EVIE WOKE DURING that same Sunday night with a searing sore throat, aching limbs and thumping headache, but she and Millie were up at five thirty as normal. She’d only been here a couple of weeks but already the pattern of her days was set firm, as though there’d never been anything else. She eased her aching body down the back stairs into the kitchen, starting the furnace, then boiling the kettle while Millie leaded the grate and the scullery maids attacked the copper pans. It was becoming a daily occurrence that they were not completely finished the night before, but Mrs Moore had made no comment beyond, ‘There are only so many hours in a day.’
Tea was delivered to the upper servants, and Mrs Moore’s gin bottle was only half empty. A good sign? Hopefully. Back in the kitchen, Evie left the servants’ porridge to Millie and set the table with all that was needed for breakfast preparation, though it was too early to start to sauté the kidneys. She checked Mrs Moore’s lunch menu for today. Parsnip soup removed by boiled turbot and lobster sauce, removed by forequarter of lamb, removed by apricot tartlets and rhubarb tart. She set the stockpot brewing, dragged on her shawl and told Millie she was going to the gardeners’ store to collect the parsnips. Millie smiled as she stirred the porridge. ‘Say hello to Simon for me.’
Evie croaked, ‘I don’t know what you mean. Remember, no friendships like that are allowed.’ Millie looked scared. ‘I’m sorry, right silly I am.’
Evie went to her. ‘You’re not silly, pet. It’s the rule that’s daft. Just be careful what you say.’ She patted her shoulder and called through to the scullery, ‘Annie and Sarah, there’s a note here from Mrs Moore: don’t forget to wash that floor.’
Then she was gone, out across the yard feeling as though knives were cutting into her throat, drawing her shawl across her head to protect it from the cold morning breeze, her legs feeling like lead, with each step jolting her head. She turned on to the path. She’d find some dried bergamot in the vegetable store at the back, where a small furnace kept the air dry. She would infuse the herb with honey, and it might help her throat. She couldn’t see Simon anywhere. Once she arrived it was Bernie who was sorting the root vegetables, and her heart sank. He grinned. ‘Parsnips today, Evie. Your Mrs Moore gave me the list yesterday. I’ll bring ’em up as usual so no need for you to come down.’
She stood in the doorway, clutching her shawl at her throat. ‘I know.’ Her voice was barely more than a whisper by now. ‘Just thought I’d get some air and some bergamot.’ Bernie cut some down for her. ‘What’s going on round here? Simon’s voice has gone to the wall and I reckon he’s got a fever. Could it be anything to do with a certain afternoon off?’ he asked.
She decided on a half-truth. ‘I was sea-coaling and Simon was there helping Alec, his da. It rained.’ Her voice ended on a squeak. She took the bergamot and almost crawled back up the path, and was turning into the yard when Roger stepped from the garage. She increased her pace, conscious of his smile as he pinched out his cigarette. He called, ‘Slow down, not a race is it?’
She croaked, ‘In a way. I need to start the breakfasts and you have duties too.’ She made to sidestep him but he stepped with her. She stepped to the right, and he too. ‘Mrs Moore is up and sorting out the breakfasts, let’s walk in together, why not?’ His smile was crooked, his grey eyes as cold as the sky, his hair short and straight and it looked as though it was slicked down with something. His black suit and tie were pristine and his shirt so white it could have been called blindingly so, if one wanted to impress him. She didn’t. He repeated, ‘Why not, we can get to know one another rather better.’
Why not? Because your reputation goes before you, man, she wanted to shout, but he was an upper servant and she knew better than to say what she thought. She smiled, but looked towards the kitchen. He stepped closer. She put up her hand, firmly, and retreated. His jaw set. She pointed at her throat and forced some words out. ‘You can hear I have a right bad throat. You don’t want to fall ill so soon after being set on as Mr Auberon’s valet.’
She knew the moment she said it that it was a mistake. His smile disappeared, his face flushed. She added, ‘It must be interesting to valet for someone who needs your experience, it’s important for Mr Auberon to learn from you.’ To her left she could see Len the chauffeur in the doorway, watching, and behind him, deep in the shadow of the garage, the Rolls-Royce. Len was moving closer for a better view. What was she, a music-hall act? Her headache was thumping.
Millie called then, from the doorway of the basement. ‘We need you, Evie, get a move on. Mrs Moore is . . . Well, she’s after hurrying you up.’
Thank you, thank you. ‘I have to go,’ she said, though her voice had almost gone completely. For a moment Roger watched her, as though he was assessing produce on a stall. He’d start to feel if she was ripe any minute now. Her head was spinning. He stood to one side and bowed. ‘On your way, Evie Anston. I’m sure we’ll have another chance to chat, when you are in full voice, and remember, I valet for both, while Lord Brampton is here.’
She felt that she scuttled away, and hated the surrender. She dragged herself into the kitchen with the bergamot. Mrs Moore stood with her hands on her hips, waiting. ‘You do not go out until I say you may. You do not leave Millie in charge of porridge and quite alone, so what have you to say, Evie Anston?’
Evie knew it wouldn’t be much, but she tried. There was no voice left. Instead she waved the bergamot. Mrs Moore looked from her to the herb. Millie said, ‘She’s right poorly, she is. It’s her throat. She was sea-coaling, with . . . With her family.’
Millie flushed. It was one of the longest speeches anyone had heard from her, and Evie thought she deserved a hug. Mrs Moore snatched at the bergamot. ‘Well, sit down here, on the stool, near the range. I’ll make bergamot tea with honey, and just a little something else. I’ll be back in a moment.’ She picked up a cup from the dresser and headed for her rooms. Evie reached across and patted Millie. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered.
‘I saw you with that valet,’ said Millie. ‘He looks right bonny. Bit like me da. I don’t know why everyone’s being so nasty about him.’ Evie had no voice to say that he was anything but nice, and no energy left to even try.
Mrs Moore returned with her cup and added leaves of bergamot and honey, and lastly the hot water. She drew out a stool, pressing Evie on to it, forcing her to sit while she sipped; she almost choked on the gin Mrs Moore had added. Mrs Moore shook her head in warning while bustling to the range. ‘I’ll finish the breakfast, you get some energy back. It’s a chill, it’ll pass. I’d like to send you back to bed but it’s warmer here. Rest when you can but, for land’s sake, we’re to have that Mr Auberon down here, and Lady Veronica, after their ride, for tea, so I’ll need you to make extra-special fancies.’
‘Down here?’ Evie mouthed, her head swimming even more. Next to her, Millie and Annie almost spilt the porridge they were pouring into the earthenware bowl.
Mrs Moore was whisking the scrambled eggs for upstairs, her swollen wrists slowing her. Evie drained her cup to the dregs, then took the whisk from her. ‘I’ll do it, you sort out the kippers,’ she mouthed. Mrs Moore patted her shoulder. ‘You’re a good lass, and Millie, get that porridge across the way.’ She added in a whisper, ‘The medicine I put in will help you sweat it out.’
The staff streamed down the central passageway chattering and nudging one another, with Lil almost last. Behind her came Roger. Lil was preening herself. Well, she was welcome to him. Just then Evie saw Mrs Green draw Lil away from the others, her face stern.
Millie and Annie lugged the huge earthenware bowl through to the hall, puffing and panting. The kippers were cooking, the bacon already done. The heat from the range was healing, the heat from within her was helping too, because her clothes were damp with sweat and her throat had eased. Mrs Moore looked across at her. ‘I told you Mr Auberon used to come with Wainey, and Lady Veronica too, and they’ve come on and off since then if they can escape from Lady Brampton’s beady eyes. I expect Lady Brampton will be resting after the exertions of the dinner party. Worked her fingers to the bone, I don’t think.’
Mrs Moore was wiping the table with a damp cloth, and they both laughed. ‘I reckon they need some home comforts. They get none up there. They’ll talk in French if they have something they don’t want me to understand. Bloody rude but then they’re from upstairs so know no better. You can go into the pantry to stocktake and brush up your language. It’ll be boring, mind.’
She swiped the crumbs on to the floor. ‘You sweep those up when you’ve got yourself in hand.’
Somehow Evie struggled through the chores, making and serving a mutton casserole from a mixture of the leavings from upstairs and mutton from Home Farm. She had little appetite. Roger sat on the male side of the table. He smiled at her. Millie nudged her. Evie ignored them both. Before the lunch was finished she left, and prepared the soup for upstairs, slicing the parsnips with shaking hands, feeling that the heat from her body could melt the butter that was in the pan. She tipped in the parsnips and sautéed them until almost tender. She added the stock and simmered the whole damn lot for half an hour, wanting to lie on the floor and just sleep.
Millie and Sarah cleared the servants’ table while Evie sat on the stool, her head throbbing, forcing the soup through the sieve, and then the hair sieve, her arm aching. How was Simon? At least she was in the warm. Jack would be warm and exhausted as he hacked at the coal down in the pit. Timmie would be warm too, sitting at the trapdoor in the dark, waiting for the tubs and wagons, opening just at the right time, and shutting it straight after. He must stay awake. She shook herself to alertness too.
She added more stock and the soup was ready to serve, timed to perfection. Archie took it upstairs. Mrs Moore had prepared the forequarter earlier and it was roasting gently. They cooked the vegetables. She made the tarts and placed them in the second oven. The scullery maids kept up with the dishes and implements, washing and replacing them. Luncheon over, Evie baked cakes and scones while Mrs Moore rested in her room. When she returned she came with jams from Mrs Green’s preserve cupboard. ‘For the scones,’ she said. Gin was on her breath. Evie made a pot of tea; it would disguise the smell. She held out a cup to Mrs Moore and poured for all the kitchen staff. They sat around the table and Mrs Moore nodded and smiled at her. ‘You’re a good lass, Evie,’ she said. The others wondered why.
Millie brought a tablecloth when they were finished and set the table to Mrs Moore’s instructions. The sponge cakes, fancies, and scones were fulsome, the selection of jams plentiful, and Evie whipped cream in case Mr Auberon cared for some on his scones. The house servants had been warned to stay in the servants’ hall facing away from the kitchen, for no servant must watch, or cross the path of, the master. Evie felt rage filling her at the thought. It was bad enough that this was the rule upstairs, but downstairs was the servants’ domain. She shut down the thought and rose, standing on legs that seemed empty of life. Mrs Moore sent her to the big pantry for the stocktake, and the others to the ice room, or the preserve pantry as requested by Mrs Green, to scrub the shelves and floor.
Mr Auberon and Lady Veronica arrived at four o’clock on the dot through the bell corridor. The pantry door was sufficiently ajar for Evie to see their faces flushed from their ride, their clothes mud-spattered. The lad’s face looked worse now the bruising was coming out. They apologised for their attire, saying that they had ridden for too long, so glorious had the ground been for cantering.
Mrs Moore was allowed to sit and from the pantry where she ticked off the supplies of sugar, flour and other dry goods, Evie listened and watched. She heard them ask Mrs Moore to thank Mrs Green for the quality of the cakes, for it was she who should have made them. She heard the desultory discussion of the weather, the loss of Wainey, the coming of warmer weather. ‘Surely it will arrive soon,’ said Lady Veronica. ‘Spring seems late this year.’ Mrs Moore was asked about how she was and she assured them that she was perfectly well, thank you very much, Your Ladyship.
Evie was lulled because she was hearing what seemed to be real people, nice people, caring people. There was a pause and then Lady Veronica said, ‘Aub, as-tu pensé aux économies qu’il faut faire dans Auld Maud?’
Evie shook her head. Mrs Moore would understand they were talking about the economies which Auberon, it appeared, had to bring in at the mine. How rude, as Mrs Moore had said, but how interesting.
Mr Auberon replied in French, his lips swollen and his words slurred. ‘Yes, as I said on the ride, we’ll have to cut back on the pit props for a start so I’ll get Davies to pass the word down the line to the deputies. And yes, Ver, I really have thought. I know you think I should stop this, but how can I, so just stand back a bit, will you.’ It wasn’t a question. ‘They’ll have to make do with hauling out the props as seams are worked out. There’re to be no new ones. They know their jobs, it should be fine. I’m discussing my other plans with Davies but those we can bring in as time goes by. Davies argued, said the men wouldn’t be happy about the props. They’re being paid to do a job, I said, not to be happy. It’s none of their damn business how the mine is run and I’m not sure it’s yours. We’re putting work their way, and bread into their families’ mouths. They should be glad, Ver.’
Lady Veronica played with her fancy, peeling the icing off and eating it with her fingers. She, too, spoke in French. ‘Sounds to me just what Father would have said? Where’s the real you in all this, Auberon? What about the men? They’ll be at risk, won’t they?’
‘For God’s sake, Ver, do we have to keep on talking about this? We did enough on the ride, surely. For the last time, the props are perfectly serviceable and we use too many. The deputies just need to withdraw more, and send them along the line to be used elsewhere. Miners are always saying they’re skilled, so they’ll know if the roof’s coming down and they can get out of the way, and then clear the coal. It saves them hacking it out.’
At those words, Evie felt the breath leave her lungs. How dare he? He was talking about her family, her friends, all the pitmen. He pushed away his plate, his cake uneaten, his lips evidently hurting – Evie hoped they stung like the devil. Lady Veronica said, still using French, ‘But think of the accidents, there are already so many every month. We should be doing more, not less, surely. How can we do this?’ Evie chewed her pencil, looking with new eyes at the young woman.
Mr Auberon drained his cup of tea, banging it down into the saucer, wiping his chin, his lips not fully under his control. The teaspoon rattled. Mrs Moore was smoothing out her serviette, the colour rising up her neck. Mr Auberon looked up, straight at the pantry. Evie froze but there was no need, the door was only ajar, and his glance continued around the kitchen. He smiled at Mrs Moore while saying to his sister, still in French, ‘I can’t go on and on with this, so just stop, Ver, and would you like to be the one to tell Father that the men are more important than his bottom line?’
Nothing was said for the moment, then Lady Veronica slipped into English. ‘We mustn’t keep Mrs Moore for much longer, Auberon. Her Ladyship will be back soon.’ And so, the talk became mundane again, but there wasn’t much trace of relaxation and homeliness, was there? Isn’t that what Mrs Moore said they sought from the kitchen teas?
Evie moved along the shelf, finishing the counting, knowing she must get word to Jack, but what could he do about it? This was no more or less than the way owners had always acted. But it was always best to know, surely? She knew she was angry but couldn’t feel it beneath the hammering of her head, the soreness of her throat and the aching of her limbs.
Mr Auberon and Lady Veronica left at four forty-five on the dot, promising that they would be down again tomorrow. Well, Evie thought, how can we canny lot down here manage the excitement? Do you think we really like you here, do you think we should lay out a bonny carpet for you? And would she let Jack make such decisions? Would she hell. She’d rage, not argue, but what would she do if her da beat the living daylights out of Jack if he went against him? Her head was hurting too much to think.
She came out of the pantry with her completed list and the kitchen staff ate some of the remaining cakes, and put the others into the tin for whenever they needed sustenance. Mrs Moore looked at the clock; weariness had drained the colour from her face. ‘Time to prepare dinner.’ She added quietly to Evie, ‘He’s crushed, that boy is. He’ll do what his father says or have another beating. His face . . .’ Evie thought of her own da, clawing out the props to be used again, her brothers, and the increased spaces between the props. They could be crushed, really crushed, and any sympathy she had felt for Brampton’s whelp after the night by the stables was long gone.
She tumbled into bed at midnight with hot bricks and again she wondered if Simon was warm, and were her da and brothers safe, and would they be safe tomorrow, and the next day and in the weeks and months to come?
In the morning she slipped from the house again, across the yard and down the path to the vegetable store. She had asked this time, and Mrs Moore had simply said, ‘Take my shawl as well. Keep warm.’ Evie’s voice was still a hoarse whisper and she felt that she was barely conscious, so high was her fever. Simon was in the store and she handed him a list of necessary vegetables from Mrs Moore because her voice was no stronger, even after three cups of tea.
Simon grimaced, and whispered, ‘You’ve lost your voice too?’ His was just a hoarse squeak. He was flushed and his hands shook. ‘We should be in bed,’ she said, speaking barely above a breath. He looked at her and laughed. ‘My, bonny lass, what would your da say?’ Again it was a squeak but this time it ended in a cough that shook his body. She was glad of the distraction. What was she thinking to say things like that? For heaven’s sake, she urged herself, take the bergamot and run.
She pointed to the bergamot on the list. ‘I need this now,’ she mouthed. ‘Come to the kitchen and have some too. Mrs Moore puts gin with it.’ He was watching her lips. She pointed to her throat and mouthed again. ‘It doesn’t hurt so much if you don’t try and speak. I wonder how Jack is?’
He nodded, his eyes immediately distant. ‘Keep warm, lass. I’ll be in later.’ She reached out but he turned away, busying himself in the back room and coming back with bergamot. He didn’t look at her, just handed her the herb. ‘I must get on,’ he whispered, and she looked at the back he turned to her. She’d mentioned Jack, so it was still the marra nonsense.
She had been going to ask him to tell Jack of Auberon’s plans but instead she turned on her heel and strode off, flicking a glance over her shoulder. He had gone. Immediately her energy disappeared and she almost tottered to the end of the walled garden, past the top vegetable store to the corner where she stopped, leaning back on the wall, her head spinning. The bricks were cold, pressing into her shoulders, steadying her. She concentrated on this, trying to make her head settle, somehow.
She forced the breath in and out of her chest, and for a moment it seemed the world had fallen silent, the wind had calmed, but then she heard voices around the corner, in the kitchen yard; something else to concentrate on, something else to stop the spinning. She pressed harder against the wall, wanting the pain of the bricks, anything to steady herself. She made herself listen to the voices. One was the chauffeur’s, the other, louder, was Roger’s. He was shouting. Her head was settling. She should get back, but . . . She stood up straight then sagged, because the spinning began again. The wind was nipping at her clothes. Wait, just wait, she told herself.
Roger’s words became clear. ‘No, I haven’t bloody been demoted. Lord Brampton wants a wise head for his son, that’s all.’
The chauffeur said something and laughed. Roger’s voice was loud and savage. ‘Well, I’m more than a few steps above you, you oil-rag minion.’ She could picture the valet, the angle of his head, those eyes like ice. Any minute now he’d be strutting up and down, but the chauffeur was getting louder now too. Good for him.
‘Prove it. What the hell can you say to help someone who’s clever enough to go to university, and you’re not even one step above me, I’ll have you know. I’m a chauffeur. And don’t even think of using your fists. I box in me spare time.’
Evie stood upright now, the spinning quite gone, wanting to peer round the corner to see Roger being rounded on. She stepped forward and kicked a watering can. It fell against the wall with a clang. She froze. Both men fell silent, then Roger began again. ‘I wasn’t going to do anything, don’t be so damn stupid. I’ve more important things to think about than brawling with you. Just this morning I was giving advice.’ His voice was lower now, but clear. ‘Property advice, local houses needing to be bought pretty damn quick to scupper any of these bloody miners getting their mitts on them. Can’t tell you more, Len. I reassured him that all he needed to do was emulate Lord Brampton, act swiftly and his life would be full of success.’
The chauffeur’s laugh rang out loud and clear. ‘Bloody hell, you swallowed a dictionary or something? So that’s wisdom, is it, using long words and slimy talk? You didn’t give any advice, you overheard him, you daft bugger, so sod off. I’ve an engine to look after, at least that’s clean dirt.’
Evie pressed back against the wall. Property? Froggett? It had to be Froggett’s. Now she could hear Mrs Moore shouting from the doorway of the kitchen. ‘Evie? Where is that girl?’
The men had fallen silent again. Had they gone? Evie pushed herself upright and almost fell as the world seemed to swing in an arc right round her body. She reached for the wall, steadied herself, took a deep breath and walked into the courtyard. The chauffeur was throwing a rag into an old box at the entrance to the garages and Roger was pacing backwards and forwards. She tried to hurry over the cobbles heading to the steps, every step jolting her aching body. ‘I’m coming, Mrs Moore.’ But it was just a squeak.
Roger watched her, braced his shoulders and smiled at her, making for the head of the steps. He arrived as she did. He blocked her. She looked up, pointing to her throat in warning, and sidestepped him. He moved with her. She heard the chauffeur laughing. At her, or Roger? She saw Roger’s face harden. He came closer.
The breeze carried the barking of the dachshunds, Currant and Raisin, and then they skittered into the stable yard to be hoyed away by well-hidden kicks from the stable lads. Roger gripped her elbow. It hurt. ‘Well, how delightful, I hoped we’d have the chance of a chat again and soon.’ She nodded but didn’t speak, couldn’t speak, her throat too sore and swollen. She longed to be in the kitchen, brewing bergamot tea with perhaps some gin. It did seem to help her get through the day, and her understanding of Mrs Moore increased further. She longed to be with Jack, telling him what she’d learned. Thoughts were whirling and chasing around in her head. She felt sick.
The chauffeur called, ‘I’ll be in for lunch later, you tell your boss that. I like big helpings.’ She turned. He was wiping something with an oil rag and lounging against the garage door. In his working clothes with oil under his nails he wasn’t the pretty picture that he was in his uniform and polished boots, and Lil wouldn’t be impressed. She shook her head to clear it. Shut up. What did it matter about Lil, but that thought whirled away too.
Roger was looking at her intently. What had he just said? Was her expression suitably impressed? She knew it was not. She coughed, hoping he would not want to risk being infected by her. He stepped away but then drew close again. ‘Did you shake your head? Not eager to be seen with me? Hard to get, eh? Clever girl. Let me walk you to the kitchen.’
He was walking her to the steps, gripping her elbow. She could hear the clatter from the kitchen and see Lil bustling along the bell corridor towards the back stairs with a broom in her hand. She’d be on her way to the sitting room while the family were still in bed. Roger was slowing, loosening his grip.
She wrenched free, almost running down the steps, one thought taking root and dispersing all the others. They were not ready to buy Froggett’s house and Jack should have this news, but why? It would break his heart. And should she tell him of the props? What could he do if she did?
The kitchen was warm, the kettle was steaming, and there was a cup with gin in it. She hung the shawls on hooks on the back of the pantry door and sat on the stool whilst Mrs Moore tutted and added bergamot and honey before pouring in the hot water. She then made her hold the cup with both hands and sip slowly. Evie knew that tears were streaming down her face and she let the kitchen staff think that it was due to the chill that was racking her body.
Evie cycled to the crossroads the following afternoon to meet Miss Manton, if indeed she came as she had said she would. She hadn’t seen Simon since yesterday when they had met over the bergamot and she had barely noticed, so poorly had she felt. She was marginally better today and was free now until nine thirty in the evening. She hoped her head would clear so that she could work out what message to send Jack, or whether to send one at all.
If she was held up at the meeting Mrs Moore had said there was no need to fret, for she would unlatch the big pantry window, as she had promised last Sunday. She had made bergamot tea again, but without the gin because Mrs Moore had said that it didn’t do to make a habit of it. Evie thought of this as she wedged her bike behind the wall and waited for Miss Manton’s trap. Did this mean that Mrs Moore would stop drinking? She shook her head; don’t be daft, she told herself, habits aren’t broken that quickly. She tried to think of what was best to do with the news she’d had but it all just continued to go round and round, and the wind was buffeting, making her cold, making her want to curl into a ball and sleep like any sane person would, on their afternoon off.
She heard the sound of the pony’s hooves before she saw Sally, the bay mare, pulling the trap. Even before Evie settled Miss Manton reached across and squeezed her hand. ‘I don’t know how we can ever thank your family. Edward has pneumonia and will be home within a week or two, but without Jack and all of you he might never have returned.’ She choked off her words, working her throat against tears. ‘I can’t bear the thought of life without the silly old fool. I called on your family. They have chills but are working, though whether they should be, I doubt. Edward will want to see them on his return.’
‘As long as he is still with us, that’s the main thing,’ Evie said, her voice still no more than a whisper, her throat still swollen, sore and dry. She fell silent, and Miss Manton accepted that she was too unwell for chatter. Evie did hope that Edward wouldn’t take the opportunity to try and lead Jack on to the path of righteousness. She knew the parson abhorred fist-fighting, but how else would Jack earn . . .? She stopped. There was no house now to buy. There would soon be insufficient props. There was the Eight-Hour Act, there could be a strike. No, no more whirling thoughts.
The meeting hall was full and the speaker told of the People’s Budget which had just been announced, which was intended to raise taxes to provide welfare and pensions. There was a collective murmur throughout the hall and it was the first time that Evie’s heart had lifted even an inch from the floor since she had heard Auberon and Roger’s news. At last they were on the road to equality. It was then that the speaker, a smart young woman with a feathered hat who was introduced as a friend of Emmeline Pankhurst, held up her hand for silence. ‘Of course, we will protest to the government at their prioritisation. We are women and must have votes before taxes.’ There was rustling from the front ranks, a nodding of smart hats. Evie just stared, shocked, then looked down at her hands which she had clenched into fists. Even here, amongst these women, the upstairs was present, was in control.
She sighed, too exhausted to fight any more, feeling too ill to protest. Miss Manton pressed her arm with hers and whispered, ‘This can’t be right.’ Elsewhere many others were whispering. What were they saying? Were they for or against?
The speaker continued. ‘Once we have the vote we can change life for our sisters and brothers in so many ways. We can pressurise the Liberal government to address all manner of things. Just think, a regiment of women using their vote to alter society. The People’s Budget should wait, we can’t.’
Cheers erupted. ‘We insist on the vote this session,’ the woman declared. ‘For too long they’ve ignored us, or issued false hope. Enough. Our brains are not weak as they say. We go to university lectures but are not given degrees, we have businesses, and brains. We will not be moved.’
The cheers were louder now. Outside the men would be congregating to jeer them on their way home, jostle them, spit. They seemed to be able to produce saliva at will. Evie’s mouth was dry as she touched her badge of purple, white and green. There were so many changes that had to happen, but how? At every turn they were thwarted – her class was always thwarted, even here, by the Pankhursts, by fellow suffragettes. Was she the only one to see the injustice of protesting the People’s Budget?
The speaker left the stage to the stamping of feet. It was contagious. Many joined in. She and Miss Manton did not, and there were others, their faces tired, their clothes even more tired, their felt hats colourless, who did not. They drank tea, gathering kneeling on the floor, preparing to paint placards and banners while discussing priorities. Evie took the placard handed to her group of four. She looked around. Some weren’t on their knees, some sat on chairs around tables, their smart colourful hats jostling as they painted and laughed. Did they think it was a game, something to fill their time?
The chairwoman, Mrs Dale, a widow from Gosforn, said from the stage, ‘Votes before taxes, that’s the message please, ladies. When we have votes we will be empowered to vote in those who will do our bidding. We can then address the ills in our society.’
Evie wondered if Miss Dale spoke to her family as though she was exhorting the masses. How tiresome it must get. She stared at the placard on the floor. There were brushes and black paint near Miss Manton, who handed a brush to Evie. Susan and Miss Lambert who usually sat in the back row were with them. Evie stared as Miss Manton drew the outline of the words as though she was teaching at Sunday school, big round letters, and neat, so neat.
Evie didn’t want to pick up the brush, didn’t want to begin painting words of which she disapproved, or did she? Would it be better to get votes first? Could they do more good that way? Slowly, reluctantly, she began.
When the placards were finished they left, forcing their way through the men who clamoured outside the doors and who stank of booze, grabbing at their hats and clothes. One spat at Evie, but missed. He was no pitman. A pitman would have made his mark. She stood still and started to laugh, a strange, almost silent laugh. Miss Manton pushed her from behind. ‘Come on, Evie, don’t stop, not here.’
Evie jerked herself back to the moment, and followed the woman in front of her, rushing to catch up, slapping away the hands that reached out. She wanted to hurt them, beat them, smash their sneering faces. Perhaps it was right that votes should come before taxes after all? What was right? Was this confusion what Mr Auberon and Lady Veronica experienced?
They struggled to the edge of the crowd that had spilled into the road. If the police came it was the women who would be arrested, not the men, so most hurried away, only lingering if they wished to create headlines by being arrested. Evie and Miss Manton were amongst those who left. They had lives to live, money to earn, brothers to look after. It was then that Evie broke down, crying hoarse sobs, stumbling along the road which led to the trap waiting for them at Miss Manton’s friend’s stables.
Miss Manton swung round. ‘Evie, my dear.’ She reached out, supporting her, urging her forward. ‘Come, we need to be away from this area.’ Behind them the men were shouting and jeering, some following the women who were hurrying along with them. Miss Manton helped her into the trap, urging Sally to trot briskly away. ‘Evie, my dear, are you that unwell?’ she asked.
In hoarse whispers Evie told her of the steps that they had been taking to buy their own small house to be free of the tied system. ‘It’s why Jack fights, it’s why they work extra shifts, it’s why we collect sea coal, sell Da’s leeks, breed pigeons to sell, and now the Bramptons are going to buy the houses from Froggett. I heard the valet tell the chauffeur, and of course they are, why wouldn’t they? How could we be so stupid? Then they’ll own the whole village. We should have known, realised. They are going to reduce the props in the mines. The deputies have to reclaim the old ones. The gaps in between will be wider. The pitmen won’t hear the pine creak before a roof-fall. I can’t think, you see – should I tell Jack? He can do nothing about any of it, so what’s the point?’
While they trotted along, their lantern hanging from the trap, she sobbed and Miss Manton gripped her hand and made soothing noises. It was only when they reached the wall behind which Evie’s bicycle was waiting that she spoke. ‘You must stop calling me Miss Manton, it’s quite absurd. We owe you everything. My name is Grace. Please call me that. You are my friend. You are all my friends. Now, Evie, say nothing to your brother about Froggett, all you have to do is decide whether to tell him of the props. Let me think about the houses; there is often a way around problems.’
Evie shrugged, because there was no way round, though she knew that Miss Manton’s heart was good and she would turn to the power of prayer. Irritation caused her to jump from the trap to the ground. How could she call her previous employer Grace? She’d known her as Miss Manton for too long to call her anything else.
She nodded up at her. ‘Thank you. Your prayers will be helpful.’
Miss Manton laughed. ‘You underestimate me, sometimes prayers need a bit of help. Try not to worry, Evie. Just get better.’