Bring Out the Banners Read online

  To counter this the movement had to create its own system of distribution. There had always been volunteer sellers at meetings and demonstrations. That organization had to be vastly expanded. Somehow, by a miracle, The Suffragette never missed a week. Somehow it continued to reach the public.

  Fiona and Belle plunged into this activity with enthusiasm. Belle could take on daytime work, Fiona sacrificed evenings and weekends. Sadly she had to cancel a visit to the Old Vic with Guy, to see Romeo and Juliet, and a picnic he had planned in Epping Forest. She had greatly looked forward to both.

  He did not take these cancellations well. He was already resentful because she could not tell him much about her work for the movement. She was vague even about the location of the new headquarters.

  He challenged her crossly. ‘You don’t trust me?’

  ‘Of course I do. But we’re not supposed to tell anybody.’

  ‘Am I “anybody”?’

  She hated to argue with him. ‘Of course not! But – you are a journalist – ’

  ‘Not that again! For heaven’s sake – ’

  ‘I know you wouldn’t pass on anything I told you in confidence. But suppose something leaked out from another source, and they thought it was from you, and they know we’re friends, and – ’

  ‘Oh, never mind.’ At moments he sounded like a spoilt child. ‘So Sunday’s off. And the Old Vic.’ His tone was a spark to her own smouldering resentment. She exclaimed furiously: ‘Do you think I’m not disappointed?’

  He flinched at her anger and went quiet.

  After two weeks at Tothill Street the police struck again. This time it was Belle who witnessed the raid. A positive army surrounded and invaded the premises – about eighty officers in all – and made a clean sweep of all the documents and files. Belle was returning from an errand to the post office. She found her way barred by a young constable who demanded her name.

  His manner irritated her. She was not used to being spoken to like this. She never used her title in the office but retorted without thinking: ‘Lady Isabel Isherwood – if it’s any business of yours!’

  His manner changed. As he stammered apologies his sergeant intervened. ‘We need not trouble this young lady,’ he said sharply. To Belle he went on: ‘I beg pardon, Your Ladyship, I’m afraid this office is closed.’

  ‘Indeed?’ She was prudent enough not to argue. She walked away. No sense in getting arrested. There had been a time when it had been the recognized way of winning publicity for the cause. Now the movement had enough martyrs. What it needed was people free to carry on the fight. Even so, she burned with indignation at the favouritism shown to her class.

  Guy felt a similar anger when, a few days later, he went to the House of Commons to hear the Home Secretary speak on the subject of the hunger-strikes.

  As a man, he got into the Strangers’ Gallery without difficulty. Women, he noticed, were finding it harder. There had been cases, he knew, when they had interrupted debates with their shouting and unfurling of banners. Now the attendants were limiting the number of women admitted. And those who got in were all obvious ‘ladies’ in speech and manner, well dressed, with expensive hats and gloves and handbags. Nobody of working-class appearance got past the doorkeeper.

  An angry member was demanding that the government should leave the hunger-strikers to die. After one or two deaths in prison these fanatical females would learn how useless their policy was, and militancy would cease.

  The Home Secretary did not agree. ‘For every woman who died,’ said Mr McKenna, ‘scores would come forward for the honour. They have a courage, part of their fanaticism, which undoubtedly stands at nothing. They would seek death. When there were twenty, thirty, forty – or more – deaths in prison, you would have violent reaction of public opinion.’ He looked grimly round the crowded benches. ‘I do not believe that is a policy which will ever recommend itself to British people. I am bound to say,’ he added emphatically, ‘that for myself I could never take a hand in carrying it out.’

  At least, thought Guy, this man has some principles.

  When the uproar in the House subsided Mr McKenna went on to consider alternative suggestions. Should the suffragettes be deported to some distant island and marooned there? Their wealthy supporters would soon charter a yacht and rescue them. Could they be locked up in lunatic asylums? ‘I have on many occasions had them examined by doctors,’ he said. ‘In no case have the doctors been willing to certify them as lunatics.’

  Guy could have hugged himself. This would be a good quote to use in The Suffragette. He even wondered if Rudd would accept a satirical piece. But it was getting harder to sell Rudd anything on the suffrage theme.

  It was now nearly mid-June. Police persecution and suffragette resistance were intensifying day by day. Afterwards, these weeks were to be remembered as ‘the midsummer madness’. Fiona shuddered as she read the headline in the latest issue of The Suffragette. WOMEN DRUGGED AND TORTURED IN PRISON. Prisoners, struggling against the doctors and wardresses forcing food down their throats, were now being dosed with bromide to overcome their resistance. She wondered if she would ever have the courage to face such an ordeal.

  The new headquarters were at the Brackenburys’ house in Campden Hill Square. Mouse Castle was now the nerve centre of the campaign. For Fiona it meant a longer journey after the day’s grind in Mr Bagshaw’s office and another long journey home to her flat, though often she had Belle’s company.

  It was an inspiration to know the Brackenburys. Both daughters were well known as artists, Georgina for portraits and Marie for landscapes. Their father, General Brackenbury, must have been unusual for an army man, for his own paintings had won him election to the Royal Academy. For the past seven years the sisters had sacrificed their artistic careers for the suffragette cause, chairing mass meetings in Hyde Park and working devotedly in other ways. Two years ago they had served sentences in prison. So had their seventy-year-old mother.

  With examples like that Fiona felt she could hardly complain herself if she crawled into her bed completely exhausted.

  Mouse Castle was raided the day after Guy had listened to the Home Secretary’s speech. It was now impossible to maintain an open headquarters. The organization went underground.

  ‘I feel like a Russian revolutionary,’ said Belle cheerfully. ‘Chased by Cossacks and spied on by the Tsar’s secret police! And this is England.’

  Somehow The Suffragette was still published and sold. But meetings had to be held secretly in private houses. Communications were made if possible by word of mouth, or, if written, conveyed in code.

  One telegram Fiona had to dispatch somewhat perplexed the post office clerk. ‘Silk, thistle, pansy, duck, wool,’ he muttered, giving her a very odd look. ‘Is this right?’

  ‘I do hope so,’ she said sweetly. ‘I think they are racing tips. I don’t know what it means.’

  She knew very well. It was code for ‘Will you protest at Asquith’s public meeting tomorrow evening, but don’t get arrested unless success depends on it.’

  Friends – and enemies – were referred to by false names. Christabel Pankhurst became ‘Amy Richards’. Other leaders were disguised as ‘Brer Rabbit’, ‘Auntie Maggie’ and ‘Clorf Ears’. It was rather like being revolutionaries in St Petersburg.

  July came. Mrs Pankhurst had won release again by determined hunger-strike – she was then rearrested, released as usual a few days later, and once more arrested as she was being taken to a meeting by ambulance. The government’s relentless policy rallied more and more public sympathy for the cause. One July meeting raised nearly sixteen thousand pounds.

  One evening Fiona and Belle were asked to carry out an errand on their way home. There was an urgent note for an address near Regent’s Park. Would they, at the same time, deliver five dozen copies of The Suffragette?

  The copies were packed in a small suitcase and a Gladstone bag. They set off with them in a velvety summer dusk, a light breeze off the park bringi
ng a welcome freshness after the heat of the day.

  After a while Belle lowered her voice. ‘Don’t look back. Take a glance when we cross the road. Two men – they were behind us ten minutes ago. They still are.’

  ‘Following us?’

  ‘If they’re not, it’s an odd coincidence.’

  ‘Men do follow girls.’ Working in central London Fiona had learnt to deal with the problem.

  ‘They don’t look that sort. And they’ve made no effort to catch up with us.’

  They crossed the road. Glancing left and right, Fiona saw the men. After all the meetings and demonstrations she had attended in the past year she knew a plain-clothes policeman when she saw one. Belle was right.

  ‘How maddening!’ she whispered. ‘We must be getting near the house now. We’re leading them straight to it! But we mustn’t.’

  ‘After carrying these blessed bags all the way!’

  ‘That can’t be helped.’

  ‘But the note is urgent!’ Belle had an inspiration. This area bordering Regent’s Park was familiar to her from childhood walks with her nanny. ‘There’s a little narrow cut-through between these houses – we used to race down and hide when we were small. We might somehow throw these men off the scent – ’

  ‘But how? They’ll chase after us.’

  At that moment, by good luck, a possible solution offered itself. A uniformed constable emerged from a side turning and stopped under a street lamp, surveying the quiet scene. Without pausing to consult Fiona, Belle marched up to him and said in her grandest manner: ‘Officer!’

  ‘Yes, miss. Can I help you?’

  ‘Those two men. We’re afraid they’re following us.’ He stared intently down the road. ‘Have they been annoying you, miss?’

  ‘They haven’t actually accosted us – yet.’

  ‘Well, I don’t quite see what I can do, miss, if you’re not lodging a complaint – ’

  ‘If you could just speak to them,’ Fiona suggested quickly. ‘Detain them long enough for us to walk on.’

  ‘We’re almost home,’ said Belle – inventively but, as it proved, unwisely.

  ‘Simplest thing, then, I’ll see you safely to your door,’ said the constable helpfully, but greatly to Fiona’s dismay. They were getting themselves into an awkward corner.

  The two strangers were crossing the road, clearly intending to intrude upon the conversation. The constable began to say something in a discouraging tone, which changed suddenly into one much more respectful. ‘Sorry, sir! I didn’t – ’

  Fiona saw the warrant card flash briefly in the lamplight. A gruff voice said, with the ring of authority, ‘That’s all right. You may be useful.’

  ‘Sir!’

  The stranger turned to Belle. ‘May I ask you to open that bag, miss?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘What have you got in it?’

  ‘Only my night things. And so on,’ Belle added imaginatively.

  ‘Open it, please.’

  ‘I shall do nothing of the kind.’ It was very much the Earl’s daughter speaking. ‘If you think I am going to have somebody rummaging through my – my most intimate garments – ’

  ‘Then I’m afraid I must.’ He stooped, snicked open the suitcase, and revealed the neatly packed copies of The Suffragette. His colleague took the Gladstone bag from Fiona and revealed its similar contents. ‘I’m afraid,’ said the first man, ‘I must ask both you young ladies to accompany us to the station.’

  ‘Is it illegal to possess this paper?’ Fiona demanded. But she was ignored. The man was concentrating on Belle. He was obviously determined to take them in for questioning. Any attempt at flight would be useless and would merely strengthen his suspicion. Things were beginning to look really bad.

  There was only one useful thing she could do. Get rid of that urgent note, whatever it contained. She was sure to be searched when they reached the police station.

  There was a handy grating in the gutter. She managed to draw the sealed envelope from her pocket and tear it into small pieces behind her back. Then, stooping forward suddenly, she dropped them between the bars into the drain. The other detective leapt forward but he was able only to catch a single scrap of paper before it vanished through the grating.

  ‘Never mind,’ said his colleague. ‘Obstruction of a police officer. Perhaps conspiracy. Attempt to destroy evidence. Should do us very nicely.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  At the police station Belle made no attempt to conceal her title. ‘Mamma will be frantic if she doesn’t know what’s happened to me,’ she explained to Fiona apologetically. ‘Perhaps,’ she said to the sergeant at the desk, ‘you will be kind enough to telephone my father and say where I am?’

  ‘Certainly, my lady.’ There had been quite a stir of interest when she gave her name and address.

  Fiona’s mother had no telephone. It would be a terrible shock if a constable knocked on her door with the news at this late hour. Better to spare her that, and the ordeal of court attendance. She can be told soon enough, thought Fiona grimly, when we know the worst.

  The charges were read out to them. Fiona had apparently kicked the detective’s shin during that scuffle over the grating. He had suffered no serious injury, but it was enough to justify adding ‘assault’ to the charges.

  They would be taken before the Bow Street magistrate in the morning. ‘So tonight we stop here?’ asked Fiona.

  ‘That depends, miss. There’s the question of bail.’

  ‘I don’t want bail.’ Suffragettes usually refused bail on principle. It meant promises of good behaviour, obedience to a law they regarded as unjust. In earlier days strangers had often tried to go bail for them, out of sympathy or to save the government from bad publicity. One of their fiercest opponents, Winston Churchill, had even offered to pay fines for them, but they had refused his help.

  Belle took her cue from Fiona. ‘I don’t want bail either.’

  A few minutes later her father marched into the charge-room. Fetched out of some important function, he looked very distinguished, thought Fiona, in his white tie and tails and glittering decorations. The policemen practically sprang to attention.

  He kissed Belle. ‘What have you been up to, my dear? Your mother’s no end upset. Never mind, soon get you out of this – ’

  ‘I don’t want bail, Daddy!’

  ‘Beg pardon, my lord,’ said the sergeant helpfully. ‘She’s given her age as only nineteen.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So it’s not for her to say. You being her father – ’

  ‘That’s all right, then.’

  ‘Daddy!’

  The Earl ignored her wail of protest. He looked at Fiona – a friendly look, she thought, not as disapproving as she might have expected. ‘This your friend?’

  ‘Yes, this is Fiona. Fiona Campbell.’

  ‘Howdy-do, Miss Campbell! Can I be of any help to you?’

  ‘Certainly not over bail, thank you, my lord. And I have no father, so I can make my own decision.’ She smiled, not wishing to sound ungrateful. ‘My overnight accommodation seems to be arranged for me!’ There was an answering twinkle in his eye.

  The formalities took a few minutes. Belle whispered, ‘I’m so sorry – it’s humiliating, having to leave you like this.’

  ‘Never mind. As I used to say to my friends after school, “See you tomorrow!’”

  A policeman called a cab for the Earl. Fiona was led away to a cell.

  So it had happened, she reflected grimly, the thing she had always secretly dreaded. She lay on the hard plank bed, reviewing the full implications. She had often wondered, with gnawing fear, if she would have the strength of will to face those implications. The first step – to refuse bail – had been easy enough. But to refuse food… She was already famished after the long day. She had been looking forward to a late-night supper at Francis Street. She would be offered nothing here until breakfast tomorrow morning. Would she be able to refuse
it then?

  Dawn came, the pitilessly early dawn of high summer, and after further endless hours of waiting, the key turned in the lock and they brought her a mug of tea, a slab of brown bread, a nub of butter. She could not resist temptation. She gulped down the tea. She was not going to attempt a thirst-strike anyhow. Only the most dedicated did that. She had heard horrific stories of the effects of dehydration. She would only refuse food – after this final breakfast. She tried to satisfy her conscience with the thought that she would need all her strength to face the magistrate.

  Belle would certainly be having a good meal. She imagined her at Bedford Square, tucking into eggs and bacon, lifting the silver dish-covers on the sideboard in quest of kedgeree or devilled kidneys. Poor Belle! In the end this ordeal would hit her twice as hard. With her delicate upbringing how would she stand it?

  Unless, of course, the Earl somehow contrived – but no, the time had passed for pulling strings in high places. The government was ruthless. Too many society women were tainted with suffragette sympathies. People like Lady Constance Lytton. It had not helped her that she had been the Earl of Lytton’s sister. Now, after several hunger-strikes and forcible feeding, she was likely to be an invalid for life.

  The room beneath the court was crowded – there were half a dozen of last night’s drunks, still looking much the worse for wear, and two young girls whom her mother would certainly have described as no better than they should be. There were policemen and solicitors. It was easy to spot Belle.

  Belle waved and beckoned, introducing her to the man she was talking to. ‘This is Mr Glover. Daddy insisted on my having a solicitor. If you care to accept Mr Glover’s assistance, Daddy will be very pleased – ’

  ‘That’s very kind of him. But I think I must speak for myself.’

  ‘Just as you please.’ Mr Glover looked relieved.