Past Caring (10 page)

P A S T C A R I N G

55

She was right, and I was ashamed as I leant back in my chair
and gazed across at her, wondering why, at the height of my powers
and standing well in the counsels of the land, I could not match her
for energy and commitment, why I should ever think that my mas-tery of debating techniques could excuse a politically expedient ambivalence. I recalled the scene in Okehampton Town Hall nine
years before, when I had first been elected. My high hopes had since
been fulfilled. But what of the electors’ trust in me? Had that been
rewarded, when Miss Latimer could so rightly rebuke me? I looked
across at her, striving to conceal this sudden guilt, but she, gazing
back, dispelled it in the most unexpected manner. Her mouth curled
into a hesitant smile which was at once restrained, as if it had appeared in a forgetful moment. Her own mask, that of the amazon
campaigner, had slipped, to show the beautiful, nervous young
woman beneath.

“Mr. Strafford—what do you propose to do with me?”

“Why, nothing, Miss Latimer.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing. You may go entirely free—on one condition.”

“And that is?”

“That you meet me again soon , when you have recovered from
your injury, so that we may discuss your views in calmer fashion.”

“To what purpose?”

“Surely the man whose window is broken may attempt to show
the breaker the error of her ways.”

“Very well. You offer me an opportunity to show you the error
of your ways which I can hardly refuse.”

“Shall we say Hyde Park next Sunday afternoon at two
o’clock—the seats by the Round Pond?”

“The venue seems an odd one.”

“Miss Latimer, I cannot meet you in formal surroundings. Yet,
as Home Secretary, I would earnestly like to hear more of how my
government can so have failed that it drives the pride of its young
womanhood to window-breaking. I would also like to bring you to
understand that political realities preclude immediate concessions
to what may appear to be the cause of justice and right. I should
hope that such an exchange of views would prove educative to both
parties. Yet it can only be of benefit if it remains, at this stage,
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confidential. I must therefore ask you not to report our meeting to
your confederates.”

“Mr. Strafford, that is no hardship. They would pour scorn
upon my failure.” She blushed, as if regretting this frankness. “I
will meet you on Sunday.”

“Thank you, Miss Latimer. And by all means report your
evening’s work. I shall advise the newspapers of the attack upon my
house. Privately, you are welcome to the credit.”

“Though you and your colleagues are completely in the wrong,
Mr. Strafford, I must concede that you are at least a gentleman.”

This seemed the most harmonious note we were likely to find on
which to close. I called Prideaux and asked him to show her out. He
did so with a disapproving grimace. I stood by the broken window
of the drawing room and watched as Miss Latimer walked away
down the street, still limping slightly. She did not look back, but I
looked after her until she was out of sight, wondering if she would
keep our appointment, whether, for that matter, I ought to keep it.

Now that she had gone, it seemed an absurd thing to have agreed.

Yet, already, I was looking forward to Sunday, determined in my
heart to go, and do the worrying later.

Sunday May 30 duly came and I with it to Hyde Park in the
sunshine. Parents were frolicking with their children by the
Serpentine as I made my way with as much nonchalance as I could
muster towards the Round Pond. There I saw an old man selling
balloons to clamouring children. As a group of them scampered
away, a view opened up of the benches. Seated on one of them,
dressed in cream and reading a book in the shade of a pale blue
parasol, was Miss Latimer. She did not look up as I approached.

“Good afternoon , Miss Latimer,” I said, doffing my hat.

“Good afternoon

, Mr. Strafford,” she replied, looking up
gravely from her book. “Won’t you sit down?”

“It’s a lovely day,” I ventured conversationally as I sat beside her.

“It is indeed.”

“May I ask what you have been reading?”

“It’s a new book of poems by Thomas Hardy—
Time’s Laughingstocks
.”

P A S T C A R I N G

57

“Do you think that we are Time’s laughingstocks, Miss
Latimer?”

“We may be one day, Mr. Strafford.”

“One day, when women have the vote?”

“Touché.”

“Alas, it was a sophist’s thrust.”

“It is good that you should recognize it as such.”

“Thanks to you, Miss Latimer, I have lost faith in sophistry.”

“I am glad to hear it, but doubtful. How can you so suddenly
have lost faith in something which has served you so well in your
career?”

“Let me try to explain.”

“Please do.”

And so it was that, on that bench in the warmth of a Sunday afternoon , with the sounds of ducks and children at play as accompaniment, I told Miss Latimer more of the effect of a political career on
a politician than I had previously told anyone save myself. Perhaps
my solitude had left me in unwitting need of such an opportunity.

Certainly, Miss Latimer’s sincerity had reminded me how much of
that commodity I had been obliged to shed in the pursuit of public office. I told her how, in the effort to master each new brief, to establish
a Parliamentary reputation , and to achieve good standing in the
eyes of the Liberal leadership, I had perforce neglected those other
aims which had been in my mind when first I solicited the support
of the electors of Mid-Devon. I also explained that my rise to a
Cabinet post and the small degree of fame that went with it gave me
a measure of that independence necessary to implement some of
those neglected aims. And in all this, I contended, there was a lesson
for Miss Latimer and her fellow-Suffragettes: something could only
be achieved after an apprenticeship of respectable endeavour, not
simply by the power of argument, however forceful; in other words
that they should emulate my example, serve their time and await
their opportunity.

This was not best-calculated to appeal to an impetuous twenty-year-old. But Miss Latimer’s counter-argument was based on other
grounds, namely that the women’s suffrage movement had served
its time, since the last suffrage extension in 1884, that the presently
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growing militancy was a symptom of rightful frustration and that,
if the Liberal Party did not soon take heed, they would lose ground
to those—like the Labour Party—who would.

“Miss Latimer, you are more convincing than any housebrick.”

“But, without the brick, would you have listened?”

“I have always listened to the suffragists, but I would not have
listened to this one in particular. Therefore I give thanks for the
brick.”

“Mr. Strafford, you flatter me. What matters is not whether I
am convincing but whether you are convinced.”

“I am convinced that you are a most remarkable young lady
which my party is the poorer for having lost to the suffragist cause.

How came it to have so ardent a campaigner?”

“In no very different way to that in which it has recruited
many educated women who grew tired of waiting for politicians to
see sense.”

“Yet your example might be instructive.”

“I doubt it. But my story is briefly told, so let us see. My family
hails from the Forest of Dean. My mother died when I was born
and my father when I was ten. I was an only child and therefore
had to rely on the charity of distant relatives. Fortunately, an aunt
took me in. I still live with her, in Putney. My father had left sufficient for my education at a boarding school in Kent. There, one day
in the library, I read of a meeting in Manchester disrupted by
Christabel.”

“I remember it well.”

“It made me realize that there were many who shared my dis-satisfaction with the sort of deferential existence we girls were being groomed for. As soon as I left school, I made contact with the
Women’s Social & Political Union. I was well-received and at once
impressed by their energy and commitment. Christabel was the
driving force and inspired us all, as she still does.”

“To attack politicians?”

“Mr. Strafford, you would hardly expect me to volunteer to His
Majesty’s Secretary of State for Home Affairs information about
who planned or suggested such acts. I take sole responsibility for my
action on Thursday evening.”

P A S T C A R I N G

59

“I am glad to hear it, Miss Latimer. I was not inviting disloyalty and, besides, your action on Thursday evening will never be a
police matter. I am only trying to establish how matters have come
to this pass.”

“Then you already know. We women have waited too long and
will wait no longer. Remember what I said in my note.”

“Oh, I do. Unhappily, it is not within the power of the government to meet your demands. If a bill for female suffrage passed the
Commons tomorrow, it would assuredly be rejected by the Lords.”

“That, Mr. Strafford, is your problem.”

“And it will be solved. Our differences with the Upper House
are approaching a crisis, which will, I believe, be precipitated by
this year’s Budget. But the crisis will take time to resolve—at least a
year. Until it is, what is the point in harrying us?”

“Lest you forget, when the time comes.”

“I for one will not. But perhaps you could donate an occasional
brick to serve as an aide memoire.”

“I shall be casting no more in your direction. One is enough.”

“Then we have achieved something?”

“I think so.”

“Yet I may still forget. It would seem a pity to do so for want of
your refreshing candour.”

“Feel free to avail yourself of it at any time.”

“I hope I may. I have enjoyed our talk here in the sunshine.

Could I perhaps suggest a little outing into the countryside later
this week for a further ministration of your antidote to a politician’s
self-importance?”

“In my judgement, Mr. Strafford, you need the antidote less
than your colleagues, but I would not wish to deny treatment to the
valetudinarian.”

“Who is pleased to hear it. My office permits me a few ex-travagances. One is the motorcar I have recently purchased. An
excursion in it might entertain you. Would Wednesday afternoon be
convenient?”

“If you can free yourself from your duties for so long.”

“Oh, I think I can. Besides, I would probably be doing the
Metropolitan Police a service by occupying you for an afternoon.

Could I perhaps collect you from your home at two o’clock?”

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“A motorcar at the door might prove too much for Aunt Mercy.

Let us say Putney Bridge.”

“By all means. I’ll look forward to that.”

So it was that I collected Miss Latimer as arranged on
Wednesday afternoon. We drove out to Box Hill, a favourite picnic
spot for Londoners, but pleasantly deserted that day. We strolled up
onto the crest of the North Downs and took the air, full of the sky-lark’s song and a gentle summer breeze.

“Thank you for bringing me out here,” said Miss Latimer. “It
is wonderful on the downs.”

“I wish that I came here more often ,” I replied.

“But you are too busy.”