‘I don’t see why they should disapprove of us so,’ Tess said one day, hurt by the cold treatment they got from rich women. ‘It’s them that’ll benefit, after all.’ She stuck out her lower lip like a child, tucked her hair behind her ears and straightened her cuffs self-consciously; twitching just like she did when Mrs Heddingly or anybody senior came to inspect her work.
‘Because the rich will ever disapprove of the poor doing anything but catering to them,’ Cat told her, keenly. ‘Cheer up. Another half an hour and I’ll buy you a cup of hot chocolate,’ she said, giving Tess’s shoulders a squeeze. Soon it became clear that these little treats were the only thing keeping Tess active in the WSPU, and Cat knew she oughtn’t to pressure her friend into going with her. But truth be told she wanted the company, wanted to share the adventure. Tess had introduced her to the movement, and it wouldn’t have felt right going out on a Sunday without her, or sneaking to evening meetings when they were able to, listening to the great and good ladies of the society speak about rights and laws and votes and justice. She would not have felt half so brave or daring without Tess there, always less sure, always needing to be encouraged. Cat pauses in her letter writing, shuts her eyes tight with anguish. She had used her friend. Used Tess to show her a reflection of herself that she liked seeing; to afford herself some scrap of power over another person for the first time in her life.
Two months after they had paid their shilling each and joined the society, Cat let the secretary of their local branch know that they would be willing to take on more active duties. She said it quietly, as if they might be overheard, but the lady in the office looked up sharply.
‘Window breaking? Invasion of political meetings?’ she said, abruptly. Taken aback, Cat nodded, and her heart thumped loudly in her ears. The older woman smiled briskly, looking up over the top of half-moon spectacles with piercing dark eyes. ‘Excellent, comrade. Good girl. I shall keep you in mind.’ Cat smiled a tight little smile, nodded, and went back out into the main room of the office, with its piles of leaflets, its walls laden with banners and slogans, and framed photographs of suffragette martyrs. There was a glorious portrait of Saint Joan of Arc, patron saint of the WSPU, gazing down fiercely from behind a row of volunteers as they folded leaflets into envelopes. The room was stuffy with the smell of paper and typewriter ink, the air thick and warm with a constant buzz of busy voices and footsteps and machinery. It was the hub of a war campaign, where battles were planned and losses accounted. Cat loved it. Industry that had nothing to do with cleaning or cosseting, with making life easy for those too idle to do it themselves. Tess was not there when Cat volunteered them both for militant action. Tess was waiting outside, watching the hurdy-gurdy man with his little monkey in a tiny top hat and red waistcoat, and laughing quite delightedly at its tricks.
Robin Durrant arrives back from Reading in time to stride through to the dinner table, face glowing, hair tousled and untidy.
‘Forgive me. I do hope you haven’t been waiting for me?’ he snaps, looking briefly at Albert, Hester and Amelia in turn; and for once his eyes are too quick, his smile a little strained. There is agitation in his whole expression, Hester notes.
‘Not at all, Robin. Not at all. I trust you were able to find what you needed in town?’ Albert asks. The vicar is as neat and tidy as ever, his soft hair set back, his whiskers neatly combed and trimmed. Hester glances at him, since they had indeed been waiting for Robin, and the hour is gone nine; but Albert’s face is open and unconcerned.
‘Indeed I did. And I called in on my parents while I was there, as it’s been some weeks since I last saw them. My younger brother is visiting, so I was able to see all three at once,’ he says, sitting almost before the ladies have settled, dropping his napkin into his lap with a flick of the wrist, and reaching for his glass before realising that Cat has yet to fill it. Albert notices the gesture, and gets up himself to fetch the wine from the sideboard. Hester can feel Amelia’s questioning gaze across the table, as the theosophist’s glass is filled before hers, the female guest’s.
‘And how were your family? In good health, I trust?’ Hester asks.
‘Oh yes, very well. Very well, thank you …’ Robin says, with odd emphasis.
‘This is your brother the doctor, is it not?’
‘Surgeon, actually – and there is a difference, quite an important one, as he would no doubt be quick to tell you,’ Robin says, acidly. The room, even though the windows were left open all afternoon, is close and warm. Robin runs a finger around the inside of his collar; a film of sweat is making his face shine.