Summer's End (12 page)

‘What caused the collision?' Her father was more shaken than she had ever seen him, he must be, for he never usually rambled in his speech.

‘Fog. However good the ship, however great the technical achievement, nature can always defeat it. In the end, though, man will always cause his own destruction, trusting in his own superiority, not God's. A thousand gone, Caroline, a
thousand
, and in a ship of such a name. These times are out of joint indeed.'

He departed to Matins and, concerned, Caroline waited anxiously for his return, slipping out from the breakfast room when she thought he would be due back. To her surprise he pulled a doorbell on his return, and she ran to open it. It was not her father but the local policeman, Joe Ifield. She stared at him stupidly, her thoughts still on the appalling tragedy she had been reading about in
The Times
during her father's absence.

‘It's official, miss.' Nevertheless he took off his helmet, twisting it awkwardly in his hands.

‘My father isn't back from Matins.'

Aunt Tilly came up beside her. ‘I believe it is me, not the Rector, you wish to see, is it not, Constable Ifield? You've come to arrest me.'

He stared at her blankly. ‘You, miss? Whatever for?'

Tilly reddened as she saw Caroline's amazement. ‘Please let's get this over, Constable, before the whole household is privy to the news. I have my suitcase packed ready.'

‘You're not a Peeping Tom, are you, miss?' Joe gabbled in astonishment.

‘A
what
?'

‘I come to arrest poor young Fred.'

‘Fred?' Tilly repeated faintly.

‘Fred Dibble, miss. I know he's simple, and don't mean no harm, but I have to arrest him because there's been a complaint. I should've gone to the trades entrance, but I thought it fair to have a word with the Rector first.'

‘You'd better come to his study to wait.' Caroline took charge as her aunt seemed incapable of speech. She speedily returned from ushering Joe into Father's study. ‘Why should they wish to arrest you, Aunt?' She rushed after Tilly as she tried to escape, determined to get to the bottom of this extraordinary episode.

‘It was a joke.'

‘It wasn't. Please tell me.' She had a sudden thought. ‘Someone mentioned they'd seen you in Kingsway – is it connected with that?'

‘I promised your father not to speak of it.'

‘You haven't,' Caroline pointed out. ‘I've spoken to
you
.'

Tilly sighed. ‘I suppose it's no use pretending any more – if it ever was. Before I came here, I did not have quinsy. Your grandmother threw me out for bringing disgrace on the family name.'

‘How could you ever do that?' The world wasn't making sense any more. Aunt Tilly, with her dull clothes and reserved manner?

‘Easily. I'd been in prison, Caroline, on hunger strike. I had been forcibly fed, and was released under the Cat and Mouse Act.' She forced herself to ignore Caroline's instinctive revulsion, and continued: ‘That means, as you probably know, that I can be re-arrested at any time they choose – in practice at any time if I re-offend. I
have
re-offended.'

‘You mean, you're one of
them?
' Caroline managed to stutter.

Tilly nodded. ‘I'm a militant suffragist. A suffragette, as the newspapers love to call us.'

O
utside Caroline could hear Harriet banging up and down the corridor with the Hoover electrical cleaner Grandmother Buckford had given them at Christmas (to their great surprise). How could everything seem so normal, when self-effacing Aunt Tilly had transformed herself into one of these pillar-box burning, picture-slashing, window-smashing termagants whom she read about in the newspapers almost every day, women who had committed crimes like burning down the Nevill cricket pavilion at Tunbridge Wells, and now were even attacking churches?

Aunt Tilly in
prison
. It was almost funny to think of Grandmother's face. Buckford House's bricks must have begun to crumble in horror at such desecration of its heritage.

Tilly was looking at her in amusement, as though she could sympathise with all the thoughts running through Caroline's mind. She was sitting in the old wicker basket chair by her bedroom window as placidly as Nanny Oates herself. No wonder her room was so impersonal, everything was tidied away as hidden as Tilly's own secrets.

‘When did you last visit London?'

‘About three weeks ago.' Caroline was taken aback by the unexpectedness of her aunt's question. ‘Eleanor and I went to see
Pygmalion,
Mr Shaw's new play, at His Majesty's with Mrs Patrick Campbell and Herbert Beerbohm Tree himself. You must remember, you recommended it. Eleanor was all agog to hear the famous word –' Caroline mouthed it – ‘and –'

‘Where else did you go?' Tilly cut in.

‘Nowhere much.' Caroline was puzzled. ‘We went to the matinée, and took luncheon at Debenham & Freebody's.'

‘And as you took your cab to the Haymarket, did you spare a thought for the brothels that flourish there just off that fine street; as you emerged from Mr Shaw's enjoyable farrago about one flower-girl rescued by a gentleman and transported to the drawing rooms of
Mayfair, did you think of the gaudy, desperate women of the street who would soon be gathering to earn their daily bread?'

Caroline flushed. ‘I don't understand.'

‘Did you see nothing else in that whole vast city? The female slaves in the back rooms of the milliners that serve Mayfair, working from eight in the morning to ten at night for a few shillings a week. The sweatshops of Bethnal Green, and women and children toiling by one dim light at home to make a few pence sewing sacks, or shirts, or making
matches?
Did you hear of the accidents, and those burned to death? Did you see the pimps of Limehouse preying on children and girls for
gentlemen
–' she uttered the word with scorn – ‘or shipping them abroad like animals? Did you see the children whose lovers are their own fathers –' Tilly saw the look of shock, or perhaps incomprehension, on Caroline's face. ‘That's why,' she continued more quietly, ‘I'm a suffragette, matching ugliness with ugliness.'

Caroline swallowed. ‘No, I
don't
know about these things. How could I?' She felt she was being unjustly rebuked.

‘Perhaps not,' Tilly conceded, ‘but now I have pointed the way, Caroline, what will you do about it, that is the question.'

‘I have a question, too.' Caroline was not mollified. ‘I thought suffragettes wanted the vote. Father says the problem is that as only about sixty per cent of men yet have the vote, which is also injustice, the issues must be linked, or there is no hope of equality.'

‘Political shenanigans,' Tilly snorted impatiently. ‘We have been hearing such shilly-shallying from one politician after another, one Bill after another, each time gaining a majority in the House and then ignored on the grounds that the majority is insufficient, even when the vote in favour surpassed that against us by over a hundred votes. The enfranchisement of women has been debated nearly
fifty
times in the House of Commons and still nothing. And for the last year, silence too. For years we have been tortured in prison, reviled on the streets, and merely humoured by governments who think we are too foolish to realise we are being hoodwinked. Until we have the vote we will never be able to advance the cause of ending women and children's suffering at the hands of men. And men will fight to the last inch to prevent our having it, for that very reason.
That
is why we must fight fire with fire. That is why I was with Mrs Pankhurst when on Friday last week she was refused a hearing at Buckingham Palace, and borne off struggling from its gates. That is
why I approve even of church-burning, Caroline.'

It was a gauntlet, and Caroline recognised it as such, even as she resented it. Her aunt had always been her unquestioning champion – or so she had thought. She could not adjust so quickly to this formidable
volte-face.
‘And your reason is that if women have the vote, they will use it to improve the lot of suffering women and children?'

‘
All
women. Those who suffer physically, and live in appalling conditions, and those who, like you, Caroline, live comfortably enough within the rules but when they seek to expand their horizons are balked at every turn by the laws of men. Not all of us are suffragettes from the same motives, just as not all women suffragists are suffragettes. Many still believe in peaceful means, whereas we believe in an active response. Among us, there are those who believe in the freeing of women from the domination of men because they believe in our superiority as a sex. Some wish the vote as an acknowledgement of equality. Others like myself see the vote as the struggle to continue Josephine Butler's work – to force men to adopt the same standards as women. Purity, as I said to you when discussing Agnes. How can they defend the illogicality of licensing brothels or forcing their women to have examinations for disease, instead of teaching men not to go to brothels? If they would but refrain, their wives and children could be free from infection; to license brothels merely condemns yet more women to the disease.' Tilly saw she had lost Caroline. ‘Are you shocked?' she demanded impatiently. ‘I had thought you had a mind. Use it.'

‘I do,' Caroline flashed back. ‘But I do not
know
about these things, so how can I judge?'

‘You can find out.' Tilly calmed down. ‘I should apologise. You live in Ashden. How could you know?'

‘There is nothing wrong in that,' Caroline replied defensively.

‘Nor in a chrysalis, hidden from the world, merely protecting its own.'

‘But Ashden
does
protect its own,' Caroline protested. This was something on which
she
felt strongly. ‘Whenever someone has a problem of whatever sort they can come to my father or to the Squire for help. And you know very well my father is always compassionate if people genuinely cannot pay their tithes, just as Dr Marden is about his bills. And the Squire frequently sends people to his own
solicitor and pays the bills for them. We all live together, and help one another.'

‘Is the village helping Ruth Horner?'

‘Yes,' Caroline hurled at her, upset she should raise this contentious issue once more. ‘The Squire's solicitor is advising her on claiming money from Jamie by magistrate's order if he refuses to marry her.'

‘My point
exactly
! Money is good, but what of the child? It needs a father. Why not force the man to own up to his responsibilities?'

‘Jamie still claims he –'

‘I believe he is right and that William Swinford-Browne is the father.'

Caroline felt the jolt of shock physically. Irrelevantly, a part of her was crying that this was Whitsun, one of the special holy days, and that it should be celebrated as it had been for centuries, rejoicing that Our Lord's year was peacefully ticking by. Yet what had happened? A disaster almost as great as the
Titanic,
the discovery that her beloved Aunt Tilly was someone completely different to the woman she thought she knew so well, Fred arrested for being a Peeping Tom, and now
this.

She grappled with Tilly's casual statement about William Swinford-Browne and all it implied. ‘I want to say impossible,' she said at last, ‘but you won't let me get away with that. Do
you
have proof, though?'

‘As with Jamie Thorn, there is no such thing. I
believe
he is guilty.'

‘If so, why does Ruth accuse Jamie?'

‘William Swinford-Browne is powerful, rich and married.'

‘Then why would she not accuse him publicly? Does she love him?'

Tilly laughed. ‘You think in story-book terms. He probably paid her and suggested she accuse Jamie. I put nothing past that man.'

‘Why Jamie?'

‘Why not? He is a handsome lad.'

There was more to it, there had to be, and Caroline instantly made the connection. ‘Of course. It's not Swinford-Browne's plan, it's Ruth's revenge. The cottage he wants for his cinema is blocked by Ebenezer Thorn. If she marries Jamie, they move into Ebenezer's and there goes the cinema.'

‘It would certainly explain Ruth's determination to wed young
Master Thorn.' Tilly considered further. ‘Do you know, Caroline, I believe you're right. Ruth is the woman scorned.'

‘And unfortunately Jamie and Agnes will reap the hell.'

‘Not,' Tilly said firmly, ‘if I have anything to do with it.'

‘I'll have to take him, Rector. Question him.' Joe Ifield perched uncomfortably on the edge of the chair in the Rector's study. He was a frequent visitor here of course, over one problem or another, but this was the first time he'd been here on a mission directly affecting the Rectory. Everyone liked Fred Dibble, though he was ‘dinlow', and everyone included Joe Ifield. A policeman's lot, as they sang in that Gilbert and Sullivan opera he and Edith had seen in London, is not a happy one. Edith and he had had a good laugh about that on the way home, but he wasn't laughing now.

‘I would prefer you speak to him here. Fred would be terrified to go to your house.'

‘It's the station, though. I'll have to take him,' Joe said miserably.

‘Who is his accuser?' the Rector asked.

‘Miss Harriet Mutter.' Even more miserably.

‘Our
housemaid?
' The Rector was horrified. ‘Is this offence supposed to have taken place in the
Rectory?
'

‘The young lady claims he peers in when she's taking a bath. She hadn't seen who it was before. This time she did.'

‘How does one
peer
in on the second floor? The servants' bathroom is up there, and unless he crawls over the dormer roof and suspends himself upside down, I see no way of peeping in.'

Joe Ifield shifted uncomfortably. ‘There's a bath in the old scullery. It's warmer than upstairs, and so the girls take their bath there sometimes.'

‘This is the end of May,' the Rector pointed out.

‘She says Mrs Dibble will confirm that's where she was.' Joe began to get obstinate, annoyed at having to reveal his case.

‘And when did this happen?'

‘The last time was Thursday night, Rector. She had the light on, not expecting anyone to be outside, so he could see in easy from the laurel bushes.'

‘And this is all your evidence? Suppose he were passing innocently from the kitchen to his workshop?'

‘There's more, sir.' In for a penny, in for a pound. ‘Seems he's been
taking to following her around in the gardens.' He paused. ‘And
touching
her.'

The Rector was shaken. All this, invading the boundaries of his own home? Harriet had no reason to lie, yet instinct told him Fred would not do such a thing. He had to bear in mind, however, that Fred might be without the controls that normal lads of his age possessed – whether they used them or not.

‘I shall come with Fred, Joe. It seems to me we both have the same problem, you with Fred, myself with Ruth Horner. One person's word. How is justice to be done?'

‘We do our best, sir. Can't do more than that.'

Our best, thought the Rector. Yes, he tried to do that, but it did not satisfy him.

The village had always had its fights and squabbles, which disturbed its surface for a while but left the basic tempo of life unaffected. Ashden went on. Yet this time Caroline unwillingly faced the fact that the situation was getting serious. One evening Joe Ifield had had to don his helmet and hurry to the Norville Arms, as clashing groups of Mutters and Thorns spilled out of its premises over Bankside, down the hill and perilously near the pond. Meanwhile Agnes still walked around the Rectory with a set face, and Jamie Thorn still refused to marry Ruth Horner. The Squire's solicitors had given their opinion that she needed at least circumstantial evidence that she and Jamie had been sweethearts in order to convince the East Grinstead magistrate. At least her father had managed to get Fred released and returned to the arms of his ashen-faced mother uncharged, for the same reason – lack of evidence. He had talked to Harriet, but what the outcome was Caroline did not know. Harriet remained at the Rectory. Mrs Dibble refused to speak to her. Elizabeth had arranged a compromise whereby Rectory matters would be discussed direct between them, and Mrs Dibble accepted that Harriet might genuinely have been mistaken in her identification. Harriet maintained she was not, though not to Mrs Dibble's face. Felicia became Fred's defender and ostentatiously spent time with him in his shed in the garden where he clumsily carved animals from wood, and tended injured animals and birds. Father asked her not to. Felicia refused. Isabel lectured with the authority of an about-to-be-married elder sister. Felicia still refused. Fred was seen whispering to the bees in the hives
by the compost heap, in the old country way of sharing trouble.

The weather did not help. It was chilly and miserable for early June, and fortunately this somewhat distanced the discord from Caroline, since she devoted as much time as she could to reading, taking books about the woman's suffrage movement to her room to devour, to talking to Aunt Tilly, and just thinking over the issue for herself. Always it came back to the same point: she believed in votes for women, she believed in adult suffrage for men, regardless of who they were or what they owned, but she could not be entirely convinced by the militants' approach to suffragism. In their discussions Aunt Tilly too always came back to the same point: ‘What will be remembered in a hundred years is not Mrs Fawcett's history of the suffrage movement, nor even Mrs Pankhurst's, but Emily Wilding Davison flinging herself under the King's horse at the Derby.'