The Cuckoo's Child (28 page)

‘Get off with you, and don't bother about me. I'll enjoy a quiet evening on my own.'

He came out with her, muffled in a scarf and overcoat, to have a look at the car.

Tom told him it would go at thirty miles an hour, if pushed. ‘Well, I don't know, Tom Illingworth,' he said, looking bemused. ‘This is a sight different from flying down Syke Beck Lane on that bicycle of yours like you did when you were a lad. We'd have been born with wings if we'd been meant to go that fast!'

Tom laughed as he reached a hand outside to release the brake. ‘Safe as houses. Don't worry about Jessie, Mr Thwaite.

He stood at the door to see them off, a frail figure dwarfed by his big overcoat. Jessie scolded him and told him to go indoors, but he stayed where he was, smiling and waving them off until they turned the corner.

The prospect of jaunting over the moors at speed, however serious the end purpose, lifted their spirits. They became rather jolly, Gideon urging Tom to pass the trams lurching up and down the steep gradients, never mind the twenty mile speed limit. Daft, that was. Motorists should be allowed to drive at a speed they considered safe.

The girls huddled together for warmth, laughing and holding on to their hats. Laura was glad they were a crowd. She had been in a curious state between agitation and elation ever since her last meeting with Tom, and had only managed to deal with her emotions so far by not thinking about them.

The dingy room in a church hall near the Cloth Hall in Halifax was already packed when they arrived. It probably would have been anyway, said Una, but one of Mrs Pankhurst's daughters, Sylvia, was to be present and any of the women of that now-famous family was a big draw. The stage was backed with banners, worked in the WSPU colours of purple, green and white, and the platform was crowded with women in their best hats, as if to give the lie to the notion that the only women to be interested in women's rights were those who cared not a button for their appearance. A buzz of energy pervaded the hall, so that the cold, and the draughts, and the hard seats, were somehow not so noticeable. They began by singing
Jerusalem
, two hundred Yorkshire voices, mostly women's, raising the rafters.

Not all of them were women, though. It was encouraging to see a fair sprinkling of males – unless, as Una remarked in an acid aside, these should turn out to be hecklers, throwers of bags of flour, or planted policemen. It was good to see some working men. On the whole they were not the most ardent supporters of the Cause. George Quarmby, the Union man from Cross Ings, along with his wife, a small, stringy woman as dour-looking as he was, had nodded to Gideon as they claimed seats further along the same row; there were a few other men, better dressed, who looked more like teachers and professional men, and a couple with pencils and notebooks at the ready who could only be journalists.

The meeting began with some tedious business about the proposed Women's Exhibition to be held in Knightsbridge in May, a big occasion which would hopefully raise both awareness and funds for the WSPU. Miss Pankhurst – who was, their vivacious chairwoman reminded them, with a bow and a smile directed at the daughter of their eminent leader, a trained artist – had graciously designed banners for the occasion. Much applause. Volunteers and supplies were now urgently required, she went on, to man – or should she say
woman
? – the various stalls intended to sell regional produce. Several women at once volunteered their services. To fill the West Riding representatives' stall, Yorkshire parkin and curd tarts were immediately suggested. Some fine woollen shawls, locally woven. Purple and green cushions, embroidered with the Yorkshire White Rose emblem, and hand-painted china decorated likewise. A milliner was inspired to offer half a dozen hats. Perhaps, suggested someone, getting carried away, they could have a bazaar of their own, as well, to raise funds for the local branches.

Laura listened and wondered if this was what suffrage was really all about; there was something incompatible with the gentle art of setting up and running bazaars and the escalating violence within the movement, while more and more women were getting themselves into prison, hunger striking, damaging, defacing and setting fire to property. Broken glass, according to Mrs Pankhurst, was the most valuable argument in present day politics. Endeavouring to raise funds by selling trinkets and tea sets and baking parkin seemed to have little to do with all that, and would surely only arouse derision and more opposition in the men who were against them, another proof that women were incapable of thinking in any way beyond hearth and home? Laura sensed she was far from being alone in this; there were stirrings in the audience and between Jessie and Una long-suffering looks passed.

It was a relief when Sylvia Pankhurst rose to enthusiastic applause, but she was not to speak long this evening, it appeared. She was here to introduce and recommend the next speaker, a very popular choice. W.B. Empson was a man noted locally for his stirring oratory and his wholehearted support of the women's movement, outspoken on radical issues and well known to many of them, through his books, newspaper articles and speeches. He was not on the platform to begin with, but appeared when he was called on to speak; a tall, middle-aged man, he walked on to the stage with some panache, twirling a walking stick. Like a music hall turn, thought Laura. Any amusement faded, however, as Empson began to speak to an audience which became hushed and quiet the moment he began his introductory words.

He was younger than Laura had first thought him, perhaps no more than in his mid-forties, a handsome man, though his face was lined and the fall of hair over his brow was more silver than dark. His scholarly stoop suggested a middle-aged academic, but his voice when he spoke was that of a young man. He was a powerful orator, and an actor more than a little, and he spoke in a ringing voice, using that silver-banded stick theatrically, like a stage-prop, leaning forward, his hands cupped over its handle. Then waving it, brandishing it like a sword, stabbing it on the floor to emphasize his points. What a humbug! But when he got into his stride, he seemed to forget his mannerisms – and so did Laura. His arguments had cogency, there was truth in the pictures he painted. He passionately believed in universal suffrage, for both men and women, he supported Trades Unions and fair wages for all, and above all, Lloyd George's promises for redistribution of wealth in his People's Budget. His eyes flashed. His face was noble. He drew himself up to his considerable height and spoke with grave concern and common sense, captivating his audience, male and female, speaking with such honesty, sincerity and depth of feeling that some of the women round about them were in tears. Laura found herself almost moved to join them, and even Gideon, who had sat throughout with his arms folded, joined in the applause at the end with hearty approval. And Una? His speech had ignited a flame in her. There was silence when he had finished and then a roar of applause, and she was on her feet with the rest, her face incandescent.

When the applause died down, Empson bowed but did not take the seat which had been left vacant for him, and walked off the stage. The performance – Laura could not think of it as anything else – had perhaps taken it out of him.

‘There, what did you think of that?' She turned to Tom, sitting on her other side.

‘The speech? Marvellous. The rest of them? Blinkered, perhaps,' he returned, smiling. ‘Right about their ideals, perhaps, but mistaken in the way they're going about it. Nothing's calculated to rouse opposition more than violence. Are you of their persuasion? I can see you might be.'

‘Certainly not! As a matter of fact, I agree with you about the violence.' Yet more and more did Laura agree with their aims and ideals. The constant reiteration of them at Farr Clough was infectious.

Tom, however, was not inclined to pursue the conversation and went to find them the cup of tea that had been promised. They appeared to be back on their former footing. Perhaps he had only been angry with himself for being so precipitate, and not offended that she had so quickly appeared to reject his overtures out of hand. More likely, he regretted an impulsive moment, she thought as she joined Una among the women gathered at the back of the hall.

Empson's speech had been worth the effort of turning out on a cold night, they agreed. ‘I wonder if I could persuade him to write something for
Unity
? But I can't ask him now,' Una said. ‘He's being mobbed and there are people I want to see. I shall have to find out his address and then I'll write to ask him.'

‘I'll get it for you.'

The speaker sat at a table with his books and pamphlets displayed, and Laura waited her turn, reluctant to push herself forward. However, when he happened to look up and see her standing at the back of the crowd something prompted him to ask, ‘Is there anything I can do for you?'

He beckoned to her and the sea of women gave way. She passed on Una's hope that he might write something for her magazine.

‘
Unity
? Oh yes, I've seen it, and admired it. Una Beaumont, isn't it, who produces it? Is she here?' Laura waved to where Una stood with her friends, a tall and graceful figure, unusually animated, her eyes shining and her blonde looks enhanced rather than diminished by the black she was wearing. He considered her thoughtfully for several moments. ‘She is in mourning? And you, too?' he asked, turning back to Laura

‘Yes. A . . . relative has died.'

‘My condolences to you both. Well, when you're ready, I shall be honoured to help. Let me give you my address.'

‘I'm afraid she won't be able to pay you,' Laura warned. He waved a hand. None of these little magazines could pay. ‘But
Unity
has a good circulation,' she added.

‘That would clearly be an advantage.'

He had a slow smile of great charm. But he was much less flamboyant than he had appeared on the stage. He scribbled something in a notebook, tore the sheet out, folded it and handed it to her. She slipped it into her bag. ‘And you are, Miss . . . ?'

‘My name's Harcourt, Laura Harcourt.'

He shook her hand. ‘I look forward to hearing from Miss Beaumont, and have the privilege of meeting her – and you, too, again, Miss Harcourt, I hope.'

Tom drew the car up outside Jessie's house. Immediately, Jessie noticed that the light was still on. ‘He hasn't gone to bed yet!'

She flew up the short path to the house. Una and Laura looked at each other and followed. They found Jessie kneeling beside her father's chair, her arms around him and her head buried against his shoulder. Walter Thwaite had died sitting in his armchair, a rug over his knees, his hands on his Bible. He looked as though he had quietly gone to sleep. Jessie raised her head, her face blank with shock. ‘I should never have gone. Left him with nobody to sit with him.'

‘Jessie, how could you have known?' Una said gently. ‘He was happy for you to go this evening, and I'm sure he died quite peacefully. Look, let me make you a cup of tea . . .'

But Laura had forestalled her and was already stirring the dying fire, lifting the kettle from the hob and putting it on to the coals, where it immediately began to sing. She went into the little scullery behind to look for the teapot and when she came back, she found Tom had followed them into the house. It took him only a moment to realize what had happened. ‘We'll fetch Dr Widdop,' he said immediately.

‘It's too late,' Jessie said, lifting her head. ‘But I'd like to see Matthew Pike. Please ask Dr Pike to come.'

With all that had happened, it wasn't until she was undressing that Laura remembered the address the speaker had given her. She took the folded paper out of her bag so that she would not forget to give it to Una the next day. It wafted open as she tossed it on to the dressing table and, catching a glimpse of what was written on the inside, she opened it fully. For several minutes she stared at it, then refolded it and put it back on the dressing table.

Walter Thwaite's funeral had taken place, but until Ainsley Beaumont's body was allowed to be interred, those at Farr Clough were in a state of limbo, restless and unable to settle to anything. Gideon dashed at the crack of dawn to Cross Ings and returned late, as if the place would fall down without his continual presence, but even he could not stay down there all night. He seemed to have lost his taste at the moment for the friends he used to racket around with. Una, too, appeared not to know what to do with herself. There was a limit to the letters and articles even she could write, and she had been in a strange state of feverish excitement ever since the Halifax meeting. They sat around in the evenings in Una's workroom, the three of them, reading, talking, playing the occasional game of cribbage . . .

One evening, wondering how she was to get through the next hour or two without yawning her head off, Laura wandered over to the piano, opened the lid and began plonking out one of the latest jolly tunes, singing what words she could remember. Not much of a performance, but about as much as she was capable of, and it earned her a round of applause.

Gideon looked at his sister. ‘Go on, Una, your turn now.'

Una hesitated, then took Laura's place. After a moment, she began to play. Laura didn't recognize the piece. She was not musical, as
Kelly from the Isle of Man
had amply testified. Scarlatti perhaps? At any rate, it was one of those quick, rippling pieces that need a high degree of skill to play. She went to sit by the fire, listened and watched Una's long white fingers flash over the keys. It was only a short piece, and as the last note finished, she sat with her head bent, her hands resting on the keyboard.

‘There now, that wasn't so bad, after all, was it?' Gideon said.