by Pip Williams
I blushed deeper and dropped my head. If she noticed she chose not to say anything, and we walked for a while without talking. The surface of the stream was alive, and I felt the bite of a mosquito on the back of my neck. ‘How is the narrowboat, Till, now the weather has warmed?’
‘Oh, God. It feels like living in a sardine tin left out in the sun. We’re all a bit off.’
‘You’re welcome to stay with us, you know. I’m sure Da won’t mind the extra company.’ I offered, knowing she would turn me down again.
‘It won’t be for much longer,’ she said. ‘My deployment is almost over.’
‘You make it sound like you’re in an army.’
‘Oh, but I am, Esme. Mrs Pankhurst’s army.’ She made a mock salute. ‘The WSPU.’
‘I’ve started going along to some of the local suffrage meetings Mrs Murray and her daughters attend,’ I said. ‘And there are a number of men, though the women do most of the talking.’
‘Talk is all they do,’ Tilda said.
‘I don’t think that’s true,’ I said. ‘They produce a journal, and they organise all kinds of events.’
‘It’s all talk though, isn’t it? The same words over and over again, and what’s changed?’
I remembered Gareth asking why Tilda was really in Oxford. I’d long worked out that it wasn’t for me, but I thought maybe it was for her friend in the narrowboat. Now I realised it was something else altogether. But I didn’t want to know what.
‘How is Bill?’ I asked, not looking at her.
Tilda had mentioned Bill now and then. It was always fleeting and I was always grateful. But she would be leaving Oxford soon and I suddenly needed to know how he was.
‘Bill? That rogue. He broke my heart. He got some silly girl knapped and stopped being at my beck and call. I was furious.’
‘Knapped?’
She grinned. ‘I know that look. Do you still carry those slips of paper around in your pockets?’
I nodded.
‘Get one out then.’
We stopped walking, and Tilda laid her shawl on the grass beside the path. We sat.
‘This is nice,’ she said as I readied the slip and pencil. ‘It’s like before.’
I felt it too, but I knew that nothing would ever be like before. ‘Knapped,’ I said as I wrote it on the slip. ‘Put it in a sentence.’
She leaned back on her elbows and raised her face to the first day of summer. She took her time as she used to, wanting to get the quotation just right.
‘Bill got some silly girl knapped and now he’s a daddy, working all day and half the night to feed his squalling babe.’
It should have been obvious what knapped meant the first time she’d said it, but the newness of the word had made me deaf to the words either side of it. My hand shook a little as I finished the sentence.
‘He’s a father?’ I said, watching Tilda’s face. Her eyes remained shut to the sunlight, her jaw didn’t twitch.
‘Little Billy Bunting, I call him. He’s five years old. Cute as a button, loves his aunty Tiddy.’ She looked at me then. ‘He still calls me that, even though he can talk as well as anyone. He’s as bright as Bill was at that age.’
I looked at the slip.
KNAPPED
Pregnant.
‘Bill got some silly girl knapped and now he’s a daddy, working all day and half the night to feed his squalling babe.’
Tilda Taylor, 1913
Bill hadn’t told her about us. He had neither bragged nor confessed. It wasn’t the first time since giving Her away that I wished I had been able to love him.
Dr Murray called me over. ‘Esme, I anticipate your workload and responsibilities will increase over the next few months,’ he said.
I nodded, as if it were nothing, but I longed for more responsibility.
‘Mr Dankworth will be leaving us at the end of the day and starting with Mr Craigie’s team tomorrow,’ Dr Murray continued. ‘I believe he will be a great asset to our third editor. You know, better than most, how exacting he is.’ A twitch of whiskers and slightly raised brows. ‘Such qualities will go a long way to speeding up Craigie’s sections.’
Two pieces of good news in one conversation; I hardly knew how to respond.
‘Well, what have you to say? Is it acceptable?’
‘Yes, Dr Murray. Of course. I’ll do my best to fill the gap.’
‘Your best is more than good enough, Esme.’ He turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.
I was dismissed, but I didn’t leave. I chewed my lip and wrung my hands. I spoke in a rush before I could censor myself.
‘Dr Murray?’
‘Yes.’ He didn’t look up.
‘If I am to do more, will that be reflected in my wage?’
‘Yes, yes. Of course. Starting next month.’
It was clear that Mr Dankworth would have preferred to leave without any acknowledgement, but Mr Sweatman wasn’t going to let him. At the end of the day, he rose from his chair and began the farewells. The other assistants followed suit, each repeating general niceties and comments about Mr Dankworth’s eagle-eye. No one really knew enough about Mr Dankworth to say anything particular.
Mr Dankworth suffered our good wishes and handshakes, wiping his hand repeatedly on the leg of his trousers.
‘Thank you, Mr Dankworth,’ I said, sparing him the discomfort of shaking another hand and offering a small tilt of my head instead. He appeared relieved. ‘I’ve learned a great deal from you.’ Now he was confused. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t always show gratitude.’
Mr Sweatman tried to hide his grin. He coughed and returned to his place at the sorting table. The others peeled away. I tried to hold Mr Dankworth’s gaze, but he focused just beyond my right shoulder.
‘You’re welcome, Miss Nicoll.’ Then he turned and left the Scriptorium.
Soon after, Gareth arrived. He handed Dr Murray some proofs he’d been waiting for, acknowledged Da and Mr Sweatman, then made his way to me.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Mr Hart chose this afternoon to remind us all about the rules.’
‘The rules in his booklet?’
Gareth laughed. ‘They’re only the tip of the iceberg, Es. Every room in the Press has its own rules – surely you’ve seen them on the wall as you come in?’
I shrugged apologetically.
‘Well, the Controller thinks we’ve all been blind to them and made sure every one of us read them aloud before leaving this afternoon.’ He smiled. ‘As the new manager, I had to go last.’
‘Manager? Oh, Gareth, congratulations.’ Without a thought, I jumped up and hugged him.
‘If I’d known this would be your reaction, I would have asked for a promotion sooner,’ Gareth said.
Da and Mr Sweatman turned to see what the excitement was about, and I pulled away before Gareth’s arms could encircle me.
Flustered, I gathered my bag and fastened my hat. I went over to Da and kissed him on the head. ‘I might be home late tonight, Da. Mrs Murray said it could be a long meeting.’
‘I won’t wait up, if that’s alright, Essy,’ he said. ‘But I trust Gareth will see you home safe.’ His smile nudged fatigue aside.
As we walked down the Banbury Road, I told Gareth about my own promotion.
‘Well, not a promotion really – I’m still hovering on the bottom rung with Rosfrith – but it’s an acknowledgement.’
‘And well deserved,’ he said.
‘Why do you think men come along to these meetings?’ I asked.
‘Because the organisers of the Oxford Women’s Suffrage Society have invited them.’
‘Besides that.’
‘Different reasons, I suspect. Some want what their wives and sisters want. Others have been told to be supportive, or else.’
‘Which are you?’
He smiled. ‘The first, of course.’ Then his expression sobered. ‘My ma had a hard life, Ess. Too hard. And no say over any of it. I go to these meeti
ngs for her.’
It was after midnight when the meeting ended. We walked in a tired and comfortable silence back to Observatory Street.
I tried to hush the gate as I opened it, but it still let out a sweet note, disturbing a figure that I hadn’t noticed hiding in the dark.
‘Tilda, what on earth?’
Gareth took the key from me and opened the door. We ushered Tilda into the kitchen and turned on the light. She was a mess.
‘What’s happened?’ Gareth said.
‘You don’t want to know, and I’m not going to tell you. But I need your help. I’m so sorry, Esme. I wouldn’t have come, but I’m hurt.’
The sleeve of her dress was filthy – no, not just filthy, burned. It hung in charred shreds. One hand was cradled in the other.
‘Show me,’ I said.
The skin of her hand was mottled, red and black – dirt or burned skin, I couldn’t tell. My funny fingers prickled with some kind of memory.
‘Why didn’t you go straight to a doctor?’ said Gareth.
‘I couldn’t risk it.’
I searched the cupboards for ointments and bandages, but all I found were plasters and cough medicine. Lily would have stocked the cupboards better, I thought. And she would have known what to do.
‘Gareth, you have to get Lizzie. Tell her to bring her medicine pouch – something for burns.’
‘It’s long after midnight, Es. She’ll be asleep.’
‘Maybe. The kitchen door is always open. Call up the stairs; don’t frighten her. She’ll come.’
When Gareth had gone, I filled a bowl with cold water and put it on the kitchen table in front of Tilda. ‘Will you tell me what happened?’
‘No.’
‘Why? Do you think I’d disapprove?’
‘I know you’d disapprove.’
I asked the question I barely wanted the answer to. ‘Was anyone else hurt, Till?’
Tilda looked at me. A shadow of doubt, of fear, crossed her face. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
Pity rose in my chest, but anger overtook it. I turned away and pulled open a drawer, took out a clean tea towel and slammed the drawer shut. ‘Whatever it is you’ve done, what do you think it will achieve?’ When I turned back to Tilda, the doubt and fear had left her.
‘The government isn’t listening to all the eloquent, sensible words of your suffragists. But they can’t ignore what we do.’
I took a deep breath and tried to focus on her hand. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘A bit.’
‘Mine didn’t, so that’s probably good.’ I lifted her arm so her hand hovered over the bowl of water. When she resisted. I pushed it under. She didn’t complain. Giant blisters had deformed her fingers. Her whole hand had started to swell. Below the water, the charred and angry skin was magnified and shocking against the pale slenderness of her wrist.
‘I want the same things as you, Till, but this isn’t the right way. It can’t be.’
‘There is no right way, Esme. If there was, we’d have voted in the last election.’
‘Are you sure it’s the vote you have your eye on, and not the attention?’
She smiled weakly. ‘You’re not wrong. But if it makes people take notice it might make them think.’
‘They might just think you’re mad and dangerous. They won’t negotiate with that.’
Tilda looked up at me. ‘Well, perhaps that’s when the sensible words of your suffragists come in.’
The gate sang. I jumped up to open the door. Lizzie stood on the threshold, bewildered. She looked past me into the hall, and I realised it was the first time she had ever been in my home.
‘Oh, Lizzie, thank goodness.’ I closed the door behind them and ushered them towards the kitchen.
Lizzie barely acknowledged Tilda, but she took her arm gently and lifted her hand from the bowl of water. She laid it on the tea towel and blew the burned skin dry.
‘It might look worse than it is,’ she finally said. ‘Blisters usually mean there’s good skin beneath. Try not to pop them too soon.’ She took a small bottle of ointment from her leather pouch and removed the stopper. Gareth held the bottle while Lizzie spread the ointment over Tilda’s peeling skin, careful to avoid the blisters. Only once did Tilda draw a sharp breath. Lizzie looked to her then, their eyes meeting for the first time. Lizzie’s face was full of a concern I recognised.
She wrapped Tilda’s hand in gauze. ‘I can’t promise it won’t scar.’
‘If it does, I’ll be in good company,’ Tilda said, looking to me.
‘And you should see a doctor.’
Tilda nodded.
‘Well, then,’ Lizzie said, ‘if that’s all I’m needed for, I’ll be off back to my bed.’
Tilda put her good hand on Lizzie’s arm. ‘I know you don’t approve of me, Lizzie, and I understand why you wouldn’t. But I am so very grateful.’
‘You’re a friend of Esme’s.’
‘You could have said no,’ Tilda said.
‘No, I couldn’t.’ With that, Lizzie stood and let Gareth guide her back to the front door. When I tried to catch her eye, she looked away.
It was three in the morning when Gareth returned from walking Lizzie home.
‘Will she forgive me?’ I asked.
‘Funny, she asked me the same thing about you.’ Then he turned to Tilda. ‘There’s a train to London at six am. Do you think you should be on it?’
‘Yes. I think I should.’
Gareth turned to me. ‘Would your father mind if Tilda stayed here until then?
‘Da won’t know. He’s not likely to wake before seven.’
‘Do you have much that needs to be collected from the narrowboat?’ he asked Tilda.
‘Nothing that can’t be sent on, if Esme doesn’t mind lending me some clean clothes.’
Gareth put on his jacket. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours to walk you to the station.’
‘I don’t need a chaperone.’
‘Yes, you do.’
Gareth left. I tip-toed upstairs and found a dress that I thought Tilda could tolerate. It would be a bit long and barely fashionable for a woman like her, but needs must. When I returned to the lounge, Tilda had fallen asleep.
I put a rug over her and wondered when we would see each other again. I loved her, and I feared for her. I wondered if this was what it felt like to be a sister. Not a comrade – I knew I wasn’t that – but a flesh-and-blood sister. Like Rosfrith and Elsie. Like Ditte and Beth. I watched the breath go in and out of her, watched her eyes twitch. I tried to imagine what she was dreaming.
When the day shone pale through the front windows, I heard the gate sing.
The Oxford Times ran the story of Rough’s Boathouse. The fire brigade could do nothing to stop it burning to the ground and estimated the damage bill to be more than three thousand pounds. No one was hurt, it said, but four women had been seen fleeing: three in a punt, and one on foot. None had been caught, but it was generally suspected they were suffragettes, following the distribution of pamphlets targeting rowing clubs for their objection to women joining the sport. The act of arson signalled an escalation in their campaign. In a show of concern and opposition to militancy, Oxford’s established suffrage organisations had already condemned the act and were collecting money for the workmen who had been laid off because of it.
When Mrs Murray came into the Scriptorium the next day with a collection jar, I gave all the change I had.
‘Very generous of you, Esme,’ she said, shaking the jar. ‘An example to the gentlemen of the sorting table.’
Da looked in my direction and smiled, proud and oblivious.
I never said goodbye to Da. When they took him from the house, one side of his face had collapsed, and he couldn’t speak. I kissed him and said I would follow with pyjamas and the book that was beside his bed. His eyes were desperate as I babbled on.
I changed his sheets and put the vase of yellow roses I’d arranged for my room on his bedside table.
I picked up his book, The Getting of Wisdom. ‘An Australian novel,’ Da had said. ‘About a bright young woman; it’s hard to believe a man wrote it. I think you would like it very much.’ We might have talked more, but I couldn’t. Australian. I’d made an excuse and left the table.
When I arrived at the Radcliffe Infirmary, they told me he was gone.
Gone. I thought. It was wholly inadequate.
Gareth hauled a mattress up the narrow stairs to Lizzie’s room, and I slept there until the funeral. Lizzie collected what I needed from the house so I wouldn’t have to face its emptiness, but I couldn’t help thinking of her going from room to room, checking all was well. In my mind, I followed her from the front door, saw her collect the post and pause as she wondered what to do with it. I suspected she would protect me from whatever the letters might contain be leaving them on the hall table.
I didn’t want to go any further, but Lizzie, I knew, would pop her head into the sitting room, then the dining room that we never used. She would walk through to the kitchen and wash the dirty dishes. She would test that the windows were firmly shut and check the locks on every door. Then she would put her hand on the banister at the bottom of the stairs and cast her eyes to the top. She would pause, take a deep breath and begin her ascent. She got a little heavier every year, and this had become her habit. I’d seen it a thousand times as I followed her up her own staircase.
I wanted it to stop, but I had no more control of my thoughts than of the weather. I imagined her searching my wardrobe for a black dress, and my weeping began. Then I remembered the roses beside Da’s bed. Lizzie would find them drooping. She’d pick up the vase to take it downstairs, and she’d wonder whether Da had had the pleasure of seeing them at their best before he was taken to Radcliffe.
I wanted the flowers to stay. Not to rot, but to stay, slightly wilting, for eternity.
May 5th, 1913
My dear Esme,
I will arrive in Oxford the day after tomorrow, and I will not leave your side the whole time I am there. We shall hold each other up. You will, of course, have to shake the hands of a lot of well-meaning people and listen to stories of your father’s kindness (there will be many), but at the right time I will lead you away from the sandwiches and the well-wishers, and we will wander along Castle Mill Stream until we get to Walton Bridge. Harry loved that spot; it’s where he proposed to Lily.
