Bring Out the Banners Page 3

  They climbed the curving stairs, managing their skirts as best they could. It was chilly on the open upper deck. Fiona unclipped the waterproof apron and spread it over their laps.

  ‘What a good idea!’ Belle had seldom been on a bus and never, she confessed, by herself. This airy voyage, sailing along high above the crowded pavements, was almost an adventure.

  ‘But how did you come?’ asked Fiona, amused.

  ‘The butler whistled up a taxi. Mamma gave me the fare for another back.’ She laughed. ‘I put it in the collection! Oh, I’ve got enough for the bus – but I’d never have known which bus.’

  The conductor came clattering up the stairs. The journalist had followed them and found a seat close by. He might try to pay for them. Fiona was determined to prevent that. She fixed the conductor with a firm eye and held out a sixpence.

  ‘Where to, miss?’

  In her haste she had not chosen the most convenient bus for her new friend. Still, if they got off at the top of Tottenham Court Road she could walk on with her as far as Bedford Square.

  The young man got off at the same stop. She had felt sure he would. ‘You seem to be following us,’ she said lightly.

  ‘No. I gather you both live in Bloomsbury. So do I. Lamb’s Conduit Street.’

  That was the furthest edge of Bloomsbury. Certainly he had not taken the most convenient bus. They could hardly shake him off as they walked down Tottenham Court Road.

  ‘May I introduce myself?’ he said. ‘Guy Dangerfield.’

  She was forced to say, ‘My name’s Campbell. And this is Miss Isherwood.’

  ‘I would bow – but it might look silly.’ They were more at ease now, chattering as they walked, exchanging memories of Thursday.

  ‘This is a lovely coincidence,’ said Belle. She added, regretfully, ‘I do wish I could ask you in for a rather late cup of tea, but…’

  Thank God she’s got some sense, thought Fiona. The fat would be in the fire. Bringing home two complete strangers! I’d be bad enough – quite unacceptable socially. But a man! A journalist!

  She too however was reluctant to break off this conversation. At the corner of Francis Street she said: ‘This is where I live. If you’d like a cup of tea, Belle – ’

  ‘Oh, please!’ Belle’s delight was obvious.

  ‘I live over that laundry.’

  A conventional young man might have made his farewells, raised his hat and walked tactfully away into the night. She had a feeling that Mr Dangerfield would not.

  ‘Do you realize,’ he said, ‘that by now Mrs Pankhurst is almost certainly out of prison?’

  Who could possibly break up the party after that?

  They fired questions at him as they climbed the stairs. Luckily Fiona’s room-mate Daisy was not yet back from her weekend at home, so there was no call for introductions or explanations.

  Guy had picked up the news in a Fleet Street pub. The government no longer dared to subject Mrs Pankhurst to forcible feeding and they were terrified of her dying on their hands when she went on hunger-strike. She would be held in Exeter jail just long enough to miss the meeting. ‘She’s probably in the train by now,’ he said.

  There was some advantage, Fiona had to admit, in knowing a newspaper man.

  Belle was asking him what had made him want to be one. ‘I don’t,’ he corrected her. ‘It’s a stopgap. I want to be a novelist.’ His first effort had come out not long ago.

  ‘I say! What’s it called?’

  ‘The Anvil. Because that’s how your character is formed. Blows of Fate, and all that.’

  Belle was scribbling down the title. She’s going to buy it, thought Fiona. But her sort could afford to buy books. ‘You should write a novel about suffragettes,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think a novelist should make propaganda.’

  ‘What about Dickens?’ She cut into the cake that, most conveniently, her mother had baked for her. ‘And H.G. Wells? Ann Veronica’s about suffragettes.’

  ‘And other things,’ said Belle with her gurgly laugh. ‘At school we were forbidden to read it.’

  ‘It’s about the New Woman,’ said Fiona, ‘at the dawn of this twentieth century.’

  There was much to talk about. Belle looked at her wristwatch and cried out in horror. ‘Mamma will think I’ve got myself arrested! May I use your telephone?’

  Fiona explained with a smile that she did not possess one or know any private home that did.

  ‘Never mind. I’ll just have to run.’

  Guy leapt to his feet. ‘I’ll see you safely back.’

  ‘So will I,’ Fiona insisted. Too late she wondered if this had been a welcome offer. At the moment, however, she was more concerned about the extra disapproval Belle might incur if she was seen with this unknown young man.

  They fairly raced the short distance to Bedford Square. On the last street-corner Belle panted a hurried goodbye. ‘I must pretend I had a long wait for a taxi!’

  ‘And now,’ said Guy cheerfully, turning to Fiona, ‘I must see you home again.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she told him. ‘You have your piece to write for the paper. You said so. I walk these streets every day of my life. I am a working woman. I am independent. I am H.G. Wells’s New Woman!’

  ‘All right.’ He grinned down at her and she grinned back. ‘Good night, Ann Veronica. And thanks for the cake!’

  Chapter Six

  There were mornings when Guy’s newspaper made him explode over his breakfast, sometimes with laughter, sometimes with the violence of indignation.

  On the day that he read Lady Bathurst’s statement to the press it was a mixture of the two. ‘When a suffragette has been convicted,’ the lady declared, ‘first have her well birched (by women), then shave off her hair, and finally deport her to Australia or New Zealand.’ She had suggested these countries presumably because both had granted votes to women some years earlier.

  If I were a girl, thought Guy, I know how I should feel. He had been quite impartial – indeed, not especially interested – when he had drifted almost by accident into this field of topical controversy. After attending a few meetings, and especially now that he had made the acquaintance of Fiona and Belle, his sympathy was developing fast.

  His inside information about Mrs Pankhurst had been accurate. She had been released from Exeter, but too late to appear at the rally. Now the talk in Fleet Street was that she had fled to Paris. Guy was puzzled. That woman was a fighter, not the sort to run away. The puzzle was solved when he learnt that she had crossed the Channel only to consult with her daughter Christabel about the tactics for the next stage in the campaign.

  He had never seen Christabel. She was permanently in Paris because the British government could not touch her there. She was famous for her good looks and her brains – she was said, indeed, to be the brains of the movement. She held a first-class degree in law, had won a special prize for international law, but of course – being a mere female – she was not allowed to practise in a British court. A year or two ago, when suffragettes were being arrested right and left, the police had scoured the country for her.

  Guy, though he had then little interest in the subject, could still remember the press sensation, the cartoons and comic verses that had made her a popular heroine. One jingle lived in his memory:

  They seek her here, they seek her there,

  Detectives prowling everywhere.

  Their heads with big importance swell –

  She’s gone! Elusive Christabel!

  Finally she had turned up in Paris, where, as a lawyer, she knew that the French would treat her as a political refugee and not allow the British to extradite her. From this place of safety she edited the movement’s weekly paper.

  Who would have blamed Mrs Pankhurst, thought Guy, if she had stayed in Paris and shared her daughter’s immunity? But his assessment of her character had been accurate. Her ticket-of-leave was for seven days and she would be liable for rearrest from Sunday onwards. And the wo
rd now was that she would return to London on Saturday. As her followers had been denied the chance to welcome her home last Sunday he felt sure they would make up for it at Victoria Station. There might even be a first appearance of the General’s female bodyguard.

  An occasion he must not miss.

  The same idea had occurred to many others. Crowds were milling round the station forecourt, clustering in the adjacent streets. The air was electric with expectancy. A railway terminus was always a place where people waited to meet other people. Today there was a difference – nearly all were waiting to meet the same person.

  He saw many faces familiar to him from suffragette rallies he had attended. And the police seemed to be extraordinarily numerous.

  The boat-train was due in twenty minutes. He sauntered innocently towards the arrival platform. There were the usual taxis waiting – but oddly, in the middle of the rank, there was a very powerful-looking private motorcar. Two men sat in it and a grim-faced, drably-dressed woman behind them. Three uniformed constables stood by the car. Others, straddling motorcycles, were edging their machines into the fringes of the picture.

  There was another odd thing. The taxis contained, instead of the usual solitary driver, four men each – always four men, with the massive physique and nondescript headgear of the plain-clothes policeman.

  Guy’s pulse quickened. He did not like the look of this. Were they expecting disorder? Surely they could not touch Mrs Pankhurst today?

  Someone shouted a command. A line of uniformed men was suddenly strung across the station concourse, advancing and herding people away from the arrival platform.

  ‘Sorry, sir, sorry, madam – we have to clear this side of the station. No, sir, it’s everybody, I’m afraid – ’

  Guy had hoped to get an eye-witness story. He glanced round. How could he elude the advancing cordon? There was one place that policemen would hardly search for skulking suffragettes. He dived down the white-tiled subway, groping for a penny to ensure complete concealment.

  He waited five minutes. It was quiet overhead. He emerged, washed his hands under the eye of the attendant, and climbed the stairs, pausing just short of the top, so that only head and shoulders were in view. A vast empty space stretched to the arrival platform, where figures clustered, peaked caps and bowlers and helmets nodding together. Waiting.

  All heads were turned towards the distant sound of the approaching train. Louder and louder … then a diminuendo as, dead on time, the Dover boat-train glided smoothly into the terminus.

  The usual hubbub of chatter and opening doors was quelled by a voice of authority through a megaphone. ‘All passengers kindly remain in the train! This is a police order. Close the doors, please.’ There were obedient slams along the train, but from every window curious heads were thrust out.

  The waiting figures converged on one of the first-class compartments. Someone – Mrs Pankhurst, Guy could only suppose – was being hustled along the platform. Her voice pealed out in protest. ‘This is an outrage! You have no right to arrest me today!’

  The uniformed constables formed up in a double rank leading to the car. Mrs Pankhurst was bundled into the back. The escorting fleet of taxis had their engines running. The motorcycles roared into life. By the time Guy had run across the concourse the procession was on its way.

  The train passengers now began to disembark, chattering volubly. Guy heard one man explaining: ‘They got on at the town station in Dover. She’d just been served with tea. She threw the tray straight out of the window!’

  ‘The tea? Why ever – ?’

  ‘A hunger-strike starts at the moment of the arrest.’

  Guy hurried off. He must get to Fleet Street and offer Rudd his story. Without waste of a second.

  Just outside he almost collided with Fiona Campbell.

  ‘What’s happened? They wouldn’t let us in.’

  ‘They’ve got Mrs P.! She’ll be halfway to Holloway – ’

  Fiona looked stricken. ‘Look,’ he said desperately, ‘I can’t stop – I must get to Fleet Street.’ An idea struck him. ‘Come with me! You can sit in the outer office while I write my copy. Then – I know a splendid teashop just off the Strand. I owe you tea and cake from last Sunday!’

  He bustled her into a taxi. An hour later, relaxing over their second cup, he said: ‘I’m sorry if I was rather bossy. But the story had to come first.’

  She laughed. ‘Of course! So long as you don’t think I’m a submissive female. I didn’t argue – but not because you’re a man. Just then you were a journalist, like it or not – and you were doing a worthwhile job.’

  Chapter Seven

  A week later Fiona received an invitation from Guy Dangerfield. He had two press tickets for the opera, a royal gala performance, which would mean dressing up.

  She had no evening dress, but her flatmate worked in an Oxford Street store and had a wardrobe out of all proportion to her modest wage. Fortunately their measurements were the same.

  ‘I’ll lend you my fish dress,’ Daisy suggested.

  ‘Would you really?’

  The fish silhouette had been all the rage last year. Even now, at the end of 1913, it was as near the height of fashion as ordinary mortals would hope to attain. Daisy’s dress was a dinner gown with sleeves, the bodice boldly cut down in a great revealing V almost to the (fortunately) high waist. The long draped skirt would swish importantly down a theatre gangway. The dress was lemon yellow, with a tiny sprinkled pattern.

  ‘It’s you,’ said Daisy.

  Next day, to Fiona’s embarrassment, came a second invitation, by hand – also for the opera, on the same evening. It came from Flora Drummond, and was not so much an invitation as a command. It was just a duplicated slip. ‘Look forward to seeing you there. An appeal will be delivered to HM during the first interval and must be supported from all sides. Ticket enclosed. Bring own banner.’

  The ticket was for the gallery. ‘HM’ must signify King George the Fifth. The government was refusing to accept petitions from mere women as they were not ‘electors’ but, as Christabel Pankhurst cleverly argued, they were undeniably ‘subjects’ and were entitled to petition their king. This gala performance was an opportunity to do so with maximum publicity.

  Fiona was proud to be included in this enterprising plan, but it was cruelly disappointing that it clashed with Guy Dangerfield’s invitation.

  ‘Well, you can’t be in it,’ said Daisy decidedly. ‘You can’t jump up in the stalls waving a banner. There’s the young man to consider.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of causing him embarrassment. But – ’ Fiona hesitated. ‘I needn’t let Mrs Drummond down either.’

  ‘I don’t see – ’

  ‘This is all planned for the first interval. It could be over in ten minutes. If I slip out of my seat and run upstairs to join the others, nobody will spot me from the stalls. And by the end of the interval I can be back in my seat as cool as a cucumber.’ Even as she said this, she thought it sounded distinctly optimistic.

  Luckily the banner would be only a small square of calico with VOTES FOR WOMEN boldly printed on it. It was usually quite easy to hide until needed. Neatly folded or tightly rolled it would go under a winter coat or a blouse. Evening dress was more of a problem, but she would wear a wrap against the December night. And once the banner had served its purpose she could lose it somehow on her way back to the stalls.

  The young man called for her with a taxi. She went downstairs carefully, mindful of that gorgeous skirt rustling round her heels.

  ‘You look very splendid,’ he said.

  ‘You look rather distinguished yourself, Mr Dangerfield.’ He had hired tails for the occasion.

  ‘Do you think tonight we could drop the ‘Mr Dangerfield’ – and the ‘Miss Campbell’?’

  She laughed. ‘I understand that Queen Victoria passed away some years ago. So I think we might – Guy.’

  She hoped that this harmony would survive the interval.

  It
was a short ride to Bow Street. There was such a long line of cars and carriages creeping forward to the great porticoed entrance that it seemed better to pay off the taxi and weave their way through the sightseers already thronging the pavement.

  Inside, the splendours of the foyer and grand staircase were enhanced by the banked floral displays, the flags and the bunting. Fiona hoped that she looked all right. Everyone else seemed to be sparkling with medals and orders, tiaras and necklets.

  They were shown to their stalls. Thank God, she would be able to slip out smartly when the curtain fell. She arranged herself carefully, giving no glimpse of her banner. The red velvet curtains had the royal cipher embroidered in gold. Only the box reserved for the King and Queen was still unoccupied.

  ‘Good heavens!’ Guy exclaimed under his breath.

  She followed his gaze. Three impressively gowned ladies had entered one of the best boxes, facing that intended for the royal party.

  Belle Isherwood looked positively ethereal.

  ‘She’s not with her parents,’ Guy whispered. ‘I’ve seen photographs of the Countess.’

  ‘So – you know who Belle is?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Lady Isabel, daughter of the Earl of Cleveland. If you work for a paper you learn to do your homework.’

  She hoped that at least he had no inkling of the planned demonstration. She could not believe that he had. Would Belle be equally taken by surprise?

  There was a round of applause as the conductor appeared in the orchestra pit. Then a shivery fanfare, a roll of drums, and the first crashing chords of the national anthem. Everyone rose. She saw the bearded King. Queen Mary passing her bouquet to a lady-in-waiting. Then the house dimmed, the footlights blazed in golden brilliance, and the overture began.

  The opera was about Joan of Arc, the words in French, the music unfamiliar. Fiona was conscious of the splendid sound and of the spectacle filling the immense stage, but she could think only of the approaching interval.

  At last the curtain fell, the house lights came on, the orchestra crept away out of its pit. Tense and dry-mouthed, she slipped from her seat, paused only to whisper reassuringly in Guy’s ear, ‘Soon be back!’ and fled for the upper gallery. The endless stairs were awkward in that skirt. The fashionable fish silhouette was not designed for speed.