A Time for Courage (17 page)

‘Draw that chair up, Hannah, we have only a few moments in which to explore the situation, though we will need to pursue it at greater length another time if you are to get a proper answer from me.’

The chair was not comfortable, the frame dug into Hannah’s legs and the material had no give in it but she hardly noticed as she listened.

‘My father was an exceptional man. He sent me to university, which I loved of course but women were still barred from obtaining a degree at the end of the course.’

‘But why?’ Hannah asked.

‘For the same reason that we are denied the vote. We are not considered the equal of men. As you have so rightly discovered, though I don’t know how or why, we are merely property. Firstly of the father, and secondly of the husband.’

Hannah ran her fingers along the edge of the wooden chair arm. It was scratched and she traced the indented lines with her fingers. Yes, this was what she knew, but how good to hear it from another woman. She paused in her thoughts. But surely Miss Fletcher had no husband and was therefore free, she queried.

‘In that narrow sense yes, but still there is this need in some women, not all by any means, to be publicly recognised as people. To feel that they have a right to decide for themselves on matters which they deem important. I feel that equality before the law is essential for women and for that reason it is a matter of the gravest importance that women must achieve what two-thirds of men already have – the vote. Oh, not just to be able to say that we are equal, but to be able to use our vote to change injustices in society, to feel that we have a voice.’ Now Miss Fletcher was drawing words and ideas with her hands and she looked somehow younger.

‘I agree, so much,’ Hannah said, leaning forward. The dog stirred, grunted and then fell silently back into sleep. She did not notice his smell now. ‘How can it be done?’ She felt eager and impatient.

‘That is what we would all like to know. I became a suffragist, and we believe that by sensible lobbying of Members of Parliament to introduce private members’ franchise bills we shall eventually win. We need to show everyone that we are capable and deserving of their support, so our members seek seats on parish councils, school boards, and the Boards of Guardians; sorting out the poor wretches condemned to workhouses; proving that we are capable of more than embroidery or endless childbearing.’

Hannah saw again the long corridor, the grey, still figures and the smell of carbolic old age; saw Bernie, Joe’s old miner, and his cottage overlooking the moor, their moor. While she sat she listened as this woman, who was soon to be her employer, explained that her colleagues also joined organisations such as the Women’s Liberal Federation to visibly canvass at election time, since paid help for prospective MPs was no longer permitted. Anything to draw attention to the fact that women were not mere ‘angels of the hearth’ but living, thinking people.

The ringing of the bell for the start of afternoon school startled them both. Hannah gripped her hands together in her lap. There was so much more she wanted to hear, to say, and there was now no time. She rose, confused, embarrassed, brought back into the present, wondering how she had come so easily to sit next to her Headmistress and forget the barriers of position.

Miss Fletcher had also risen. Again the dog stirred, yelping now but still asleep. Was she chasing rabbits? Hannah looked down at her and smiled.

Miss Fletcher moved to the door. ‘We have more to talk about, you and I, but now your biggest problem is going to be taking this next step. Somehow you have to persuade your father to agree, Hannah. Without his permission I cannot proceed with any of these ideas.’

Her face was serious, a frown was growing.

Hannah nodded and felt the familiar tension knot her back. She looked about the room with its low light, its familiar smell of oil and dog. It should have been comforting but now she felt detached from it. The papers which Miss Fletcher had given her were still on the desk and she moved quickly to retrieve them. She looked again at the picture that brought the sun into her heart and then heard as though from a distance the sound of storm and wind and the slow drawled voice of Joe.

Stay with me, he had said, hadn’t he, but something else also and she could hear it now, as though he was speaking while reaching for her hand. You’ll do what you want, Hannah, he had said, I have no fear of that. And his hand had been hard and strong.

She turned now, the papers clutched so tightly that they crumpled where she held them.

‘That picture is post-Impressionist. I’m glad that you seem to like it. These new artists are very brave, they are trying to change the mould.’ Miss Fletcher’s face was questioning, and Hannah smiled as she passed by her and then through the door.

‘My father will give his permission, Miss Fletcher. I promise you that.’

She was glad that the corridor was dark and without distraction because an idea was emerging even as Miss Fletcher shut the door. It was an idea that required a bargain with Esther.

Hannah sat through afternoon lessons while Esther ignored her, sulking because she had been excluded but from what she didn’t know. As the bell rang for the end of school Hannah ran to catch up with Esther, who was leaving the cloakroom without her. She tucked her arm through her cousin’s but there was no response. Esther would not turn her head as they walked down the drive and through the gate into the fog, which was still thick and tasted and smelt as it looked, yellow and sulphurous.

‘Put your scarf up over your nose,’ Hannah ordered, knowing how Esther would cough throughout the night if she did not.

But Esther tipped her head up and strode on, not replying, stiff and unyielding. Hannah pulled her own scarf up and lengthened her stride, torn between irritation and anxiety. Irritation at her cousin’s childishness and anxiety in case she was unable to persuade Esther to co-operate in the plan which she had devised during mathematics. But she must, that was all there was to it.

Hannah stopped, the air harsh in her eyes, pulling her cousin to a standstill, her arm still locked around Esther’s. She could hear the sound of the hansom cabs, carts and carriages, but only saw them at the last minute as they loomed out of the swirling fog and passed alongside the pavement, their lamps useless but alight none the less.

Hannah was not frightened because the route was familiar; these iron railings to the right enclosed the park, the cutting that they had just passed ran round the rear of the school. The sound of fog horns echoed from the river where barges eased their way along. Fog was not strange, it was usual in this world of industry and blackened chimneys.

‘Esther,’ Hannah shouted. ‘Don’t be absurd. I have a plan to give you that time you spoke of earlier.’ Esther walked forward again, not looking at Hannah, not speaking, and this time Hannah stood still, letting her hand fall from Esther’s arm, waiting for her to stop, because she knew that she would if it was to her advantage. Hannah was surprised at her thoughts but realised with absolute clarity that she had found the key to her cousin but it didn’t matter, she still loved her.

Esther did stop and slowly turn, her face set and her eyes cold, but they did not move towards one another and Hannah could see the fog drifting even in the short space that separated them. She hooked her scarf up over her face again as she felt the coughing begin but Esther still stood there with hers hanging loose. Hannah felt impatience flash again and she strode forward seizing and wrapping the scarf around the girl’s face.

‘You’re worse than a baby,’ she shouted, startling a horse as it passed and she flinched as the driver hauled on the reins, then bore down with his whip, cursing Hannah as he struggled to control the clattering, thrashing horse before disappearing into the swirling darkness.

The girls looked at one another and then laughed until the air rasped in their lungs and the coughing began.

‘You see,’ Hannah gasped, ‘even the horses take notice before you do.’ They moved nearer to the railings, walking to the point where their paths diverged.

Hannah again linked her arm in Esther’s and this time there was an answering pressure and so she explained and outlined her idea.

‘If you really want to have time to see more of Harry and not study for Cambridge I will persuade Miss Fletcher to take you on as a pupil teacher because that is what she is doing with me.’

She put up her hand as Esther swung round. ‘I’ll go into it all later but you will need to approach Uncle Thomas properly. You will need to convince him that you want to teach, that you want to take life more seriously.’ She shook her head at Esther’s raised eyebrows and did not pause. ‘That you find me a steadying influence. That you don’t want to go away to Cambridge or to finishing school but that you want to make some use of your life before you marry.’

They were beneath the hissing gas lamp now which threw barely any light on to the pavement. Hannah’s scarf was down again, warm and moist from her condensed breath. She wanted her words to be clear and firm.

Esther leant back against the lamppost and laughed. ‘Father will think some miracle has occurred if I trot out all that.’

Hannah laughed too. ‘Say what you like but it must succeed if you wish to achieve your aim.’ She turned and walked on, too cold to stand still any longer.

‘So,’ Esther said, pulling her scarf tighter and walking beside her, her voice sounding muffled now, her eyes curious above the scarf, ‘what is the bargain then, if you arrange this with Miss Fletcher?’

Hannah didn’t turn but braced her shoulders. ‘As I said, you will have to convince your father that you need me there with you. He will have to persuade my father to allow me to take up the position. You know, as a sort of chaperon.’

There, it was out now, and she pulled the scarf back over her nose and mouth. It was cold and damp. Miss Fletcher had already agreed to offer Esther a position but she would not tell her cousin that yet.

Esther sank her chin deep into her chest as she pondered. ‘We get paid, don’t we?’ she asked eventually, and Hannah nodded. ‘It all rather smacks of trade, you know. Not quite the thing.’

They had reached the corner where Hannah would turn off the main thoroughfare and begin the walk to the crescent. She felt the panic but fought to keep her voice even.

‘Nonsense,’ she answered. ‘Miss Fletcher runs a good private school and you will be a qualified teacher, having attended a college in London. It is considered a profession with status, you know, and the college isn’t far from Harry’s.’

She paused, pushing her hands deep into her pockets, clenching them into fists before adding a piece of news that she had heard Beaky telling Cook. Her voice was loud as she fought to keep Esther’s attention against the clatter of the traffic.

‘I hear that Sir Armstrong’s boy is back from the Rand where the gold mines are working well again after being shut down when the war was at its height. He’s bought a house in Eaton Square and is only twenty-five. He made a lucky strike, I gather.’

She waited then but knew that she had played her best card and felt no remorse for using Harry, for hadn’t he taken more from her?

It was during Sunday dinner three weeks later, when the Vicar was seated opposite and her mother had been forced to join them, that her father informed her that he was about to approach Miss Fletcher with a view to Hannah earning her own living in the capacity of a pupil teacher.

Hannah flushed with joy but, raising her eyes, saw a warning, quickly gone, in her mother’s face and dropped her head to her plate, uncertain of its meaning.

Her father then said in his cold black voice. ‘You do well to bow down in distress for you must learn that girls obey their fathers and cast aside all thoughts but those of humility. This is not university but work, hard work and you are also to act as chaperon to your cousin. You will remember your place.’ She looked at him then and saw the triumph in his eyes and understood her mother’s look. Permission had only been granted because he felt that he had asserted his power and caused her pain. How little he knew her; and she was glad that inside the shell of her body she was hidden from him.

The June sun was still warm even though it was early evening as Hannah stood by the window of her mother’s bedroom and looked out, seeing the last remnants of the white pear blossom still faintly visible between the fresh green of the new leaves. The tree standing beyond the lawn was old; the bark gnarled and rough, though from here this could not be discerned.

‘Is that tree older than the house, Mother? It must be, I suppose.’

She looked across at her mother, who sat in the chair that Hannah had moved to the window, and smiled.

Her mother glanced at her, her face fuller now with pregnancy, her body large with the child that had been conceived in 1901 but which would, if Hannah had anything to do with it, safely arrive in 1902 at the prescribed time.

Her mother nodded. ‘Yes, long before this was built, I should think. The bark is thick and rucked, if you peel some back there is another layer underneath.’ She hesitated. ‘If you know what I mean.’

Hannah nodded, surprised. So her mother had done as she had done; rubbed her hands across that uneven surface, dug her fingers into a crack and prised at the warm flaking bark. Her hands would have been dirty as Hannah’s had been and at this thought Hannah sat down in the wicker chair which she had made more comfortable with white linen cushions. But first she adjusted the carefully worked fine wool shawl around her mother’s shoulders.

‘It is cool under the tree in the height of summer, isn’t it?’ Hannah murmured. Contact had to be made with her mother through sleights and images because words of tenderness were still too bold, too personal in this household ruled by him; that man, her father. But she pushed the thought of his darkness from her and watched the smile appear and grow on her mother’s face and they nodded at one another. Both remembering a place neither knew the other had visited and enjoyed until this moment.

Hannah was glad that the St John’s nursing was bringing an increasing intimacy between them, allowing her to touch and soothe as she had never been able to do before. And now her mother was stronger and Hannah dared to hope that all would be well. She turned again to the garden, relaxed now, her back easy against a cushion. There were daisies on the lawn, not blackened and destroyed yet, and their whiteness, together with the yellow of the buttercups in the old guinea-pig area, added a freshness to the garden which the formal rows of tulips, waxed and stiff, had not achieved. The gardener’s besom, the broom which she and her mother had watched him make from gathered twigs, lay against the glasshouse where he had left it before leaving for home.