Suffragette Girl (41 page)

‘Don’t think I don’t know what’s the matter with you,’ Augusta said. ‘You’ve nothing to do any more. No cause to fight for. No banners to wave. No
soldiers to nurse. You’re bored, Florrie Maltby. That’s all that’s the matter with you.’ She sighed. ‘Seemingly, being a – a
mother
isn’t enough
for you, as it is for Isobel.’

Florrie glanced at her, but Augusta’s expression was blithely serene. Her face gave nothing away. But there were times when Florrie wondered.

‘There’s plenty of good works you could do around here. You don’t need to go to the capital. There are still plenty of war veterans – even five years on – who
can’t find work and whose families are living on the breadline. Oh, Gervase is good and so, I have to admit, is your father, when it comes to seeing that all the wounded and maimed who live
on our two estates are found something useful to do. But through the county there is still a lot of hardship. Why don’t you take up their cause?’

She tried, but Florrie’s heart wasn’t in it. Involvement with the war veterans brought back too many painful memories. Even Mrs Ponsonby, who’d thrown herself wholeheartedly
into trying to find employment for the wounded since the day of the armistice, couldn’t persuade Florrie to join in her work. Instead, each season Florrie returned to London. She danced with
earls and honourables, one of whom actually proposed, but was laughingly refused. ‘You’re drunk, Percy. And what would your father say to you taking up with a fallen woman?’

When he sobered up the next day the young man realized he’d had a lucky escape. He had nightmarish visions of his father ‘cutting him off without a penny’.

But in the early months of 1926, there was a cause that ignited Florrie’s enthusiasm once more.

Augusta had been reading the London newspapers avidly, no longer bothering to keep the fact secret from the rest of the family. Since she now proudly cast her vote, she deliberately turned the
conversation to politics and the state of the nation at every meal time, watching Edgar’s face with mischievous amusement.

‘So, Edgar, do you think there’s going to be a national strike?’ she asked him over dinner one evening in April.

Edgar eyed Augusta. Secretly – though he would never admit it in a thousand years – he admired his mother. He always had done and, in his innermost heart, though he was loath to
recognize it, Florrie was very like her. If only the girl hadn’t disgraced herself by bringing home an illegitimate child, he could have forgiven her for having refused Richards’
proposal. Maybe, Edgar ruminated, arranged marriages or marriages of convenience weren’t the best idea. Not in this day and age. He glanced at Clara. His own marriage hadn’t been a
love-match and now – in his advancing years – he could see that they’d each lived out their separate existences. She’d not been a wife to him in the fullest sense of the
word for several years. And now he rather envied the love-match that his own mother spoke of with such fond memories.

‘It’s the miners, isn’t it?’ Florrie was saying, bringing his thoughts back to the question. ‘Who can blame them? They’re being asked to take a reduction in
their pay and an increase in their hours of work.’

The girl does know what she’s talking about, Edgar had to admit. If only James had had half his sister’s spirit . . . His mind shied away from thoughts of his son. He tried never to
think of him. Tried to blot out all the memories, but with Jacques in the house it was hard not to be reminded of him; the boy was so like James had been at the same age. Edgar would never have
thought that a child could resemble his uncle so closely.

He cleared his throat. ‘It seems the miners are calling upon the TUC to back them.’

‘And if they succeed?’ Florrie regarded him with her clear gaze.

‘If they do, we’ll likely see a series of strikes right across the nation. The country could be brought to a standstill. Literally.’

‘Well, I’m going to London tomorrow.’ Florrie’s eyes were alight with a fire that had been missing for years. ‘That’s where it’ll all be happening. I
want to be part of it. There are big changes in the air. I can almost feel it.’

Augusta eyed her thoughtfully. ‘Well, mind you don’t stay away too long. And talking of changes, I need to speak to you – and to you too, Edgar – about Jacques’s
education. It’s high time—’

‘Harrumph,’ Edgar made his usual disapproving sound. He rose from his chair and threw down his napkin. ‘Sort it out between you. I want nothing to do with it.’

Augusta thumped the table with a rare show of swift anger. ‘Edgar, sit down. It’s high time you took some interest in the boy. He’s your
grandson
!’

Edgar glared at her for a long moment, whilst at the opposite end of the table Clara gave a little squeak of dismay, rose and scuttled from the room. Slowly, Edgar sank back into his chair, his
mutinous gaze still locked in a silent battle with his mother’s.

Florrie glanced from one to the other. What was her grandmother talking about? Jacques’s education? The boy was perfectly happy with his governess. But Augusta, it seemed, had other ideas.
As was her habit, she came straight to the point.

‘It’s high time that boy mixed with others of his own age. It’s time he attended school.’

‘I don’t want him to go to boarding school,’ Florrie put in quickly and, without thinking what she was saying, went on impetuously, ‘James wouldn’t—’
She stopped, appalled. She’d been about to blurt out ‘James wouldn’t have wanted it’, but just in time she caught herself. She glanced at her father. It was the first time
she’d ever mentioned her brother’s name in front of him since the tragic events of the war. Thankfully, it explained her hesitation and gave her time to alter her words. ‘James
wouldn’t have recommended it. He hated boarding school.’

Edgar frowned, but still he said nothing.

‘I wasn’t thinking of boarding school.’ Augusta’s mouth twitched. ‘
My
family had no such privileges.’

Edgar’s frown deepened.

‘You mean he should go to the local school?’ Florrie asked, but Augusta shook her head.

‘No, I mean he should go to the same school as Charlie. He’ll be ten when the new school year starts in September, and I’m sure Isobel would agree to you both living with them
during term time. We could come to some acceptable financial arrangement, I’m sure.’ She glanced at Florrie and added tartly, ‘And Jacques might have the chance of seeing more of
you.’

It was a reprimand and a well-deserved one, Florrie recognized. Staying away from him for weeks, even months, was not the action of a devoted mother. She blushed and bowed her head. ‘Yes,
Gran,’ she murmured with surprising meekness.

‘Good – so that’s settled.’ Augusta stood up. ‘So, you have a few days in London, Florrie. And I
mean
a few days. And see if you can sort something out
with Isobel.’ With that, she swept regally from the room, leaving father and daughter staring at one another, wondering just how all that had happened.

‘Whatever are you doing here?’

‘Catching the train,’ Gervase smiled down at her. ‘Like you, I imagine. I didn’t know you were going to see Isobel.’

‘I wasn’t – I mean, it’s a spur-of-the-moment thing.’

He eyed her with amusement. ‘Going to do a bit of bus-driving in the capital, if this strike the TUC are calling for comes about?’

Florrie laughed. ‘Certainly not! I’ll be marching with the miners and the other strikers and carrying a banner.’

Gervase’s laughter faded. ‘Oh, Florrie dear, do be careful.’ He sighed. ‘I do wish you’d marry me and let me take care of you – of both of you.’

Florrie tapped his arm playfully. ‘Now, now, Gervase. It’s April the thirtieth, not New Year’s Eve.’

He took her hand and tucked it through his arm and led her towards a first-class carriage. ‘Well, just be warned – this year I shall press my case with even more vigour than ever
before.’

‘Oh dear,’ Florrie gave an exaggerated sigh. After the war, with the two families partying each year’s end once again, Gervase had resumed his annual proposal. It was always
light-hearted, but Florrie was never in any doubt that it was nevertheless earnest.

‘Darlings, how lovely!’ Isobel threw her arms out wide, trying to embrace them both at once. ‘I didn’t know you were coming with Gervase, Florrie
dear.’

‘Neither did I.’ Florrie smiled. ‘And forgive me for arriving unexpectedly. I hope it’s all right?’

‘Of course, of course – you’re
always
welcome.’

There was a shout from the landing above and Charlie pounded down the stairs and skidded to a halt in front of them. ‘Where’s Jacques? Hasn’t he come too?’

Florrie hugged her godson. ‘Not this time.’ The boy’s face fell and he pouted.

Gervase laughed and ruffled his hair. ‘Next time, old chap. But it was just as well he didn’t come. If this strike goes ahead we could be trapped here for weeks.’

The boy’s eyes shone. ‘That’d be top-hole.’

The three adults laughed and Isobel explained, ‘That’s his latest word. Everything is “top-hole” or “topping”. Come along, get yourselves settled into your
rooms and we’ll have a sherry before dinner. And you, young man,’ she hugged her son to her side, ‘as a special treat, can join us.’

‘Oh, topping!’

When Charlie, eyes drooping, had gone to bed, the three adults lingered over coffee and liqueurs.

‘This strike business could get very serious, you know. And ugly,’ Gervase said. ‘What’s the latest news, Iso?’

‘The TUC have called for a general strike to start at midnight on the third.’

‘That’s only two days. Doesn’t give us much time.’

‘Time? To do what?’ Florrie asked.

‘To get organized so that the strike disrupts things as little as possible.’

Florrie stared at first one and then the other. ‘What d’you mean? That’s what the strike’s for. To disrupt everyone’s lives so that they listen to the miners’
case.’

‘We’ve every sympathy with the miners’ cause, but—’

‘No, you haven’t, if you’re trying to undermine what they’re hoping to achieve.’

‘We can’t let the whole country grind to a standstill. Think about food supplies and other essentials. How is this going to affect the sick and the elderly, Florrie, to say nothing
of babies and infants? We can’t stand by and see people starving.’

‘Oh, it won’t come to that.’

‘It might very well,’ Gervase said grimly.

Florrie’s face was mutinous. ‘Well, I’m still on the side of the strikers.’ She stood up. ‘So, if you’d rather I didn’t stay under your roof,
Iso—’

‘Don’t be silly, Florrie. This has nothing to do with our friendship. We just disagree for once. It’s not often we do.’

Florrie sank back into her seat. She looked at Gervase. ‘What – what do you intend to do?’

‘I’m not sure yet. I’m going to wait and see what happens. It might be settled at the eleventh hour.’

There was silence amongst them, his choice of words reminding them poignantly of the armistice signed at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.

‘Lady Lee is organizing helpers,’ Isobel said, trying to bring their maudlin thoughts back to the present. ‘They intend to help out at London’s General Post Office if the
workers go on strike there. And I hear some of the society ladies are planning to open up soup kitchens.’

Florrie shook her head. ‘I don’t believe this. Lady Lee! So she’s a traitor too, is she?’

‘Oh, Florrie, that’s a bit harsh.’ Isobel was hurt.

‘But we all fought for our rights. We believed in the same things. What’s happened to you?’

‘It’s a bit different—’

‘No, it isn’t.’ Florrie was adamant. ‘We all sit in our grand houses with roaring coal fires in every room, and we never give a thought to the men who hew it with their
bare hands in dark and dangerous conditions. It’s one of the worst jobs in the world.’ She shuddered. ‘And you’re begrudging them a fair day’s pay.’

‘Militant action isn’t the way to go about it,’ Gervase began.

‘You never agreed with the things we did as suffragettes,’ Florrie rounded on him. ‘So I’m not surprised at you. But Lady Lee – and you, Iso. I still can’t
believe what I’m hearing. The miners haven’t been treated fairly since the end of the war. You know that. We’ve had strikes before. Remember the one that lasted three months in
’twenty-one? Talking does no good.’ She glanced at Isobel again. ‘We both know that.’

Florrie stood her ground. She refused to be swayed and the following morning – Saturday – she went out into the streets. There was a feeling of unrest and agitation in the air.
Florrie felt herself swept along in the pent-up excitement. There were groups of people marching in an orderly fashion, some holding banners declaring
Support the Miners
and the slogan the
miners’ leader had thought up:
Not a minute on the day, not a penny off the pay.

‘Where’s everyone going?’ Florrie asked a woman marching along with the men.

‘Hyde Park. There’s to be a demonstration.’

Florrie’s eyes shone as she fell into step beside her. ‘Where are you from?’

‘A party of us have come from up north. We’re peaceful, like. We aren’t looking for mekin’ trouble, but ya know what they’ve tried to do the miners, dun’t ya?
Well, our men aren’t goin’ to stand for it no more. An’ now workers all over the country are prepared to come out on strike wi’ us. The printers here in London are refusing
to bring out a newspaper that’s got an article in it criticizing the trade union. And now dockers, railwaymen – all sorts of transport workers – and others are prepared to come
out an’ all.’ She grinned. ‘There’ll be urgent talks in Downing Street, you mark my words, but it won’t mek no diff’rence. We’re solid this time and
we’re going to bring London to a halt.’

Florrie walked beside her, feeling the old thrill of being involved in something worthwhile. Once again, she was fighting for the right for the voice of ordinary people to be heard.

As the marchers reached Hyde Park, Florrie exclaimed, ‘My goodness, there must be thousands of people here.’

‘I told you, didn’t I? This time they’ll have to listen to us.’