by Vicary, Tim
I am carrying a child that no one wants, she thought. I am twenty-eight years old, a married woman with a son, a fine house in Ireland, a brother-in-law who is an MP, and I am as terrified as any sixteen-year-old chit of a servant girl would be!
More, perhaps, because I have more to lose.
No, that’s not right. A servant girl would have everything to lose, just as I have. It’s just that my everything is bigger.
Towards morning she dozed, and dreamed of Charles. In her dream she told him about the baby and he slapped her across the face. Then he took a knife in his hand and walked up to a photograph on the wall. The photograph was like the big wedding photograph of the two of them in the church porch, except that in the one in her dream she was in her bridal dress but hugely, grossly pregnant, and she thought Dear God, no! He’s going to slash the picture of me and tear the baby out of my stomach! But he didn’t.
He slashed the picture of himself in the photograph instead.
Deborah screamed and woke up and thought, why did he do that?
It’s just like what Sarah did. Turned the knife on herself, slashed a picture of a woman. But why?
Towards morning she found herself thinking more and more of the knife that Sarah had used. She wondered how big it was, what it would feel like in her hands. She imagined Sarah going down the steps in this house, creeping into the kitchen before cook was awake — how early would that be? — taking the knife, hiding it. If it was a big knife, how would she carry it in her clothes? What would it feel like, to walk along the street with a carving knife hidden under your coat, ready to take it out and slash a picture with it?
A beautiful picture of a sensual woman. Naked, lovely — the way she herself must have appeared to Rankin.
It seemed to her an image of madness, of nightmare. Like something out of that horrible play Macbeth she had once seen. But even then, surely, the men had wielded the knives. And the women had gone mad . . .
When at last she fell properly asleep she did not wake up until ten o'clock, and when she rang for breakfast, a maid brought the Observer in with her breakfast tray.
She turned to the centre pages and saw the headlines.
THE ARMING OF ULSTER
Volunteers' Night Surprise
Stunned, she read the reports. The Ulster Volunteer Force, it seemed, had successfully landed some 20,000 rifles and three million rounds of ammunition. The police had been completely fooled, and had apparently spent most of the night trying to gain entry to the holds of a ship which contained only coal. The British Army had done nothing.
Charles, she thought. He has done this. There will be war.
She got up, agitated, and dressed herself without eating breakfast. I must do something, she thought, but what? There isn't anything really for me to do. He won't want me there now, especially not with the news I have to tell him. But he might be killed . . .
She was astonished to find that she actually cared. After all, he had been away so many years, and might have been shot at any time in some battle in the far side of the globe. But this was different, somehow. If there was war in Ulster it might involve her home, Glenfee, and her son Tom — he would be in the middle of it too. Even with the horrible, nagging guilt of the baby inside her she felt she belonged there, not here.
But first there was Sarah . . . After all, she had come to help her.
She went downstairs and was relieved to find Jonathan working quietly at his desk in the library. He got up as she came in.
‘Ah, good morning. You have seen the news, I take it?’
‘Yes. Astonishing, isn't it?’
‘Indeed. Your husband has really excelled himself this time.’
There was a hint of sarcasm in Jonathan's tone which she did not like. Once, it would have attracted her — it went with the pose of the suave, successful lawyer and politician, the man who was at the heart of things and could afford to despise the uncouth efforts of soldiers and colonials. But her view of him had changed. However much of an arrogant fool Charles is, she thought, at least he is not afraid to act for what he believes in. And he is still my husband. For a few more weeks at least.
However, Jonathan was more likely to know what would be in the government's mind. ‘Do you think there will be war?’ she asked.
He frowned, sat down, lit a cigar. ‘It is certainly a great deal more likely than it was a couple of days ago,’ he said. ‘I can't imagine what your husband's friends are thinking of. To an extent, the Unionists have had the public's sympathy so far, but this is hardly likely to increase that. Landing guns bought in Germany, of all places, to threaten civil war!’
‘But would Asquith dare to send in troops against the Ulster Volunteers?’
Jonathan blew a smoke ring, still scowling. ‘He's a cautious man. He will be angry, of course, but he will want to solve it by talks if he can. And there is the question of whether the troops would go if he sent them.’
‘So Charles may have called his bluff?’
‘Hardly! I would have thought the boot is on the other foot. It is the Unionists who are bluffing. A handful of men like that cannot expect to hold the rest of the country to ransom, however many guns they have. After all they are only rifles, not machine guns or artillery.’
‘They have some of those already,’ Deborah said, softly. As she spoke she felt the hairs rise slightly at the back of her neck, as they had when she had first seen the newspaper. She had known, of course, that there was a possibility of civil war for some time. The papers were full of it. But, like Jonathan, she had thought it was all hot air, a bluff, until today. Now she realised it was not. The whole province of Ulster could become a battlefield overnight, with smoking, shattered houses, maimed bodies, homeless children . . .
Charles is a soldier, he won't shrink from it. I should go home, to try to persuade him to take care.
She had a vision of his lean, patrician face looking down at her coldly, as he had done that day in his bedroom. In front of that smooth unpleasant young man Simon Fletcher. Why should I expect him to listen to me, she thought. He won't even treat me like a wife!
Jonathan got up and strolled elegantly across the room to rest his elbow on the mantelpiece above the fire. He smiled.
‘Anyway, I have other news that may interest you. Good news this time.’
‘Oh? What's that?’
‘I met Martin Armstrong yesterday. You know, the doctor I introduced you to at Holloway. He has seen Sarah.’
Deborah shuddered as she remembered that man. There had been something . . . gross, overbearingly smug about him somehow. If she had been ill he would have been the last person she would have allowed to touch her. She wondered why Jonathan liked him.
‘Thank goodness! How is she?’
‘Quite well, apparently. The great thing is, Martin had a talk with her, and persuaded her to give up her hunger strike. Sarah's started eating!’
‘Oh!’ Deborah was amazed. There were many things she did not agree with Sarah about, but she had always respected her sister's determination. And she was not opposed to the hunger strike in the same way that she opposed Sarah's other militant activities. After all, it was non-violent, and it embarrassed men. In her present mood she thought there was something almost attractive, appealing about it. A form of self-denial, a way of punishing yourself and furthering the cause at the same time. Like a hair shirt.
If I starved myself, would that make Charles forgive me? It might kill the child — oh God, I don't want to do that!
But Jonathan seemed pleased with this news about Sarah.
After all, Deborah thought, it would mean she was in less pain. ‘So it is good news, then?’ she said.
‘Yes. Yes, in many ways I suppose it is. Of course it is good news.’
Deborah observed her brother-in-law curiously. He turned casually, and flicked some ash from his cigar into the flames of the fire behind him. He seemed a little anxious, guilty almost, as though he wished she were not there.
&nbs
p; ‘Sarah is eating and co-operating with the authorities,’ he said. ‘That is good news, marvellous news. Though I agree, it is strangely out of character.’
He laughed softly to himself, in a way that she remembered from when she had first met him. She had liked that laugh then. It had seemed to suggest he found the world amusing, and knew a number of fascinating secrets about it which he might share, if he chose. Now she found it merely irritating.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Sarah has never been one to give in easily.’
‘No. But Martin — Dr Armstrong — said that he had persuaded her she was injuring herself to no purpose. He must have a silver tongue, that man.’
‘Do you trust him, Johnny?’ After yesterday's meeting with Rankin, Deborah thought there was no man left in the world whom she could trust. Except possibly Charles. At least he was straightforward, and predictable. And about as sensitive as a stone.
‘Trust him?’ Jonathan glanced at her in surprise, then looked away, into the fire. ‘Yes, of course. Why should I not?’
‘Oh, I don't know. He's not — exactly my sort of man. Too full of himself, I thought.’
‘That's just his manner. I've known him quite a while now. He's a doctor, he understands — what people need.’ Jonathan glanced at her again, searchingly this time, as though trying to read her mind. Then he stood up abruptly and crossed the room to pour himself a drink.
‘So when can we see her, Jonathan?’
‘We can't. That's the worst of it. Not until she's been inside a month, Martin says. Prison regulations.’
‘But that's monstrous! You mean she can't have any visitors at all for a month?’
‘Not if she's confined in the third division. She'll probably have to work, too, cleaning floors and so on. I can't see Sarah doing that willingly, can you?’
‘Certainly not!’ Deborah stood up, and walked across the room distractedly. She pressed her forehead against one of the cool windowpanes, thinking. She had so many troubles of her own, now. She had not known life could be so difficult. Last night she had thought she might as well die, just throw herself into the Thames. But she couldn't do that, because of her baby. A few minutes ago she had thought she should go back to Ireland, to be with Tom, and Charles, in this time of danger. But she had come to London, after all, to be with her sister. And there was something very strange in this news about Sarah.
‘Jonathan, I can't believe this. It's all wrong from beginning to end. I can't understand it!’
‘What can't you understand, Debbie? It's simple enough, isn't it? My good wife took it into her head to slash a famous painting with a carving knife, and as a result the courts of this country sentenced her to prison for six months in the third division. After a brief flirtation with self-starvation she has come to her senses enough to eat and obey the prison regulations, and as a result she will learn how to clean floors and wash dishes or whatever else they do. In just under a month I shall be able to go to see her. Meanwhile I have to arrange to see that odious little jack-in-office at the National Gallery to pay for the repairs to his painting. That's all there is to it. End of story.’
He tossed back his brandy and turned away to pour himself another. How bitter he is, Deborah thought. Suave. Self-assured, like all men. But bitter. Even callous.
Callous?
‘Johnny, you can't mean that!’
‘Can't mean what?’ He held the brandy between himself and the fire, admiring the morning sunlight through the glass. It's very early in the day to be drinking, she thought. She crossed the room towards him.
‘You can't mean that this is the end of the story! That you're not going to do any more to help her.’
‘What else can I do?’ Jonathan looked at her in surprise, one eyebrow raised, mocking. ‘Do you want me to break down the gates of Holloway with a hammer? Lead a march of suffragettes to storm the place like the Bastille?’
‘No, of course not, but . . .’
‘But you would like to do just that, wouldn't you?’
‘Don't be silly. I'm not a suffragette. But Johnny . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I would like you to care!’
‘Oh.’
Jonathan stepped away from her very deliberately, and stood with his back to the fire. There was still a trace of that charming, elegant smile on his face. But his voice was harsh, bitter.
‘You think because I face facts that I don't care, do you? That because I accept that Sarah is a responsible woman who has brought all this upon herself that I somehow don't love her, is that it?’
‘I didn't . . .’
‘You haven't had to live with her, Deborah! You haven't had to put up with being constantly ignored, blamed for any and every illness or setback that she and all other women have suffered. You haven't had your advice scorned, your help thrown back in your face. Damn it, I even voted for the female suffrage once! Never again. Anyway for Sarah it wasn't nearly enough. Because they don't get the vote straight away, because the Prime Minister has to take other matters into account — there are other issues in politics, you know — she has to turn everything against me. She blames all men, it seems to me. She actually enjoys throwing herself into prison by committing these outrages which are the very opposite of peaceful democratic persuasion. Why can't she see that?’
‘Johnny, I . . .’
‘And even that's not the worst! When I offered her sympathy and love she turned against me — do you realise she believes the miscarriages were my fault? She's said that, you know — she even turned me out of her bed! I'm only a man, Deborah — I'm only human!’
As I saw the other night, Deborah thought coldly. She watched as he slammed the brandy glass down on the mantelpiece, and thought, this is another play for my sympathy. I might have fallen for it once. Not any more.
She said: ‘She wanted those children desperately, Jonathan. Perhaps, when she had the miscarriages, it hurt her more than you know.’
Jonathan shook his head, bewildered. ‘I know it hurt her, of course it did. It hurt me too. But that's no reason to reject me in that way. You're not saying she took up all this militancy because of the miscarriages, are you?’
‘No. I don't know, Johnny, how can I know? I've never talked to her about it. But it is a terrible thing to do, to take up a knife like that and slash a painting — a painting of a woman! I think I sometimes think that our minds are not always in our own control, you know, especially for us women. Giving birth is such a hugely emotional matter that when you want it and it doesn't happen . . .’
Jonathan laughed, mockingly. ‘That is the most convincing argument for not giving women the vote that I have ever heard!’
Deborah flushed. ‘Well, perhaps it is. I don't care. I only meant that — maybe that is one reason why Sarah has turned against you. She wanted babies and couldn't have them, so maybe she put all her energies into getting the vote instead. That doesn't mean it isn't a good idea for women to vote — it's just the reason why Sarah is so passionate about it, perhaps.’
‘It's hardly the same thing though, is it? Babies and the vote?’
‘No, but — women aren't always entirely rational, are they? And before you say it, men aren't either. I expect even you do things sometimes for reasons you don't fully understand, don't you? Like the other night.’
Jonathan was silent for a moment. A log fell in the fire and as he bent to pick it up with the tongs she saw again those lines by his eyes that she had noticed on her first day in London. Without looking at her he said: ‘Yes, perhaps. I've already said I'm sorry for that. I suppose I do.’
‘Well, then. You must be patient with her. Even more than you have been already.’
He picked up the poker and jabbed viciously at the logs, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
‘I tell you I have been patient with her, Debbie. More than you can know. A lot of men in my position . . . ' He hesitated, then seemed to change his mind. 'Well, anyway, patience is what I was talking about at th
e beginning, wasn't it? The prison authorities have said Sarah cannot receive any visitors for a month, and so far as I can see, there is nothing whatsoever that I can do about that except be patient, as you suggest. So that is what I intend to do. What else do you want?’
‘I don't know.’ Deborah took a deep breath. ‘But whatever happens, I intend to stay here until I can get into that prison to see her. She's my sister, after all, I owe her that. And I hope that you can help me.’
Jonathan raised an eyebrow. She had the impression that he was surprised, perhaps, to see her so determined Surprised, and also a little uncomfortable. As though he would prefer she were not there.
‘Well, yes, of course. If you can find a way past the prison authorities where I have not, then good luck to you. But I warn you, it may mean that you will have to spend the rest of the month in this house. So long as you can put up with my company that long, you are welcome.’
19
TWO DAYS later Deborah came down to the breakfast room and noticed a letter propped in the middle of the table, with her name on it. She helped herself to some bacon, eggs, and mushrooms from a silver tureen on the sideboard, warmed by a small spirit lamp, and opened it.
It was from Charles.
Glenfee
Monday 27th April
My dear Deborah,
I felt I should write to you because you will surely have read in the newspapers of the highly successful landing of guns here, and will want to know that all went well with the men under my command. I am happy to tell you that they could not have behaved better. On the night of the 24th April . . .
There followed a long, detailed account of the gun-running at Bangor. Deborah read it with surprise and intense interest. Many of the facts she had already gleaned from the newspapers, but the pride and excitement with which Charles told them gave them new life. It could so easily have gone wrong, she realised. It still could, if all this leads to a real shooting war.
