The Suffragette's Secret: A Morton Farrier Short Story (The Forensic Genealogist Series)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Morton pondered the statement ‘of psychological origin’, another whitewash term that could be used to cover up any effect of any type of harsh prison treatment. His growing fears about the conditions of the prison and Grace’s incarceration persisted when he turned to the next page—a further series of reports on the suffragettes at Holloway. Among them, he found Grace.

  Daily Report on: Grace Emmerson

  What is the physical and mental condition of the prisoner? Both satisfactory. She strenuously tries to make any examination impossible by wriggling. She will not be weighed jumping all the time on the scales.

  Is the prisoner taking food voluntarily? No

  If not, is the prisoner refusing both a) food b) water, and what sorts of food have been offered to the prisoner? Refuses a) and b) coffee, milk, cocoa and anything else

  General conduct? Fair

  General remarks in the case of a prisoner refusing food? Forcibly fed by means of the oesophageal tube twice daily with milk, eggs, Valentine juice and Benger’s food. Dr W. Hilton-Parry assisting.

  Awful, Morton thought, as he stared at the sheet. To go to prison for your beliefs was one thing, but to be held in a sub-standard cell and force-fed twice a day was quite another.

  He worked his way through to the end of the file, finding no further mention of Grace, but plenty of additional mistreatment of other suffragettes. The succeeding pages made for uncomfortable reading: letters between prisons and the Home Office seeking confirmation on the force-feeding of suffragette prisoners on hunger strike. Young women. Old women. Pregnant women. Sick women. This was the ugly underbelly of the lauded, banner-carrying marches that history liked to recall. Morton’s eyes glazed over and he thought of his daughter. His brain, befuddled from the horrendous details which he had been reading all morning, began to superimpose her in the position of these women. Her face was blurred, but inside, he knew that it was her.

  A tannoy announcement joggled him out of his reverie. Even though he pushed the absurd notion from his mind and looked back down at the file on the desk in front of him, his heart continued to feel doughy, as though he had just had a premonition into the future.

  He needed a break. He looked at his mobile—lunchtime already.

  Heading back out through a security check, Morton descended to the ground floor, where he purchased a large coffee and a tuna mayonnaise sandwich. He sat alone at a small round table that overlooked the entrance to the archives and the lake. He wanted to phone Juliette, just to hear her voice and to know that they were both okay. The uncomfortable feelings which he had felt upstairs lingered in his gut, accentuated by an enhanced sense of his separation from wife and daughter. He sent her a text message instead, polished off his coffee and sandwich, then headed back up to the Document Reading Room.

  He spent some time completing the file, increasingly understanding more about the plight of the suffragettes. In 1913, in response to growing public disapproval of force-feeding prisoners, the government changed tack by introducing a new law. Force-feeding desisted. Instead, when the women became dangerously ill from being on hunger-strike, they would be released from prison and re-arrested the moment that they became well again. The Cat and Mouse Act, as it became known.

  Morton swapped the file for the one containing details of Grace’s first arrest. The folder was thick, yet the mention of Grace was thin, adding nothing more about her arrest for incitement than that which he had gleaned from the online newspaper report. The third of the Ancestry-referred documents was as scant as the previous. It detailed Grace’s conviction, which included identifying personal details and the sentencing for pouring ink into the pillar boxes, but offered no other new information.

  He switched to another Home Office document that referred to the Brighton branch of the WSPU, but, after more than an hour’s searching, had found no specific references to Grace. It was the same in the next two folders. By the time document-ordering had ceased for the day, Morton had found nothing more of her. It was curious that following her release from Holloway in 1911, someone as militant and defiant as Grace should suddenly became a model citizen with no further arrests. Perhaps, he thought, she had continued but simply not been caught.

  Just getting into his own house was like a scene from the Mission: Impossible films. Having managed first to avoid the clanking metallic symphony from his absurdly large bunch of keys, he successfully pushed the door open so slowly as to eschew the mournful groan that usually accompanied anything resembling normal door-opening speed. Then, just as he was ready to step inside, a gaggle of noisy teenage girls appeared at the bottom of Mermaid Street and he had to pull the door shut and start again. Ultimately, he entered the house, set his bag down and carefully closed the door. The house was silent and he wondered if they had all gone out. He tiptoed into the lounge. Margot was sitting on the sofa, reading a magazine. ‘Hi,’ he whispered.

  Margot gave a yelp. ‘Oh my word! Where did you spring from?’ she gasped, throwing a hand to her chest. ‘You’ve almost given me a coronary.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Morton murmured. ‘Wasn’t sure who might be asleep.’

  ‘Both of them,’ she answered with a smile, standing up and pulling Morton into a tight squeeze. ‘It’s lovely to be here, Morton.’ She had put on a little weight since he had last seen her, but had yet to update her wardrobe accordingly; her light jeans and white blouse revealed more of her lumps and bumps than she had probably intended. She’d had her hair styled recently by the look of it and dyed a chestnut brown.

  ‘Nice to have you,’ he responded, not entirely truthfully. Glancing around the room, he caught sight of some subtle changes which he knew to be Margot’s handiwork. ‘How’s the baby been today?’

  Margot closed her eyes and clasped her hands together, as if recalling some amazing exotic holiday. ‘A treasure—an absolute treasure. And, we think we’ve come up with a name! You’ll love it!’

  ‘What is it?’ he asked cautiously, not liking having been excluded from the process.

  Margot lowered her voice. ‘Don’t tell Juliette I told you, will you?’

  Morton shook his head, though of course he was going to tell her.

  ‘Matilda!’ she exulted.

  ‘Matilda?’ Morton repeated, looking around the room for the baby name book. They couldn’t possibly have finished it all today in his absence. Matilda Farrier. He didn’t not like it, but he just wasn’t sure it suited her. ‘Matilda.’

  ‘Lovely, isn’t it,’ Margot breathed. ‘It’s German for powerful fighter.’

  ‘I see,’ Morton said, not particularly enjoying the mental image that his brain was conjuring up of his daughter’s face on a centurion’s body. ‘Where did my shortlist go?’

  Margot waved her hand. ‘I threw it away—lot of old nonsense. What were you thinking?’ she asked, delving her hand into the bin and pulling out a scrunched-up piece of paper.

  This wasn’t going to help.

  ‘Cloud, Cookie, Countess, Day, Diamond, Dragana, Ecstasy, Elton and Fudge? Really?’

  ‘They were joke ones,’ he answered.

  ‘Very amusing,’ Margot replied, tearing the paper into pieces and tossing them back into the bin. ‘Now, would you like some dinner? I’ve just cooked up a batch of shepherd’s pie and potted them up in individual portions for the freezer. Would you like one?’

  ‘Yes, please—thanks,’ Morton said, his mind still evaluating the name that his mother-in-law seemed to have bestowed upon his daughter. Matilda. He wasn’t sure. All he could think of was the Roald Dahl book. From what he could recall from his primary school days when he had last read it, she was a nice enough character. Maybe the name would grow on him.

  ‘Here you go,’ Margot said, presenting him with a plateful of pie. ‘Enjoy.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, watching her float from the room. Evidently, she had other more important things to be getting on with, which suited him fine. He pulled out his mobile and began to scroll through the photographs which he ha
d taken at The National Archives.

  Then Margot unexpectedly reappeared, plopping a supermarket hessian jute bag down onto the table in front of him. ‘A present.’

  Morton looked at her quizzically.

  ‘My grandmother’s bits and pieces—that’s the lot, I’m afraid. The contents of this bag have come down through the women of the family—from gran to my mother to me. Juliette then Matilda will have it.’

  Morton’s eyes suddenly lit up. ‘Oh, wow!’ He set down his knife and fork, pushed the plate to one side, then pulled the bag closer. He felt like Grace was one of his own close family now and he was eager to delve into the contents of the bag.

  The first thing that he pulled out was an old photo album. Morton opened it to see that the first picture was of a middle-aged man and lady, smiling at the camera behind a large white cake. Below it, the caption read, ‘The Silver Wedding Anniversary of Cecil and Grace Barwise, 1936.’

  It was the first time that he had seen Grace—or Cecil, for that matter. She wasn’t how he had imagined her to be. The lady in the photograph, with small round spectacles, was elegantly dressed with a delicate, gentle face and warm smile; she looked the polar opposite of a woman who had struck the Prime Minister before being dragged off by police and locked up in Holloway where she had to be force-fed.

  Cecil, moustached with dark oiled hair seemed stolid, statesmanlike.

  Margot leant over his shoulder. ‘Ah, my lovely grandparents.’

  ‘What do you remember about them?’ he asked, turning the page to see more snaps of the gathering.

  ‘Well, I was quite young…maybe around ten when grandad died, so my memory of him is a little sketchy. He was very quiet…would spend most of his time pottering down his allotment or messing about in the garden. He liked an ale or two down the local with his mates. Granny, I think, died when I was in my early twenties, so I’ve got a better recollection of her. They both doted on my mum. She was their only child, then, when my brothers and I came along, they fawned over us, too. After grandad died she came to stay for long holidays, Christmases…that kind of thing.’

  ‘What was Grace like as a person?’ Morton enquired.

  Margot smiled at whatever thoughts were being brought to mind. ‘Just lovely. Very caring, attentive. We never disobeyed her: there was something about her that commanded respect without her ever having to ask for it. I don’t once recall her raising her voice or telling us off and yet we were good as gold for her.’

  ‘Did she ever talk about her younger years?’

  ‘Not too often. I remember her talking about the war—the Second World War—she was retired by then but they called her back to the railways. There she was in her early sixties driving trains to and from London. She told me a few tales about being dive-bombed by Messerschmitts and the like—I’ll have to get my thinking cap on if you want exact details. Apparently, she was one of the first female train drivers in the country. Or county, I forget which. And she loved her baking and sewing—she was always knitting or making cushions, blankets.’

  ‘Anything about being a suffragette?’ he probed.

  ‘I know she definitely was one because the moment I reached eighteen she drummed it into me that I absolutely had to vote. She didn’t care who for—just that I went down and put an ‘X’ in one of the boxes.’ Margot laughed. ‘I remember replying that there wasn’t any point; the ones I wanted stood no chance of getting in and she actually got upset. For the first time that I could recall, she cried. Then she sat me down and talked about some of the things she and her friends had to do to get the vote.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, the usual: marches, speeches, posting leaflets through doors. That sort of thing. All pretty tame by today’s standards.’

  Morton laughed. ‘Not pouring ink into letter boxes, hitting the Prime Minister, getting arrested and put into Holloway and force-fed, then?’

  Margot looked at him strangely then laughed. ‘No, she wasn’t that type of a lady.’

  She’s in for a shock once I’ve completed my research, Morton thought.

  ‘So, anyway, I’ve always remembered that and have voted in every election since. I’ve switched sides a few times, but always voted one way or the other. What’s with the sudden fascination with my gran, anyway?’

  It was an interesting question. Given the amount of work which he had put into merely fleshing out Grace’s life, his grand plan of documenting the lives of all of Juliette’s recent ancestors now seemed a ridiculous prospect. ‘She enthrals me,’ he answered honestly.

  ‘Oh, right.’

  He flicked through the entire album, planning on photographing it at a later point, then, setting the album to one side, Morton delved into the jute bag and retrieved something that put a smile on his face: Grace’s silk sash. Given its age, it was still in remarkable condition. The words VOTES FOR WOMEN were in bold black letters on a white background, bordered within two stripes, the inner one green and the outer purple. ‘Wow,’ Morton said again, holding it up. In one corner was sewn in small lettering, ‘Miss Emmerson’.

  The image of Grace in his mind was now complete. He could see her right now, outside Downing Street wearing this sash, her face resolute and determined as she accosted Asquith.

  Margot reached into the bag, pulled out a framed photograph and passed it to Morton. It was clearly Grace, although taken many years before her silver wedding anniversary. She was young, with short 1920s-style hair and a dark feather boa draped over her shoulders. At the neckline was a small brooch that looked like a grid with spikes on the bottom. Morton had some recollection of seeing this type somewhere before. ‘Do you know anything about that brooch?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, it’s in here, actually,’ Margot said. She withdrew a very old yellow tin from the bag.

  ‘Keen’s Genuine Imperial Mustard,’ Morton observed. ‘That must be a good hundred years old.’

  ‘Never mind the tin, it’s what’s inside,’ she said, prising off the lid. ‘Here we go.’ She handed Morton the exact same brooch that Grace was wearing in the photograph. It was silver; well made. Now that he had it in his hands, he could see that it was clearly a portcullis. In the centre was an upward-facing arrow comprised of three parts, each part one of the colours of the suffragette’s cause. He grabbed his mobile and quickly Googled the brooch.

  ‘Designed by Sylvia Pankhurst, the brooch was awarded to members of the WSPU who had been imprisoned. Described as ‘the Victoria Cross of the Union’ the design is of the Portcullis symbol of the House of Commons, the gate and hanging chains are in silver, and the superimposed broad arrow (the conflict symbol) is in purple, white and green enamel.’ Morton read.

  ‘Imprisoned?’ Margot questioned. ‘Surely not?’

  ‘I’ll tell you more later—Grace is who I’ve been researching today at The National Archives—but briefly, yes, she was arrested. Several times.’

  Margot seemed genuinely shocked. ‘I just can’t believe it of Granny. She was so quiet and unassuming. Golly. Well, you’re the expert, so if you say so.’

  Morton nodded. ‘I’ve got pages of documents that prove it. I’m going to present it all to Juliette once it’s finished.’

  ‘That’s a lovely idea,’ Margot said, taking a gold locket from the tin and passing it to Morton. ‘Grace’s parents are trapped inside, whom I know nothing about whatsoever, before you ask. They look quite well-to-do, though, wouldn’t you say?’

  Morton took the locket and levered it open. In the left-hand oval was a painted miniature portrait of a lady gazing out to the left. She was well dressed with dark hair and dark eyes, bearing a stark resemblance to Grace. In the opposite oval was the painted portrait of a gentleman wearing a black jacket and high-necked white shirt. He was young, handsome and was looking straight out, his blue eyes meeting Morton’s. ‘Grace’s parents, you say?’

  ‘So my mum told me, yes,’ Margot confirmed.

  Something didn’t quite fit with the portraits, but he cou
ldn’t put his finger on the problem.

  ‘Last of all,’ Margot announced, ‘is this clipping.’ She slid a neatly cut, sepia newspaper cutting across the table.

  Morton read it aloud: ‘Barwise-Emmerson. On 18th November 1911, Cecil Barwise, second son of Mr Walter Barwise of Brighton, to Grace Emmerson, only child of the late Mr and Mrs Ebenezer Emmerson of Brighton.’

  The top of the paper drew Morton’s attention. ‘Argus’ The cuttings were taken from the Brighton Argus, which, he realised now, were not online. The other stories which he had read about Grace’s exploits had been from other county newspapers. What else might the Brighton papers contain about Grace? he wondered. Given that he already wanted to look into the suffragette goings-on at Sea View in Victoria Road, Brighton, a trip to East Sussex Record Office was now a necessity. ‘Can I keep hold of these bits for a while?’ he asked.

  Margot took a moment to answer. ‘Maybe now’s a good time to pass them on to Juliette. I know they’ll be well looked after, here.’ She smiled and clasped her hands together. ‘Yes, this is their new home.’

  ‘We certainly will cherish them,’ he answered sincerely.

  ‘Then one day they’ll belong to little Matilda,’ Margot said.

  ‘Yes,’ Morton replied, still not sure that he wanted to give his daughter that name. ‘Just out of interest, Margot, where did you put the 60,001 Best Baby Names book?’

  ‘One of the bookshelves in your study. I had a bit of a tidy up in there—hell of a mess—I don’t know how you get anything done.’

  Morton inwardly groaned.

  Chapter Seven

  29th September 1911, Brighton, East Sussex

  Grace noticed the figure walking up Victoria Street towards the house. She was certain that it was him. She released the net curtain that was bunched in her hand, allowing it to fall back over her bedroom window. Her view now partly obscured, she leant closer and squinted hard. Yes, it was certainly him: Cecil—returned to check up on her again. She smiled at his persistence as he drew closer to the house. Then she noticed the bunch of flowers that he was holding and her smile widened and lit her eyes.