Octavia
Page 9
They answered her with one voice, ‘Of course.’
The evening of February 13th was dank and cold but Caxton Hall was packed to the walls and warm with enthusiasm and the crush of a great crowd.
‘We’ve come a long way since that first meeting,’ Octavia said, looking round her at all the eager faces turned expectantly towards the well-known women on the platform and that bold familiar banner behind them. ‘There were only a few of us then but look how many we are now. Oh, Betty, this could be the turning point. They can’t ignore us when we’re here in such numbers. Surely to goodness.’
The excitement in the hall grew more and more palpable as the speeches were made, every hat a-tremble with the passion of it all, and when the resolution had been proposed and passed to unanimous acclaim, the cheers were so loud that they made Octavia’s ears ring. ‘And now we march,’ she said to Betty.
‘Yes,’ Betty said cheerfully. ‘Now we march. And let’s see how easy we are to ignore tonight.’
It was chilly out in the street and the air was congealing into a smoky darkness. There was much settling of hats and rearranging of fur stoles to keep out the cold. Woollen scarves were wound more tightly around their owners’ necks, gloves and coats more firmly buttoned. Then the great banner was lifted aloft to lead the way and off they marched. This is better, Octavia thought, linking arms with Betty Transom. Not moping about after some stupid young man feeling sorry for myself, but taking action, doing something important.
She was so happily immersed in her thoughts that she didn’t notice the horses until she heard cries coming from somewhere near the head of the column. Women to right and left of her stopped what they were saying and tried to peer over the heads of the procession, saying, ‘What is it?’ ‘Is someone hurt?’ and Betty and Octavia strode out into the middle of the road where they would have a clearer view.
There was a troop of mounted police, galloping towards them. As they got nearer, Octavia could see that the horses were steaming with the effort they were making, and behind them she caught a glimpse of other horses being urged into the column, women scattering before them, screaming as they ran, women staggering as though they’d been hurt or wounded, and dark shapes lying on the ground. It was like a battlefield.
‘They’re attacking us,’ she called to the others. ‘With horses. Look out!’ And at that other voices took up the warning, yelling, ‘Run!’ and ‘Get out of the way!’ But the troop was upon them before she could move more than a yard and, in a confusion of arms and hooves and booted legs, she was pushed aside by the rump of a huge black stallion and the pressure of it was more than she could withstand and she felt herself falling forward, arms outstretched to break her fall.
For a few stunned seconds she lay where she’d landed, panting with the shock of the attack, and oddly unable to move. Then someone lifted her to her feet and a voice asked if she was all right and she took a deep breath and tried to get her bearings. There were people running all around her and from the corner of her eye she saw that the horses were regrouping, snorting and stamping and being hauled into line by their riders. Oh God, she thought, surely they’re not going to charge us again. There was a strong smell of horseflesh and human sweat. And her gloves were streaked with blood. I’ve grazed my hands, she thought, watching the red stains as they seeped into the white kidskin, and she tried to pull off the left glove to see what damage had been done and found she couldn’t focus her eyes. But in the mist beyond her inadequate focus, she sensed that there were people who were hurt and in trouble, and she knew she had to do something about them and stopped looking at her palms, took a deep breath and started to walk towards them.
Movement restored her balance. Now she could see that Betty Transom was staggering to her feet a few yards away from her, white-faced and wild-eyed and with no hat on her head, and she quickened her pace so that she could offer her an arm to lean on. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Just stunned, I think,’ Betty said. ‘They knocked me off my feet. Can you see my hat?’
It was yards away and trodden flat, lying on the pavement next to a woman who was sitting propped up against the railings holding a bloodstained handkerchief to her temples. ‘I’ve got a bit of a cut,’ she said, when Octavia asked her how she was and lifted the handkerchief to reveal it.
It was a deep cut and would obviously need stitches. ‘Is there anyone with you?’ Octavia asked. ‘You ought to get home and call the doctor.’
‘I came with Clara,’ the woman said, ‘but I don’t know where she is.’ And she began to cry.
‘Don’t worry,’ Octavia said. ‘We’ll find her for you, won’t we, Betty?’
Which, rather amazingly, they did, by dint of calling her name extremely loudly and over and over again until she appeared. She was profoundly shocked to see the state her friend was in and kept saying she didn’t know what the world was coming to, and what were they to do? But by this time Octavia had already decided what they were to do and was calling for a cab. She found one standing by the kerb a few yards back along the road. The driver was surly and said he didn’t want ‘no bleedin’ women’ in his nice clean vehicle, but he relented when Octavia told him she would pay him double, and Clara and her injured friend climbed unsteadily aboard.
By that time the horses had gone clopping off towards Parliament Square and Octavia had gathered a group of women around her and taken command. ‘None of us are hurt,’ she said, ‘or not hurt much and the horses have gone, which is a blessing. I think we ought to go on with the march and try and get into the House, the way we planned.’
Some were unsure of the wisdom of such a plan – ‘What if they charge at us again?’ – but most agreed with her. So they set off for the second time that evening, without their banner and their leaders and walking on the pavement this time because they thought the road was too dangerous. At least the gas lamps had been lit and there was no sign of the police.
But in Parliament Square their way was barred by a line of horses and there was no way they could push past such a determined barrier. ‘We’ll wait until we hear some news,’ Octavia said. ‘There’s no sign of Christabel or any of the others, so they’ve either got in or been arrested. Someone will come out again sooner or later and we’ll ask them.’
The person who came out nearly an hour later was a reporter with a notebook in his hand. He’d got his story and didn’t mind telling them what he knew, even though the nearest policeman was glowering at him. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘they got to the Strangers’ Gallery.’
‘How many?’
‘About fifteen as far as I could see. Anyway, they were all arrested. Appearing at Bow Street tomorrow morning.’
The thought of being arrested made several women shiver.
‘What shall we do now?’
‘We will go home,’ Octavia said, ‘and patch ourselves up and be at Bow Street in the morning.’ She was putting on a brave face but she suddenly felt cold and tired. It had been a dreadful evening. ‘I’ll see you to your door,’ she said to Betty, ‘because your house is nearest.’
‘Will you be all right going back on your own?’ Betty worried.
‘I shall be fine,’ Octavia said. But it was a lie.
By the time she reached her doorstep she was shaking with fatigue and delayed shock. It was all she could do to put her key in the lock and when she’d staggered into the sitting room she simply sank into the nearest chair and covered her face with her hands.
Amy was aghast. ‘My dear child!’ she said, rushing to her daughter’s side. ‘What have they done to you? Ring for Mrs Wilkins, J-J. She’s been hurt.’
Octavia wanted to reassure her but for the moment she was too exhausted to speak and simply sat where she was while her mother swept into action, dispatching Mrs Wilkins to the kitchen for hot water, cotton wool and lint and Mr Wilkins to the chemist for witch hazel. She held out her hands and lifted her arms obediently so that her mother could ease her out of her gloves and remove her muddy coat
and skirt; she allowed herself to be wrapped in a blanket and sat by the fire; she watched as her grazes were bathed and bandaged but for the moment conversation was impossible.
After the cold and terror of Victoria Street, the sitting room was as warm as a womb, enclosed, containing and protective, the red velvet curtains drawn against the night, their three easy chairs set around the hearth in a semicircle, dappled by firelight. Shadows flickered across Mr Morris’s elaborate wallpaper, the gaslights popped and fluttered, and everything in the room was gilded by firelight. The brass fire irons gleamed as the flames leapt in the grate and above them on the mantelpiece the looking glass reflected light like water, the clock face was a golden disc, the lustres flashed blue and green fire like elongated diamonds. Octavia relaxed into the familiar ease of it. She was here in this still, peaceful room, being loved and cared for and that was enough. She would tell them what had happened in the morning.
‘It beggars belief,’ Amy said, when she’d heard the story. ‘Whatever were they thinking of to treat you so?’
‘We were the enemy,’ Octavia told her sadly, ‘and they were the cavalry. They were attacking us. Obeying orders. It’s a war, Mama.’
‘It’s monstrous,’ her mother said, pouring the tea. ‘Grown men on horseback riding into defenceless women. I don’t know what the world’s coming to, I really don’t. Now then, my dear, eat up your breakfast while it’s hot and then you must get back to bed. You’re in no condition to go to college.’
‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ Octavia said. ‘I can’t do that. I’ve got to go to court. I want to be there at the trial.’
Amy turned to her husband for support. ‘J-J,’ she said. ‘You must speak to her. She’s in no fit state to go out.’
J-J had been stroking his beard for comfort while he listened to his daughter’s story. Now he gave it one last tug and smiled at them both, looking from one to the other, at Tavy, pale and determined, with her mouth set and her face bruised and that frizz of pale ginger hair spreading like a halo, and at Amy, who looked even more determined and was sending him eye messages begging his support. She looks so frail, he thought. Her hands were too thin and her hair too pale, with that odd salt and pepper greyness that redheads so often produce as they age. And she was ageing. He had to admit it. At fifty-two she was no longer the elegant woman he’d loved for so long. Since that last bout of bronchitis last spring, she’d taken to wearing a shawl round her shoulders and seemed to stoop even when she was sitting down. It made him love her more protectively than ever. But he couldn’t take her part, even so.
‘I think, my dear,’ he said, ‘we must allow our Tavy to make her own decisions.’
‘And what if she gets hurt?’
‘She has been hurt already, my love,’ he said mildly, ‘and acquitted herself quite splendidly in very difficult circumstances. I do not think we need to worry on her account this morning. There is unlikely to be a cavalry charge in a court of law. The judge would forbid it.’
‘Yes, but what if she were?’ Amy insisted. ‘How would we know? We could be sitting here worrying for hours, not knowing. Oh, if only we had a telephone, J-J. Then she could phone us and let us know.’ She’d been hinting that they needed a telephone for weeks and weeks, ever since Maud and Ralph had had one installed.
J-J recognised that she was offering him a bargain. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘If we agree that it is right and proper that Tavy should go to Bow Street, as I truly believe it is, then I will buy a telephone.’
So Octavia dressed in a quiet costume, chose a sober hat and went to support her heroines.
The courtroom was full by the time she and Betty Transom arrived so they had to wait outside on the pavement. But the police were no trouble that morning. They merely stood and watched, occasionally walking up and down like guardsmen, occasionally making a pretence of keeping the pavement cleared for passers-by. And after a long, chilly wait the court began to empty and a crowd of women emerged, among them Mrs Emsworth, who walked across to tell them that all the defendants had been sent to prison – ‘mostly six weeks but Christabel got three months’ – and that the Black Marias would be coming through at any minute. There was nothing more to be done except cheer the vans as they passed and hope that their imprisoned passengers could hear what was being shouted. ‘God bless you!’ they called. ‘Votes for women!’ ‘The fight goes on!’
‘They needn’t think being sent to prison will stop us,’ Mrs Emsworth said trenchantly as the vans were driven away. ‘It will only make us more determined.’
Betty and Octavia agreed with her wholeheartedly. Oh, it was a joy to be among such passion and purpose.
The telephone was installed two weeks later and one of the first things J-J did was to use it to arrange a dinner party for his Fabian friends.
‘And this time you must join us, my dear,’ he said to Octavia. ‘Edith Nesbit will be here and she particularly asked how you were.’
‘Covered in bruises,’ Octavia said, grimacing, ‘that’s how I am. Not a pretty sight for anyone to see.’
‘But an honourable one,’ her father told her. ‘Wounded for the cause.’
So she wore her bruises with pride and joined the party. And was praised for her courage by everyone around the table, and commended for her cool-headedness, which her father had described to them in restrained and admiring detail.
‘Mrs Pankhurst has written to us from prison,’ Edith Nesbit told them. ‘We shall be printing the letter in full in our next issue. Although I should warn you, it makes grim reading. Conditions there are truly dreadful.’
Octavia read the letter with mixed feelings: enormous pride that her heroines were willingly suffering such hardships, and admiration for their endurance and courage. But sneaking in among these noble feelings there was a shrinking sense that sooner or later she too would have to break the law. Her conscience was too finely tuned to allow her to stand by and do nothing forever. And when she did, she too would be sent to prison, she too would have to face all the things Mrs Pankhurst had described – the inedible food and rough uniform, the all-pervasive smell, the lack of fresh air.
Her mother read the letter too and was appalled by it for she had no doubt that Tavy would break the law. It was in her nature to take the lead and sooner or later she would do it. In fact, there were days when she was beginning to wish she’d raised a daughter who simply wanted to marry and settle down and raise a family, like Emmeline.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Emmeline’s first baby was born in March, exactly nine months after her wedding. The news was relayed to Amy and J-J within an hour by means of their new magical telephone, to Amy’s delight.
‘You see what a blessing it is, J-J,’ she said as she put the receiver back onto its hook. ‘To know so soon. Don’t you think that’s wonderful? Maud says we can go and see her this afternoon. I wonder what she’s like.’
She was a plump little thing, weighing nearly nine pounds, and really quite pretty, with fat cheeks, a fuzz of fair hair and big dark eyes. Emmeline was entranced by her.
‘She’s lovely,’ Octavia agreed when she paid her own first visit on her way home from college later in the day. ‘What are you going to call her?’
‘Dora,’ Emmeline said firmly. She’d just finished feeding her infant and now she was sitting up in bed, relaxing against her mound of pillows with the child lying contentedly across her knees. ‘Ernest wanted her to be Agnes, after his sister, but I couldn’t have that. I mean to say, have you seen her?’ She turned her head to talk to the baby, smiling and nodding. ‘You don’t look at bit like an Agnes, do you, my precious?’ she said. ‘No, you don’t. Anyway, we settled for his second choice, so she’s Dora. That’s what you are, aren’t you, my duck? You’re my dear little Dora.’
So she stands up to him, Octavia thought, and was glad of it. It wasn’t good for a man like Ernest to have his own way all the time. ‘I’m so happy for you, Em,’ she said. ‘You’ve got what you always wanted.’
‘Yes,’ Octavia said. ‘I suppose I have.’ Once she would have agreed wholeheartedly, and it was true, she had found her cause, and she was at university. The trouble was she knew the difference between dreams and reality now. And the cost of commitment. But there was some good news.
‘Have you heard about the general election in Finland?’ she asked. ‘They’ve actually elected seven women as MPs. It was in the paper yesterday.’
Emmeline wasn’t interested. Politics was boring. ‘Um,’ she said, gazing at her baby.
Octavia tried another tack. ‘How do Podge and Cyril like being uncles?’ she asked.
‘Podge came over with Ma yesterday,’ Emmeline said. ‘He thought she was lovely. And so you are, aren’t you, my duck? But it’s no good talking to me about Cyril. We never see him these days. Ma phoned him. She told me. But I don’t suppose he said much. There’s no knowing what he thinks.’
‘Oh!’ Octavia said, rather surprised that he’d taken so little interest. ‘He’ll visit you at Easter though, won’t he?’
‘I doubt it. He’s off to Paris at Easter.’
‘With Meriton Major?’ Octavia said. It was hardly a question she was so sure of the answer.
‘Who else would it be? Paris at Easter and a summer touring Europe. They never do anything but gad about.’
Octavia had a sudden sharp-edged memory of Tommy Meriton, all long legs and thick fair hair and dark eyes. Oh, how horrid he was. And what a good job she’d got over him. Let him gad about wherever he likes, she thought. I’m well rid of him.