No Greater Love (7 page)

Susan’s imagination failed her when she thought of her other sister. Try as she might, she could not see Richard living happily with Maggie under his roof, a constant critic of all he said and did. No, Maggie would be much happier setting up house with Rose Johnstone or one of her other strident friends. She could visit them for Sunday tea or whenever she wanted, but it would be a far more harmonious household if Maggie was absent, Susan mused, then felt a pang of guilt for the disloyal thought.

***

The next morning Maggie had just finished dressing her grandmother in the room that passed for parlour and the old woman’s bedroom when she heard banging on the front door. Her mother and Helen were still lying in bed and Tich was out early delivering Sunday newspapers. She heard Susan, who was stirring the porridge, go to answer the door.

Instantly, she recognised Rose’s clear voice.

‘What is it?’ Maggie rushed out to greet her friend, knowing it must be something serious to bring her rushing round on a Sunday morning.

‘Mrs Pankhurst!’ Rose thrust a newspaper at her. ‘They’ve given her three years’ penal servitude. Isn’t it outrageous?’

Maggie scanned the inside page in shock. Emmeline Pankhurst had been given a three-year sentence for ‘incitement’ following a mysterious fire at Walton Heath. The judge had ignored the jury’s plea to show her mercy and women protesters had been cleared from the gallery for shouting ‘shame’ and singing
The Women’s Marseillaise.

‘Three years? After all she’s been through already?’ Maggie gasped. ‘They’re trying to kill the woman. We have to do something, Rose.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Susan said, hands on hips. ‘What can you possibly do? You think you’re so important, but you’re no better than the rest of us.’

‘Something will be done,’ Rose said, giving Susan a dismissive look. ‘Maggie, can I have a word alone?’

‘Come in the parlour.’ Maggie steered her friend quickly into the adjoining room and closed the door on Susan’s affronted face. Rose glanced warily at Granny Beaton sitting staring at her Bible on the iron-framed bed.

‘She can’t hear very well,’ Maggie assured her friend, ‘and she wouldn’t tell if she could.’

The old woman glanced up and smiled at Rose who gave her a hasty greeting. Maggie knew her grandmother had always approved of her friendship with the schoolteacher.

They spoke in hushed tones. ‘There’s to be a meeting this afternoon to decide on a response to the prison sentence,’ Rose said.

‘Good,’ Maggie said roundly, itching to take some action. ‘What time?’

‘Three o’clock.’

‘Not till then?’ Maggie felt frustration.

Rose shook her head. ‘It was agreed last night, when news was telephoned through to Miss Pearson.’

Maggie suddenly remembered that Rose had been at a soirée at Hebron House and felt niggled that she had not heard about the news sooner.

‘I’ll come to your house after dinner,’ Maggie said. ‘We can go up to town together.’

‘The meeting’s not at the office,’ Rose told her softly. ‘The police might be keeping an eye on activity there.’

‘Where then?’ Maggie asked.

‘Alice Pearson said we must meet at Hebron House.’

Maggie felt a thrill of expectation. Finally, she was going to enter the mysterious world of the rich and powerful Pearsons and come face to face with the formidable Alice Pearson.

From the terrace of Hebron House, Alice Pearson could not see the ranks of workers’ houses that hemmed in the mansion and its grounds. The view was of dense mature trees coming into bud and rolling lawns interrupted by circular flowerbeds of daffodils and primulas. Cherry blossom scattered across the terrace like soft confetti as Alice descended the steps with her friend Emily Davison.

‘It was good of you to come, Pem.’ Alice smiled down at the slim woman beside her, noticing a stiffness in her movements as she walked. She had aged dramatically since her last visit to Hebron House, yet her eyes still shone with vitality and the lustre had not quite gone from her golden hair.

‘I had to come,’ Emily answered forcefully. ‘It’s monstrous what they’ve done to Emmeline Pankhurst and I know just what a terrible time they’ll give her in prison. We really must hit back as hard as we can.’

She broke off coughing, her face looking pinched and drawn in the blustery spring wind. Alice slipped an arm through hers in concern.

‘Would you rather return to the house? It was selfish of me to make you walk outside on such a cold day. I can see how your last spell in prison has—’

‘I’m quite all right,’ Emily said to the large woman at her side. ‘There’s no need to fuss.’

They continued across the lawn with Alice’s black poodle, Rosamund, padding at their heels and fell to reminiscing. They had been brought together through their membership of the WSPU and would certainly never have met socially otherwise. Alice had found Emily refreshingly lively and outspoken compared to her own conventional family; she enjoyed a party and was accomplished on the piano as well as being dedicated to the suffragist cause. Alice’s brother Herbert could not bear her friends, but even he enjoyed being shocked by Emily Davison’s outrageous and engaging conversation. Alice’s broad face broke into a smile as Emily recounted her escapade into the House of Commons where she had hidden in a heating flue.

‘And what about the time you broke the window of Lloyd George’s car?’ Alice reminded her with a hearty laugh. ‘Pity he wasn’t in it.’

‘Yes,’ Emily agreed. ‘I’m really rather bad at recognising faces.’

Alice stopped and shaded her eyes as she scanned the view over the treetops to the coil of river beyond. The Tyne looked grey and choppy and unfriendly at that moment, fringed with the chimney stacks and shipping cranes that generated her father’s wealth. The wind was blowing downriver bringing the pungent smells of paint and iron and human effluent into the secluded haven of Hebron House. Alice shivered and drew her coat round her bulky shoulders.

‘A dramatic gesture is needed,’ she spoke sombrely, ‘something that will draw attention to the highest in the land - the King even.’

‘I quite agree,’ Emily was enthusiastic, ‘and I think I know what you’re going to say.’

‘You do?’

‘Yes. HMS
Courageous.
’

‘HMS
Courageous
?’ Alice was taken by surprise.

‘Yes, your father’s new battleship.’

‘I know very well what it is,’ Alice answered tersely. ‘But what’s it got to do with grand gestures?’

‘Its launch,’ Emily said with an edge of impatience. ‘Surely the Royal Navy’s most modern battleship will be launched by royalty or a member of the Cabinet at least.’

Alice stopped. ‘It may well be, it really hadn’t occurred to me.’

‘But it’s a marvellous opportunity,’ Emily enthused, ‘and so easy to organise. You’ll be able to find out all the details.’

‘No!’ Alice said instinctively. ‘I mean, not at this moment. The launch won’t be until later in the summer, we need a more immediate protest. Yes, more immediate.’ She took her friend by the arm and steered her round. ‘You see, I’ve been contacted by headquarters. They want a disruption at the Derby, in front of the King and Queen. Now that would really capture the headlines.’

Emily resisted Alice’s attempts to marshal her indoors and Alice found herself being scrutinised. She could see she had disappointed her militant friend and she felt vaguely annoyed that she, a Pearson, should be judged and found wanting. She did not take criticism easily and saw no reason why she should have to explain that she felt a pride in the new battleship and would be helping her father to entertain the dignitaries on launch day at Hebron House. She could not possibly sabotage such an important event for Pearson’s.

But Alice could not admit that the overriding reason for steering clear of such action was her fear of losing her valued independence at Hebron House. Her father tolerated her eccentric desire to live alone and dabble in the women’s movement because she was considered beyond marriageable age and because he could afford it. In return, she helped him with the business as much as she could. While her brother Herbert gambled his wealth away at their mother’s card tables, she at least helped Pearson’s compete against their powerful rivals.

‘The Derby?’ Emily said at last.

‘Yes, at Epsom,’ Alice encouraged.

‘So that’s what this meeting is about?’ Emily asked, her voice flat.

Alice nodded. She saw now how she could distract Emily from plotting to disrupt the launch. ‘We need someone of experience and courage to carry out the task,’ she said, bending to pick up a whining Rosamund. ‘I naturally thought of you. Of course, it’ll have to be discussed with the others and put to the vote.’

Emily nodded but said nothing. Alice was too relieved that she had dropped the subject of the launch to notice her lack of enthusiasm.

‘Let’s go back inside,’ Alice said brightly. ‘The others will be arriving for the meeting shortly and I’d like to discuss the idea further with you before they come.’ Alice began to walk purposefully towards the house, clutching the spoilt Rosamund. ‘I’ll arrange for tea to be served in the drawing room.’

Skirting the summer pavilion with its huge stone urns, Alice marched them back to the house.

***

Maggie entered the grounds of Hebron House bursting with curiosity, Rose Johnstone at her side.

‘Look at the size of it!’ Maggie gasped as the gatekeeper clanged the side gate shut behind them. She had glimpsed the roof of the mansion from the top of her school building, but never before had she seen its vast frontage of classical pillars and lofty windows. ‘Have you brought a map with you?’ she laughed nervously.

‘Yes,’ Rose teased. ‘People have been known to get lost in there and wander around for years without finding a way out.’

‘Bet there’s folk in there think Queen Victoria’s still on the throne,’ said Maggie.

They hurried up the drive, moving to the verge as a horse and trap bumped its way past them to the gates. As they approached the house, signs of decay became evident; the paintwork had blistered on the front doors and the window-frames were faded and bleached a silvery white. The stone pillars showed as much black grime as the houses in Gun Street and the paving on the terrace was cracked and weed-choked. Its air of neglect surprised Maggie. For a moment she wished she could have brought Susan with her, knowing how fascinated her elder sister would have been, but the meeting was secret and Susan would have disapproved of it anyway. In front of the house, Maggie recognised Jocelyn Fulford’s shiny black motorcar.

Rose pushed her up the steps to the entrance.

Inside they were shown up a vast staircase shrouded by dark portraits of sombre men with hunting dogs and women in crinoline dresses to a bright room overlooking the front terrace. It was as big as the public reading room in the library and loftier than her old school hall. Maggie stared around in wonder at the drawing room crowded with deep easy chairs and huge jardinières holding exotic palms. A fierce fire blazed in a white marble fireplace overhung with huge mirrors, its mantel decorated with candlesticks. The walls groaned with oil paintings in heavy gilt frames squeezed in among dozens of framed photographs. Maggie had heard that Alice Pearson was an accomplished amateur photographer and glancing at one photograph by the door she saw a charmingly natural image of a pretty boy on a miniature pony.

Rose nudged her forward and Maggie found her buttoned boots made no noise as she crept over the carpet.

‘Come in, come in,’ Alice Pearson encouraged, waving her arms at them. Maggie recognised the tall, well-built woman with the sweep of chestnut hair and large outspread hands as their hostess. She had an expressive, full face, dominated by a bulky nose and bold brown eyes that never seemed to blink.

Rose had told Maggie that Alice had somehow avoided being married off and was now safely into spinsterhood, following her own pursuits. She can afford to, Maggie thought enviously, unable to stop staring at her surroundings.

‘This is Maggie Beaton,’ Rose introduced her nervously.

‘How do you do?’ Alice held out a hand with a warm smile.

Maggie, acutely aware that her hands could have been cleaner, responded awkwardly.

‘There’s tea on the table and then we’ll get down to business.’

All Maggie could do was nod, feeling dowdy in her grey woollen dress and shapeless blue hat. Rose began to chat to one of the others about the soirée, leaving her wondering what to do. A woman Maggie recognised as the militant Emily Davison came towards her with a cup of tea. She had seen Miss Davison’s picture in the newspapers on several occasions and realised she was among a very select group of activists, thanks to Rose’s recommendation.

‘Help yourself to milk or sugar,’ Emily smiled at the overawed young woman. ‘We’re so pleased you’ve joined us today.’

Maggie smiled back gratefully, hardly able to believe she was in the company of such important women.

Soon, Alice Pearson brought the room to order.

‘We all know why we are here,’ she said in a clear, confident voice. ‘Our sister Emmeline has been wronged by so-called British justice. She has been locked away for three years for inciting voteless women to burn down an empty villa. Where is her crime?’ Alice demanded. ‘They only acted out of frustration. I say it is those in authority who incited the women; it is they who should have been put in the dock.’

‘That’s right,’ Emily Davison said, rising to her feet. ‘They had to blow up Lloyd George’s house to wake him up! We have declared war, sisters, and the sword must not be put away until we win the vote. Like Joan of Arc, we’ll fight and take the consequences for our beliefs. We’ll continue to go to prison, we’ll suffer force-feeding, we shall not submit until we have justice!’

Maggie watched her transfixed, stirred deep within herself by the uncompromising words. She knew then that she was prepared to do as much as Emily Davison and Alice Pearson asked of her. Gripped by the rightness of their cause, it no longer mattered that they were from different sides of a social gulf and that the tall upper-class woman was a Pearson. As Rose had said, Miss Alice had had nothing to do with the way Pearson’s shipyard had treated her family, she was on their side.