Octavia

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘The suffragettes,’ Cyril said, grinning at his cousin. ‘If you don’t watch out, she’ll have you carrying the banner.’

  Tommy turned a quizzical expression in Octavia’s direction. ‘Is that true?’ he asked. ‘Or is it just Squirrel being squiffy?’

  She admitted the truth of it at once, partly because she was proud of what she was doing and partly because she was curious to see what his reaction would be.

  It was admirable. ‘Well, bully for you,’ he said. ‘I like a girl with spirit, don’tcher know. Joan of Arc sort of thing. Capital.’

  ‘All very well for you,’ Cyril complained. ‘You’re not related to her. You wouldn’t say she was Joan of Arc if you were, I can tell you. It can be dashed awkward for a chap.’

  ‘Take no notice of him,’ Tommy advised, turning to Octavia. ‘He’s squiffy. I think it’s capital. I bet you look a corker in purple and green. I can just see you leading the drum band, waving your banner and everything. Top hole!’

  Cyril was beginning to understand that his attempt to put his cousin down was failing and the knowledge made him truculent. ‘You never take anything seriously,’ he complained.

  ‘I am maligned,’ Tommy said cheerfully. ‘I take my food most seriously. I defy you to prove otherwise. I follow the horses assiduously. I treat all trivial matters with the utmost gravity. What more can you want? And,’ turning to Octavia again, ‘I bags the next waltz. What could be more serious than that?’

  From that moment, the wedding became a party. Octavia danced and giggled, drank more champagne and giggled even more, and by the end of the evening, when the guests were gathered outside the hall to wave goodbye to the newly married pair, confessed to her new friend Tommy that she’d never enjoyed herself so much in all her life.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘What say you and me and Cyril go up West and take in a show? Fitting end to the day, what? There are some corkers on at the moment.’

  She was dizzied by the way he jumped from one pleasure to the next. ‘Do you mean now?’ she asked. ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘You can’t say you’re not suitably dressed. You look a treat. Take the flowers out of your hair, find a coat or a wrap or something and Bob’s your uncle.’

  So she went to the theatre and sat between her cousin and his amazing friend and laughed until her ribs ached. And when the show was over, they all went on to supper at the Café de Paris – at Tommy’s insistence, of course – where they ate an enormous meal and drank an inordinate amount of champagne. By the time her two gallant escorts delivered her giggling to her door, it was past two in the morning and Octavia was light-headed. She had never been so carelessly happy.

  ‘What say we have a picnic on the river?’ Tommy said, as she put her key in the lock. ‘Our cook does a capital hamper. We could take a punt. How about tomorrow?’

  How could she resist? ‘You mean today,’ she giggled. ‘It’s tomorrow already. Or do you mean tomorrow, tomorrow?’

  ‘Never mind all that,’ he laughed back, daring her with those dark eyes. ‘Shall you come?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I would love to.’

  So they went punting on the Thames and Cyril dropped his boater into the river and was helpless with giggles when Tommy put the pole right through it as he was trying to fish it out. And they had a sumptuous picnic on the bank, cucumber sandwiches, pork pies, ginger beer and everything, even an iced cake that was melting in the heat and had to be eaten with a spoon. The next day they went to the races and Tommy lost rather a lot of money and didn’t seem worried in the least, which Octavia thought was admirable. And that evening they went to another play that made them all laugh until Octavia had the hiccups. By the end of the week they were inseparable friends.

  From then on, the summer was bewitched, the long days soft and insubstantial as gossamer, the warm nights hazy with pleasure. It never seemed to rain, the skies were always cloudless and blue, the birds always singing, the gardens scented with flowers. Each new day brought a new delight: cycle rides out into the country; trips along the river to Hampton Court, or Greenwich, or the Tower of London; countless visits to the theatre and the music hall; frequent and delectable suppers. Now and then, when Betty nudged her memory, Octavia spent a virtuous evening at the shop in the High Street addressing envelopes for the cause, or running off pamphlets or copies of the newsletter, listening to the ardent talk around her – and agreeing with it – but for most of the time she simply forgot about it. For as Tommy said, ‘We’ve finished at school and we don’t go up until October so there’s nothing else to do except have fun, and when you come to think about it, three months is no time at all for having fun. You can carry the banner and all that sort of thing when October comes, now it’s “Gather ye rosebuds”. What say we go down to Kew for the day?’

  Before Emmeline’s wedding day Octavia would have argued with him, and in the more reasonable part of her mind she knew it. She would have pointed out how important the cause was, bombarded him with facts and figures and tried to show him the error of his opinion. Now she simply agreed with him and although she was faintly ashamed to be so easily diverted, she couldn’t help herself. It was as if she’d become a different person.

  And, of course, the time was short. October arrived much too quickly and soon – oh, much, much too soon – it was their last weekend, their last visit to the theatre, their last supper.

  ‘I’ll send you a postcard, old thing,’ Tommy promised as he walked her to her door.

  ‘So will I,’ Cyril said. And when Octavia looked surprised, added, ‘Honest injun!’

  ‘No you won’t,’ Tommy said, joshing him. ‘When have you ever sent a postcard? But I will. Never fear, Miss Smith! My word is my bond. Honour of a gentleman and all that.’

  ‘I shall miss you,’ she said.

  ‘No you won’t,’ he told her. ‘You’ll be too busy at that college of yours. And anyway, we shall be back at Christmas.’

  But Christmas was ages away and she missed him more than she cared to admit, even though her new life at University College was absorbing, just as he’d predicted, and he did send her postcards – at disappointingly irregular intervals. She knew perfectly well that thinking about him so much was foolish. After all, she hadn’t really seen him very often – perhaps three or four dozen times since they first met and always in company – so she ought to have forgotten him, more or less. But she hadn’t. She couldn’t. She knew him by heart as if his face was imprinted in her brain. Oh dear, she thought, what a way to go on. He’d never given her the slightest reason to feel anything about him. He’d been kind to her, but as her cousin’s friend, no more, an entertaining young man who liked her but treated her as a brother would. While she… Since that first extraordinary visit to the theatre she’d dreamt of him every night, no matter how hard she tried not to. And she did try not to. Oh, very, very hard. By day she was happily involved in her college life, in lectures and tutorials, reading in the college library, out in the air with her new friends on the Surrey playing fields, attending rehearsals of the Dramatic Society for an ambitious play, which was fun but more difficult than she’d imagined it would be, but at night she fell into another world.

  Then his handsome face looked at her oh, so lovingly, that full mouth kissed her, his arms held her oh, so tenderly, and she woke trembling and confused, wondering if she was falling in love with him. No, she thought, lying in her quiet bed in the early morning light, trying to be sensible. I can’t be. Not really. It isn’t possible. But what a torture it would be to fall in love and be forced to stay silent. Why do women have to stay silent? That’s unfair. If the position were reversed and he were falling in love with me… What an amazing thing that would be! Not possible, of course, but how wonderful it would be! And if he were, he could tell me and test my reaction and no one would think it wrong or improper. Oh, there is so much to be changed in this world.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Christmas holiday brought a
terrible disappointment to Octavia Smith although it began well and in its usual loving way. Christmas Day was exactly what she expected. There was the usual luxurious dinner, with port wine and chestnuts by the fire afterwards, the usual dangling abundance of paper chains and lanterns to please her mother, one of the tallest Christmas trees her father had ever bought – ‘to celebrate your success, Tavy my dear’ – and so many presents she would have been unnatural not to be pleased and grateful. But there was no Christmas card from Tommy, which disappointed her, because she’d been hoping and hoping for one, and dreaming about what he would say, but she tried to be sensible about it. He’d probably thought it would compromise her or provoke awkward questions. It wouldn’t have, of course. She could have explained it to her parents easily but he wasn’t to know that. Anyway, there would be a postcard in a day or two. She was sure of it. She only had to wait a little longer. Meantime, there was another Christmas party to enjoy.

  On Boxing Day they put on their Christmas finery and walked across the heath to take high tea with Aunt Maud and Uncle Ralph. There was no sign of Cyril but Emmeline was there, looking extremely pregnant and obviously happy about it. The only trouble was that now they had to endure Ernest’s company too and he was pompous in the extreme, talking about his investments and the modern nursery he was planning for the baby and how he intended it to be brought up.

  ‘I’m a firm believer in discipline and unvarying routine,’ he said. ‘That’s the secret if you wish to produce a good child. Discipline and unvarying routine.’

  It sounded rather oppressive to Octavia, but she couldn’t say so being a guest, so she tried to change the subject. ‘Where’s Cyril?’ she asked her cousin. ‘Is he joining us later?’

  ‘He’s off with the dreadful Meriton Major,’ Em said and laughed. ‘He might be up at Oxford but nothing’s changed. It’s still Meriton Major this and Meriton Major that, except that he calls him Tommy now they’re at Oxford.’

  ‘We met young Meriton at your wedding,’ J-J told her. ‘We thought he was a charming young man, didn’t we, Amy? He was keeping everyone entertained.’

  ‘Oh, he’s charming enough,’ Emmeline agreed. ‘It’s just that when he’s around, we never see our Squirrel.’

  ‘Which is rather a shame,’ Amy said. ‘I must agree with you there. I would have liked to have seen him.’ But then sensing that she might have said something a little too critical, she turned to her sister to make amends. ‘How is he getting on at Oxford?’ she asked. And was told how wonderfully well he was doing, by both his proud parents, while his sister made faces at Octavia and fingered the salt cellar, to show that it should all be taken with a very large pinch.

  Octavia grinned at her cousin but said little. She was thinking of Tommy and wondering when she would see him again. Sooner or later she would have to tell Emmeline what had happened over the summer and probably confess how much she liked him, which would surprise her after all the things they’d said about him, but that could wait until the postcard had arrived and they’d picked up where they left off. Oh, what a lot there would be to tell her then!

  But Tommy Meriton didn’t send her a postcard, which was a daily disappointment, and he and Cyril didn’t visit her either until three days before the start of term, when she’d almost given up hope of seeing them at all. Then they suddenly arrived in a great rush to tell her they’d got tickets for a capital show.

  ‘Look sharp,’ Cyril said. ‘Put your coat on. Curtain up’s in three quarters of an hour. We’ll bring her back after supper, Uncle J.’

  He talked all the way to the theatre and hardly let her say a word to Tommy, who sat behind them on the tram and smiled and said little. But she didn’t mind. Soon she would be in the stalls, sitting beside him, and they could talk and laugh all they liked. But she was wrong. When they arrived at the theatre, she found she was one of a very large and noisy crowd, most of whom she didn’t know and many of whom seemed rather the worse for drink. She had to sit between a stranger with a straggly moustache, who breathed cigar smoke all over her, and Meriton Minor, who was sixteen and spotty and extremely tiresome. She didn’t get to exchange more than a sentence with Tommy during the entire evening and for most of the time he was so busy talking and laughing with his new friends he didn’t even look at her. And then, when they’d all rushed off to a noisy supper and talked about Oxford in a new slang she didn’t understand, he left Cyril to escort her home and said goodnight to her as she left as if they were mere acquaintances. She was crushed to be treated in such a casual, hurtful way. It was too unkind to be borne.

  That night she cried herself to sleep and slept badly. She woke at two o’clock and wept all over again, feeling angry that Tommy had treated her so cruelly and furious with herself for allowing him to get away with it. What was the matter with him? she thought. Did he mean to be cruel? Was it deliberate? Or was he drunk? He sounded drunk, now I come to think about it. He was talking very loudly. I should have taken him to task and asked him why he was being so horrid. That was the least I could have done. It was cowardly not to. Well, all right then, I’ll go to his house tomorrow morning, first thing, and have it out with him. He owes me an apology. But then she realised that she didn’t know where he lived and she could hardly ask Cyril for his address. That would look awful. She’d have to find some other way. But what? Her mind spun round and round – a postcard? a letter? – but she couldn’t think of anything that didn’t involve asking Cyril and finally she fell asleep and dreamt that she was all on her own in a theatre and that everybody in the audience was laughing at her and she was struggling to get out of the place or to wake up.

  When she did wake, it was three o’clock and she was utterly miserable, feeling cast down because she’d been rejected and inadequate because she was no beauty and couldn’t – shouldn’t – expect to be treated as though she were. Oh, how could he be so cruel? she grieved. He must have known it would hurt me, ignoring me like that. And what am I supposed to do now? I’ve been publicly humiliated. He ignored me in a public place in full view of his friends. Not that they knew what he was doing. She had to admit that. They didn’t know me from Adam, she thought. I was introduced as Cyril’s cousin. But even if they didn’t know, I do, and I can’t just go on as if nothing’s happened. Does he realise what he’s done to me? Does he care? I thought he liked me. We had such fun in the summer. And the thought of all the fun they’d had made her weep all over again. It was all absolutely horrible. By half past four she gave up trying to sleep and got up and bathed her eyes. It was dark and cold but there was no point in grieving for ever. She would have to take herself in hand. That was all there was for it. I shall think about it as if I’m someone else, she decided, and give myself a good talking-to.

  Once she’d decided to play devil’s advocate for her own case, several things became focused. It was galling to admit it but the first thing she had to do was to face the fact that she’d brought this whole miserable situation on herself. She’d read more into their friendship than he’d ever intended. That was obvious now. It had all been a daydream, a fantasy without any foundation, and now she was paying the price for being so silly. Well, she thought, I’m not one of those girls who only want to get married and have babies. There’s a lot more in my life: college and a career – even if I haven’t planned it yet – and the cause, of course. I must just stop being a fool and get on with the important things. But oh, it did hurt to be rejected and he should have been kinder, he really should. He could at least have talked to her. The next time we meet I shall be cool to him, she decided. I shan’t cut him because that would be impolite, but I shall be cool. See how he likes that. In the meantime there were things to be done and the sooner she got on with them the better.

  She put her plan into operation on her first day back at college, seeking Betty Transom out at lunchtime and steering the conversation away from their Christmas holidays by talking about the cause.

  ‘I’m beginning to feel rather ashamed of myse
lf,’ she confessed. ‘I’ve given them so little time since I started here and there’s so much work to be done.’ And then she really did feel ashamed of herself because she wasn’t telling her friend the exact truth and it was against her nature to be devious.

  Fortunately, Betty Transom took her seriously. ‘It’s been worrying me a bit too,’ she said. ‘I know we’ve been busy with lectures and tutorials and the play and everything but even so… Maybe we should call in at the shop sometime.’

  They went that very week before they could get overloaded with essays, and were delighted to find that their fellow campaigners were really pleased to see them.

  ‘You’ve come in the nick of time,’ Mrs Emsworth said, trying to push the pins back into the tangle of her hair. ‘There’s so much work to do you wouldn’t believe it. What with this meeting coming and the newspaper to get out and everything, it’s all hands on deck.’

  Betty and Octavia exchanged glances but they didn’t ask questions. Whatever the meeting was they would find out soon enough. It would look bad to reveal that they didn’t know.

  It was to be held at Caxton Hall on the evening of February 13th, so as to coincide with the re-opening of Parliament. Members of the WSPU were asked to attend in force as this was to be ‘a meeting of the women’s parliament’ and they intended to make history. Christabel Pankhurst would be putting a resolution before them, to ask that the franchise be extended to include women, and when it was passed – as she was quite sure it would be – it would be escorted in procession to Parliament Square and taken into the House of Commons for their notice and approval. As Dorothea Emsworth had said, Betty and Octavia had rejoined the movement in the nick of time.

  ‘You will come with us, won’t you?’ she asked them as they addressed envelopes and licked stamps. ‘We need the biggest audience we can muster.’