Suffragette Girl (17 page)

‘Mother dear,’ Florrie began just as her father appeared in the doorway of his study.

‘Now look what you’ve done, girl!’ His face was thunderous. ‘You shouldn’t go upsetting your mother, not when there’s nothing to get upset about. At least
– not yet.’

Clara gave another cry of alarm. ‘Edgar, what do you mean. What is it? What’s happened? Oh, he’s had a fall from his horse. He was going out riding this morning. That’s
it, isn’t it? How badly is he hurt? Oh, do tell me, please?’ Tears flooded down her face.

‘Now, now, Clara.’ Augusta had reached the bottom of the stairs. Briefly, she paused and took her belongings from the maid. ‘Thank you, Beth.’

‘Ma’am.’ The girl bobbed a curtsy and scuttled away. Augusta took her daughter-in-law’s arm and gently urged her towards the morning room. ‘Let’s sit down and
talk about whatever is going on. I’m as much in the dark as you are. Florrie, come along. You too, Edgar.’

Meekly, they all followed her.

Augusta seated herself on the sofa. ‘Now – explain yourself, Florrie.’

Florrie and her father exchanged a glance, but it was Edgar who cleared his throat, strode to the fireplace and turned to face them all.

‘Florence has decided to volunteer for nursing duties.’ He forbore to say that she might end up at the Front. Time enough for that news to be imparted to his sensitive wife when it
happened. He glanced at his mother and saw that she already knew as much.

‘But what about James?’ Clara cried. The news about her daughter scarcely seemed to register. Her mind was still on her son. Florrie smiled wryly. She wasn’t hurt by her
mother’s lack of solicitude for her. Indeed, she was grateful for it. It left her free to follow her heart.

‘I – er – rather hoped James would volunteer, like so many of his peers,’ Edgar said. ‘I understand that more than half his form at school have already done so.
And—’

‘Volunteer!’ Both Clara and Augusta spoke at once. Then Clara collapsed back against the cushions in a faint.

‘Ring for Beth to bring the sal volatile,’ Augusta instructed Florrie and then turned her attention back to her own son. ‘Are you serious, Edgar?’

‘Absolutely. Why shouldn’t I be?’

She stared at him for a moment, whilst Florrie’s anxious glance went from one to the other. Absent-mindedly, she pulled the bell cord to summon the maid. When Beth appeared she was already
carrying the little bottle of smelling salts. No doubt, the scene in the hallway had prepared her for this eventuality. Florrie gave the girl a brief smile and then turned her attention back to her
father and grandmother.

‘Because the boy’s only sixteen,’ Augusta snapped. ‘He should stay where he is, at least until he finishes his schooling. After he’s taken his examinations, well,
we’ll see then.’

Edgar spread his hands. ‘But it might all be over by then and he’ll have missed his chance.’

‘All the better,’ Augusta replied promptly.

‘I don’t want my son to be thought a coward.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Edgar.’

‘Ben Atkinson’s going and he’s only sixteen.’

For a moment, even Augusta seemed shocked. She shook her head and muttered, ‘More fool him, then.’

‘But they’re calling for volunteers. They’re holding recruitment rallies the length and breadth of the country.’

‘But not for sixteen-year-olds. I do read the papers, Edgar.’

Her son eyed her speculatively. ‘And what does your
London
newspaper tell you then, eh?’

Augusta glared at him. ‘A lot more common sense than your provincial rag, which seems to be whipping up a fever of patriotism that is sadly misplaced.’

‘How can patriotism be misplaced?’

She leaned forward, saying slowly and deliberately, ‘If it expects sixteen-year-olds to become cannon fodder, then it’s – it’s – ’ She sought the word to
prove her point.
‘Immoral!’
Clara, reviving at that moment, promptly fainted again.

The argument was over. Edgar retired to his study and slammed the door, leaving his mother and daughter to tend his wife. They reassured Clara that James was not volunteering now and they were
sure that, by the time he was old enough, it would all be over.

‘It’ll probably be over before I’ve even finished training to mop fevered brows and feed the wounded,’ Florrie said, making light of her own plans.

‘You’ll make a very good nurse, dear,’ Clara said weakly. ‘You’re always so kind to me when I have one of my turns.’

Above her head, Augusta and Florrie exchanged a grim look. They both knew that what Florrie would face would be far more than a few fainting fits.

Florrie breathed a sigh of relief when, at the beginning of September, James returned to school for the autumn term. She’d been so worried that their father would shame
him into volunteering. Although she was anxious about Gervase and the Hon. Tim going, she accepted their decision as being right and admired their patriotic courage. What she couldn’t come to
terms with was the thought of boys as young as sixteen being accepted into the services. Determined to find out how such a thing could happen, she walked across the fields to the Atkinsons’
farmhouse.

‘Oh, Miss Florrie,’ Mrs Atkinson, her white apron to her face, greeted the young woman as she opened the door. ‘How kind of you to come. You’ve heard, I suppose, that our
Ben’s goin’ soldierin’?’

Florrie nodded. ‘How did it happen, Mrs Atkinson? He’s only sixteen.’

Fresh tears welled in the woman’s eyes. ‘He’s nowt more’n a bairn, Miss Florrie.’ She poured boiling water into a brown teapot from the kettle over the fire in the
range and set two cups and saucers on the table. ‘He went to one o’ them rallies in Saltershaven and joined up there an’ then. His dad went next day to see if he could get
’im out of it, but there were nowt ’ee could do. Ben’d taken the King’s shilling and that were it.’

Florrie was appalled. ‘And did they know he was sixteen?’

‘Huh! I s’pect he lied about his age.’

‘And they didn’t press him too closely, you mean?’

Mrs Atkinson nodded. ‘That’s about the size of it, miss.’

‘But he doesn’t even look eighteen. He’s strong and wiry, I grant you, but he’s a
boy.
Anyone can see that.’

‘I don’t think they’re bothered, miss. They just want volunteers. As many as they can get, an’ they’re not that worried how they get ’em.’

They gazed at each other now, lost for words.

As they sat over their tea, Mrs Atkinson said, ‘Word’s goin’ round, miss, that you’re going to nurse our lads at the Front.’

‘Maybe, Mrs Atkinson. I haven’t heard yet if I’ve been accepted, but if I can get some training and they’ll let me go . . .’

The woman nodded and gave a weak smile. ‘Oh, they’ll take you, miss. I don’t doubt that.’

A little later as Florrie got up to leave, she took hold of the woman’s careworn hands. ‘If there’s anything – anything – we can do for you, you let my grandmother
know. Promise me!’

Mrs Atkinson nodded and her voice was husky as she said, ‘Thank you, Miss Florrie. And – and if you see my boy out there, you’ll take care of him, won’t you?’

The poor woman had no inkling of how vast the theatre of war would be, but Florrie nodded and said quietly, ‘Of course I will. And try not to worry. I don’t think they’ll send
him abroad yet and, if the newspapers are right, it’ll all be over by Christmas.’

The woman smiled thinly, but did not answer. Her fear outweighed her hope.

Florrie itched to be gone, though Isobel, caught up in the flurry of wedding preparations, was unconcerned.

‘Once the Hon. Tim’s gone, Florrie dear, I’ll be only too delighted to have something to do. It’ll take my mind off worrying about him. And Lady Lee has promised to speak
to one of her friends in the Red Cross about arranging for us to do some nursing training at one of the London hospitals. She’ll let us know as soon as she has something to tell
us.’

But no news came from Lady Leonora, and Florrie was still at Candlethorpe Hall when James arrived home unexpectedly one Friday afternoon at the end of September.

Clara cried at the sight of him. ‘Oh, my darling boy! You’re so thin and pale. Are you ill? Aren’t they feeding you properly?’ She hugged him to her and sent for Cook at
once to discuss the most nourishing meals they could devise to ‘build the boy up’.

‘But build me up for what?’ he muttered when he and Florrie were alone in the former nursery.

‘What d’you mean?’ she frowned, concerned too by his thin face and anxious eyes.

‘For war,’ he said flatly.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘It’s as bad at school as it is here – with Father,’ he blurted out, tears in his eyes. He brushed them away, embarrassed at such an unmanly display of emotion, even in
front of his beloved sister.

Florrie drew him to the sofa and held his hands. ‘Tell me,’ she said gently.

He leaned his head against her shoulder and sighed. ‘More than half the sixth form have volunteered already and with the headmaster’s blessing.’ James was now in the Lower
Sixth. ‘Can you believe that? He says it will bring glory and honour to the school. I think he wants a plaque in the school hall bearing all the names of the fallen and everyone paying homage
to it,’ he added bitterly.

‘And you’re feeling pressured to go too?’ Florrie said softly.

‘What with Father and – and all the chaps at school. . .’

‘What about the rest of the sixth form? Are they
all
going to volunteer?’

He nodded miserably. ‘The talk in the common room was of nothing else. Several said they’re going to volunteer at half term. They’re – they’re not even going to
wait until Christmas.’

‘And what did the Head say?’

‘Patted them on the back and wished them well. Told them that somehow he’d see that there’d always be a place for them back at school when they’d done their duty –
“Done the honourable thing,”’ he said.’

‘But you can’t go,’ Florrie cried. ‘You’re much too young. You don’t
want
to go.’ She paused and twisted round to look directly into his eyes.
‘Do you?’

James bit his lip and lowered his gaze. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

‘Then why?’ She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. ‘You’re thinking of volunteering just because Father and the headmaster say it’s what you should do? Is that
it?’

When he didn’t deny it, she said, ‘Oh, James, that’s ridiculous. Stand up to him – to them both.’

‘I – I tried. Before I went back to school. B-but Father said I was being cowardly. And that’s the feeling around school too. Even those that haven’t actually done it yet
– they’re all talking about the day they’re going to. And if a chap doesn’t join in . . .’ He faltered and stopped, but Florrie understood. ‘And – if I
can’t stand up to him – to them – then I must be a coward.’ He laughed wryly. ‘Whatever I do.’

Florrie sighed and squeezed his hand. ‘Not really. Grandpops evidently didn’t stand up to his father. Gran told us, didn’t she? That didn’t make him a coward, now did
it?’

James shrugged as if he didn’t know how to answer. ‘But he isn’t here any more to understand me – to help me.’

‘No.’ Florrie smiled suddenly. ‘But Gran is. She’ll stick up for you and so will I. And I’m sure Mother will too,’ she was unable to keep the doubt out of her
tone now, ‘in her own way.’

‘I think Gran’s changed her mind,’ James’s tone was flat.

‘What d’you mean?’

‘I – I think she agrees with Father now.’

‘Agrees with
Father
?’ She gaped at him. This was a first. She grabbed her brother’s hand and pulled him up. ‘We’ll see about this. Come on.’

Down the stairs from the old nursery and along the landings until they came to Augusta’s sitting room. So angry was she that Florrie forgot to give the usual courteous knock and barged
into the room unheralded.

Augusta was sitting in the window seat, looking out over the front garden watching Ben Atkinson rake up the leaves on the lawn. The boy was leaving the following day for training camp. At the
sudden unannounced intrusion, she turned. She opened her mouth to admonish her grandchildren, but, seeing at once the look of agitation on Florrie’s face and the fear in James’s eyes,
she bit back the retort.

‘Is James right in what he says?’ Florrie burst out.

Augusta glanced back out of the window once more as she said quietly, ‘That rather depends on what he’s been telling you.’

‘That you agree with Father? That he should volunteer?’

Her gaze still on the boy on the lawn below her window, Augusta said slowly, ‘Young Ben has volunteered. Caught up in the passion of the moment at a recruiting rally on the sea
front.’ She was pensive for a moment, remembering the day she had spent there with Florrie, James and Gervase. Despite the cloud of war hanging over them, they had managed to make it a happy,
carefree day.

‘I know all that,’ Florrie cried impatiently. ‘But there’s nothing we can do about it now. It’s done. But this is James we’re talking about.’

Augusta continued to look out of the window.

‘Grandmother – about
James.
’ Florrie released her hold on James’s hand and moved towards Augusta, leaving her brother standing where he was just inside the
doorway.

Florrie, her gaze still on her grandmother’s face, sank on to the window seat beside her. ‘I don’t understand. When all this started, you said – you said James should
finish his education before even
thinking
about it.’

Augusta sighed and then held out her hand towards James. ‘Close the door, my dear, and come and sit with us. Let’s talk this through.’

The young man did as she bade him and then sat on a footstool facing the window, whilst Augusta and Florrie sat on each side of the seat, facing each other.

‘Now, what is it that you don’t understand?’ their grandmother asked.

Florrie glanced at James, but when he made no effort to explain, she spoke for him, telling Augusta all that he had told her about the patriotic fervour at school, egged on by the headmaster.
‘Father is calling him cowardly because he won’t volunteer. And – and he seems to think you might be agreeing with him now. Gran, James is only sixteen.’ She leaned forward
earnestly. ‘He has his whole life in front of him.’ She bit her lip, glanced again at her brother, apology in her eyes, but it had to be said. It had to be voiced aloud.
‘You’ve seen the casualty lists in the paper already. And we’re scarcely two months into the war. It’s carnage out there. “A Bloodbath at Mons” –
that’s what the papers called it. Our troops were forced to retreat two hundred miles as far as the River Marne.’