Bring Out the Banners Read online

  When they were taken up the stairs into the dock Fiona saw the Earl at once, and then – what was more of a surprise – two rows behind him, a pale-faced Guy who met her look with a weak and worried smile.

  The girls both pleaded not guilty. The detectives gave their evidence. It sounded well rehearsed. The stipendiary magistrate, a red-faced little man, questioned Fiona.

  ‘These – er, magazines. Where were you taking them?’

  ‘It was an errand for a friend, Your Worship.’

  ‘But to what address precisely?’

  ‘I did not know.’ There was a little stir in the court. The magistrate frowned.

  ‘Then presumably, Lady Isabel, you knew?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’ A greater stir. The man’s jaw dropped.

  ‘You both ask me to believe that you were carrying these bags through the streets – yet neither of you knew where you were taking them?’

  ‘If I may explain, your worship,’ said Fiona politely, ‘you asked us for the “precise” address. I had been told the name of the road but not the number. Lady Isabel knew only the number. She was not to tell me that until I told her we had reached the road.’

  ‘And what was the purpose of this tomfoolery?’

  ‘If we had been stopped and questioned earlier neither of us could have given away the full address.’

  ‘Ha! That seems strong evidence of a conspiracy!’

  Mr Glover popped up. ‘By your leave, Your Worship – I appear for Lady Isabel Isherwood – if I may raise a point?’

  ‘By all means, Mr Glover.’

  ‘Conspiracy implies an agreement to commit an illegal act – ’

  ‘Certainly!’

  ‘This weekly paper, The Suffragette, whatever we may think of its contents, is not illegal. There is nothing illegal in buying it or in possessing a number of copies. I submit respectfully, Your Worship, that my client could not therefore be guilty of conspiracy.’

  ‘I will consider your submission, Mr Glover. Now, to continue…’

  There was something highly suspicious in the two young ladies’ continued refusal to give the address they were making for. Their suffragette connection was obvious and many suffragette activities were illegal. Lady Isabel had lied about the contents of the bag she was carrying. At the very least they had obstructed the two detectives in their enquiries. The prisoner Campbell had obstructed them further by the deliberate destruction of a letter she was carrying, in the course of which she had assaulted the officer who was attempting to restrain her.

  Summing up, the stipendiary said he had formed the opinion that Campbell, though only slightly the elder, was the prime mover in this affair. ‘Women like you,’ he declared, ‘are the cause of the present breakdown in law and order. They must not be surprised if their continuing defiance brings increasingly heavy sentences. You will go to prison for three months. With hard labour.’

  Surveying Belle with a more-in-sorrow-than-in-anger expression, he went on: ‘It is particularly painful for me to pass sentence on a young person like yourself, of gentle upbringing, from a well-known – I may indeed say a noble – family, famous in the annals of this country. By your folly – and no doubt through the bad influence of unsuitable companions – you have brought disgrace upon that family and in particular your parents.’

  Fiona looked at the Earl. His expression was one of contempt, but not (she felt certain) for his daughter or even for herself. He was shaking his head in disagreement.

  The magistrate droned on to the end. ‘So I fear that you too must go to prison – you leave me no alternative. For two months.’

  ‘With hard labour?’ Belle reminded him. In her resolve to have no favouritism she was almost pert.

  The man scowled, suddenly hostile. ‘I was about to say so,’ he said sharply. ‘Take them down!’

  Turning at the stairs Fiona caught a last glimpse of Guy’s face. He looked devastated.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was a short drive to Holloway in the horse-drawn Black Maria. They talked in undertones. It was good to be with Belle again. ‘We’re in this together,’ said Belle.

  Unfortunately they were not – for long. After the cheerless formalities of admission and the changing into uniform – a coarse dress and apron marked with the government broad arrow, a cap tied with strings – they were marched off to separate cells.

  Fiona’s was number twenty-two. A round yellow badge with that number hung on a nail inside. ‘You pin that on your dress,’ said the hard-faced wardress. She was not merely in twenty-two, Fiona realized, she was Twenty-two. She had no name now, no identity.

  The door clanged shut. She was alone. She looked round. A plank bed tilted back against the wall. Folded bedding. A stool, a table, a tiny basin for washing, a bar of coarse yellow soap.

  The midday meal was brought. Brown bread, potatoes, cabbage. ‘You can take it away,’ she said. ‘I’m on hunger-strike.’

  ‘You’ll soon change your mind.’ The wardress left the food.

  Fiona had not long to wait before grasping the significance of that remark. The women in the nearby cells must have been in prison for several days. Some, being suffragettes on hunger-strike, had now reached the point of forcible feeding and the full horror of the procedure was all too audible. The cell doors concerned were left wide open while it was going on, so that it was not lost on anyone within earshot.

  It would begin with cries of defiance, changing quickly to an outburst of terrible screaming, going on and on. Then agonized coughing and choking, renewed screams, more choking, until at last the noise subsided into a fearful, exhausted moaning.

  In the end Fiona had to stop her ears. It seemed callous, cowardly. But it was unbearable. Would she be able to stand this? Somehow, God help her, she must.

  The interminable day went by. Supper came – more brown bread, butter and milk. She drank the milk. How long had she to keep this up? Four – five days? Could she endure that long?

  She tried to occupy her mind. At school they had learnt poetry and recited. She had been good at it. Her memory was stocked with poems she had never forgotten. She called to mind old favourites. For brief periods she could push back the prison walls.

  She thought of her mother and her sister. They must have been told by now. She longed for the chance to explain, to comfort them. But at this stage neither letters nor visits were allowed.

  She slept fitfully. Then distant bells rang, keys rattled, iron doors crashed. She had a quick wash in cold water, with that gritty soap. Her own door was flung open. ‘Empty your slops, Twenty-two!’ Breakfast. It took an effort to ignore even the dry brown bread. She drank from the pint mug of watery gruel, then stopped. It would rank as ‘nourishment’.

  The hard labour was hemming sheets. Her labour card showed that she must do at least fifteen a week, hemmed top and bottom. She had loved sewing as a little girl, sitting companionably with her mother by the fire. This was rather different.

  At half past eight she was let out to line up with the others and march into chapel. She saw Belle and whispered, ‘How are you?’ Belle smiled back. ‘Bearing up – ’ A wardress snarled, ‘Stop talking, Thirty-three!’ They could not sit together. The chaplain said prayers and they sang hymns. It was good to use one’s voice again.

  At exercise one had to walk up and down the yard in silence. At intervals she came face to face with Belle and it was just possible to exchange some sort of greeting, silently mouthed and lip-read by the other. But they were closely watched and shouted at if this was observed.

  Her first ravenous hunger had passed. It took less will-power to reject food. The lack of nourishment was beginning to take its toll.

  Even with the wardresses no conversation was allowed. One seemed more human than the rest. When Fiona refused her dinner she whispered:

  ‘Won’t you eat a little, miss? This starving won’t achieve anything.’ Fiona shook her head. ‘I hate to see you like this,’ said the woman as she went out.
r />   There were times when Fiona’s head swam, when her hand trembled as she drew the needle through the sheet. At exercise she stumbled. On the third day she looked in vain for Belle. She broke the rules and asked the friendly wardress: ‘Is Miss Isherwood – Number Thirty-three – all right?’

  ‘She’s a bit better – ’

  ‘Could you give her my love?’

  The wardress shrank back in alarm. ‘Sorry, miss – much as my job’s worth! Carrying messages between prisoners!’ She made a hasty exit. The heavy door crashed shut.

  Belle was in chapel next day. She gave Fiona a pallid smile. The effects of the hunger-strike were beginning to show.

  Fiona herself had a visit from the prison doctor. He took her pulse and checked her heart. ‘How long have you been refusing food? Four days? You must stop this foolishness. You must take some nourishment.’ She shook her head. ‘Then I’ve no alternative. I shall have to feed you.’

  She shrugged her shoulders. He went out. She had given up any attempt at work, she could no longer keep her stitches straight. She was not taken out to exercise.

  So, the time had come – nearly. Perhaps it would not be as ghastly as it always sounded. Hundreds of other women had endured it. She too would survive.

  Now came those brisk footsteps in the corridor, halting some distance away. The usual screams began, then the choking, the vomiting… Poor Belle! Would she be going through this? The appalling sounds came nearer. Fiona’s heart beat wildly, almost stopped when the doctor strode in, followed by the wardresses carrying the equipment.

  ‘Ah,’ he said crudely, ‘another young turkey for stuffing!’

  She glared at him venomously as two women gripped her arms and stretched her out on her bed. Another, the sympathetic one, moved behind her to hold her head, and a fourth seized her ankles. Others held a funnel attached to an enormously long tube, and jugs to pour into it.

  The doctor stooped over her.

  ‘I must put a gag in your mouth to keep it open. The wooden one is less painful. But if you compel me to use the steel one – ’

  She clenched her teeth. One must resist. One did not co-operate with these monsters. So in the end it was the steel gag that was rammed into her mouth and pressed down painfully into her gums, forcing her jaws unnaturally wide. She closed her eyes as they began to push the thick rubber tube down, down, endlessly down her throat.

  She was choking. She struggled spasmodically. Her knees shot up. The woman gripping her ankles pulled them down again. She tried to lift her head, but could not. They were pouring the meat juice down into her resisting body. The overwhelming impulse to vomit gave her momentarily superhuman strength to break their vice-like grip upon her. Then the horror started all over again.

  At last the doctor said crossly, ‘That must do for now.’ He glared down at her, dabbing himself with angry disgust. ‘If you are not going to be reasonable,’ he warned her, ‘I shall feed you through the nose next time.’ The women trooped out after him, carrying their hideous paraphernalia. She lay exhausted, soaked and stained by her own vomit.

  ‘Next time,’ he had said. ‘Dear God,’ she moaned. But the movement’s motto was No surrender. She must hold out.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After the last glimpse of Fiona’s dark head vanishing below the rail of the dock, Guy pushed his way out into the glaring sunshine of Bow Street, dazed and disorientated.

  He had often worried about the risks the girls were taking. Sooner or later, he had told himself… He had never realized it would hit him as hard as this.

  What could he do? Ten minutes later he found himself mechanically climbing the stairs to his room. His typewriter stood waiting reproachfully. He must lose himself in work, the time-honoured remedy. But the scene in the courtroom persisted in his mind, blotting out all thought of his novel.

  What could he do? He ate some bread and cheese, then walked down to Fleet Street. Perhaps he could persuade Rudd to print something that would at least relieve this awful blockage of frustrated feeling.

  Rudd was not helpful. ‘Our readers must be getting sick of the suffragettes,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t get into a rut, lad. Look around. There’s more to life than votes for women.’

  It was hard to argue with Rudd. He was repeating Guy’s own advice to Fiona, to broaden her interests.

  ‘There’s the Irish question.’ Rudd puffed a cloud of tobacco smoke fiercely across his desk. ‘We may wake up any morning and find a civil war’s broken out there. Or the Balkans – that murder of the Austrian archduke at Sarajevo the other day. That could start a war too. But we’re getting into the holiday season – people want to read about Charlie Chaplin or the new flying machines. And there’s sport.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Guy with sarcasm. ‘There’s always sport.’

  Back in Lamb’s Conduit Street he managed to write a few pages of his novel, only to tear them up. They did not live. There was only one thing he wanted – passionately – to write. A letter to Fiona. But she would not be allowed to receive it.

  That evening he walked up the dreary Holloway Road until he reached the prison. Somewhere behind those blank twenty-foot walls the girls were enduring God knew what. The gates were as blank as the walls. There was a bell, but prisons were not like hospitals where you could enquire for friends within. A more practical idea occurred to him.

  He could not believe that Belle’s parents were in similar ignorance of their daughter’s welfare. Surely the Earl would have ways of getting news. Tomorrow, Guy decided, he could at least ring his bell. He slept better that night, and after breakfast he hurried to Bedford Square.

  ‘I am sorry, sir,’ said the butler. ‘His lordship has just gone out.’

  ‘Would it be possible to see the Countess?’

  The butler eyed him cautiously. ‘You are not a journalist?’

  Guy avoided the question. ‘I am a friend of Lady Isabel’s.’ He handed the butler his card.

  ‘If you will step inside, sir, I will enquire.’

  In a couple of minutes he was back, relieved Guy of his hat, and ushered him into a small room where Belle’s mother sat at a desk strewn with letters and crested envelopes. Guy apologized for the interruption.

  She smiled rather wanly. ‘A welcome interruption! Look at all these letters. Like condolences after a death in the family. You’re a friend of Belle’s?’

  ‘We met at Lady Ottoline Morrell’s.’ Unnecessary to say that they had met previously at a suffragette rally.

  ‘Of course!’ cried the Countess. She fingered Guy’s card. ‘Mr Dangerfield! The clever young man who has written a novel. Belle has spoken of you.’

  ‘I wondered if you had any fresh news of her?’

  The smile faded. ‘She’s not allowed letters. But my husband has managed to ascertain that both the girls are … as well as can be expected.’

  ‘I was going to ask. Miss Campbell’s a friend of mine too.’

  ‘My husband was most impressed by her behaviour in court.’ She looked at him gravely. ‘You will understand, we are greatly upset by this affair. It is quite dreadful to think of what they must be going through. But we are with them – all the way. The logic of their cause is unanswerable. It is wicked that things should come to this. I blame Mr Asquith. But I would, wouldn’t I?’ She smiled again. ‘We, of course, are Conservatives.’

  He knew he must not take up any more of her time. He stood up. ‘If we get any more news,’ she promised, ‘I will send you word. I see you live not far away.’ She offered her hand. ‘Go along then, Mr Dangerfield, and write some more of your witty novels. We need something, God knows, to make us laugh.’

  Writing witty novels was the last thing of which he felt capable. Remembering Rudd’s advice to keep abreast of the world’s other news, he decided to pay another visit to the House of Commons. The Prime Minister was that day going to move the Irish Amending Bill in a desperate effort to avert the impending violence in that country. The Strangers’ Gallery was crowde
d.

  Guy was not destined, however, to become any wiser about the Irish question. There was a buzz of surprise from the MPs below when Mr Asquith rose and announced that its discussion must be postponed.

  ‘We meet today,’ he went on solemnly, ‘under conditions of gravity which are almost unparalleled. The issues of peace and war are hanging in the balance.’

  A man behind Guy whispered impatiently: ‘We know that. The Irish – ’

  Another voice answered, ‘It’s not that. He means we’re on the brink of a European war!’

  And so it seemed, unbelievably, as Guy began to catch up with the news he had scarcely taken in since the girls’ imprisonment.

  He had heard that Austria, infuriated by the assassination of its archduke, had sent the Serbs an ultimatum. But how could it possibly affect Britain? Over the next day or two, as one sensational news item followed another, he began to see.

  The Tsar of Russia, traditionally the protector of his fellow Slavs, the Serbs, was mobilizing his immense armies to fight his rival, the Emperor of Austria. But Austria’s natural ally was the third great European emperor, the Kaiser of Germany. By the end of the week the London papers were headlining a German declaration of war on Russia.

  The situation was getting ugly. France was Russia’s ally. She would have to back her against the Germans. Britain was nobody’s ally. She was not legally bound to enter the quarrel. But she had a close tie of friendship with France – and, said some, could she afford to risk the French being beaten, and Germany left the most powerful country in Europe? That Saturday the British were arguing such questions anxiously.

  Guy did not alter his own plans for Sunday. It was the day he and Fiona had meant to take their long-postponed walk in Epping Forest. It was sad to go alone, but better than moping in his stuffy room. He would be thinking of her wherever he was. Better to do so in the cool shade of the beeches and promise himself that next time she would be walking at his side.

  That day, though, the woods rang with the laughter of the East End crowds, and he found his own loneliness unbearable. By the evening, leg-weary and sunburnt, he felt he must have company. One of the Fleet Street pubs offered an obvious solution.