripped her grandmother’s arm and whispered, ‘Oh, Gran, he’s volunteered. I know he has.’

  Florrie was right and, whilst Clara dissolved into floods of tears and Edgar patted him on the back and called for Bowler to open a bottle of champagne, Florrie and Augusta looked on, their hearts clutched with foreboding.

  ‘Well, that’s it, then,’ Florrie muttered. ‘I’m not waiting any longer for Lady Lee to get in touch. Tomorrow, I’m going back to London.’

  ‘You can’t. It’s Isobel’s wedding in two weeks’ time. Surely you hadn’t forgotten?’

  Florrie sighed. ‘Yes – for the moment – I had.’

  The date had originally been fixed for the beginning of December, but the Hon. Tim had received notice that he was to report to military college at the beginning of that month. The date of their marriage had therefore been brought forward to the second Saturday in October so that they could have a few weeks together as man and wife before he had to leave.

  ‘You can’t let her down. She needs you here. There’s so much to be done before the big day and, my dear,’ Augusta put her hand on Florrie’s arm, ‘when Timothy goes away, she’ll need your support more than ever. How about waiting until he’s gone and you can go back to London together?’

  ‘You’re right. That’s what I’ll do. It’s not as if we’ve heard from Lady Lee yet. In the meantime . . .’ They exchanged a solemn glance as they watched Beth help a wailing Clara into the drawing room.

  ‘Oh, James, James – how could you?’ she cried, with the desolation of a mother believing her boy is going to certain death.

  ‘My dear boy,’ Edgar was saying, even putting his arm around James’s shoulders in an unusual expression of affection. ‘I’m so very proud of you.’

  Augusta wriggled her shoulders. ‘Well, there’s one good thing, Florrie. With him being so young, his training to be an officer might take a long time. Hopefully long enough that he won’t need to go to France at all.’

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ Florrie muttered grimly.

  But both Florrie and her grandmother were in for another shock. Too young to enlist for officer training, James had joined the ranks. Once he’d completed his basic training, he might be sent to France at any time.

  The weather was kind to Isobel and Tim on the
ir wedding day – cold, but fine and bright. Bixley Manor, nestling in a vale, lay on the edge of the Lincolnshire Wolds, about six miles from Candlethorpe Hall. In front of the large, square Georgian house was a lake with a pair of swans that nested there and reared their young. The ground then rose gently to a small church, built some generations earlier by the Richards family and attended too by all those who lived on the estate, workers and tenant farmers alike. It was a friendly congregation – like one big family – and the vicar from Bixley village who took the services was a benevolent father figure to them all. In turn they adored and revered the merry, white-haired gentleman. On the day of Isobel’s wedding, the little church, crammed with family, friends and estate workers, was so crowded that a few had to cluster round the church porch and eavesdrop through the open door.

  Everyone was determined to put all thoughts of the war aside. They resolutely ignored the disturbing news that Antwerp was under heavy attack from the enemy as both sides tried to race to the sea and command the Channel ports. Instead, the wedding guests vowed to enjoy the young couple’s special day. Everyone except Clara, who found such strength of will quite impossible. She spent the day with a handkerchief pressed to her lips and tears streaming from her eyes every time she looked at James.

  ‘Iso – you look lovely,’ Florrie said as they finished dressing together. She stood back to make sure that Isobel’s veil was firmly in place. Despite the anxiety that hung over everyone and the austerity that would surely come, Gervase had insisted the wedding should be traditional. Isobel’s oyster satin gown had a fitted bodice embroidered with French knots, a high neckline and long, narrow sleeves. The front panel of the straight-cut skirt was also decorated with French knots, and a narrow train hung from the back of the waist.

  Isobel laughed merrily. ‘There’s no need to sound so surprised.’

  Florrie laughed too. ‘I wasn’t. I’ve always told you, you’re a handsome woman, but today there’s something special about you.’

  ‘Aren’t all brides supposed to look beautiful on their wedding day? Even the ugly ones?’