At first they all looked the same, staring and blank and oddly unreal, standing in little groups at the edge of the pavement, the men grimy in their working clothes, their faces shadowed by cloth caps, or superior in dark suits and white wing collars and bowler hats; the women clogged and shawled and carrying heavy baskets, or wearing smart coats and gloves and grand hats. But then she realised that, despite their class differences, they were all disapproving and many were shouting insults. ‘Go hoame to tha maister!’ ‘Shame on you!’ ‘Hussies!’ ‘You’re a disgrace to womanhood!’ Her spine stiffened with such anger at their stupidity that for a few seconds she couldn’t walk normally and that annoyed her too.
‘How can they be such fools?’ she said to Betty. ‘I can understand men shouting at us. They won’t have the upper hand once we get the vote and they won’t like that a bit. You can tell that already from this lot. “Go hoame to tha maister” indeed! Why should men be our masters? It’s downright archaic. But the women are another matter. I don’t understand them at all. When we get the vote, they’ll get it too.’
‘They’re just showing their ignorance,’ one of her new friends said. ‘Don’t take any notice of them. They’re not worth it.’
But Octavia couldn’t ignore them. They were too loud and too full of stabbing hatred. She was hot with annoyance all the way to St Peter’s Field. But once there her mood changed, for there was Mrs Pankhurst standing on the hustings waiting to speak, and the sight of her heroine lifted her spirits at once and made her feel proud of what she was doing. Let them shout, she thought. We have right on our side.
The speeches, when they began, were a terrible disappointment. After the clear cool voices she’d heard and admired in Caxton Hall, these women sounded muffled and indistinct, their words blurred by the megaphones they were using and blown away by the wind. She struggled to disentangle what they were saying for several frustrating minutes and in the end she gave up the effort and decided that if she were to hear anything at all she would have to get nearer to the platform.
‘Come on,’ she said to Gwen and Betty. ‘I’m going to the front.’ And she began to ease and squeeze her way through the crowd, with her two friends following behind. Several other women had the same idea so it wasn’t easy, but Octavia was even more determined than they were and after ten striving minutes she arrived at the foot of the platform. The speaker was a young woman in rather a plain coat but her face was fiery and so was her message.
‘The time is approaching,’ she was saying, ‘when we must decide upon militant action. We have tried marching and writing letters and petitioning the government and all the politicians do is to make soothing noises. They will never take us seriously from our strength of numbers alone, no matter how many of us there might be. They will never take us seriously while we write them polite letters. They will throw them in the bin. No, I tell you, they will only take us seriously when we disrupt their lives, when we make life uncomfortable for them. If it means breaking the law to draw attention to our cause, we must break the law. The longer we go on being quiet and respectable, the longer we shall wait for justice. This is a fight and we must fight with every means at our disposal.’
At that, the women who were near enough to hear her broke into a cheer. Yes, Octavia thought, cheering with the rest, she is absolutely right. We must take action. Even if it means being arrested and going to prison. At that moment, embedded among all those cheering women, there was no doubt in her mind at all.
She was still burning with enthusiasm for her cause when she finally got back to Hampstead late that night.
Her parents had sat up for her and were eager to hear how she’d got on. Her father pressed her for every detail, beaming his pleasure at her boldness, but her mother grew steadily more and more alarmed. Wasn’t this just precisely what she’d feared? These campaigns were all the same. They began with marching and ended up breaking the law.
‘I hope you won’t do anything foolish,’ she warned. ‘I wouldn’t want you getting hurt.’
‘You mustn’t worry so, Mama,’ Octavia said. ‘I shall be perfectly sensible whatever I do.’ And she patted her mother’s lace-edged hand to comfort her.
Amy wasn’t comforted. ‘It will come to grief,’ she predicted, as she and her husband were preparing for bed. ‘She’s too headstrong, J-J. She’ll go her own way no matter what we say. She won’t listen.’
‘She’s a sensible young woman,’ her father said, brushing his hair thoughtfully before the mirror. ‘Let’s trust her, shall we?’
‘We can’t even trust her to apologise for bad behaviour,’ Amy pointed out. ‘This silly quarrel’s been dragging on for weeks and weeks and she won’t write – I’ve asked and asked – and how it will all end I dread to think.’
But on this score at least she needn’t have worried. Two evenings later Maud came to pay her a visit, and Maud had arrived to be a peacemaker. She was even more dishevelled than usual, with her hair tumbled out of its pins and her cheeks flushed with apprehension, but she plunged into her mission as soon as she’d stepped foot inside the hall.
‘Amy, my dear,’ she said. ‘It’s about the bridesmaids. My Em is worrying herself silly. She thinks Tavy won’t want to do it. She’s been in tears over it and that won’t do. We can’t have her making herself sick. So in the end I said to her, “I’m sure she will, but there’s no point sitting around worrying and crying. I’ll go and find out for you.” So here I am.’
‘We’ll ask her,’ Amy said. ‘She’s in her bedroom writing an essay. Go through and I’ll get her.’ And she went off upstairs at once.
Octavia came down with her mother feeling rather apprehensive because the quarrel had been going on for such a long time. It really ought to have been settled ages ago but she still didn’t know how to do it without losing face. But when she heard that her cousin was worrying and weeping, all her old affection reasserted itself and the whole thing was simple.
‘Oh, Aunt Maud,’ she said. ‘Of course I’ll do it. I always said I would, now didn’t I? We promised one another. I wouldn’t miss Em’s wedding for the world.’ She was warm with relief. Em might have said silly things about the suffragettes but that was only because Ernest had talked her into it. She wasn’t like those poor silly women lining the pavement, shouting their stupid insults. There was no malice in her. Dear Em. Memories came cramming into her mind, disparate and jumbled, nudging and shifting, and all of them loving – the games they’d played in the house in Clerkenwell when they were little, the secrets they’d shared at school and on holiday in Eastbourne, the childish dreams they’d ‘interpreted’, the adolescent confidences they’d dared to reveal, she and this dear girl who’d so nearly been her sister.
Maud was smiling so much it looked as though her face was splitting in two. ‘Can you come round tomorrow?’ she asked. ‘And I’ll show you the patterns. Some of them are so pretty. Oh, my dear, she’ll be so pleased.’
‘And after all that nonsense, she said “yes” as meek as a lamb,’ Amy reported to J-J later that evening. ‘There are times when I just don’t understand her.’
‘She is a loving girl,’ her father said. ‘Love was sure to triumph in the end, even over a cause.’
Which in the following weeks it most certainly did. To everybody’s relief.
Emmeline’s wedding day opened like a rose, luscious with sunshine and summer foliage under a dappled sky. ‘Happy the bride the sun shines on,’ her guests approved, smiling as she gleamed past them up the aisle, dreaming and beautiful in her white wedding gown. When they emerged into daylight again after the service, their mood changed, for a sudden breeze had sprung up and was soon scattering mischief and confusion in every direction, ruffling the lilac ostrich plumes in Aunt Maud’s hat, flinging Emmeline’s veil into the air, rippling the obedient silk of her wedding dress, tumbling the petals from the red roses in her bouquet. Within seconds her guests were laughing and holding on to their hats as the photographer fussed to arrange the family portraits to
his satisfaction. ‘In a little more on the left-hand side, if you please. Yes, yes, my left. That’s the ticket. Now if you can just settle a little.’
Octavia stood beside the bride, feeling proud of her. Dear Emmeline, she thought, I do love you and I do so hope you’ll be happy. You deserve to be happy – whatever you might think of the suffragettes. The breeze flapped the skirt of her blue gown like a flag and she turned to smile at her cousin, although turning made her aware of how cruelly her new corset was pinching. She knew she looked very grand in her long gown, with its delicate underskirt and all that expensive braid edging her bodice and cinching her waist like an embroidered belt, but being held in so tightly was a nipping price to pay for it. Still, she consoled herself, you have to look your best at a wedding. It’s expected.
All the other guests had put on the style quite splendidly: the ladies in fashionable dresses, lilac and rose pink, soft yellow, powder blue and wearing absolutely wonderful hats trimmed with ostrich feathers dyed to match; the gentlemen very fine in their morning suits with their lovely dove grey toppers and their cream kid gloves and spats. There was one in particular who was especially handsome, tall and straight with thick fair hair and dark eyes and a lovely easy way of walking and standing, like a leading man at the theatre. She’d noticed him as soon as they walked out of the church. In fact, now she came to think about it, being at a wedding was very much like being at the theatre, all dressed up and being looked at. From the corner of her eye she sensed that someone was trying to catch her attention, and turned her head to see who it was – and caught sight of the handsome young man again. He was standing on the edge of the group. I wonder who he is? she thought, and turned her head again in case someone noticed that she was staring.
‘Nice smile!’ the photographer called from beneath his black hood. The flashlight exploded with a flump of white light and when her eyes had adjusted to the sunlight again, the handsome young man had disappeared.
Then it was time for the bride and groom to climb into the two-horse carriage that was waiting for them and be driven away to their reception under a shower of rose petals and good wishes. Octavia went to look for her mother and father so that they could walk downhill to the hotel together with all the other guests. Everybody was talking at once as they progressed, laughing and chattering and saying what a pretty wedding it was and how well it had all gone. But there was no sign of the handsome young man, which was rather a disappointment.
At the hotel foyer, the guests had to wait because the groom’s formidable mother was arranging the line, although strictly speaking it was nothing to do with her and should have been done by Aunt Maud.
‘Come along, gels,’ she said to the four bridesmaids. ‘You are to stand behind the bride. Mr and Mrs Withington here, beside your daughter. That’s right.’
It was a very long line, what with bride and groom and both sets of parents to be greeted, and the guests took a very long time to file past. Octavia was soon tired of hearing the same endless good wishes – ‘Many congratulations, Ernest.’ ‘Such a delightful service.’ ‘We do wish you joy, Emmeline, my dear.’ She was beginning to feel cross at the way the bridegroom was smugly accepting everything that was being said as if it was his personal homage. He might be a distant relation of the great Coutts family, she thought, but there’s really no need for him to lord it quite so much. I wish they’d hurry up and have done with all this. But the line stretched on and on beyond the hall.
‘I don’t know about you,’ a voice said beside her, ‘but I think they should speed things up a bit. I’m absolutely ravenous.’ It was the handsome young man.
‘I’m afraid we’re in for a long wait,’ she told him.
‘So I see,’ he grimaced. ‘It’s a jolly poor show! I’m so hungry I could eat a horse.’
‘I don’t think they’re serving horse today,’ she said. ‘It’s potted shrimps and ham on the bone and cold roast turkey.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’ve seen the menu.’
‘Well, at least it won’t go cold,’ he said, sighing. ‘My name’s Thomas, by the way.’
She held out a gloved hand for him to shake. ‘I’m Emmeline’s cousin, Octavia.’
He took the hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it. Good heavens! ‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ he said.
He was standing so close to her and looked so very handsome she was suddenly breathless. He’s like a Greek god, she thought, as if he’s risen from the sea all dewy-fresh and sweet-smelling, and she looked at his soft skin and the golden hair falling over his forehead and those dark grey eyes and that wonderful straight nose and was weak with admiration. And what eyelashes he had! Thick and tender like a girl’s. She was so overwhelmed by him she couldn’t think what to say.
But he didn’t seem to notice. ‘They’re calling me,’ he said, gave her a graceful bow and went gliding off into the dining room.
The line seemed longer and the guests more ridiculously gushing than ever. If they don’t hurry up, she thought, it won’t be a wedding breakfast at all, it’ll be a wedding supper.
But they didn’t hurry up and it was more than an hour before the last of them had smiled past and the wedding party were free to make their ceremonial entry into the dining room and take their places at the high table. The bridesmaids were placed two by two at each end with the four parents sitting bulkily between them and the bride, which didn’t please Octavia, because she couldn’t even see her cousin, let alone smile at her. But then just as they were all settling into their seats, the handsome young man bounded up to the end of the table, pulled up a chair and sat down beside her, smiling broadly. ‘Tucker,’ he said. ‘At last!’ And turning to a hovering waiter, ‘Set a place for me, there’s a good chap. I’ve given up my seat to a lady.’
To Octavia’s surprise a place was set, so whoever he was he obviously had the right to a seat at the high table, and he was the jolliest company, so easy to talk to that the meal suddenly took on quite a different aspect. Soon they were gossiping like old friends. He told her he was going up to Oxford in the autumn and, not to be outdone, she told him she was off to University College in Bloomsbury ‘if my Higher Schools results are good enough.’
‘Well, bully for you,’ he said. ‘I never knew girls went to university.’
‘They do now,’ she told him proudly. ‘We’re not in the nineteenth century any more, I’m glad to say.’
‘Well, bully for you,’ he said again. ‘What will you be reading?’
‘English Honours. And you?’
‘Oh, Classics,’ he said, as though the subject bored him. ‘Like the pater. I say, this ham’s not half bad. I hope they’re going to give us more than one measly glass of wine.’ He flashed a questioning eye-signal to his now attendant waiter and when the man paused for instructions, said, ‘Fill this up for me, there’s good chap. Must have enough for the toasts.’ And was instantly given a full glass. ‘More for the lady too,’ he said. ‘You’d like another, wouldn’t you, Octavia?’
Octavia had never been given more than one glass of wine in her life but he was so confidently pressing and she was so thirsty, she agreed at once. So the meal and the conversation continued very pleasantly and she grew steadily warmer and more relaxed. They discussed the theatre and agreed that Bernard Shaw was a great playwright and that The Doctor’s Dilemma was a splendid drama. He told her she must see Pinero’s latest. ‘It’s top hole. It’ll make you laugh like billy-oh.’ They shared opinions of the works of art they’d seen and the books they’d been reading. She admitted to a passion for Jane Austen and he confided that he’d always found that lady rather dull and much preferred Sir Walter Scott. By the time the master of ceremonies stood up to announce the first of the speeches, she felt as if she’d known him all her life.
Speeches – however many more are there going to be? – toasts – which required even more wine – the cutting of the cake, and finally bride and groom moved off to the ballroom and the mas
ter of ceremonies announced that the dancing would begin in twenty minutes. And just as Octavia was thinking what fun it would be to dance with this attentive young man, Squirrel appeared beside them and thumped her new friend between the shoulders.
‘There you are, Tommy!’ he said. ‘I’ve been looking for you all over. Trust you to worm your way onto the top table. I see you’ve met our Tavy.’
She was puzzled and looked it. ‘I thought you were part of the groom’s family,’ she said.
‘Good heavens, no!’ Cyril said. ‘You are a goose, Tavy. Whatever made you think that? This is my best friend. My very best friend. We’re going up to Oxford together. This is Meriton Major.’
It was so exquisitely funny she was convulsed in giggles. ‘Oh!’ she laughed. ‘Oh dear! Oh dear!’ Meriton Major of all people! The dreadful Meriton Major. The one they’d suffered from all these years. The one she and Emmeline simply couldn’t stand. ‘Oh dear, oh dear!’
‘It’s the wine,’ the dreadful Meriton Major said. ‘You’ll have to take a turn round the floor and dance it off. Bags I the first waltz.’
‘Watch out for your feet then, Tavy,’ Cyril warned, grinning at his friend. ‘He dances like an elephant.’ And got a table napkin flicked at his head for his impertinence.
The warning was unnecessary. The dreadful Meriton Major was as light-footed as a dream and the first waltz spun them both away into a wine-dizzied delight. ‘Top hole!’ he said when it was over and he was escorting her back to her parents. ‘Bags I the next one.’
But then Cyril came rollicking up to them with a face full of mischief to spoil the moment with one of his silly remarks. ‘Has she signed you up yet, Tommy old thing?’ he asked. His pale eyes were decidedly swimmy and his expression looked lop-sided, as if it was slipping off his face. What’s the matter with him? Octavia thought, peering at him. Is he drunk?
‘She can sign me up any time she likes,’ Tommy said, bowing to her gallantly, but then he spoilt the impression he was making by adding, ‘What to?’
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