Suffragette (2 page)

If I stepped forward and announced myself, would the name Baxter mean anything at all to him? That was what I was asking myself when, all of a sudden, as the vicar was on the point of a prayer,
a hush descended even more awesome than the reverence of mourning. A late-arriving carriage had drawn up and out stepped a very stylish woman in her early fifties, dressed in black satin –
Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst, the leading figure in the fight for women’s votes. She strode purposefully along the stone pathway. I turned quickly to observe the crowd gathered round the graveside.
Many eyes were upon her. Wherever she goes Mrs Pankhurst is greeted with a mixed response. There are those who are full of admiration for her work, for her charismatic manner and her courage and,
above all, for the way in which she energizes women of all ages and class to join her cause. Then there are those – and I caught sight of a few of them yesterday morning – who despise
her for what she does, for the fact that she, a respectable and well-bred woman, was imprisoned twice last year.

“We are here not because we are law-breakers; we are here in our efforts to become law-makers.” These were her last words to the magistrate at her trial before he found her guilty
and ordered her to keep the peace for twelve months or spend three months in Holloway. She chose prison, saying that she would never keep the peace until women were given the same voting rights as
men.

Yesterday, Mrs Pankhurst ignored the reactions of the mourners. Instead, she made her way proudly towards Flora and positioned herself like an older, caring sister, behind her.

To see her standing there, not 50 yards away from me, made my heart quicken. She is a heroine to me. Lady Violet has talked to me on many occasions about the history of the women’s
movement and the directions the struggle is taking, but I still have much to learn. One day soon, I intend to join them in their fight. Their cause will be my cause! It is already in my heart.

As the coffin was lowered into the ground and the mourners, led by the vicar, recited the final prayer, I kept my distance and my face in shadow. Several local people spied me and nodded to me,
but the family paid me no attention. If any had raised their bowed heads and glanced in my direction, they would probably have taken me for a local girl who worked as a kitchen maid up at the manor
house. Not in their wildest imaginings could they have guessed what my place in the life of this lady had been.

Once the funeral was over, the crowds began making their way in dribs and drabs through the noon¬day sunshine to the carriages and motor cars awaiting them beyond the lychgate at the end of
the stone pathway. I hung back until the cemetery had emptied. I wanted the opportunity to say a private and heartfelt thank you to the woman closed within that coffin.

I stayed a while, kneeling on the grass, talking to Lady Violet as though she were present and listening to all that I was confiding to her. I could picture her grey-haired head, tilted
sideways, her deep-blue eyes. It was the way she always looked when she was concentrating. No matter how occupied she was, she always found time for me.

Afterwards, I made my way on foot to the manor house, trudging slowly to the servants’ entrance where I knew I would find a welcome. Agnes, the cook, promised to send up a square meal
after the guests had all been fed, and Sarah and Rachel hurried away to find clean sheets.

So, here I am, bereft in this attic room. I shall stop writing now and try to get some sleep because I must take a train back to Cheltenham later this morning.

1st April 1909

I am back at school, but I don’t want to be here any more. I keep thinking about my family. But I can never go back. I promised my mother she’d never see me again. I
feel lost, rootless. I want to run away. Perhaps I should change my name, make my way to London and join the Women’s Social and Political Union (the WSPU).

I copied a newspaper article pinned to the bulletin board this evening. It reported that twelve female suffrage demonstrators were arrested outside the House of Commons yesterday. What must it
feel like to be arrested?

My English teacher, Mrs Bertram, was not at all cross that I had not written my essay for this afternoon’s class. She is usually so strict, but all she said was, “The end of the week
will be fine.” Mrs Partridge, our headmistress, must have told her about Lady Violet.

19th April 1909

I was searching through
The Times
in the library during break this morning when I spotted an article reporting that Mrs Emmeline Pethwick-Lawrence, the treasurer of the
WSPU and a personal friend of Emmeline Pankhurst, was released from Holloway prison three days ago after serving a two-month sentence. One thousand supporters were waiting at the gates to cheer her
as she walked to freedom. What a splendid moment that must have been. How I would have loved to have been there.

I was about to copy the details into my scrapbook when Miss Manners, the librarian, leaned over. “You have a visitor,” she whispered. “Come with me.”

I was surprised because I had not been expecting anyone.

She led me to the waiting rooms that adjoin our headmistress’s offices and instructed me to wait. About five minutes later, the door reopened and in walked Mrs Partridge followed by Lady
Flora! I was amazed.

“Stand up please, Dollie,” said Mrs Partridge. “I want to introduce you to Lady Flora Bonnington. She has travelled up from London to speak to you. I shall leave you with her.
Remember to deport yourself in the manner of a young lady who is both educated and respectfully modest.”

I nodded, and with that we were left alone. I felt awkward and shy, yet thrilled to be standing there with Flora. She stepped forward and brushed her elegant fingers lightly against my
cheek.

“Do feel at ease, Dollie. There is no need for us to be formal with one another.” She sat as she spoke and gestured to me to follow suit, which I did. “Do you have any idea why
I am here?”

I panicked, tongue-tied. I had no notion what she might have learned of me, or what I was expected to answer. So I made no response besides a shrug.

“I think the name of my grandmother, Lady Violet Campbell, means something to you, does it not?”

“But of course,” I stammered.

“You were her ward, isn’t that so?”

“Yes, I … I was.” I felt the tears welling up in my eyes. Was she here to inform me that I must leave the school? I would not have minded now that Lady Violet was no longer in
Gloucestershire, but where was I to go?

“Mrs Partridge tells me that my grandmother was the one who placed you at this school. She says that you are a hardworking and very gifted student and that you have ambitions to become a
journalist. Is that true?”

I nodded.

“Splendid. I also gather that you requested two days’ absence from school to attend Lady Violet’s funeral. Were you there?”

Again I nodded.

“I am sorry that you did not make yourself known to me or to another member of my family.”

“I wanted to, but I didn’t feel that it was correct to intrude.”

At this, Flora smiled. “Forgive my asking, Dollie, but are you an orphan?”

“No. Well, not exactly. My father died a few years ago but my mother, as far as I know, is still living.”

My answer seemed to confuse her. She frowned, fathoming the puzzle – if I had a mother why did I need a guardian?

“This was among my grandmother’s papers,” she said. She fished into her velvet handbag and pulled out an official-looking document. “It is a letter, hand written by her
to her solicitor, Mr Makepeace, giving clear and precise instructions for your future.”

I felt my stomach tighten and the palms of my hands go sticky.

“My grandmother has set aside sufficient funds from her estate for your board and keep and for your education through to and including university, if that is where your ambitions lie. She
mentions that her personal preference would be for you to attend St Hilda’s College at Oxford but she states that you must be free to choose and to follow whatever path you believe is yours.
She has also requested that the sum of two thousand pounds be invested for you. You are to inherit this sum plus the monies that it will have accrued on your 21st birthday.”

I was dumbfounded. I have never had one penny of my own and the very idea that Lady Violet would think of me in her last moments left me speechless. More embarrassingly, it reduced me to
tears.

Sitting there, just a few feet away from Flora, I bowed my head, desperate to hide the rush of tears rolling down my cheeks. I was crying for the unexpected generosity shown to me by someone who
had already been so kind to me and because I’d lost her. In all these weeks since I had been told of her passing away, it was the first time I had allowed my emotions to express themselves. I
sniffled an apology for my foolishness and dug about in my pockets for a handkerchief. Flora offered me hers, a lacy one, then waited while I regained my composure.

“May I ask how you first came to know my grandmother?” she eventually inquired and with warmth. She didn’t seem to be the least bit put out that a healthy sum of what should
have been her and her sister’s inheritance had been willed to me.

“She came to our cottage,” I muttered. “My father was not there. He was out with my four brothers. They were marching with the strikers. Being a girl and the youngest, I was
home with Mother. I cannot remember the exchange that took place between Lady Campbell and my mother during that first visit, though I stayed close to my mother’s knee throughout their
interview. I was only five at the time. What I do recall, though, is how she smelt.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?” exclaimed Flora.

“She smelt so sweet. Of eau de Cologne. Perfumes and scented waters were all quite unknown to me then. In our neighbourhood, other less pleasant odours mingled and filled the air. But your
grandmother did not seem to be disgusted or shocked.”

“Disgusted by what?” asked Flora. It was evident from her questions that she had never visited areas of London where the very poor live.

“Well, her graceful manners and the finery of her clothes were quite at odds with the surroundings in which she found herself. She wore leather gloves and a hat decorated with glorious
purple plumes and she had arrived in a motor car. It was driven by a man in goggles who stepped out to open the door for her and draw off the blanket that was covering her; a protection against the
wind, I suppose. Her arrival remains vivid to me even to this day because I had never seen a motor car before. It was autumn and the air was chilly. She bent to ask a group of children playing in
the cobbled lane which cottage was ours. They stared, stupefied, and then I saw one of them point with filthy fingers towards our open door. Your grandmother thanked them with a bag of boiled
sweets.”

“Have you any idea what prompted her to pay you a visit?”

I hesitated. I feared my answer might offend Flora.

“It seems that my mother had turned up unannounced and uninvited at your family home in Cadogan Square and had made a rumpus at the door. She can get very riled sometimes and I remember
that she was spoiling for a fight on that day.”

“Really? Why?”

“She had been determined to see Thomas Bonnington, who, she was informed, was not at home.”

“Whatever would she have wanted with my father?”

“It was during the dockers’ strike of 1900. We had no money. My mother was angry but, more importantly, she was frightened and desperate, worrying how to feed us children and pay our
rent. I don’t know how your grandmother came to hear about my mother’s visit to your house, but she did. She came, she said, because she was concerned for our welfare. She offered help,
but my mother sent her packing. Mother said we weren’t in need of charity and certainly not from a member of the Bonnington family.”

As I recounted this incident of almost a decade earlier, I caught my breath. Flora’s father had brought so much misery and hardship upon my family. Still, I have never held Flora
responsible and was about to say so, but she interrupted me.

“Baxter, of course!
Dollie Baxter
! How foolish of me not to have made the connection earlier. Your mother is Mrs Baxter. Good Lord, yes! I remember her visit to our home very well
indeed. I remember her, too. And, yes, your father is a docker, employed by my father and –”

“He’s been dead these past four years.”

“I’m sorry. Yes, you told me that. Please go on with your story and forgive my interruption.”

“In spite of my mother’s rejection, your grandmother came back to visit us from time to time, over many years. She talked to my mother, asked her questions, listened to what she had
to say. It was suggested that she would like to see me educated. I was the youngest and the only daughter. I couldn’t go to work on the docks. Lady Campbell painted a picture of a life for me
that my mother could never have dreamed of. ‘Think of it, Mrs Baxter,’ she said, ‘if Dollie could read and write and in due course earn her own living, it would give her the
opportunity to become an independent woman.’

“What your grandmother was saying rang true, but my mother was defensive. She refused outright and with harsh words. ‘We don’t need your kind here,’ she declared. As far
as I know she never discussed it with my father and I am not sure she ever really comprehended why your grandmother would want to waste her resources on a family like ours. ‘Working class,
that’s what we are, Dollie. The bottom of the heap,’ she used to say to me. ‘Derided by the rest of society.’ But at some point she began to trust Lady Campbell and little
by little came round to the idea. ‘And there’s precious little future on offer for you elsewhere,’ she’d mutter. It was as though she was trying to convince herself that she
was making the right decision. But it wasn’t until I turned ten, a short while after the death of my father, that my mother finally made up her mind.

“She woke one morning full of resolution. ‘Come along, miss,’ she announced. We walked for miles, looking out for a place where she could telephone to ask Lady Campbell to drop
by. When your grandmother arrived a few days later, my mother explained her predicament – that she had recently lost her husband and was penniless save for the sums two of her sons brought
home (my other brothers had married and left by then). She feared ending her days in the poorhouse and had come to realize that here was an opportunity for me to have a better life.