Give Us This Day (52 page)

The rebuke, for he accepted it as such, shamed him. He put the coin back in his pocket, saying, “I’m sorry. Is Thompson your husband?”

“Was. Watchman on Grimshaw’s buildin’ sites for forty-odd years ‘til he caught his death, winter before last. Never missed a night until the bronchitis got ‘im. Then lay there worrying about it all the time. I told ‘em that when I went to collect the half-week’s screw they owed ‘im.”

“How many family have you?”

“On’y two, now. ‘Arry’s in the army. Middlesex Reg’ment and he’ll sign on for another twelve years if he takes my tip. Minnie’s married to a streetlighter and they got five kids. I told both of ‘em to watch out lars time I saw ‘em. God knows how many working days I lorst wi’ kids comin’ and goin’. “

“Coming and going?”

“We buried five. ‘Churchyard luck’ Thompson called it when they went straight orf, tho’ he never said it about ‘em when they got parst the first stage.”

The incredible hardships of their lives, together with their matchless fortitude, struck him like a blow in the stomach. Her age, and still scrubbing. Thompson, gasping his life away and worrying about his job as a night-watchman on around twenty-five shillings a week. Seven children, five dead in infancy. He said, “Have you finished work now?”

“Finished?” She scratched a mole on her chin, a gesture of mild surprise. “Gawd no, Mister. I got me offices in Oxford Street now. I knock orf around four an’ go ‘ome for me tea an’ kipper. Rose’ll ‘ave it all ready.”

“Who is Rose?”

“Another White’all scrubber. We share the room fifty-fifty. Whoever’s first back puts the kettle on.”

“What time did you start work this morning?”

“Five. I do second floor, Adm’lty. Bin doin’ it twenty years now.”

“Do you mind telling me how much they pay you?”

“Why should I? Regular rate. Tanner an hour.”

Big Ben boomed the hour, and she wiped her hands on her sacking apron. “I gotter go now, Mister. Nice ‘avin’ a chat. Alwus someone to chat with in the park.”

He handed her her carpet bag and touched his hat, and she mocked his gallantry with a jaunty twitch of her cap. He watched her trudge away towards the Mall, her bunions causing her to roll slightly as she put her weight on her heels and the sides of her feet. He thought,
She’s better than ten sermons and fifty blue books. What the devil do the bishops and the economists know or care about the Mrs. Thompsons? Yet they keep the whole lot of us going, the way the miners do. But miners qualify for a vote!
The memory of a recent visit to Henley Regatta returned to him, the river teeming with blazered young bucks displaying their prowess with the sculls, every man jack among them entitled to a say in who ran the country, although few of them would ever do a full day’s work in their lives. Certainly not a day beginning before sunrise. He sat down on the seat where Mrs. Thompson had eaten her dripping sandwiches and reread the paragraph he had shown Lloyd George, hinting at support for Hardie’s bill to extend the suffrage to women. It sounded apologetic, an aside in the main purport of the speech that was concerned with the economics of the coalfields. He detached the sheet, took out his pencil, struck it through, and wrote in its place:

And now, at the risk of seeming to introduce an irrelevancy into the argument, I am putting on record, in my first speech to this House, my resolve to fight not merely for a basic minimum wage for the men who dig the nation’s coal at the risk of their lives, but the right of their wives to join them in having some small say in the nation’s affairs; women now classed, like all women in this so-called free society, as second-class citizens, wise enough to raise the nation’s children, strong enough to work upwards of fourteen hours a day, but disqualified, for ever it would seem, from a voice in the future of their children, or the regulation of the rewards of that toil. And I do this in my first speech advisedly, for I believe that every Member of this House, rising to his feet to address it for the first time, should avail himself of the privilege of making an unequivocal declaration of his intentions and the fundamental beliefs that were factors in bringing him here. My intention is to battle for universal social justice in this realm. And my fundamental belief is that all adults attaining maturity should participate in the counsels of the nation. The Honourable Member for Merthyr Tydfil is, I understand, preparing a bill to put that right into the statute book. He will have my unquestioning support, as has the bill before us at this moment.

* * *

They listened to the earlier part of his speech with a mixture of indifference and lazy tolerance. No more than about a hundred and fifty of them and of those, he would judge, about a third either dozing or preoccupied with thoughts of their own. Very few of the front bench were present, but he could see L.G. sitting bolt upright and paying him the compliment due to a protégé. But then, when he came to the sentence admitting irrelevancy, there was a mild flicker of interest, and it struck him that a few of them might be academically interested in the quality of the maiden speeches, much as sixth formers and cricket colours would bestir themselves to watch the performance of a very junior member of the team brought in as a substitute at the last moment.

The flicker widened. He saw one member nudge his neighbour, so that when he came to the passage dealing with his conception of the duty of a newly-elected member to make a declaration of intent, his real audience had increased to about three score. Lloyd George did not stir. He continued to sit bolt upright, intent on not missing a word.

At the mention of the Honourable Member for Merthyr Tydfil’s forthcoming bill, a kind of growl rose from the thinly-packed opposition benches, then spread like a flame to the front bench of the Liberals, where he saw the man next to L.G. turn and gesture, without, however, deflecting the Welshman’s attention. When he sat down, the response that began as a growl increased to a sustained buzz, and at least two members were on their feet trying to catch the Speaker’s eye. From the area of the House where sat the small knot of Labour members came another sound, not a cheer exactly but a vocal stir that might have been a muted chorus of “Hear, hear” and “Bravo.”

The moment passed. Somnolence regained possession of the chamber, and he sat down feeling a little foolish yet satisfied, deep within himself, that he had made the gesture… Mrs. Thompson’s gesture, really, so that his mind returned to her for a moment, scrubbing her way down the worn stairs of some third- or fourth-storey office block in Oxford Street, knuckles gleaming as she tightened her grip on her brush, sacking apron spattered with suds, her dead husband’s cap still at a jaunty angle. The thought made him smile.

An usher was plucking his sleeve and handing him a folded slip of paper. He opened it and recognised L.G.‘s writing. The scribble ran:

Some might say you’ve burned your boats, Johnny, and perhaps you have. But I’ll refer you to Stevenson—Alan Breck’s defence of the roundhouse, remember? “David, I love you like a brother. And O, man, am I no’ a bonny fighter?”

Four

Anniversaries and Occasions

T
he moment he opened his eyes and, raising himself on his elbow, satisfied himself that Hetty was still asleep, he hoisted himself carefully out of bed, buckled on his leg, and crossed the room to widen the chink of light filtering through a gap in the curtains. He stood by the window gently scratching his chest and noting the promise of another fine day, rare at this time of year. It seemed to him a good omen for, despite close involvement with his affections, he was not anticipating his programme with much pleasure. Strong winter sunshine, of the kind augured by a clear sky over the Weald and the jocund glitter of frost points on the hedges, might help to dissipate the glumness a man of his age had every right to feel at the prospect of lunching two gaolbirds. Especially when his guests happened to be an adopted daughter and a daughter-in-law.

Paradoxically (he had always been known to possess a somewhat eccentric sense of humour) the association of the word “gaolbird” with his kith and kin made him grin. Swann history, so far as he was aware, had no earlier record of gaolbirds, but he thought it probable, if one could have searched diligently, that they had existed, and if this was so it was probable that their offences had been more serious than a refusal to pay a small fine for demonstrating on the doorstep of the Prime Minister.
Might have been looting
, he told himself, massaging his lower thigh where, on mornings like this, the stump of his leg was tormented by the straps. The word “looting” alerted him in the way the word “gaolbird” had, setting memory bells jingling in the attics of the brain so that he lowered himself on to Hetty’s dressing-stool in order to answer them in comfort. He was exploring the nearest attic in a matter of seconds, recovering something that had lain dormant there for a long time. Loot that he himself had acquired fifty years ago this month on a battlefield in India. A ruby necklace of thirty magnificent stones that had, in fact, launched him as a haulier and could therefore be regarded as the original source of all he possessed.

Twenty-nine of the stones had gone their way, some to provide initial capital outlay, others to enrich the Spanish whore his partner Avery had prized until she was murdered by her partner. One remained, set in a ring Henrietta still possessed but only wore on great occasions, although he knew she was attached to it because he had seen her take it from its resting-place in the dressing-table drawer from time to time and contemplate it, remembering, no doubt, an evening over a bivouac fire under the Pennines when he had shown her his loot.

Curiosity stirred in him and after another glance to satisfy himself that she still slept, he opened the drawer, foraged in it, and drew out the ring, holding it between his finger and thumb in a way that made it take fire in the early morning sun. He thought, I wonder if she remembers how I came by it? Or wha
t might have resulted from the discovery that it escaped the clutches of the East India Company by travelling home in the kit of a time-expired lieutenant? His train o
f thought ran ahead, all the way down the years to the present moment, eight o’clock on a bright January morning in 1908, when he was debating how to tell her that he had persuaded Giles, and his son-in-law, Milton Jeffs, that it was in both their interests to keep away when the girls were turned out from Holloway.

She had taken it hard at the time. All that publicity, all those pictures in the papers and the final shattering news that she had a daughter and daughter-in-law serving time in gaol, but he had found it possible to make allowances for her. She had come a very long way in fifty years. Further than him some would say, for she had always valued the respect of neighbours, an aspect of county life that had never bothered him. As to the girls and their offences, he made very little of that. If they cared to sacrifice their dignity shouting and brawling outside that priggish chap’s house, then good luck to them for it was time somebody pricked the bubble of party complacency. Some of those chaps who had ridden to glory on the Liberal landslide of two years ago already saw themselves as the Lord’s Anointed, and all who differed from them as the agents of Baal. He was old enough to understand that politics, especially party politics, were not as clear-cut as that. Even starry-eyed old Giles was beginning to learn this, having been consigned to the wilderness for taking an independent line on women’s suffrage.

There remained, however, the placating of Hetty, and he wished with all his heart to spare her the embarrassment that would surely follow his announcement that he had told Giles and Milton he would meet Romayne and Deborah and give them the meal they would need after a month on skilly. For there was surely no sense at all in either husband showing up at the gaol gates. Giles would be recognised by the press, and his presence and relationship to one of the prisoners made public. Milton Jeffs, as a freelance journalist, could not afford personal involvement when the editors he worked for regarded Mrs. Pankhurst and her acolytes as hell-raising harpies, deserving all they got in the way of official correction.

He saw Hetty stir and stretch and crossed over to her side of the bed, the ring concealed in his palm.

“I’ve got to make an early start,” he told her, by way of a preamble. When she asked where he was going he said, casually, “Over to Holloway. To meet the girls. I promised Giles and Milton I’d deputise for ‘em as a welcome committee, and I daresay you think I’m a damned old fool to involve myself, but better me than them. Matter of fact I told ‘em so when they were here earlier in the week.”

She did not protest, as he had expected, but she looked very troubled. “Isn’t it their responsibility rather than yours?”

“Yes, I suppose it is. But it won’t do Giles any good with his party to have his name linked with Romayne. She went in under her maiden name, but the press would start digging if he was seen greeting her outside the gaol. There’s bound to be a bit of a stir when they emerge. Wouldn’t surprise me if they didn’t have a band.”

“I’m sure it’s quite the silliest thing I’ve ever heard of,” she said, “and I told Deborah so the last time I saw her. All this fuss over a vote! She’s a married woman with a ten-year-old child, and it’s high time she knew better!”

He was tempted to remind her of the quarrels they had had over Debbie in the past, notably when the girl was caught up in that
Pall Mall Gazette
scandal about child prostitutes; but, he decided, instead, on a flank attack. He opened his hand, displaying the ring resting in the palm, and at once her eyes widened.

“What are you doing with my dress ring?”

“Remembering,” he said.

“Remembering what?”

“How I came by it. Fifty years ago.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“It just crossed my mind that I could have served time in prison for taking it, along with those other stones. That or been cashiered at the very least, for I robbed the John Company of around thirteen thousand pounds. We started the business on the proceeds, in case you’ve forgotten. It makes what the girls did small beer, wouldn’t you say?”

She took the ring from him and sat up, contemplating it.

“You told me you found it on a battlefield. That isn’t stealing, is it?”

“It would have been considered so if I had been caught with it.”

“But you fought for it, Adam.”

“The girls fought for that month they got. The difference is they believed in what they were fighting for and I never did.”

“But you’ve said over and over again they won’t get anywhere with all this uproar.”

“That isn’t the point, Hetty. It’s the fight that’s important, and the convictions behind it. That’s important all right. It was important to people like Gatesby, our Polygon manager, who went to gaol for his share in the industrial riots back in the ‘fifties. And to those farm labourers down in Dorset, who were transported for trying to form an agricultural trades union. Everything has to be fought for by somebody. When there’s no one around to fight that’s the time to watch out, for the men on top will do what they damned well like with all of us. I happen to think Mrs. Pankhurst and her troops are on a wrong tack, strategically that is. There’s nothing wrong with what they have in mind and they’ll achieve it. In your lifetime, probably.” He braced himself. “Listen here, Hetty, will you do something today? To please me rather than them. Will you come up to town with me and be there when I meet them? It would mean a lot to them, but even more to me.”

“Why, Adam?”

“For a variety of reasons, but one will do. I’d like your company.”

Her expression softened and he knew there was nothing wrong with
his
strategy. “Very well, since you wish it. How long have I got to get ready?”

“I want to be there at noon sharp,” he said, “so we’ll have to hustle.”

* * *

He had promised her a stir, and possibly a band, but she had never expected anything on this scale. It was like mingling with a crowd awaiting the passage of a royal procession or a Lord Mayor’s Show, and it was difficult not to be infected by the air of expectancy and excitement among the crowd. She looked about her with lively interest, leaning out of the cab window when he pointed out Mrs. Pankhurst and Mrs. Pethick-Lawrence, whom she instantly recognised from pictures in the newspapers. They did not look like women whose business was public uproar, who encouraged others to smash windows and commit physical assault on members of the Cabinet; they looked more like the women who attended her croquet parties at Tryst. They were neatly dressed in white and each wore a ribbon across the breast, printed with the slogan “Votes for Women.” They looked pleased with themselves, too, she thought, watching them move among the crowd smiling and shaking hands. When she mentioned this to Adam, he said, “They are pleased. So would I be if the Government gave me a thousand pounds’ worth of free publicity.”

Then another woman emerged from the ranks of supporters, all of whom were dressed entirely in white as though, for pity’s sake, they were on their way to a wedding. The newcomer, young and pretty, wore a kind of apron that draped her from neck to hemline, but it wasn’t really an apron. It was a placard, advertising a march and mass meeting, with the information, “The greatest number of free tickets ever issued for a public meeting—You march from Victoria Embankment. Assemble 12.30.” And above, in heavier type, the obligatory slogan, “Votes For Women.”

She had no idea until now that so many people were caught up in the business, having thought of it as the preoccupation of a few intellectuals—women like Debbie, and eccentrics like Romayne—yet it was obvious the movement embraced all classes and all ages. Four girls carrying a large welcome banner were obviously shop girls or housemaids, and Henrietta, judging this by the quality of their clothes, wondered how they had found the opportunity to slip away from their work, and what penalties their truancy might involve. Policemen were everywhere, and strangely tolerant, she thought, contenting themselves with keeping the main thoroughfare open.

And then, just as he had warned, a uniformed band arrived to take its position at the head of a procession that was forming, a dozen or more men with trombones and bassoons, and a police sergeant positioned himself in front, as though he was band-master.

Then, across the width of the roadway, there was a stir, rippling outwards like a wave, so that it gusted stragglers back to the kerb. Adam said, briefly, “They’re out! But I don’t know how we’re expected to contact them in this jamboree. Giles and Milton might as well have come after all, for they couldn’t be identified in a crowd of this size.” He struggled out of the cab, then turned to hand her out, saying to the cabbie, “I’ll be going on to the Norfolk Hotel as soon as I pick up my passengers. Can you wait round that corner? I’ll make it worth your while.”

“I’ll do me best, Gov’nor,” the man said, and began to edge his way along the road away from the gaol gates. And then the band struck up and the procession began to move, Cockney urchins prancing alongside the ranks and indifferent policemen flanking the column of whiteclad women. She said, as they scanned the moving ranks, “It’s more like a celebration. Can you spot either of them?”

“No,” he said, “and it begins to look as if we’ve travelled up for nothing.” But then, wearing darker clothes that singled them out, the dozen or so martyrs began to pass, and she saw both Debbie and Romayne marching in step some fifty yards behind the band.

They looked wan and tired, and their presence there, jostled in a street procession instead of comfortably settled in a cab, irritated her, so that she left Adam for a moment, struggling ahead of him and catching Deborah’s sleeve and shouting above the blare of brass, “Your father has a cab! We’re taking you to the Norfolk for luncheon.”

Debbie turned, looking very surprised, but then smiled as she shouted back, “We can’t fall out, Auntie! Tell him we’ll catch a cab at Headquarters and meet you there. In half-an-hour or so.”

“But how
are
you, for heaven’s sake?”

“We’re fine. But very hungry!” and Romayne, on the far flank, raised her hand in greeting.

Adam caught her up, very much out of breath.

“Did you get a word with them?’

“They’re coming over to the Norfolk in about half-an-hour. Is that leg bothering you?”

“Like the very devil.”

“You’re too old for this nonsense and I shall tell them so!” and she piloted him back to the cab, helping him to hoist himself inside and giving the driver instructions to make his way to the Norfolk.

He was badly winded and done up, she noticed, but he managed to grin, saying, “You know, I believe you’re enjoying this, Hetty!”

“Oh, no I’m not,” she snapped, “but it’s lucky you insisted I came along. I really don’t know what things are coming to… all these people here to meet a batch of women just let out of prison. I do wish I could begin to understand.”

“Ask Debbie,” he said, “she’ll enlighten you, no doubt.” He settled back to regain his breath, and she saw his left hand at work massaging the flesh where the straps chafed his leg.