Sons and Daughters (20 page)

Bess was always honest with herself, just as Sammy, her father was. She frankly hoped she would see Jeremy again.

Jeremy, at the moment, was back working as the efficient manager of a large dairy farm that also had acres of land devoted to the cultivation of fruit and vegetables. Kent, after all, as he had found out, was the garden of England.

Earlier that day, on the broad, tram-lined thoroughfare of Kennington Park Road, Paul and Lulu found The Lodge, an old three-storeyed Victorian house standing by itself. Paul knocked. The door was opened by a little old lady in a white lace cap, a white blouse with a starched lace collar, and a black skirt. Her eyes were bright, although surrounded by crow’s feet, her cheeks as round and rosy as apples.

‘Good morning, madam,’ said Paul.

‘Good morning, young man,’ she said.

‘Would you be Mrs Trevalyan?’ asked Paul.

‘Would be?’ She twinkled. ‘I am.’

‘I’ve had a letter from you, I’m—’

‘Well, come in, come in,’ she said, ‘don’t stand on the doorstep, there’s a draught. Bring the young lady in with you.’

‘Thanks,’ said Paul.

He and Lulu stepped into the hall, Mrs Trevalyan closed the door and ushered them into her living room. The windows overlooked the main road and its moving pictures of trams, buses and
pedestrians. The room itself was full of old-fashioned mahogany furniture, the upholstery of dark brown leather stuffed with horsehair. Pot plants sprouted African violets. The several pictures decorating the walls were all oil-painted portraits of women with either Victorian or Edwardian hairstyles.

‘Sit down, sit down,’ twinkled Mrs Trevalyan, and Lulu seated herself on a sofa. Paul joined her, glancing at the portraits as he sat down. The little old lady perched herself on the edge of an armchair. ‘Now,’ she said, ‘why have you called, mmm? Mmm?’

‘I’m Paul Adams, secretary of the South London Young Socialists, and this is my assistant, Miss Lulu Saunders. We received a letter from you, Mrs Trevalyan, a very nice letter—’

‘What? What? Mmm?’

‘A letter.’ Paul kept looking at one of the portraits.

‘What letter?’ Mrs Trevalyan was briskly enquiring.

‘Wishing good luck to our organization and its aims, and enclosing a very welcome cheque towards our funds,’ said Paul.

‘Eh? Eh?’

‘We’re grateful for your generosity,’ said Lulu.

‘Cheque, you said, young man?’ Mrs Trevalyan’s bright eyes sharpened. ‘Show me the letter.’

Paul extracted it from his inside jacket pocket. Mrs Trevalyan twinkled quickly to her feet, took it from him, opened it up and scanned it.

‘Something wrong, Mrs Trevalyan?’ said Lulu, on her best behaviour.

‘What? Mmm? Yes.’

‘There is something wrong?’ said Paul.

‘I didn’t write this letter, but I know who did,’ said Mrs Trevalyan. ‘Let me see the cheque.’

‘Here it is.’ Paul handed it to her. She scanned that too with a sharp eye. She murmured something.

‘I didn’t catch that,’ said Lulu.

‘Hussy,’ said Mrs Trevalyan.

‘Pardon?’ said Lulu.

‘Not you. My granddaughter.’ Mrs Trevalyan crossed in quick, sprightly fashion to the door, opened it and called. ‘Henrietta!’ The name travelled upwards like the shrill cry of a seabird. There was no response. ‘Henrietta!’ This time there was a response.

‘You want me, Granny?’

‘Come down here this minute.’

‘Yes, Granny. Coming.’

Down she came, the granddaughter.

‘In here, you hussy,’ said Mrs Trevalyan, and a very pleasant-looking young lady, a brown-eyed brunette, entered the room. In a light summer dress of pale lemon, her demeanour and expression were so demure that hussy was written all over her.

Seeing Lulu and Paul, she said, ‘Oh, hello, you’re new.’

Paul came to his feet.

‘Henrietta,’ said Mrs Trevalyan, ‘this is – oh,
bother it, I’ve forgotten your names. Never mind, this is my granddaughter Henrietta.’

Paul offered a smile.

‘I’m Paul Adams, and this young lady is Miss Saunders. We’re from the Young Socialists—’

‘Oh, how thrilling,’ said Henrietta in a little burst of delight. ‘How do you do? I’m a heart and soul Socialist.’ She took Paul’s hand, squeezed it and looked into his eyes. Yuk, she’s syrupy, thought Lulu. ‘Lovely to meet you, I adore campaigners for the cause of the workers.’

‘Poppycock,’ said Mrs Trevalyan. ‘Now, you hussy, what’s the meaning of this?’ She brandished the letter. ‘And this?’ She held the cheque under Henrietta’s eyes.

‘Oh, so sorry, Granny,’ said Henrietta, ‘I forgot to mention it to you.’

‘You forgot to mention you’d forged my name?’ said Mrs Trevalyan. ‘A likely story.’

‘Well, Granny dear, you weren’t at home at the time—’

‘Poppycock, you hear?’

‘Ever so, ever so sorry,’ said Henrietta, and glanced at Paul and offered a winsome smile. ‘I’m absent-minded sometimes, you know.’

‘Absent-minded, my glass eye,’ said Mrs Trevalyan. She uttered a little chuckle. ‘That’s if I had a glass eye. Which reminds me, dear old Percy Beresford had one. The poor man lost his good one in a tussle with a truncheon when he was trying to shield Emmeline from a police charge in Downing Street.’

‘Emmeline?’ said Paul, and looked at the particular portrait yet again. ‘Got it,’ he said, ‘that’s Mrs Pankhurst, Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst.’

‘The great pioneer of the suffragette movement?’ said Lulu.

‘Oh, its leader and its champion,’ said Henrietta. ‘You know something about her?’ She put the question to Paul.

‘I know she’s part of the historical annals of the Labour Party,’ said Paul.

‘Rubbish,’ said Mrs Trevalyan. ‘There was no such thing as a decent Labour Party in her day. If you try to claim her, I’ll take my umbrella to you. Where is it, Henrietta?’

‘In the hallstand receptacle, Granny dear,’ said Henrietta.

‘Besides,’ said Granny dear, ‘Emmeline couldn’t stand the Labour fellows bleating about the lot of the working classes. Let me tell you, young man, it was their women’s lot that needed looking at. Yes, my word, it did and still does, for the working classes still keep their wives chained to their kitchen sinks. Disgraceful.’

‘Well, really,’ said Lulu, prickling. ‘Don’t you know why? Other classes employ servants. The working classes can’t afford to. And probably wouldn’t, anyway. Like me, they don’t believe in menials.’

‘Piffle,’ said Mrs Trevalyan. Then, ‘Henrietta, who is this young woman?’

‘I’ve really no idea,’ said Henrietta.

‘Miss Saunders is my assistant,’ said Paul, ‘I’m the secretary of the South London Young Socialists.’

‘Are you really?’ Henrietta’s eyes glowed. ‘I’m thrilled to meet you. I’m devoted to Socialism.’

‘A likely story,’ said Mrs Trevalyan. ‘It’s just one more of your fanciful fads. I won’t have it, you hear me, miss?’

‘Granny, it’s not a fad to believe in the benefits of Socialism,’ said Henrietta sweetly.

‘Total Socialism?’ said Paul, and Henrietta gave him a winning smile.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said.

‘You share that belief with Lulu,’ said Paul.

‘Lulu?’ said Mrs Trevalyan. ‘Never heard of her. Who is she, a belly dancer? Disgraceful, and a reprehensible slur on womanhood.’

‘I’m Lulu,’ said Miss Saunders.

‘A belly dancer?’ Mrs Trevalyan quivered. ‘You need correction, my girl. Henrietta, fetch my umbrella.’

‘Miss Saunders is a visitor, a guest, Granny,’ said Henrietta.

‘Rubbish,’ said her grandmother. ‘You know very well I’d never invite a belly dancer to tea. Are we having tea?’

‘Of course, in a while,’ said Henrietta. ‘Do sit down, Paul, and my grandmother will be delighted to talk to you about her idol, Mrs Pankhurst, and the suffragettes. You sit down too, Granny.’

Paul and Lulu were virtually locked in. Paul
minded not at all. Lulu had the fidgets. Henrietta, looking sweetly happy with events, seated herself on the other side of Paul, her dress coyly hitched.

Mrs Trevalyan treated her audience to tales of her time as a suffragette and as one of Mrs Pankhurst’s umbrella-wielding bodyguards. It was dear Emmeline who put women on the march towards equality and the vote, she said, but my, what battles they had to fight, and what suffering they had to endure each time they were arrested and sentenced by whiskery old reactionary magistrates to a term in prison. When they went on hunger strike, odious police doctors force-fed them, scarring their human dignity. As for the politicians, they were all devious men, of course, promising much but doing little. She interrupted herself to ask Paul if he was devious in his politics.

‘You wouldn’t expect me to say yes, would you?’ said Paul.

‘That, young man, is a devious reply,’ said Mrs Trevalyan.

‘You bet it is,’ said Lulu under her breath.

‘Oh, we must give him the benefit of the doubt, Granny,’ said Henrietta.

‘Mmm? What?’ said the little old lady, looking as bright as a button. ‘Well, he’s a fine-looking young man, of course, but looks can be deceptive.’

‘Have a banana,’ said Lulu, also under her breath.

‘It’s a pleasure to have him visit,’ said Henrietta.

‘Yerk,’ muttered Lulu.

‘What’s this belly dancer saying, Henrietta?’ asked Mrs Trevalyan.

‘I really don’t know,’ said Henrietta, lightly hip-to-hip with the fine-looking young man.

I’m going to be sick, thought Lulu, but sat bravely through more anecdotal reminiscences relating to hair-raising episodes in the doughty suffragettes’ campaign to secure votes for women.

‘Granny loves reliving the years when the suffragettes were at war with politicians,’ said Henrietta.

‘These portraits,’ said Paul, ‘are they all of suffragettes?’

‘Yes, and aren’t they splendid?’ said Mrs Trevalyan. ‘My late husband painted them. Of course, when war broke out against Germany in 1914, dear Emmeline immediately called a halt to our campaign and instructed us to support the Government unreservedly, on the grounds that of all men the Prussians were the chief enemies of women’s emancipation.’ She stopped to wrinkle her brow. ‘Half a mo’,’ she said, ‘wasn’t there something about a cheque?’

‘Oh, we’re past all that, Granny,’ said Henrietta.

‘No, we’re not,’ said Granny. ‘You hussy, you forged my name. You and your hare-brained enthusiasms will ruin me. What was the last one, mmm? I know, a home for tramps, and that cost me a year’s interest on some of my investments. You saucy girl, fetch my umbrella.’

‘If I fetched your chequebook instead, perhaps you’d sign one yourself for our Young Socialists,’
said Henrietta. ‘We can’t let Paul go away with nothing, Granny dear.’

‘Paul?’ said Granny dear. ‘Is he hare-brained too? Are you?’ The question arrived sharply in Paul’s ear.

‘I can truthfully say no,’ he replied, and Henrietta smiled at him and crossed her knees. ‘In fact, it would cause me pain if I had to say yes.’

Poor bloke, he’s mesmerized by that girl’s tarty legs, thought Lulu.

But she said, ‘We do need funds. To help the Labour Party win the next election. And to keep Churchill and the Tories out.’

‘Churchill? Winston Churchill?’ said Mrs Trevalyan. ‘Goodness gracious me, what do belly dancers know about Churchill? Of course, he could be as devious as Asquith and Lloyd George regarding votes for women, but when the world needed the right kind of leader to fight Hitler, he proved to be a lion. Keep him out? I won’t have it.’

‘Come on, Granny dear, be a darling,’ said Henrietta. ‘We can tear the other cheque up.’

‘I’ve a good mind to disown you,’ said Granny dear, but a little chuckle made its mark, and she looked at Paul. ‘You must forgive Henrietta, young man. She lost her parents years ago, and has lived with me ever since. Alas that I failed to cure her addiction to fanciful ideas. My, my, young people today, so wild. How much money is it that you need?’

‘How kind,’ said Lulu. ‘Would you be offended if we say as much as you can spare?’

‘It’s not to be spent on anything to do with the Labour Party,’ said the dear lady.

‘Just the young people who want to see good government,’ said Paul.

‘Splendid,’ said Henrietta.

‘Can I afford ten pounds, Henrietta?’ asked Mrs Trevalyan.

‘Easily,’ said Henrietta.

‘Where’s the tea? I thought we were having tea.’

‘I’ll get Annie to bring in the tray,’ said Henrietta.

‘With the carrot cake.’

Paul and Lulu spent more time there, Mrs Trevalyan chatting away over tea and cake, Henrietta bringing her back to the present whenever she wandered too deeply into the past, and addressing Paul winsomely from time to time. She was seated in an armchair opposite him at that stage, and Paul, who had a young man’s natural appreciation of what his Uncle Sammy referred to as a female girl, which meant feminine, wasn’t unresponsive.

Sick-making, thought Lulu.

When she and Paul finally left, Paul had a cheque for ten pounds, made out to him personally, and an invitation to call again.

‘You can give the money to Mr Churchill, if you like,’ said Mrs Trevalyan, twinkling a smile.

‘I’ll use it to the best advantage, you can be sure,’ said Paul. ‘Goodbye.’

‘Mmm? Oh, yes, goodbye, young man. And goodbye, young lady.’

‘Happy to have met you,’ said Lulu.

‘Do give up belly dancing,’ said Mrs Trevalyan, ‘it’s demeaning. And don’t forget who won the vote for you.’

‘Goodbye,’ smiled Henrietta, fluttering lashes at Paul.

On their way back to the Walworth Road, Lulu said, ‘I’m sick.’

‘Too much carrot cake?’ said Paul, striding manfully.

‘Not that kind of sick,’ said Lulu, long dress whipping and rustling as she kept pace with him. ‘Yerk, that sugary Henrietta. All over you. And you grinning at her. Like a besotted monkey.’

‘Still, the fund’s richer by ten quid,’ said Paul.

‘You prostituted yourself,’ said Lulu. ‘Good as.’

‘You showed a lot of brilliance,’ said Paul.

‘Could you believe that old girl? Me a belly dancer?’

‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ said Paul. ‘How about during lunchtime in the office tomorrow?’

‘Do what?’

‘Have you got the right kind of costume?’ asked Paul.