A Time for Courage (44 page)

‘Can you ride more, Harry,’ Baralong said close to him and Harry nodded.

I’m fine, he wanted to say, but he could not open his mouth for if he did he was afraid that he would scream. He wanted to turn his head but he could not bear the thought of any more movement.

Baralong looked though and Harry could hear his panting as he said, ‘We make it to river but they close now. It getting dark, Harry, and it not far. Hang on. Hang on, my friend.’

Harry gripped the reins and the saddle too and his back felt on fire and he wanted to fall from his horse and lie on the ground where it was still. But he heard the gun again and felt the fear and then there were boys’ voices and the bag was heavy on his shoulder, though he had emptied the paper long ago.

The boys were close as he ran down the hill, his legs were heavy and his breath hurt in his chest and he turned and saw Arthur, his pale hair close but not close enough. Or was he? He must try harder, he must win. Just this once he must beat Arthur. His father would be pleased, and so he ran on again and there was white paper behind and about him, blowing in his face, blurring his vision. But there was the finishing line, he could see it and the people cheering. Would he make it? But he was too tired, they were too close and he was alone.

But then he heard his friend. ‘There’s the river, Harry.’

He looked but it was dark and then he saw it, gleaming like a ribbon in the moonlight and there was Hannah over by the tree, by the rope. But he had left his rope behind, with his letters. He’d have to tell his friend Baralong that they would have to go back for the rope. But his horse was slithering down the bank now into the water and he watched as Baralong reached and took the reins.

‘Get down, Harry. Into the water.’ It was an order, and Harry stroked the sleek sweated neck of Kim and lifted his leg, which was too heavy, over and into the water. He watched as Baralong came wading to his side, the reins of the horses in his hand. It was cold, so cold as they stood there, but only up to their knees and he was shaking again, but this time throughout the length of his body.

‘We send off horses, they follow those. We swim, float, find boat but get away, we must get away or they kill us.’

Harry knew they would for he and his friend had broken the rules. He had loved a painting done by his sister and so they would kill him, drown him and so he would tear it up and then he could lift himself from the water.

He told Baralong but his friend took his arm and pulled him and so he went with him and this time the water did not surge into his face as it had once done, it did not cut the breath from his body and there were arms round him, holding him up as the water cooled his back. He was not alone any more.

‘Harry.’ Baralong’s voice was a whisper. ‘Let me take you. Trust me. Float, say nothing for they ride along bank.’

Harry did not know who was riding along the bank because all his friends were laughing at the picture his sister had drawn, but he did as he was told because it was his friend who told him.

‘I have love for you also, Baralong, my friend, and I will miss you,’ he whispered into the dark night. He looked up into the sky, floating clear of the pain, seeing Uncle Simon and Hannah as they walked across the moor. Was he going to die out here as well?

Hannah looked out at the endless fog which swirled dark and yellow over the rhododendrons and the roses which hung limp and discoloured from their stems. They would have to prune them next week when September 1913 gave way to October. There was a smell of burning on the air and she shut the window. Frances was walking the dog and would be coughing into her cashmere scarf when she returned but for now she wasn’t here and so there should have been a relief from the tension which had been growing between them as the militancy of the suffragettes escalated and filled the newspapers, the prisons and the air with smoke and had done since January when the Speaker had ruled that no women’s suffrage amendment could be added to the current Reform Bill.

Hannah drew the curtains and turned to face the room. But there had been a different tension here this afternoon. The fire was bright in the grate after the matt colour of the garden. The teapot was empty now on the table near her chair; the scone on Esther’s plate was half-eaten, the once melted butter lay dark yellow where it had reset on the plate. Her gold-rimmed cup and saucer lay next to the crumpled napkin. Yes, a different tension. Hannah looked away, to the books which gleamed around the desk and the silver paper-knife which shone in the light of the gas lamp, cold against the dull, stained paper of the blotter. She moved towards it, picking it up, feeling its weight, its smooth coolness, but her own anger was still burning inside, the air still felt as though it would suffocate her.

Esther had just left, her cloak pulled over her head, droplets of mist forming on the fur edging as soon as she stepped on to the path. She remembered Esther’s words, her thin smile.

Thank you so much, darling, for the tea. So kind. And remember, Hannah, you owe it to him, she had said and there had been a frown on her forehead, a coldness in the deep violet of her eyes. Hannah put down the knife. Yes, she knew she did. It was September 1913, and Arthur was still waiting for her acceptance of his proposal.

She turned away from books, so many, too many to ever read. There was no time. Couldn’t Arthur understand that? There was no time to read, no time for marriage. Did he never listen to her? Couldn’t he understand that after Asquith had dismissed the possibility of women’s franchise as an improbable hypothesis last year during the second reading of the Reform Bill there had been so much more to do and then there had been no ruling over the amendment. She threw the knife down on to the desk. The vote was as far away as ever.

She moved again to the window, lifting the curtain, wiping away the condensation, but she could see nothing. Where was Frances? Where was she? Perhaps they could talk again as they had once been able to. Impatience was making her back tense and her shoulders rigid.

Did marriage and the thought of it always make you feel as though you were dying in thin air, trapped by unseen bars but strong and immoveable none the less? Why did Arthur crowd so closely, why did Esther remind her of duty? Why couldn’t they leave her in peace to live her life? She wanted to go to Joe, to talk to him, tell him, see his hands, so still and strong. He would understand but somehow she could not speak to him of Arthur, of marriage, and he would only say of her suffrage work that the choice was hers.

She dropped the curtain and stood by the fire, feeling its warmth on her face and her hands. She reached out and gripped the mantelshelf. The wood was warm and smooth and dark. It was solid and the same today as it had been yesterday. She gripped it harder. She wished that she was solid, that there was no room for thoughts and feelings and fear and despair and at that word she looked up into the mirror which hung above the clock.

For there was such despair in her, such darkness, such conflict and she did not understand herself any longer. She was tired but there had been nothing to tax her this year. She had stayed in the headquarters of their suffrage group. She had painted posters, sorted leaflets, made tea. She had taught her class in school and it was a good class. She and Frances were pleased with the girls. She had extended the Sunday school to take in a kindergarten for children too. It had been an easy year because she had not joined in the arson campaign of the suffragettes, yet. She had not slashed paintings of beauty in art galleries, not burnt the homes of Cabinet Ministers or derelict churches or halls.

No, she had done none of these things and today Esther had asked why, her voice edged with contempt, swiftly replaced by an excitement which filled not just her voice but her eyes as well as she had spoken of the thrill of it all, the sheer joy of replacing the boredom of her life with destructive actions which daily filled the newspapers for all to see; and still her family did not know and that appeared to Hannah to be part of the attraction of it all. What a child Esther still was. A dangerous selfish child but so far all this activity had kept her faithful to Harry and so she should not object.

Hannah looked now into the mirror. And neither should she be so tired. Why were her eyes tight and set deep in her face, why were there lines around her mouth? Why was there such despair? She gripped the wood more tightly still. The heat from the fire was too hot on her wrist but she did not move.

She thought of the satisfaction which always burned on her cousin’s face when she returned with empty paraffin cans, of the penknife which she had borrowed from her brother George’s drawer and which was covered now with cracked oil paint. She thought of how there had been no answering exhilaration in her, no feeling of moving forwards just distaste for the violence, the destruction, the criticism of the movement which was now being voiced. The criticism that asked whether women deserved the vote. But the Government would not listen, and they must be made to, mustn’t they?

Hannah heard the front door and then the sitting-room door but she didn’t want to turn because she was working her way at last towards something which she could not yet see clearly but which was forming out of her confusion. It was too important to lose; she must grasp and face it for it was the root of her despair and the knowledge was close now.

‘This really is the end, Hannah,’ she heard Frances say, her voice loud, but Hannah did not want to listen, it drew her from inside her head. ‘Your fellow suffragettes have burnt down another building.’

‘Ssh,’ Hannah said, her fingers white from gripping the wood. It was close now, almost… here.

But Frances’s hand was on her shoulder, pulling her round away from the centre of her mind and she had been so close, so very close and anger flared, harsh and ugly because something important had been about to crystallise. She lifted her head and Frances was close, her face tight and cold.

‘They have burnt Benson House. It was beautiful. I use the tense with great care, Hannah.’ Hannah could feel her breath and still the older woman’s hand held her shoulder. ‘It is a disgrace. An absolute disgrace and to think that you are involved with this behaviour. Can none of you see the damage which has been inflicted not just on property and works of art which have been an expression of a man or woman’s genius but on the suffrage movement?’

She took Hannah’s arm, and pushed her to the window, drawing back the curtains, opening the casement. ‘Take a deep breath, Hannah. Can you smell it, can you picture the flames, hear the crackle of the wood, the rush as the bricks fall in?’ Frances was shouting now and Hannah had never heard her do so before; had never seen this usually calm face distorted with anger, with frustration. ‘We women should be asking for the vote as responsible people who deserve it,’ Frances said, through lips that were thin.

Hannah watched as Frances walked from her towards the desk. She tried to snatch back the thoughts and the decision which had been nearly within her grasp. In her desperation she wanted to cry, ‘For God’s sake, be quiet.’

From the sudden turn of her friend’s head she realised that the words had indeed struck across the room. Frances paled; her mouth slackened for a moment and then her lips grew tight again and though she did not shout there was a chill to her voice, to her body.

‘No, Hannah, the time for being quiet is over. Yes, the suffragettes have made us visible. Yes, Asquith is making our task difficult. But no to this behaviour.’

‘But who are you to say no to anything?’ Hannah wanted to know. She really wanted to know if Frances could produce a reason to say no, for her, for everyone, because for any one person to have such authority would make her life so simple. There need be no thought, no decision taken, it would all be so easy, but after all, wasn’t that the right she was fighting for; the right to decide her own life? But there were too many things to decide about. Too many.

‘Who are you to say no?’ And this time her voice was more than a shout, it was a howl of rage. Her hands were bunched into fists, the dog came into the room and whined, looking from one to another knowing that there was too much tension, too much feeling and she left to lie by the front door.

Frances did not answer her question but clasped her hands beneath her chin and spoke quickly, almost without drawing breath. Her grey dress was wet at the hem and smelt of smoke. The white lace at the neck was spotless though. She stood straight, looking at Hannah, her back to the fire.

‘Violence becomes a way of life, the aim is forgotten, our influential friends are alienated. The work of years has been ruined. Women are being sentenced to long terms of imprisonment. The Cat and Mouse Act has been introduced to overcome hunger striking. Women are released when they are too weak to survive and then re-arrested to continue their sentence. Some have died as a result. One of them could be you. It is all madness. The vote is no nearer, damage and violence are everywhere. I cannot condone it. I cannot condone this senseless suffering and damage or anyone who subscribes to it.’

‘But remember what Asquith said,’ Hannah shouted now, wanting to push everyone away. They were all too close, all pulling at her, wanting her to go in their direction. Arson or lobbying, which should it be? Marriage or not? There were too many loyalties tearing her apart.

‘Yes, but what have the suffragettes really achieved? Have you been given the vote? No. There is just a great deal of suffering for the rank and file whilst Christabel Pankhurst has exiled herself to France and directs you all from there, out of reach of imprisonment and hunger strikes. Can any member put forward an opposing point of view within the organisation, Hannah? Can you object and argue if you don’t agree?’ Frances was pointing her finger now, her head shook with each word. ‘No, of course you can’t. You have no democracy in the WSPU, have you? Even Sylvia Pankhurst has left to start campaigning on her own for universal suffrage because there is no room for dissent. Others are leaving. You are in disarray. Think, Hannah, about where this is leading.’