The Balliols (25 page)

The Wild West show was the chief attraction of the Exhibition. It was a display of riding, chiefly, for which a number of cowboys had been transported from California. To give greater point to the display, a piece of obvious two-reel film narrative had been introduced, with cattle thieves, Red Indians, and a lone squatter defending himself in a wooden hut. There was a good deal of shooting, shouting, and lassooing. Lucy arrived when the climax was a few minutes distant. Indians were circling round the hut, firing at it; and being fired at. Occasionally one of them would give a cry, throw his arms above his head and achieve a spectacular backward somersault on to the sawdust. At each somersault there was a cry of delight from the children over the death of a foe, and a burst of applause from the grown-ups in tribute to a fine feat of horsemanship. The amphitheatre was large, but it was at least half full. In the afternoon it would be more crowded still. I was right, I couldn't have chosen a better place. And in a minute or two, that'll be the right time for it.

She watched the performance as though she Were taking part in a dress rehearsal. She had planned where she would sit: right down there in the front, a little to the left of the orchestra. There was a wooden ring running round the amphitheatre. That would be a help to her. She visualized exactly how she would do what she had to. Now, in a moment or two from now.

The cheering as each Indian fell became less boisterous. The audience had begun to tire of this particular effect. It was the signal for the entrance of the rescuers. There was a roar from the back; a volley of rifle shots; with the sawdust flying, the cowboys came
galloping to save the squatter. They charged straight up to the orchestra; then wheeling, dividing into two lines, rounded up the Indians. Yes, that was her moment. She rose to her feet. There was no need for her to stay any longer. The next performance was at two. At twenty-five past two, that was to say.

She felt hungry. I'll go and lunch.

Ordinarily Lucy lunched in an A.B.C. or a Lyons'. A shilling settled the account. But it was in front of a pleasant-looking café restaurant advertising half-crown table d'hôte lunches that she checked her step. The menu was fixed on a brass-rimmed board. It announced a wide choice, varying between
truite au bleu
and
Zabaglione
. A waiter came up, deferentially inquisitive. Yes, yes. I want a table.

A large tray of hors d'œuvre was wheeled before her. I'll have that and that and that. She was alarmed when she saw how high-piled her plate was. Yet I do feel hungry. I've read that when one's excited one can't eat; that professional motorists will lose three pounds on the morning of a race. I don't feel in the least like that. How good this Russian salad is. I wonder what that old man in the club window is doing now? Standing in front of the fireplace, his hands in his trousers pockets, the coat flap forward, as though he were warming himself; though there's no fire in the grate; laying down the law. What a good time old men do have. No one takes any notice of what an old woman thinks. She's told to sit in a corner and get on with her knitting. I wonder whether the man who bought the paper backed a horse? He must have. He's sitting in a pub somewhere, waiting for the result. He was so shabby. It's
funny
how people like that always have enough money to back horses and buy drinks. I suppose that girl's sitting in the Park somewhere with her young man. Perhaps they've gone into the country. How happy she looked: transfigured. I wonder if I shall ever feel like that? I suppose I shall. Everyone does, some time. I never have. They say girls spend their whole time falling in and out of love. I haven't. I shouldn't be surprised if Ruth did. Boys like her. They always have. From the very start, at our children's parties. They've never noticed me. Hugh's always been her friend more than mine. Stella will have left for lunch by now. How surprised she would be if she could know where I was; what I was planning. She thinks I'm a coward. Or at least: she's made up her mind I am. She probably never thinks about me at all. It'll be a surprise to her.

The picture was clear before her. Stella in her room that afternoon; letters to be dictated; letters to be signed. Reports
to be drawn up, interviews, conferences; the minutes passing. Just like any other day. Then suddenly the news arriving. Miss Draft dashing into her room, not bothering to knock. “Miss Balliol, have you heard? Your niece.…” Lucy's lips parted in a smile. Stella would realize then.

It was close on two before Lucy had finished lunch. There was only just time to make her final preparations. These did not take long: a few minutes in the cloakroom, the attaché case a little lighter in her hand, a coat that on this warm day was uncomfortably heavy on her shoulders.

The Wild West show was only a minute off. The attendant at the door recognized her. “Back already?” “I missed some of it this morning.” “Wish there was more like you.” There were a good many, however, who wanted to see the show through once. It was half as full again as it had been that morning. But there was still a seat on the ground row to the left of the orchestra. It was not one of the best places to see from, after all. She put her attaché case underneath the seat. The clasp was open. It would be very easy to fling back the lid when the moment came. She worked her arms out of the sleeves, holding her coat loosely round her. It was only a question of waiting now. The cattle thief episode was nearly finished. Another minute and the squatter would have retired to his hut; then there would be the Indians, the circling charge, the firing, the spectacular somersaults, the lessening cheers, the rescue, then her moment.

A succession of pictures passed before her eyes. Stella returning from her lunch; the letters to be signed; the letters to be dictated. An old man standing before a fire laying down the law. A grubby, ill-dressed figure leaning across a bar. “I tell you he's a dead cert.” A country lane, lovers walking hand in hand, the girl stopping, “Darling, I must pick that.” Miss Draft bursting into Stella's room. “Miss Balliol, your niece.…” The pictures flickered, the minutes passed. The Indians were circling now, the applause was lessening. Lucy, feeling for the case below, flung back the lid, felt her fingers clasp on a linen tape. Half-bending, she looked up, her coat clasped at the throat by the other hand.

From the back of the stage came shouting and a volley of shots. The plod of hooves in sawdust. The waved lassoo. “Now,” She had left it as long as possible so as not to have time to think. She pulled the linen tape from the attaché case; waving a banner, green and white and purple, she flung off her coat. The green,
white and purple tricolour was crossed upon her breast. She leapt to her feet, sprang upon the wooden ring, yelled “Votes for Women!” A dozen horses were charging full towards her. At last, for the first time, she realized the incredible danger of her act. She hesitated. But it was too late. She was more frightened now of going back than going forward. She shut her eyes.… Stella sitting at her desk, letters to be dictated, letters to sign… waving her flag, she shouted “Votes for Women!”.… Miss Draft breaking into Stella's room.… She jumped. The sawdust gave under her feet. She fell.… Miss Balliol, your niece.… The crash of innumerable hammers on her head.… Stella stretching out her hand.… The hammers louder now.… A smile… Silence.…

It was Miss Draft who first received the news. A reporter rang her up. He wanted details. The telephone conversation took considerably longer than it need have done because while he was trying to get information out of Miss Draft, she was trying to get information out of him.

Said Miss Draft: “What do you say? She's badly injured? How? Where? When?”

Said the reporter: “Earl's Court. Her father, you say, is Edward Balliol, the wine merchant. There are two other Balliols in the ‘phone book.”

“Yes. But how badly hurt is she? Where is she?”

“Which Edward Balliol's daughter do you say she is?”

In the end the reporter had learnt that Lucy
was
the daughter of Edward Balliol, the wine merchant; that she had been in prison once for window-breaking; that while the W.S.M. regarded her as a valuable associate, she was not in any sense an official; that the Movement could not in any way hold itself responsible for her action; that it was without their sanction or approval; that it was a “glorious gesture” but that the Movement would never ask its members to run so desperate a risk. That the reporter learnt. In return, Miss Draft was informed that Lucy Balliol was dangerously ill; that she was unconscious; that she was in St. James' Hospital.

Without bothering to knock upon the door, Miss Draft burst into Stella's room. In quick sentences that lost something of their precision through her excitement, she told the story.

“They don't say how ill she is: dangerously, and unconscious, that is all. If she dies, we must arrange a funeral procession. The first martyr to the Cause. She died that Women might be Free. What a slogan, what publicity! If that does not move people, nothing will. It'll touch their hearts: a long white procession, banners, music, classic.”

But Stella was scarcely listening. She was busy gathering up her papers, putting her desk straight. “I'm going down to the hospital,” she said.

Difficulties were made when she asked after Lucy Balliol. There had been a stream of journalists, suffragettes, inquisitive well-wishers to harass the hospital authorities. Even when she explained that she was the patient's aunt, the difficulties were not removed. “Perhaps the girl's father is here?“ she was at last desperately driven to demand. Not till her brother had actually identified her was she allowed to pass through into the waiting-room.

There were half-a-dozen or so other people standing and sitting in the bare, melancholy room. There were two chairs before a table. Two men in the corner nudged each other and whispered. The story of Lucy Balliol was already common gossip.

Stella looked enquiringly at her brother. He looked tired. She realized for the first time that he was in the middle forties; he was no longer young.

“Jane doesn't know yet,” he said. “She's out playing bridge somewhere. No one seemed to know for certain where. I've not bothered to find her. Let her be happy while she could, I thought.”

He said it with an attempt at the old lightness, with the shadow of a smile. He's shy of being serious, Stella thought. He won't give himself away.

She asked him how Lucy was. He shrugged his shoulders. “She may live. She may not. You can't tell. Doctors like to make a case seem as bad as possible. Then their patient talks of a marvellous recovery if he pulls through. She's conscious: just. Enough to know she's in pain; not enough to recognize me.

Stella made no reference to the actual accident; how or why it could have happened. This was not the time for recriminations or for explanations. Nor was her brother the person to make accusations at such an hour. But of course he thinks I'm to blame. Naturally. I should, in his place. He's angry and he's resentful. He's probably jealous. Because his daughter puts a cause in front of him. Because the Movement's got more influence with her than he has. Well, I can't help that. A great many young women feel that way.

All the same Stella was astounded at Lucy's conduct. What could have made her do it?

They sat in silence; just as four years earlier they had sat in silence during the long train journey to the West of England to a dying father. Now, as then, it was Stella who broke its embarrassment by taking up a newspaper. And now, as then, when a nurse came into the waiting-room, it was to Stella not to Balliol that she spoke.

“She's asking for somebody called Stella. That would be you, wouldn't it?”

She looked at Balliol. They both remembered that earlier scene of which this was the repetition, once again there came the resentful look into Balliol's eyes. “You and not me,” it said. “First my father. Then Lucy. And why? I'd been a good son. I've been a good father. After all I've done…” The look passed in an instant. “Go along,” he said.

She was led down a long corridor into a long, white ward, lined with beds. Three quarters of the way down the ward was an arrangement of screens.

“She's there.”

It was only seven hours since Stella had wished Lucy a casual good morning, as she had passed through to her own room. She had taken no more notice of her on this than on any other morning. And it may have been my last chance of seeing her, as she was.

The first sight was not the shock that Stella had expected. The head was covered with bandages, but the actual face: mouth, eyes, nose and cheeks, had not been touched. She was still Lucy as she lay there: pale, weary, her lips drawn tight by pain. At the sight of Stella, a happy look came into her eyes. She tried to move, but the attempt brought back the thin-lipped look of pain. She made a sound.

“She's trying to say something,” the nurse said.

Stella bent down her head, so that her ear was close to Lucy's lips; close enough to hear the whispered, “Hand.”

With Stella's hand in hers, a look of peace came into Lucy's face. She closed her eyes, the lips parted slightly. She breathed quietly. Her fingers were at first tight against Stella's palm; gradually the tightness lessened. “I think she's asleep.” The nurse bent over, nodded her head. Stella looked at her interrogatively.

“Yes,” the nurse nodded, “you can go now. She should have a quiet night. It may make a difference.”

The story of Lucy's exploit was splashed in double column headlines across the morning papers. There were photographs of Lucy and her parents. There was an interview with Miss Draft. There was a leader on the suffragette movement, taking Lucy as its text. “Whatever one may feel about her wisdom, or rather the wisdom of her advisers, there can be no questioning the heroic courage of this girl or the depth of her devotion to the Cause.”