Polly's March Read online

  “Excuse the mess,” Edwina said, indicating the boxes. “We’ve got so many books, and nowhere to put them, till we get extra shelves put up. But do sit on my new chaise longue. Don’t you think it’s just beautiful?” She gestured towards the seat that seemed to take pride of place, upholstered in green velvet and with a scrolled back and armrest.

  “As if we haven’t got enough bits and pieces, she has to go buying more!” Violet said, rolling her eyes upward.

  “It was in the window of Hauptmann’s, in the King’s Road. I just couldn’t resist treating myself to it,” Edwina explained. “I’ve always wanted one, and thought I deserved a coming-out-of-prison present. You can test it for comfort, Polly.”

  Polly settled herself on the chaise longue while Edwina perched on a crate and Violet settled on the windowsill to wait for the tea to brew. It was all so different from Polly’s mother’s way of inviting people to tea. Mama would never dream of shouting to someone from a window, nor of inviting them in on the spur of the moment. Invitations to tea were always made in advance, and Mrs. Parks would bake a cake and prepare bread and butter, or thin sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

  And Mama would never contemplate letting anyone through the door if the flat was untidy – not that it ever was, with Mrs. Parks in charge. Here the tea was in mugs, and biscuits were eaten straight from the tin. Besides Violet and Edwina, there was a pretty, pert-faced girl of about eighteen, introduced as “Kitty, who looks after us”, and who must be the maid, but it was Violet who poured the tea and handed it round.

  “Just imagine!” cried Edwina, who seemed full of energy this afternoon, not tired at all. “This whole house once belonged to one family! Your flat, Polly, and the one on the ground floor, and this one, and the servants’ bedrooms in the attic – how splendidly people used to live!”

  “Some people,” Violet corrected.

  “Well, of course that’s what I meant.”

  “If you go into the Dalbys’ flat, on the ground floor, you can see how it used to be,” Polly said, finding herself less shy than she had expected; the others listened to her, smiling and attentive, just as if she were someone their own age. “That’s the one my mother would really like to live in. It’s got black and white tiles in the hall, made of marble, and an archway that leads to the stairs – and then the big wide staircase that doesn’t lead anywhere! It goes halfway up, turns the corner, then heads straight for a wall – the wall and the extra bit of floor that were put in when the house was split into flats. But you can see what a grand house it used to be, when you could walk straight on up. Then, it was only the servants that used our back stairs. Mrs. Parks told me.”

  “I’d love to have seen it!” said Edwina.

  She could easily have been the lady of the house, Polly thought. Her fair hair was swept back from her face and pinned up neatly; with her straight nose and sharp chin she looked as well-bred as a greyhound or a racehorse; her clothes – a dark skirt, and high-collared cream blouse with embroidered panels – looked expensive and well made. She had the sort of voice that could easily be used for ordering servants about, or for complaining that the knives and forks weren’t polished highly enough. Violet, with her blouse coming untucked from her skirt, and the toes of her shoes scuffed, looked more like the person who did the polishing, or took the orders. Polly still hadn’t decided whether Violet, as well as Kitty, worked for Edwina in some way. It was hard to tell in such a strange set-up. None of the other grown-ups Polly knew would have dreamed of introducing the maid, just as if she were their equal.

  “Lend a hand folding pamphlets, Poll?” Violet, having handed round the sugar bowl and the one spoon that could be found, and taken one of the mugs to Kitty in the kitchen, now carried yet another box into the room. “We’re holding a meeting here tonight, and I’ve only just picked these up from the printer’s on my way home from work.”

  “Work?” Polly echoed, remembering Mrs. Dalby’s questions.

  Violet glanced at her. “That’s right. I work in the WSPU office. Women’s Social and Political Union. Typewriting, filing, bit of accounting. I love it!”

  Real work, Polly thought – just like Papa, who went off to the bank every morning and did important things there. What would Mrs. Dalby make of that, Polly wondered? Ladies didn’t work, so that must mean Violet wasn’t a lady, whereas Edwina clearly was. But Violet sounded as if she’d choose to work, even if she didn’t have to.

  “We’ll be needing these for the meeting.” Edwina ripped open the box. “We’re planning a march to the Town Hall, in a fortnight’s time. The Lord Mayor and the councillors are holding a special evening reception there, and a banquet. It’s going to turn out much more exciting than they think!”

  “So you’ll both be marching?” Polly asked, remembering yesterday’s difference of opinion.

  “Well, yes – but Edwina’s plan is to get re-arrested and taken back to Holloway,” said Violet, stacking sheets of paper in piles. “That’s if she manages to stay out of prison till then,” she added, with one of the meaningful looks at her friend that Polly took as a sign that they’d argued about this.

  “Why? What are you going to do?” Polly imagined Edwina throwing bricks at the Town Hall windows, or attacking the Lord Mayor himself, flying at him like a wildcat as he mounted the steps, resplendent in his robe and chains.

  “I won’t have to do anything. Just be there. Cat and Mouse, remember,” Edwina said, making her hands like claws. “But actually I shall be making a speech.”

  “She’s still officially in Holloway,” Violet said, with a wry shake of her head. “Only let out to get her strength back. Soon as the Cats see she’s fit enough to go speechifying and waving banners in the King’s Road, she’ll be locked up again.”

  “So why go, then?” Polly appealed to Edwina. “Couldn’t you just stay here, out of sight? After all, mice don’t usually march about in front of cats – they run away behind the skirting boards!”

  Violet shook her head. “Wouldn’t suit Edwina, being that mouse-like. Bit too much tiger about her, if you ask me.”

  “What would be the point of hiding?” Edwina asked Polly, with one of her steely looks.

  “Well!” It seemed so obvious. “So you don’t have to go back and be ill again. Just when you’re starting to get better.”

  “Oh, Polly.” Violet shook her head. “Edwina wants to go back to Holloway. Go on hunger strike again. Die, if need be. It’s good publicity, see, for the Cause.”

  “You don’t really want to die, do you?” Polly asked Edwina, in a small, shocked voice.

  Edwina laughed. “Not till I’ve had the chance to vote! No, I know my own strengths and weaknesses well enough. What I’ve done is nothing, compared to Emmeline and Sylvia. I’ve only been arrested three times and sentenced twice. Sylvia’s been in and out of prison for the last eight years!”

  “Didn’t realize it was a competition,” Violet said lightly. “And where’s your other heroine – Christabel? Run away to Paris, sending instructions to the rest of us, saying what we’re to do next! Here, Polly. Fold them twice, like this, so they’ll fit the envelopes. You fold, I’ll stick them in, Edwina can write the addresses.”

  The people they were talking about – Emmeline, Sylvia and Christabel – were, Polly knew, the famous Mrs. Pankhurst and her daughters. This was so exciting, she thought – hearing Violet and Edwina talk about people who appeared in the newspapers, and who everyone had heard of! She must tell Lily in her next letter. Edwina cleared a space on a cluttered table and found a pen, while Polly looked at the folded leaflet Violet had given her.

  THE CAT AND MOUSE ACT MUST NOT DETER US FROM MAKING OUR VIEWS KNOWN!

  JOIN THE WSPU PROTEST MARCH TO THE CHELSEA TOWN HALL TO CONFRONT THE LORD MAYOR AND COUNCILLORS AT AN IMPORTANT CIVIC RECEPTION AND BANQUET.

  ASSEMBLE AT SPEAKER’S CORNER, HYDE PARK, 5 pm, SATURDAY 11th JULY.

  BRING BANNERS, WEAR WSPU COLOURS.

  WOMEN’S SOCIAL & P
OLITICAL UNION

  Immediately, Polly wanted to go too, but she couldn’t help remarking, “Not all women want the vote, though, do they? Mama, and Mrs. Dalby, and Great Aunt Millicent – they don’t. I’ve heard them talking about it.”

  “What do they say?” said Edwina, with her head down, writing.

  Polly tried to remember. “Things like – Leave it to the men. No need for us to trouble our heads. That sort of thing.”

  Edwina looked up, amused; she made a snorting noise, just like the milkman’s horse. “Leave it to the men? Yes, and see where that’s got us! Strikes, the Irish Question, dreadful conditions in factories, desperate poverty in the East End – that’s how good the politicians are at sorting things out!”

  Polly didn’t know much about any of these things. “I’m only saying what—”

  “Yes, I know – but what your aunt and mother say, that’s a way of not having to think for themselves! Shouldn’t women have a say in who represents us in Parliament? Shouldn’t we be entitled to put our views?”

  “All right, Edie, you’re not on your soapbox now,” Violet said calmly. “No need to start yelling. Polly can hear you all right.”

  Edwina stopped in mid-breath, and smiled apologetically at Polly. “Sorry. Sorry. I get carried away. But it’s quite true, you know! When you grow up, Polly, unless the government sees sense, you won’t be entitled to vote, won’t have a say in the running of the country – no matter how sensible, how accomplished, how capable or thoughtful you are. Whereas – think of the most thuggish, nasty boy you know—”

  “Maurice,” Polly said, without hesitation.

  “Maurice? All right – or, say, someone who grows up to be a drunkard, who gambles away his money, who beats his wife and ill-treats his children – he’ll be entitled to vote, but you won’t. Does that seem fair to you?”

  “No!” said Polly hotly. “Of course it isn’t!”

  Violet licked and sealed an envelope. “She won’t stop till you’re a signed-up member of the WSPU, Polly, you realize that?”

  “Well, it’s important!” Edwina said. “We need a new generation of women to come along and take over when we’ve exhausted ourselves—”

  “– when you’ve starved yourself to death, you mean. Have another biscuit.”

  “The thing is, Polly, you can make up your own mind.” Edwina took a Bourbon cream with one hand and reached for an envelope with the other. “You don’t have to let anyone else tell you what to think. Not even me.”

  Polly was struck by a new thought. “Our new baby – my baby brother, assuming he’s a boy, which everyone seems to think – when he grows up, he’ll be able to vote, even though he’s not even born yet, and I won’t, even though I’m older!” She looked from Edwina’s face to Violet’s. “That’s definitely not right, is it?”

  “No, it’s not,” said Violet.

  Edwina smiled at her. “There, you see – you’re thinking for yourself. Seeing how things are. Wondering if things ought to change. Are you any good at sewing, Polly?”

  “Sewing?” Polly echoed. Sewing was exactly the sort of thing Mama approved of – a long way from protesting in the streets!

  “Banners.” Edwina nodded towards a bulging package under the table. “All that fabric’s got to be turned into banners. Purple, white and green, with lettering. Will you help us?”

  Polly wasn’t much good at sewing – “all fingers and thumbs” Miss Thripp called her at school; Lily was the one who was neat and deft with a needle. But she answered without hesitation. “Yes. Yes, of course I will.”

  Chapter Six

  Secret Suffragette

  In the early hours of Monday morning, Polly lay in bed, hot, restless and worrying.

  She had been asleep, but now, at half past two in the morning (she had crept out to the hall, to check by the grandfather clock) she felt wider awake than ever. With the new electric lights, she could easily have turned on her lamp to read, but felt certain she wouldn’t be able to concentrate. She had pushed back the sheets, blanket and quilt, but still felt hot and fidgety.

  She was hungry, too, and that wasn’t a very good beginning to the day, as she had decided not to eat anything at all for twenty-four hours. If Edwina could go without food for nearly a week, Polly wanted to prove to herself that she could manage just one day. Now that she was a suffragette, or suffragist, she would have to be willing to put herself to the test. She hadn’t told anyone she was a suffragette; but how could she not be, now that it had been explained to her? It was so obviously unreasonable for things to continue as they were. If she felt herself wavering, Polly had only to think of Maurice, and his smug, superior smile. Why should he think himself more important than her, just because he happened to be a boy?

  What was keeping her awake was the problem of what Mama would say when she found out that Violet and Edwina were suffragettes, as she must surely discover when Edwina came to tea tomorrow – no, today. It would have to be Edwina on her own, since Violet would be at work. Suffragettes, to Mama, were a strange new breed of savage women, with their weapons and their firebombs, their angry voices and their fierce determination.

  “What must their husbands think?” Polly had heard her remark to Meredith Dalby. “Their families? How can they bear to demean themselves by shouting in the streets?”

  Polly couldn’t imagine Mama shouting in the street, not even if there were a burglary, or a fire! To Mama, decorum was the rule for female behaviour. “A little more decorum, please, girls!” she would say, if Polly and Lily laughed too uproariously over a silly game, or rushed downstairs to feed lump sugar to the rag-and-bone man’s horse. Decorum meant always being polite, always being mild and quiet and ladylike, never making a stir. Boys didn’t have to worry about decorum. Maurice and the other St. Dunstan’s boys were allowed to shout, to kick footballs, to have rough play-fights. It wasn’t that Polly actually wanted to do those things; it just seemed unfair that boys could do so much more.

  “You know,” Polly had remarked to Lily once, “I really wish I’d been a boy!”

  “Well, I don’t,” Lily retorted. “Imagine not being able to wear nice clothes or hair ribbons, or have pretty things! You mean you’d rather be Maurice?”

  “Well, no, not Maurice—”

  “And you can’t do anything about it, so what’s the point of wishing?” Lily had pointed out.

  Polly couldn’t help thinking, sometimes, that Lily was exactly the sort of daughter Mama wanted – pretty and neat, always polite and respectful. Lily’s fair hair, of which she was very proud, was always brushed and shining, not plain, dull brown like Polly’s. Now Mama had invited into her drawing room a young woman who cared nothing for decorum, who had attacked a policeman outside Buckingham Palace, and had been a prisoner at Holloway! It would almost be funny, if Polly didn’t care so much about being friends with Edwina and Violet. Because they did seem to be her friends, surprising though it was; they had actually said so. They had far more important things to bother about, yet they bothered with her.

  She had to prove herself worthy of them by persisting with her hunger strike.

  At breakfast time, still yawning after her broken night, she said that she didn’t want any of the porridge Mrs. Parks was preparing in the kitchen. The sideboard was set temptingly with pots of jam and honey, and the salty smell of Papa’s breakfast kippers lingered, but Polly made herself say, “I don’t want any porridge, thank you, Mrs. Parks. I’m not hungry.”

  Mama heard, of course. She was getting so big now, with the baby inside her, that she could only just fit between the dining table and the sideboard. “Oh, Polly! Are you feeling queasy? Dizzy? I do hope you’re not going down with something.” She placed a cool hand on Polly’s forehead. “You don’t feel as if you’re running a temperature – but perhaps you ought to stay at home today, just in case. Shall I call Dr. Mayes?”

  “No! No, I’m quite all right really,” Polly said hastily. Hunger striking would be even harder if sh
e had to spend the day in bed, with nothing to do but think about food. “Just not hungry, that’s all.”

  By lunchtime she felt ravenous, and the meat and potatoes served up in the refectory smelled more delicious than anything she could have imagined. She made herself pretend to pick at her food, then offer it to Maudie Marchant, who was always willing to eat up what anyone else didn’t want. She managed to slide her portion on to Maudie’s plate without any of the teachers noticing. It was harder to resist treacle pudding and custard, but she made herself go without, though her stomach gave a rumble of outrage and her greedy eyes devoured every mouthful taken by the girls at her table. Some of them even had seconds. Really, she ought to get extra credit for that – the suffragettes in their prison cells didn’t have to watch other people gorging on treacle pudding! She sipped at a glass of water, beginning to feel quite virtuous. If anyone asked why she wasn’t eating, she could say she was excited about the summer holidays beginning this week.

  The walk home seemed twice as long as usual. On the corner of Pimlico Road, the news vendor’s billboard said that an Austrian Archduke had been shot dead in Sarajevo. It sounded rather exciting.

  “Where’s Sarah-jeevo?” Polly asked the vendor, balancing on one leg while she removed a stone from her shoe.

  The man shrugged. “Balkans, it says, Miss. Never heard of it neever.” A pin-striped man, about to walk briskly past, glanced at the board and stopped, handing over a coin. Polly retied her shoelace and trudged on home.

  Her legs ached wearily as she climbed the stairs. Mrs. Parks was scuttling out of the kitchen, carrying a tray loaded with the best tea set. There were voices in the drawing room, and Mrs. Dalby’s tinkling laughter.

  Preoccupied with her hollow stomach, Polly had almost forgotten – it was the tea party she had been fearing! She went into her bedroom to put down her satchel, tidy her hair – the good thing about wearing it in pigtails was that it never really got untidy – and wash her hands for tea. Then, feeling very self-conscious, she went to join the grown-ups. The room was fuller than she had expected – Mrs. Dalby was there, and Edwina, but also Great Aunt Millicent, filling her armchair with a vast puff of frilled organdie, and Great Uncle Victor, thin and moustached, in a tweed suit and a cravat in spite of the heat of the day, sitting to attention with his walking stick propped in front of him, resting both hands on its silver handle. Polly had barely time to glance at Edwina before Great Aunt Millicent cried, “Polly, dear! Come and give your great aunt a kiss! My, my – what a pretty young lady you’re turning into!”