Fourpenny Flyer (45 page)

‘My dear,' Evelina said, ‘how brave you were to go out upon that fearful field. It made my heart quite sink merely to hear of it.'

‘I could do no other,' Harriet said, blushing. ‘How d'ee do, Cousin Thomasina, Cousin Evelina. I trust I see you well.'

The aunts darted a quick anxious look at one another, like rabbits waiting for the signal to bolt. Then Evelina decided to confide in their cousin's courageous wife.

‘We have lost two of our lodgers,' she said, ‘and if we cannot find another by word of mouth I fear we may have to advertise.' It had been difficult enough to agree to Nan's suggestion that they might take in lodgers in the first place, although of course they'd been in no position to refuse it, but if they had to stoop so low as to advertise like tradesmen ….

While Harriet was trying to think of something to say that would be helpful or comforting, a man with a ginger moustache suddenly bristled into the conversation.

‘I do hope you will forgive this intrusion, dear ladies,' he said, ‘but I could not help overhearing and truly I do believe this is the most fortunate thing.' And he looked at Harriet, as though he were waiting for an introduction. It was Mr Richards, her travelling companion from Manchester. What an extraordinary coincidence.

Although she was surprised, she made the introduction easily. ‘Cousins, allow me to present Mr Richards, who travelled to Manchester with John and me, and was present at Peterloo, just as I was. Mr Richards, my husband's two cousin, the Misses Callbeck.'

‘A terrible tragedy, Mr Richards,' Thomasina said, as she shook his hand.

‘Entirely my opinion, dear lady,' Mr Richards said. ‘A terrible tragedy. We must all try to assist the injured and bring succour to the poor. That is the very reason I am here in Bury St Edmunds.'

‘Indeed?' Evelina said, much impressed, and wondering what he intended to do.

‘Indeed,' he said, but he didn't enlighten her. ‘We must all do what we can, must we not?'

There was a murmur of agreement throughout the group.

‘Our dear Harriet has done more than any of
us
would ever have
dared,
' Susan Brown said, misty-eyed with admiration. ‘Were you never afraid, Harriet?'

‘There was no time to be afraid,' Harriet said truthfully.

Mr Richards took the two Miss Callbecks by the elbow and steered them deftly to a quiet corner beside the fireplace. ‘I do hope you will not think me impolite if I ask
you a question, dear ladies,' he said, gazing at them earnestly, ‘but so very, very much depends upon your answer. So very, very much.'

‘Tell us what it is you wish to know, Mr Richards,' Evelina said, charmed by his earnest manner.

‘Do you truly have accommodation in your home for a paying guest, Miss Callbeck? There now, perhaps it
is
impolite of me to ask, but I do so hope that you have for between ourselves I am quite desperate to find accommodation in this town. But then, of course, I do realize that I might not suit, for I can see that your requirements would be admirably high. I would be prepared to pay whatever was agreeable to you.'

‘If you would care to visit us in Whiting Street tomorrow morning,' Thomasina said, smiling at him kindly, ‘I do believe we might arrange matters to our mutual satisfaction.' Why the man was a Godsend!

So there was quite a flurry of visiting in Bury St Edmunds the following morning. Members of the Relief Committee called at Angel Hill one after the other to congratulate Miss Pettie; Mr Richards put on his best jacket and his new top hat and walked to Whiting Street whistling cheerfully; and Harriet went to visit her mother in Churchgate Street. She would get that over with first and then she could spend the rest of her time with Annie.

Annie Hopkins was waiting at the study window enjoying the warmth of the October sunshine on her rounded forehead. She had baby Meg in her arms and Jimmy and Beau kneeling on the windowsill beside her and Pollyanna was bobbing about behind them, but the minute the two bays snorted into the drive they all came scrambling out of the study together and tumbled to the front door singing, ‘Here she is! Here she is!'

‘Come right in, my dear, do,' Annie said, flinging the door wide. ‘I've such a lot to tell 'ee, I hardly know where to begin. But you must settle into your room first –' leading the way upstairs.‘'Tis all a-ready for 'ee. You must be fatigued after your journey. Did your speech go well? You are quite a celebrity, you know. How was Mr Brougham when you left London? I had a letter from Mama this very morning. What a condition he was in when he returned! Such a miserable thing to be ill and forced to travel! Did you visit
your
mama, my dear? You must tell me all about it. Does little Will need a drink? We've a dish of junket for his supper. Oh, how good it is to see you!'

It was a lovely welcome.

While Peg and Rosie were unpacking, Annie and Harriet took their children into the drawing room and settled them on the carpet with games to play and picture books to read. Then they settled themselves among the cushions on the settee and began to gossip.

Harriet's speech was relived and admired, and her brief, formal visit to her parents described and applauded. ‘Quite right too, my dear,' Annie said. ‘If you don't give 'em the chance to talk then they can't scold.' Then they
discussed Mr Brougham's illness and the cutting of Meg's latest teeth and Will's sunny personality. And finally John and James were considered and declared to be well and the dearest of men.

‘Mr Weatherstone means to retire after Christmas,' Annie said, ‘and how my dear James will make out with a new curate after all these years with that kind old man I simply do not know.'

‘You will miss him sorely,' Harriet agreed. ‘Will, my lambkin, give Meggie back her rattle, there's a good boy.'

‘Between you and me, I think 'tis all on account of that Jack Abbott coming back to Rattlesden. Things have never been quite the same since the day he turned up here again. His wife died in Norwich, you know, of the spotted fever, and the youngest child with her. After that he said there was nothing to keep him there. He left the two boys apprenticed to a cooper and came back here.'

‘Poor Mr Abbott,' Harriet said. ‘How terrible!' Despite the bugs and the dirt he'd seemed such a nice quiet man. ‘He was always so gentle.'

‘He ain't gentle now, my dear,' Annie said surprisingly. ‘He's quite a firebrand these days. He spends all his time tramping from village to village hereabouts, urging people to work for parliamentary reform and to join the Hampden Clubs, and telling 'em of meetings and such. We have a club meets here every week, with forty members all a-traipsing in and out of the study, if you can imagine such a thing, and a fine old mess they make with their pipes and their papers, to say nothing of the mud they bring in. There is a meeting tonight so you will see for yourself.'

‘I daresay they do make a mess, Annie,' Harriet said, ‘but 'tis excellent work they do. If reform is to come about, ‘twill be because of the Hampden Clubs. And after Peterloo, reform
must
come about. I am sure of it.'

‘We have a man coming to speak to the meeting this evening,' Annie remembered. ‘He is to stay the night here as there is no room for him in the village. He was present on the field of Peterloo, so they say. You might have seen him there.'

‘I doubt it,' Harriet laughed. ‘There were more than
sixty thousand people on the field that day. But –' seeing Annie's face fall – ‘I should be happy to attend the meeting and hear what he has to say.'

‘We will attend it together,' Annie said happily. ‘We won't go in until they've finished all their tedious business, though, for 'tis all points of order and such and mighty boring. He ain't due till nine o'clock. He's a-coming in from Ipswich. Jack Abbott is to fetch him in the farm cart and Henry Abbott is to chair the meeting. Oh 'tis all Abbotts in Rattlesden these days.'

‘They won't mind our presence, will they, Annie?'

‘Mind?' Annie said. ‘Why, they won't even notice there will be such a crush.'

Which was certainly true, for when the two women opened the door into James's study later that evening, they could barely squeeze into the room.

The speaker had arrived, as they could tell from the welcoming noises that were being made somewhere near the fireplace, but they couldn't see him because there were so many villagers packed into that little panelled room that it was impossible for them to see anything except the broad back and the thick moleskins of the man directly in front of them. Swirls of blue tobacco smoke patterned the air above their heads and the place was pungent with the smell of sweat and farmyard.

But presently they heard James's mild voice suggesting that ‘it might be better if some of us were to sit upon the carpet' and gradually the crush eased as, one after the other, his parishioners lowered themselves to the floor where they squatted in a tangle of rough boots and patched knees, black-rimmed fingers and tousled heads. And now Annie and Harriet could see Jack Abbott, resplendent in a green corduroy jacket, standing beside the speaker who was a small dark-haired man in brown fustian.

‘It is a great pleasure to me to introduce our speaker,' James was saying, ‘for not only was he present in St Peter's Field on the day of the massacre, but in addition to that he attended to the wounds of no fewer than thirty-two of the injured.'

‘Why good heavens!' Harriet said. ‘It is….'

‘Mr Rawson from Manchester,' the Reverend Hopkins introduced.

He looked smaller and uglier than Harriet remembered him, but he was undeniably the same man, standing awkwardly before them with his back to the blaze of the fire, listening to dear old James. Then, to her total amazement, she saw that Mr Richards had come to this meeting, too. He was sitting in James's chair tucked into the corner beside James's desk. His black notebook was open in his hand and he was watching Mr Rawson with complete concentration. What a coincidence!

She turned to Annie to tell her all about it, but Annie had her finger to her lips, because Mr Rawson was clearing his throat ready to start his speech.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,' he said, ‘first I must thank thee for all t' help and comfort tha's been a-sendin' to t' victims of t' massacre at Peterloo. 'Tis sorely needed and uncommon kindly. Thank 'ee. Next I must tell thee t' battle is only just begun.'

How extraordinary to hear his voice again, Harriet thought, and she had a sudden powerful vision of his blunt hands tenderly bandaging a wound, and for a few brief seconds she was back on St Peter's field among the moans and the dust and the terrible injuries. Then she realized that the parishioners of Rattlesden were listening to this man with attention and admiration and she remembered Mr Taylor telling her what a fine speaker he was, and she began to listen to him too and was surprised that there was so much passion in him, for he'd been so restrained and quiet among the wounded.

He spoke of the weavers and their wages, ‘seven shillings a week, and I don't need to tell thee what that means. If tha pays t' rent, there's no money for food, if tha buys food, like as not tha'lt be out on t' street wi'out a roof over tha head'; of the mill-owners who kept dogs to guard them, ‘uncommon well-fed, their dogs, a deal fatter than t' weavers I can tell thee'; and finally he told his audience he was going to ask them a question.

‘What must be done to persuade t' masters to pay a
proper wage to t' likes of thee an' me?'

‘Hold shotgun to 'is head,' Jack Abbott growled. ‘Try how a little lead would change the beggar's opinion. Uncommon persuasive, a little lead.'

James looked decidedly uncomfortable at this, but a murmur of approval rolled around the room and Mr Richards was scribbling furiously in his noteook.

‘Lead may work fast, I'll grant thee,' Caleb said, ‘but 'tis my opinion t' vote is better. Why? I'll tell thee why. 'Tis because it is bloodless and indisputable. I'd rather work for universal suffrage, my friends, than for armed uprising, though after Peterloo we might have to settle for both. We just might.'

And that was approved of too, with a deep-throated growling. And noted down.

‘What of tyranny then?' Henry Abbott asked. ‘En't we to oppose the tyrant, eh? What's your opinion o' that, Mr Rawson?'

‘If we've nobbut an ounce of compassion in our natures, we must rise against tyranny wherever we see it, and speak out against it an' all, no matter what t' cost. Being human we can do no other. What right-thinking man could stand by and watch his neighbour cut to t' brains and do nowt?'

‘Aye!' his audience growled. ‘Tha's true. Tha' uncommon true.'

‘But to vote, my friends, to vote is t' key to lasting power. If every man grown were given t' vote, and vote by ballot what's more what can't be coerced, and parliaments elected annually to mek 'em answerable to t' people, why then every manufacturer would need to consider his workers, for they would be voters just exactly t' same as himself, with equal civic power. I doubt we'd have so much talk of seven shillings a week being sufficient if t' weavers were voters.'

‘No, indeed!' the listeners said. ‘Tha's true! You got the essence of un there. Them ol' mawthers'll have to change their ways, when we gets the vote.'

Harriet was uplifted by such talk. It was all so exciting and so true, and, what was even better, she was a part of it. When the eleven dead of Peterloo were praised as martyrs,
her eyes filled with tears at the memory of those pathetic bundles left like so much rubbish on that bloodstained field, but she rejoiced even as the tears gathered at the thought that their deaths would not be in vain. Now, surely, the government must listen to the voice of the people, just as Mr Hunt said then and Mr Rawson was saying now. Surely, oh surely, the time for universal suffrage had come.