Suffragette Girl (12 page)

‘As far as he need be concerned, Clara dear,’ Augusta had planned it all, ‘we’ve been for a drive, and on the way back we’ll call and see Mrs Ponsonby. She’s
sure to mention it to Edgar at church on Sunday.’

‘But we can’t call uninvited or unannounced. It would never do,’ Clara worried.

‘I’ve already written a note to the good lady and asked if we may call. Word came back that she’d be delighted to see us.’

And so the subterfuge continued until the beginning of May, when Florrie announced to a startled Gervase that she would be returning to London.

‘Will you drive me to the station in your brand-new Morris Oxford?’

Gervase was the first person in the vicinity who’d bought a motor car and its arrival a few days earlier had caused a great stir of excitement in Bixley. Every time he drove through the
village, the children ran after him. ‘Gi’ us a ride, mister.’ If he’d the time to spare, the good-natured man would stop and allow them to scramble aboard, causing the
locals to laugh and wave at the motorist with his urchin passengers.

‘Oh, Florrie,’ Gervase shook his head sadly. ‘I beg you, please don’t go back.’ Although he longed to take her for a drive in the vehicle, this was not what
he’d planned for their first trip out. The occasion would be completely spoilt by his anxiety for her. ‘I don’t want you to go back. None of us do. You’ve only escaped being
rearrested thus far because you’ve been hidden away in the country. If you set foot in London, word will get out that you’re back and they’ll slap you in prison again. And because
you’ve been out for longer than you should have been, they might well add to your sentence.’

‘Can they do that?’

He shrugged and muttered darkly, ‘They can do anything they want to.’

‘But since the Cat-and-Mouse Bill had its final reading they’ve suspended the force-feeding. I’ll just get let out again in a few days.’

‘Not before you’ve endangered your health by going on hunger strike again.’ He glared at her. ‘And you mean to do that, don’t you?’

Florrie didn’t answer, but her glance fell away from meeting his gaze.

‘I thought as much,’ Gervase sighed.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said at last in a small voice. ‘But this is just something I have to do.’

He did as she asked and drove her to the railway station, but their farewells were tense and awkward.

‘I’m sorry, Gervase, truly I am,’ she said again out of the carriage window as the train began to move.

He nodded and raised his hand in farewell. But he could say nothing to her; he could not trust himself to speak, for tears, which he never allowed a soul to see him shed, were all too close.

As Gervase had predicted, Florrie was arrested three days after her arrival back in London. But this time, though the prison regime was hard, there was no force-feeding. Of
course, she at once went on hunger strike again, but by the time the doctors and prison officials deemed that she should be released under the new Act, she had in fact completed her full sentence.
She was fortunate that no more days had been added on for her being out of prison for longer than she should have been.

Her arrival back at Chalfont Place was greeted with great celebration. Isobel threw a party and Lady Lee and a few others came to congratulate her.

‘And we have a little present for you, my dear,’ Lady Lee said, opening a small, satin-lined box. ‘It gives me great pleasure to award you the hunger striker’s
medal.’

Pink with pleasure and pride, Florrie stood whilst Lady Lee pinned it to her blouse. The circular medal was inscribed with the words
‘Hunger Strike’,
hanging from a bar that
said
‘For Valour’,
beneath which was a ribbon of the three colours of the Movement and below that another bar that bore the date of Florrie’s final release. ‘And
Mrs Pankhurst herself has sent a message of congratulation to you. You are one of our youngest members to undergo force-feeding and we’re all so very proud of you.’

‘I shall wear it with honour,’ Florrie said, her voice unsteady with emotion as all her friends around her applauded. As the noise died away, she asked, ‘So, what are we doing
next?’

And everyone in the room laughed.

‘Girls,’ Lady Leonora hurried towards them as they were ushered into her morning room one sunny morning in early June. ‘Tomorrow, we’re going to the
races. To the Derby, to be precise. You must wear your finest gowns and sport the colours of the Movement. And you must be sure to wear your lovely brooch, Florrie, my dear.’ Her excitement
was obvious.

‘I’m never without it,’ Florrie murmured.

‘Is something planned?’ Isobel asked. ‘Are we to take part in a demonstration?’

‘Yes. Emily has suggested it.’ Lady Leonora’s eyes were afire.

‘Emily? Emily Davison?’

‘Yes.’

Florrie glanced from one to the other. ‘Is that Emily
Wilding
Davison?’

‘Yes. You must have heard about her. She’s an ardent supporter of the Cause,’ Lady Lee smiled. ‘And a very clever and well-educated woman. She’s asked us to stand
at the side of the racetrack and wave the purple-white-and-green.’

‘But – but won’t that frighten the horses? Someone might get hurt,’ Isobel began, but Lady Leonora waved her protests aside.

‘Jockeys are used to taking falls. No one will be seriously hurt, I’m sure. We only mean to interrupt the proceedings – to stop one of the races, if we can. Just to bring
ourselves to the notice of the crowd.’

Isobel and Florrie exchanged a worried glance, though they said no more. The aristocratic race-goers, they both believed, would not take kindly to their day being disrupted. Florrie bit her lip,
wondering for the first time if Gervase did indeed have a point. They were silent as they walked home together, each busy with her own thoughts. Florrie shuddered even though the June day was mild.
She had a dreadful premonition that this particular demonstration would do more harm than good to their Cause.

‘There will be a great many people at Epsom tomorrow,’ Isobel murmured, breaking the silence at last. ‘The King’s horse is running. He and the Queen will probably be
there.’

‘Perhaps Lady Lee is right. Perhaps it’s a very good occasion to get ourselves noticed.’

Isobel frowned. ‘I’m just so afraid the horses will get hurt. I don’t give a jot about the people, but the horses – now that’s a different matter. We
shouldn’t be about hurting innocent creatures.’

They had arrived at the steps of number six and Meredith opened the door. As Florrie followed her friend into the house, she couldn’t prevent a smile. Isobel had always been a magnificent
horsewoman from an early age. In her childhood and awkward youth, it had always been plain to see that she was happier amongst the horses in the stables at Bixley Manor than entertaining in the
drawing room. Until the arrival in her life of the Hon. Tim, people – apart from her beloved brother – had certainly taken second place in her affections. It seemed, Florrie thought,
there were occasions when this was still the case.

The following morning, Lady Lee, Isobel and Florrie set out for Epsom. They were wearing purple gowns trimmed with green and white, and Lady Lee wore the most elaborate hat
with ostrich feathers in the same colours. Florrie, of course, was wearing the brooch Gervase had given her and they each carried a banner declaring, ‘Votes for Women’.

‘Emily is going to Tattenham Corner,’ Lady Lee told them. ‘She wants us to choose another spot. If there are too many of us in one place, she thinks we might get moved on by
the police. If we spread ourselves amongst the crowd, they’ll have a harder job to get to us. I suggest we separate and keep on the move; though, on second thoughts, maybe you should keep
Florrie with you, Isobel.’

‘Oh, but. . .’ Florrie began, then stopped as she felt a warning squeeze from Isobel on her elbow. Charming though Lady Lee was, she did not like to be crossed and, after all, she
was the leader of their small group.

‘Of course,’ Florrie murmured obediently. She’d already proved her commitment and willingness to do whatever was asked of her. There was no need to annoy Lady Lee by going
against the plans already in place.

‘Come, we’ll go this way,’ Isobel said. ‘Just round the bend of the corner. We’ll be able to see Emily from there and, if we can get near the rails, we can wave our
banners between the races, but not,’ Isobel whispered as they moved away from Lady Lee, ‘when the horses are passing close to us. I just don’t agree with frightening the poor
creatures.’

Florrie hid her smile, but she agreed with Isobel.

They pushed their way to the front of the race-goers lining the white-painted rails.

One or two women drew their skirts away as if they would be contaminated, should they come into contact. The whisper rippled amongst those nearby. ‘It’s two of those dreadful
suffragette women. Look at the colours they are wearing.’ But surprisingly, the men raised their hats, bowed politely and stepped aside to let them near the rails. Perhaps they regretted
their courteous actions when Isobel and Florrie unfurled their banner, held it aloft and began to chant, ‘Votes for Women, Votes for Women.’

The races began and, each time the horses came thundering near them, the two young women lowered their banner and ceased their shouting, only to begin again when the animals and their riders had
passed safely by.

‘Can you see Miss Davison?’ Florrie asked Isobel as they waited in the lull between races. ‘Or Lady Lee?’

‘I think Lady Lee’s gone the other way, but see, over there, close to the rail. That’s Emily.’ Isobel waved, but the woman didn’t appear to notice.

‘I’ve not met her yet,’ Florrie murmured, watching the tall, slight figure in the distance.

‘Maybe you’ll get the chance at the end of the meeting. She’s been to prison four or five times and once, when she went on hunger strike and they were going to force-feed her,
she barricaded her cell. But they put a hose-pipe through the window and filled her cell up with water. Oh, watch out, the next race is just about to start,’ Isobel added, shading her eyes
and squinting into the far distance towards the start line. ‘The King’s horse is running in this one.’ They lowered their banner and stood very still and quiet, watching the
horses thundering round the curve of the track. Though they doubted that their thoughtful action really mattered, for the noise of the excited crowd around them was far louder than their own
‘Votes for Women’ chant had ever been.

The horses were coming nearer, rounding the bend at Tattenham Corner. The leaders passed by and then, suddenly, Florrie screamed and clutched Isobel’s arm as she saw Emily Davison duck
beneath the rails and launch herself into the path of the last few horses. She seemed to be trying to catch hold of the bridle of one of them, and the galloping animal had no chance to swerve to
miss her. It hit her full on and she was tossed into the air. Her hat flew off as her body hit the ground and bounced, rolling over and over several times before finally coming to a stop in a
broken heap. The horse stumbled and fell and the jockey was thrown over its head to the ground where he, too, lay motionless. The two young women held their breath as the following horses managed
to swerve around all three bodies on the ground.

‘That’s Anmer – the King’s horse – I know the jockey’s colours,’ Isobel cried. ‘She was making for it deliberately. I’m sure of it.
She’s planned this, Florrie. That’s why she wanted to be alone – just in case one of us might have tried to stop her.’

‘What’s happening? I can’t see.’

‘I think the jockey’s moving. They’re trained to lie still until all the other horses have gone by,’ Isobel said, craning her neck. ‘And Anmer is on its feet. It
doesn’t seem to be hurt. But Emily – oh, Florrie – Emily’s not moving . . .’

They stood for a moment, shocked and horrified. Then they dropped their banner and struggled towards the place where Emily lay. But the crowd, surging onto the track, prevented them from
reaching her. Race officials and police reached the injured, but Isobel and Florrie could only watch with terrified eyes as the jockey and Emily were borne away on stretchers.

‘Do you think she’s badly injured. And the jockey? What about the jockey?’ Florrie was frantic for news. She couldn’t bear to think that hurt had been caused to any
person – something that the suffragettes (even the militant ones) vowed they’d never do.

‘I couldn’t really see,’ Isobel faltered, ‘not properly.’ But the grim faces of those nearer the injured told them the worst.

A man close by rounded on Isobel and Florrie. ‘Now look what your foolishness has done. Likely maimed a good horse and injured a jockey. As for that young woman – whoever she is
– well, she’s brought it upon herself. I hope you’re satisfied to have ruined a good day’s racing.’ With that he jammed his top hat on his head and pushed his way
through the throng.

There were murmurs of agreement all around them as Isobel and Florrie walked away. It took every ounce of their courage to keep their heads held high and the tears from falling. Behind them a
man picked up their banner and tore it to shreds.

‘She’s been taken to Epsom Cottage Hospital,’ Lady Lee informed them that evening when Isobel and Florrie hurried to her house for news.

‘How is she? Have you heard?’

‘She’s very seriously injured. They fear a fractured skull and serious internal injuries. They may try to operate, but they – they don’t hold out much hope.’

‘Why did she do it?’ Florrie was appalled.

Lady Lee sighed. ‘She’s tried to kill herself before. Three times, I believe. None of us condoned it, of course. But she’s a strong-willed woman who seems to think that the
only way forward for the Movement is for it to have its own martyr.’

For a moment they were silent, each thinking her own thoughts as they sat in Lady Lee’s drawing room.

‘I can’t say I agree with her,’ Isobel said at last. ‘But one certainly can’t deny her courage.’

News came four days later that Emily Davison had died without regaining consciousness.

‘A huge funeral procession is being arranged. It’s what she’d have wanted and it’s the least we can do,’ Lady Lee told them.