Polly's March Read online

  About The Historical House

  This series is a unique collaboration between three award-winning authors, Adèle Geras, Linda Newbery and Ann Turnbull, all writing about one very special house and the extraordinary young women who have lived there throughout history.

  Adèle Geras

  Lizzie’s Wish

  Cecily’s Portrait

  Linda Newbery

  Polly’s March

  Andie’s Moon

  Ann Turnbull

  Josie Under Fire

  Mary Ann & Miss Mozart

  About this book

  Polly has an adventurous spirit, and her dream is to become an explorer. But in 1914 women didn’t have many rights, let alone career choices. Polly discovers this when her new neighbours turn out to be suffragettes, fighting for women’s right to vote.

  Polly’s parents are scandalized but Polly is intrigued, and the more she thinks about their cause, the more determined she becomes to join the suffragettes’ protest march. But will she dare to defy her parents and do what she thinks is right?

  An intriguing portrait of a turbulent time from award-winning author, Linda Newbery.

  For Megan, of course

  Floor plans of 6 Chelsea Walk in 1914

  Download the floor plan from Polly’s March at the Usborne Quicklinks website

  Contents

  About The Historical House

  About this book

  Dedication

  Floor plans of 6 Chelsea Walk in 1914

  Chapter 1

  New Neighbours

  Chapter 2

  A Letter to Lily

  Chapter 3

  Gossip

  Chapter 4

  Slug

  Chapter 5

  Cat and Mouse

  Chapter 6

  Secret Suffragettes

  Chapter 7

  That Sort of Person

  Chapter 8

  Dog at Heel

  Chapter 9

  Quarrel

  Chapter 10

  Reasons

  Chapter 11

  Lily

  Chapter 12

  Plotters

  Chapter 13

  Purple, White and Green

  Chapter 14

  Caught

  Chapter 15

  Disgrace

  Chapter 16

  Seaside Holiday

  Chapter 17

  Ends and Beginnings

  Chapter 18

  Secrets

  Author’s note

  About the author

  Usborne Quicklinks

  Collect the series

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  New Neighbours

  The swing tree had always been Polly’s favourite part of the garden. She came here to sit, or to read, or to watch the birds squabbling over thrown bread; or she came to swing. She liked to push herself as high as she could, her stretched-out feet pointing at Lily’s bedroom on the second floor, till she almost felt she could launch herself from the swing seat and land neatly on the mat beside Lily’s bed.

  But now it wasn’t Lily’s bedroom, not any more, and today Polly couldn’t find the energy for proper swinging.

  Until last week, she and Lily had come here together – to be by themselves, to talk and giggle and share secrets. Now there was no Lily, no one to share anything, and Polly didn’t even want to look up at the top-floor flat. For nearly a week, the windows had been blank and empty. Today the new people were moving in, and they were going to be duller than dull, she just knew it. It was so unfair!

  Polly sat glumly, twisting the swing seat one way, then the other. She dragged her feet on the scuffed bare earth underneath.

  She and Lily had been best friends for seven years, ever since Polly and her parents had moved into Number Six, Chelsea Walk. As their mothers were good friends too, Polly and Lily had shared a nanny and attended the same school; they had walked along the Thames Embankment and picnicked in Ranelagh Gardens; they both had piano lessons with Lily’s Aunt Dorothy, who lived nearby. Now Lily’s mother was ill, and the family had moved to Tunbridge Wells, where the healthy air would do her good, Dr. Mayes said. All Lily’s family’s possessions and furniture had been carried out, less than a week ago.

  This afternoon, Polly had arrived home from school to find a van parked outside, and boxes and crates being carried in by the very same men, three of them, in flat caps. What a strange job it must be, Polly thought – carting people’s whole lives from one place to the next, swapping people around like books on shelves! She felt resentful of the newcomers. There hadn’t been time to get used to Lily being gone, let alone to face the thought of new people moving in, putting their own pictures and ornaments where Lily’s had been, making it all different.

  “Lily can come to stay, sometimes,” Polly’s mother had said yesterday, seeing her gloomy face. “Tunbridge Wells isn’t that far away. You haven’t said goodbye to her for ever and ever. And there’s still Maurice!”

  Maurice! Grown-ups simply didn’t understand. As if Maurice could even begin to replace Lily! Polly glowered at the windows of the Dalbys’ ground-floor flat. Polly’s mother and Mrs. Dalby often had afternoon tea together or sat chatting while they sewed, but that didn’t mean Polly was going to be friends with Horrid Maurice. He was the worst boy she knew. As she knew very few boys, this was less of an insult than she’d have liked; but she felt sure that even if she knew hundreds and hundreds, Maurice would still be the one she detested most.

  If ever he saw Polly and Lily playing in the garden, he used to come out purely to pester them. He was the same age as them, twelve; but as Lily remarked loftily, “He’s only a boy. They always seem younger than girls for their age.” Once, he’d sneaked up behind Polly with a toad he’d found at the end of the garden, holding it so close that she came face to face with it when she turned round, and couldn’t help shrieking with horror. That piercing shriek – she hadn’t known she could make such a sound – had annoyed her as much as it had amused Maurice; she never usually made a fuss about mice, spiders or other crawly creatures. Another time, he had thrown Eugenie, Lily’s doll, high into the branches of the walnut tree, where her long hair had become so firmly snagged on twigs that Polly had to call the gardener to bring a ladder and climb to the rescue.

  Why couldn’t it have been Maurice’s mother who was ill and needed the Tunbridge Wells air?

  And now a new disappointment! The one hope remaining to Polly was that the new occupants of Flat Three would have a daughter her own age – not, of course, one she would like as much as Lily, because that would be disloyal, but still someone who could fill the friend gap. But Papa had heard that the new people weren’t a family at all, but a pair of spinsters: Miss Cross and Miss Rutherford. Polly wrinkled her nose when she heard the names. She imagined the Misses Cross and Rutherford as elderly ladies, dressed stiffly in black and purple and old lace that smelled of mothballs. Miss Cross would be cross, of course – probably they both would. They’d look down long noses at her and would sniff in disapproval if she played in the garden. They’d be hard of hearing and would cup their hands to their ears if she tried to speak to them, so that she’d have to repeat everything three times. They might even be so deaf as to use ear trumpets. Yet their ears would be sharply tuned to any noise she made on the back stairs or in her bedroom; there would be complaints to Mama and Papa. She knew it! She disliked them already.

  “Oh, but this is lovely!” said a voice, close behind her.

  Polly turned. Two people had come out of the doorway that led to the back stairs: both young women, dressed alike in navy-blue skirts and white blouses. The taller and thinner of the two was looking this way and that, giving excited little claps of her hands; the other, dark-
haired, stocky and hatless, gazed around her as she came down the steps to the grass.

  “We could hardly have done better!” the tall one went on. “And look, this tree – lovely shade on a hot day – oh! Hello! I’m so sorry if we startled you.”

  They were coming towards her, smiling and interested, as if a girl on a swing were the most exciting thing they could hope to find in a garden. Polly felt annoyed with herself; she could have dodged out of sight behind the blackcurrant bushes, to look and listen without being seen.

  Slowly, she got up from the swing seat, and tugged at her skirt. “Only for a moment.” She looked from one face to the other. These two must be nieces, or something, of the old ladies who were moving in; spinsters, of course, wouldn’t have daughters or grand-daughters.

  “You live here, do you?” the shorter one asked.

  “Yes. Up there, in the middle flat.” Polly pointed to the first-floor windows.

  “Then we’re going to be neighbours!” exclaimed the tall young woman, who seemed ready to be delighted by everything. “How marvellous! We must introduce ourselves properly. How do you do? I’m Edwina Rutherford, and this is Violet Cross.” She held out a hand to shake Polly’s. “Do tell us who you are!”

  “Oh!” Polly was unable to hide her surprise. “But you’re not – I mean, I thought – I thought you’d be cross and old!” It came out, just like that, before she could stop herself; she blushed at her rudeness.

  Miss Rutherford laughed, not seeming to mind. “I feel old, sometimes. Look old, sometimes.” And Polly noticed that her face, under her hat brim, looked pale and drawn, like that of a very ill person who was venturing out for the first time after weeks on a sickbed. “As for Violet –” Miss Rutherford turned to her friend – “Cross by name, kindly by nature!”

  “And your name?” prompted Miss Cross.

  “Polly. Paulina Elizabeth Genevieve Stubbs, but I’m always called Polly. So you’re really the people moving in upstairs?”

  Miss Rutherford laughed. “We really are. We’ve come outside to give ourselves a rest from boxes and dust and decisions. Maybe you could show us around the garden?”

  Polly wasn’t sure what to show them that they couldn’t see easily for themselves, but she said, “Yes, of course.” Miss Rutherford made a big show of setting off on a Grand Tour, adjusting her hat, looking round expectantly, and putting her best foot forward.

  “Now, Edwina,” said Miss Cross, glancing anxiously at her, “you’re not to go over-tiring yourself. It’s been a long day. You ought to be putting your feet up. The doctor said—”

  “I can rest later,” Miss Rutherford assured her. But she took the offered arm, and leaned slightly against her friend as they took a few steps down the garden. Only a few steps, because Polly wanted them to have a proper look at the tree. She stood back to gaze up at it, its cracked bark and the spreading canopy of leaves, and the branch that had the swing’s ropes lashed round it.

  “We’ll start here. This tree,” she said proudly, “is a walnut tree. We get walnuts from it in autumn. The Romans, you know, brought walnuts when they came to England, and planted them. This one was grown from a walnut by a girl who lived here years and years ago. And now it’s big enough to swing from!”

  “How marvellous!” Miss Rutherford tilted back her head to look at the upper branches. “And how do you know that?”

  “Mrs. Parks told me. She’s our cook.”

  “Imagine!” said Miss Rutherford. “One little walnut, growing into a tree this size! I shall find a nut in autumn and try to grow a new tree myself. There,” she added, looking sidelong at Miss Cross, “you see what great things can grow from small beginnings! What an inspiration, to look out of our window and see this every day!”

  “You got more’n enough inspiration if you ask me,” said Miss Cross, almost crossly.

  Polly looked at them with interest. She had thought at first that they might be cousins, but now decided that they couldn’t be related at all; they looked so unalike, and their voices were very different, too. Whereas Miss Rutherford spoke in the clear, carrying tone of most people who lived in this part of Chelsea, Miss Cross’s way of speaking was less refined – the way a servant might speak. Polly liked her friendly directness, but her accent was what Mama called common. Polly wondered if maybe she was looking after Miss Rutherford – perhaps she was a paid nurse, or companion. Miss Rutherford had the liveliest blue eyes, that seemed to dart around taking in everything; but she also looked as tired as a candle on its last sputter. Her skin looked almost transparent, there were shadows under her eyes, and she was so thin that – as Mama would say – a puff of wind would blow her over. And Miss Cross had mentioned the doctor, and resting. Mama saw the doctor quite often, and was supposed to rest each afternoon with her feet up on the couch, but that was because of the new baby that was on the way. That couldn’t possibly be the cause of Miss Rutherford’s frailness.

  “Excuse me, Miss Rutherford—” Polly ventured.

  “Oh, please – call me Edwina, and Violet, Violet! Miss Rutherford makes me feel like an elderly spinster! You don’t want us to call you Miss Stubbs, do you? May we call you Polly?”

  “Yes, of course. Well, er – Edwina,” Polly continued awkwardly, not used to calling grown-ups by their first names, “I hope you won’t think I’m rude, but are you ill?”

  “Well, like—” Miss Cross, Violet, began, but Edwina cut her short, fixing Polly with her straight blue gaze.

  “Yes, Polly, in a way I have been ill. You see, I’ve just been released from prison.”

  Chapter Two

  A Letter to Lily

  …Sports Day, and an outing to Kew, but it isn’t nearly as much fun without you, Polly wrote, forming the letters carefully. Whenever we have partners I have to go with Maudie Marchant, just because no one else wants to. I call her Moody Marchant.

  She was at the dining table, supposedly doing her French preparation. The writing paper – smooth cream bond, with Flat 2, 6 Chelsea Walk printed in curling script – rested on the pages of her French book, so that it could be hidden if Mama came unexpectedly into the room. As Mrs. Dalby was here, and she and Mama were having tea in the drawing room, Polly knew she was safe as long as she could hear the two alternating voices; if the conversation stopped and footsteps came this way, there would be time to hide the letter and pretend to be concentrating very hard on French conjugations.

  But something very exciting has happened, Polly wrote on, and it’s to do with the new people in your flat! She hesitated – would this make Lily feel she had been too easily replaced? She thought, gazed at the piano, and wrote again. It won’t be the same as having you here, but they are not the two prim old ladies I expected. Their names are Edwina Rutherford and Violet Cross, and they want to be friends. I don’t mean friends like you and me, they are too old for that, but friendly, anyway. They have already told me all sorts of things! It is hard to tell how old they are – grown-up, but not very. Anyway, they are much younger than my mama or yours. And, you’ll never guess –

  Miss McFarlane at school said that a sentence should never begin with and, but sometimes it seemed just right. Polly stopped writing again and leaned her chin on her hand, looking out into the branches of the walnut tree. At this height, on the first floor, it filled the window with green. Amazing, the way it branched and branched, so that from up here Polly had a squirrel’s-eye view, looking through the mass of leaves, each one divided into seven leaflets, with the dangling, catkin-like flowers that made the whole tree seem decorated for summer. Papa had talked about getting it cut down, complaining that it was too tall for the garden and too close to the house and that it blocked the light, but Polly and Mama had argued passionately that it must stay. Most houses had gardens, but not every house had its own walnut tree! And Papa enjoyed eating the walnuts at Christmas, and having them pickled for the rest of the year. Mrs. Parks, the cook-housekeeper, had her own special way of pickling, which Papa said was better than anyone
else’s.

  Polly’s mind flicked back to the thrilling moment when Edwina announced that she’d been in prison. Prison! Polly had felt her mouth opening in a fish-like gape. Only very bad people went to prison, didn’t they? Edwina looked and sounded so ladylike that Polly couldn’t begin to imagine what crime she might have committed.

  Violet had laughed. “You ought to be more careful about coming straight out with things,” she told her friend. “Look how you’ve shocked Polly now! Don’t worry,” she told Polly, “she’s not a thief or a murderer!”

  “No, I didn’t think—” Polly faltered, unsure what she did think. “But, then, what did you—?”

  “I was sent to Holloway Prison for attacking a policeman outside Buckingham Palace.” For a moment, Edwina looked even taller, and her eyes fierier.

  “Attacking – oh! You’re a—” Newspaper headlines flashed into Polly’s head; she thought of her father reading The Times at breakfast, shaking his head at what the world was coming to. “You’re one of those suffragettes!”

  Edwina nodded. “I am. And very proud of it.”

  According to Papa, it was completely disgraceful; ladies getting up to such antics, as he called them. How exciting, though, Polly thought: How brave, to shout in the streets and confront the police and not be told what to do! How marvellous to be so unladylike! Being ladylike all the time must be very, very dull.

  “Are you one, too?” she asked Violet. “A suffragette?”

  She noticed the quick glance that passed between the two young women: the faintest suggestion of a smile from Edwina, a tightening of the lips and tilt of the head from Violet. Then Violet answered:

  “I’m a campaigner for votes for women, yes. Votes for everyone. I prefer suffragist to suffragette. Let’s just say, Edwina and me don’t always see eye to eye on getting our points made. I don’t go round thumping policemen, for a start, nor throwing myself under racehorses, neither. Edwina, she’d do it soon as cross the road.”