An Old Story

“She treated me as fairly as ever a woman treated a man. I have no complaint to make. It was all love on my side, and all good comradeship and friendship on hers. When we parted she was a free woman, but I could never again be a free man.”

—Dr. John H. Watson, “The Adventure of the Abbey Grange.”

Alfie Davis read from the Morning Post:

“—during the conflagration suffragettes and hecklers knocked over a sporting pavilion.”

She jabbed her finger at my chest. “Your literary agent joined a sportsmen’s counter-protest. He was quoted:

“There was only one thing to add to their mean actions, and that was to blow up a blind man and his dog.”

“John, how do you explain this volatile intrusion of your world into mine?” She had been glaring at me as if I were an enemy, turned away from me, and paced to the door.

“Alfie, how is this your world? It is certainly not mine! The group you lead is peaceful and has the courage to stand for what they believe without one torch being lit or one stone thrown in anger. You are creating history from the heart of England.”

Her face softened but she moved from me.

“I see us as a united front, John, even though I don’t condone the growing discontent of the few radicals among us.”

“I believe you can stem that tide with the work you and Mrs. Fawcett are doing here in London. I’m a novice but very willing to follow your lead and you know that.”

“Millicent Fawcett said, ‘However benevolent men may be in their intentions, they cannot know what women want and what suits the necessities of women’s lives as well as women know these things themselves.’”

“Alfie, you must stop this immediately!” I said, “Look at me!” I gently touched her shoulder, “I’m an ally, not one of them. My only worry is for your safety.”

“John!”

“How can you cast me as villain? I love you! What does that mean to you? To me it is a tie for life. Alfie, I know you are tied to your fight for the cause you will support with your last breath. But I think what we feel also has meaning.”

We stared at each other from opposite ends of the room.

“John, don’t say any more. May we declare a truce?” She was crying.

“Yes, of course.” I held her as the sunset coloured pink-edged clouds outside our sanctuary windows.

“John, I don’t want to leave you. You don’t yet understand my beliefs, but you are so eager to do so, and I know we could be happy. No, this is not another discussion of the suffrage path ahead of me. Please, listen. You deserve the truth.” She stepped out of my embrace and put her finger gently on my lips for an instant. “I’m sorry, John. I am returning to Nottinghamshire tomorrow.”

Another Jezail bullet couldn’t have wounded me more. “But you will still return to London as you have been doing? You are needed, here.”

“Not for years, my cause is now local. It would be best if we parted.”

“No! I won’t hear of it. How can this be for the best? It will be difficult but I can wait for your return, Alfie. I love you utterly, completely, and unabashedly.”

“And I love you, John.”

“Then it’s settled.”

“No, please forgive me. When I leave tomorrow, I am leaving you. My future is already decided. I am to be named to the board of Poor Law Guardians and will be supervising the Southwell Workhouse. The Local Government Act will make it possible for me to change the horrible conditions these people live in and create a real infirmary and school for the children there. Mrs. Pankhurst will supervise the Manchester Workhouse and others are taking this on also. Imagine if the suffragists could revise the whole English Workhouse System? It would be a clarion call heard throughout the land! John, I can’t say ‘No’ to them, it’s my destiny.”

“Alfie, your ability to give yourself to this is admirable. I am sure you will succeed. But why tear our hearts like this? I will visit you in Nottinghamshire. I am a doctor; how may I be of help?”

“You have been all I could wish for in a man, John, but there is too much pulling on me. There is another gentleman in my life, the father of my children. Bertie and I are not married. Yet, he adopted our children so they would not be considered illegitimate. The laws in this country concerning free unions are abominable. If I know you are here and working alongside Sherlock, where you belong, I will know you are doing what you love above all things. As am I.”

I was absorbing blow after blow, yet would not yield. “You must reconsider. I won’t give up, Alfie.”

“Oh, John, you must. It is what a free union is about.” She handed me my coat and kissed me, “Goodbye.”

I threw my coat down, pulled her into me and kissed her, my embrace said, “Never!” My lips said, “Au Revoir.” I ran down and crashed out the door into the darkening night. A wind blew through Clapham Common Park, throwing dust and leaves into the air. I walked past the summer green trees. Past the goose pond, the bird’s regimented squawking so human to me today. I flagged a passing cab.

“This side of a free union is not as agreeable as the other,” I sobbed as we crossed the Thames at Albert Bridge and made our way up to Baker Street. I paid the cabbie, unlocked the door and ran directly up both flights of stairs to my cold and empty room.

Seconds later, Holmes appeared. “Watson?” he said softly. I feigned sleep. “My friend, this is the only time you have ever come home and not stopped in our sitting room for a pipe. There is no use. I know something has happened. Do I need to theorize about what that is? Or will you talk to me?”

I sat up and he joined me, put his arm around my shoulder, and I buried my face in my handkerchief. “Holmes, it’s over. She’s going back to Nottinghamshire. I feel like a fool.”

“My friend, you’re the consummate wordsmith, but the word I would choose is, ‘adventurer.’”

“Alfie is such a tender and inspired goddess; how does she house such a cavalier soul? Please by all that is holy let there be another option! She won’t hear me!”

“Watson, I had no idea you were in such turmoil. Is there a chance she might open to your understanding?”

“None, she’s leaving tomorrow.” I blew my nose.

“I am sorry you suffered for your valiant crusade.”

“Thank you my friend.”

He smiled, “Oh, Watson, are there any friendships like ours? You have always been there, and now I may be also. You are worth it. I will not leave you.” I wiped my tears and blew my nose.

Mrs. Hudson called up, “Supper is on the table, gentlemen. Will you join us?”

Holmes gave me his handkerchief and yelled down the stairs, “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

“Holmes, I am hungry, but can’t—” and blew my nose, again.

“Never fear, Watson.” He lit a fire in the grate, picked up my hat and coat, ran down, hung them in the hall, and was back in minutes. He threw a tablecloth over my desk, wine bottle, whisky, glasses, cigars, and supper. Laid out our picnic, and he the maitre d’ brought me to my meal. Holmes played his part with a comic French accent and we laughed our way through supper. For a few hours I was able to forget my woes. The best friend a man ever had plied me with drink and I was able to sleep.