Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [603]
“Florence Nightingale supported the movement, and she is neither,” Jane snapped. To her this was the final word, but to her fury he seemed unimpressed.
“I am starting a suffrage society in Sarum in two days,” she proudly told him. “And if, as you say, you believe in progress, you will support me.”
He shook his head.
“I cannot.”
She glared at him. She had been so sure that she would win the argument.
“Then, Mr Porters, I think you had better not call at the house again.”
The meeting at the White Hart Hotel was boisterous. There were people from both sides present, including the leader of the non-conformists, Mr Pye-Smith.
But the speech of the evening, which brought the hall to a hush, came from Miss Shockley.
She spoke very simply, and only about what was in her own experience.
“It is true that at an Anglican school, we will allow those of other churches to absent themselves when Anglican matters are discussed. Yet, as one who has taught, I can tell you, these children in practice are left outside in cold corridors and sometimes bullied. More often, if the truth is told, the wishes of parents are ignored and the children are given Anglican religious instruction anyway.”
And when the objection was made that the bishop himself had offered to provide a new higher grade school to give extra places, it was she who quietly reminded them:
“Fees of nine pence a week are proposed. But many non-conformist poor, in my experience, cannot afford that. The bishop,” she concluded, “wants the Anglican church to control Sarum. It did so in the middle ages, but it need not do so now.”
That brought thunderous applause.
It was flushed with such a sense of triumph therefore that, at the end of the evening, she reminded Mason that he had promised to announce her own meeting, the following night. It was a perfect opportunity since many in the hall were women that evening.
He blushed.
“Not now, I think, Miss Shockley.”
“Mr Mason, you promised not only to announce me but to support me.”
He looked embarrassed.
“With so many people . . . all sorts,” he began.
Could this be the brisk temperance reformer she had known in years gone by?
“Mr Mason,” she reminded him coldly, “you promised.”
“At a more intimate meeting . . .” he pleaded.
The people were already filing out of the room.
She stood up.
“There will be a meeting of the Women’s Suffrage Society, in this same hotel, tomorrow night at seven,” she cried.
But no one was taking any notice.
On Tuesday evening, at six o’clock, the parlour maid came in to announce that there was a new moon.
Half an hour later Jane Shockley walked through the quiet close.
Old Mr Sturges was conveying a young lady to a party in his ancient bath chair – a magnificent wooden contraption with a leather hood whose purpose was, in theory, to ensure that young ladies’ satin slippers did not get dirty by walking in the street, but which in practice was more of a solemn ritual within the close. In the High Street, an old woman carrier had gone to sleep beside her cart.
Although she had spent the day pinning up notices of her meeting and informing everyone she knew, she was not hopeful any more.
She waited at the White Hart for an hour. Nobody came.
Except a contrite Mr Porters who claimed that, upon reflection, her arguments of two days before had finally convinced him.
She knew it was not true.
She let him walk her home.
THE HENGE II
1915: SEPTEMBER 21
Dark days. In far-away Gallipoli, the advance of the forces of the British Empire had ground to a halt. In France, a new offensive was about to begin. On the fifth of the month, in hard-pressed Russia, the Czar himself had assumed the supreme command of the armed forces.
Dark days. As it was now clear that the Balkan campaign had failed, all chances of a short end to the most terrible