Until We Meet Again Read online

  Until We Meet Again

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  A LETTER FROM ROSEMARY

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Copyright

  Until We Meet Again

  Rosemary Goodacre

  To my husband Ian, adjusting to having a writer in the family.

  Also to Elaine Everest, tutor at The Write Place Creative Writing School at Hextable, and to my group of writing buddies there. They have given me so much help and encouragement, and together we have enjoyed often hilarious social events.

  Chapter One

  Larchbury, Sussex, June 1914

  The afternoon sun blazed on the band of young women marching down Larchbury High Street carrying banners proclaiming Votes for Women! Amy Fletcher joined in their cries of ‘Our views matter!’

  As they passed the horse trough a few folk glanced curiously in their direction, then looked away again in disdain.

  ‘Where is everyone this afternoon?’ Lavinia Westholme complained. Beneath her wide-brimmed hat, her dark hair contrasted with the cream of her lawn dress. Across her chest she wore the violet, green and white colours of the Suffragette movement, though as yet she was the only one of them to have obtained a sash.

  ‘Sitting in their gardens,’ Amy suggested.

  ‘We need to shake them out of their complacency.’ There was a dangerous gleam in her dark eyes.

  ‘Let’s not do anything silly,’ begged Florence Clifford.

  They had discussed plans for their demonstration a week earlier. There was an eager group of Suffragettes in the nearby town of Wealdham, and they had joined them for a meeting, determined to set up a branch in their own corner of Sussex. Some members there were proudly wearing the Suffragette sash, signifying white for purity, green for hope and violet for dignity. Lavinia and other hotheads had reminded them of their sisters in London chaining themselves to railings, or breaking windows. They had even set fire to pillar boxes.

  ‘It’ll only antagonise everyone,’ Florence had said.

  ‘How else can we make our cause known when they choose to ignore us?’ Lavinia had asked. She had proposed a focus for their activity, targeting a particularly male institution.

  ‘The team’s playing away this week, isn’t it?’ she checked now. ‘Let’s do what I suggested.’

  ‘You mean, like in Tunbridge Wells?’ Amy asked. ‘You’re not planning to burn it down, are you?’

  Even Lavinia agreed their Kentish sisters had gone too far.

  Amy followed her anxiously as they turned down the lane to the village green. There was often a cricket match there on summer Sundays, but not this week. A few children were improvising a rough game approximating to cricket. Otherwise the green was deserted apart from an elderly couple sitting on a bench and a woman walking her dog.

  The young women followed Lavinia in an uneven group as she hurried towards the pavilion. From her bag she produced a small pot of green paint and a brush. Levering open the tin she advanced on the white painted pavilion and wrote Votes for Women! in bold brush strokes. Amy and Florence cheered while some others watched in awe.

  Amy felt inside her handbag for the stick of chalk. Would she dare take action?

  Lavinia turned, grinning feverishly as though drunk with her own bravado. ‘Let’s get inside!’ she cried.

  The others stared, nonplussed. Then Lavinia stooped beside the nearby flowerbed and pulled out a large, sharp-edged stone. They watched, disbelieving, as she aimed it hard at the glass panel in the door, which shattered with a loud crash. She felt inside and fiddled with the handle.

  ‘Watch out for the broken glass!’ cried Florence.

  Triumphantly, Lavinia pulled the door open. ‘Let’s leave our mark here!’ she urged them.

  Amy and two of the others followed her into the dark interior with its smell of old socks. Lavinia found another stretch of light wood where she painted their slogan once more.

  Amy produced her stick of red chalk. She added the slogan to other places on the wall, half alarmed at her action.

  ‘Take care!’ Florence called from outside. ‘Someone’s gone for a policeman.’

  Then they heard a distant whistle. Even Lavinia looked nervous now. She abandoned her paint pot and led the stampede for the door. They began to run off in the opposite direction to the whistles, along with their other supporters. From here they could return to the High Street by a narrow alley between gardens.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Amy asked Lavinia. ‘Your arm’s bleeding!’

  ‘It’s only a scratch.’

  There was an ugly streak of green paint down her pale dress as well.

  ‘We’d better disperse,’ Lavinia told them, hastily pulling off her sash and cramming it into her bag. Some ran faster than others and when they reached the High Street they set off in different directions. Lavinia disappeared down a lane leading to the brook.

  ‘Your bag’s open,’ Florence warned Amy and she fastened it. Then they saw the unwelcome sight of Constable Swift, one of the village policemen, on his bicycle. He was staring at them suspiciously.

  Florence tucked her arm through Amy’s. ‘Excellent sermon this morning, wasn’t it?’ she said loudly, as they passed a familiar terrace of Georgian houses.

  ‘I thought it was one of Uncle’s best ones,’ she replied a little breathlessly. At nineteen years old how could she have broken the law? She was the demure young niece of the vicar, wasn’t she?

  They tried to saunter calmly along the street and were rewarded by seeing the policeman cycling on.

  Amy continued to her corner and said goodbye to Florence, then turned and walked to her home in Sebastopol Terrace. She let herself in to the little brick house and checked her appearance in the hall mirror. Had she any tell-tale signs of irregular behaviour, like Lavinia? Of course, there were red chalk marks on her fingers. She hurried to wash her hands. Then she took off her hat and combed the long trailing curls of her fair hair.

  She walked through to the back garden where her parents were sitting in deck chairs. Behind them dahlias were flowering, in shades of vivid gold and deep red. Further down the garden, the young runner beans were beginning to scale their canes in Father’s vegetable plot.

  ‘Hello, darling – had a nice walk?’ her father asked her, his faced relaxed. Whatever would they say if they knew what she had been about?

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ She fetched another chair and joined them. There was the hum of insects and sound of chatter from a neighbour’s garden.

  She leant back and closed her eyes. She could not help enjoying a feeling of pride that she had taken action for the cause. Even so, she worried about the damage Lavinia had wilfully caused. She was half anxious, half defiant, wondering when the deed would be widely known about. Would anyone have recognised them?

/>   The shadows were lengthening now. When Mother got up to prepare tea, Amy went and joined her as she usually did, handling the familiar items – the plate with the freshly made Dundee cake, the cut-glass pot of jam and the milk jug with its muslin cover weighed down with glass beads. Soon they were all arranged in their usual positions on the back room table with its white cloth with the lace edging. Mother made the tea and Amy took the pot, with its cosy, and placed it carefully on its stand.

  Father took his place at the table. He was wearing his Sunday best suit, and was smart as usual, as befitted a school teacher. His hair was grey now but his lively eyes showed his interest in all about him.

  ‘I hope Bertie won’t be much longer,’ Mother said, as she brought in a plate of ham sandwiches. Her fair hair was fading now, and she wore it piled up on her head. Bertie, whose real name was Albert, was Amy’s brother. A moment later there was the sound of the front door and he came running into the room. He was fair-haired, like she was, but a few inches taller, with grey eyes like his father. In common with most young men, he had grown a moustache. He was only a year and a half older than Amy and beginning to grow bored with his work as a junior accountant. He longed for weekends and on summer Sundays he welcomed the chance to join his old school friends in their favourite pursuit: he would have spent the afternoon down by the brook fishing.

  ‘Have you heard?’ he cried. ‘Some women have broken into the cricket pavilion and caused havoc!’

  Her mother stood still in astonishment and her father’s mouth dropped open.

  Bertie was not good enough at cricket to be selected for the team and did not generally travel to support them in away matches. He must have heard what had happened on his way home.

  A little belatedly, Amy tried to look startled by the news.

  ‘What kind of havoc?’ Mother asked.

  ‘Well, you know, broken glass, slogans painted and chalked on the walls – it’s been done by the Suffragettes, they say.’

  ‘What? Those silly strident women?’ her father demanded.

  ‘You think they’re rather fine, don’t you, Amy?’ Bertie asked her.

  She had said as much in the past. Now she struggled to find a reply that was less than incriminating. ‘Well, they’ve got a point. Why shouldn’t we have the vote?’

  ‘But really, causing damage!’ Mother said. ‘You don’t know anything about this, do you, Amy?’ She turned her blue eyes on her, probing.

  She tried to look unconcerned. ‘I hear there’s an active group in Wealdham,’ she said carefully.

  ‘Well, whatever next! Anyway, Bertie, you’d better sit down and start your meal before the tea gets cold.’

  Why am I being such a coward? Amy thought. Well, for one thing, what Lavinia did was criminal damage and I don’t want to get her into serious trouble.

  ‘I hope you won’t get involved with women like that,’ Mother told Amy as she poured their tea. ‘Don’t consider taking part in anything political. You should find yourself a nice young man and settle down.’

  Amy smiled. Mother had said the same thing more than once, as though that should be her only aim in life. She had met Bertie’s friends and a few other young men but none had made much impression. Occasionally an image floated into her mind of an attractive, charming young man, intelligent and interested in everyone he met. She seemed to visualise him as dark-haired, with a broad smile. Was it possible she had once met someone like that? If so, she could not think who it was.

  They had nearly finished their tea when there was a knock on the door. Her mother went to answer it and Amy hoped she hid her stab of fear as Constable Swift walked into their dining room.

  ‘Excuse me barging in like this,’ he began. ‘I just need to ask Miss Amy a few questions.’

  ‘How can I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘Where were you this afternoon, around four o’clock?’ The constable stood respectfully near the doorway but fastened his light blue eyes on her resolutely. He had ginger hair and a freckled face.

  ‘I went walking along the High Street with my friend Florence.’ She knew he had seen them there.

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual?’

  ‘I believe there were some women with a placard, something about votes for women.’

  ‘And you aren’t involved with any such group?’ The constable was probably only around her age, for she seemed to remember him starting school about the same time, but he looked keen to fulfil his duties.

  ‘I gather there’s a group in Wealdham.’

  She felt herself perspiring. What would happen if she was found out? She might lose her job, and she would upset her parents greatly.

  ‘A few people on the village green saw the group there, though only in the distance, and they say one of them was wearing a straw hat with a blue ribbon on it.’

  Her mother looked towards her and away again. The constable would have seen her straw hat in the hall as he came in.

  ‘I can’t help you, Constable. My brother tells me they did some damage in the pavilion.’

  ‘They broke in and wrote slogans on the wall. They left broken glass on the floor and spilt green paint.’

  ‘Disgraceful behaviour,’ said Father.

  ‘Colonel Fairlawn has just got back from the away match,’ the constable said. ‘We won, I’m happy to say. But when he saw what’s happened to the pavilion he was beside himself. He’s determined to get to the bottom of it and have those responsible severely punished.’

  ‘It’s such unladylike behaviour – who would do such a thing?’ Bertie said in a way she did not take entirely at face value.

  ‘So you can’t help us at all, Miss?’

  ‘Sorry.’ What would Father think, and Uncle Arthur, if they knew how deceitful she was being?

  He seemed to accept her ignorance of what had taken place, for at last he apologised for disturbing them and left.

  Amy was barely aware of the sweet, spicy taste as she ate the rest of her slice of cake. Her parents were shocked at what had happened. As the others finished their tea, she tried to put aside the impression that they were all looking at her.

  It was vital to act as though nothing was wrong. She helped Mother clear the table and wash up, then sat with the others in the parlour at the front of the house. Mother still looked thoughtful but after a while she went to the piano and raised the lid. Her hands were soon flying over the keys in familiar tunes from The Pirates of Penzance, as though the afternoon’s drama was left behind. It was a relief when dusk finally fell and Amy could take her leave.

  She went upstairs and realised that Bertie was following her.

  ‘I hope Lavinia is careful,’ he said to her on the landing. ‘She had a noticeable stain of green paint on her skirt.’ He winked at her.

  She was grateful for his support. At last she was able to go to her room and reflect quietly on the afternoon’s events. If only her parents understood her feelings about the Suffragettes and could see the merit of their aims. In spite of everything she felt a burst of pride for having made a stand.

  Chapter Two

  Sussex, June and July 1914

  ‘Did the police call at your house?’ Amy asked Lavinia on the train to Wealdham the next day. Lavinia had boarded at Alderbank, the next station up the line from Larchbury, and Amy had waited till the other woman occupant of their small second-class carriage had alighted at a little country halt before talking freely.

  ‘They did,’ Lavinia said with a grin, ‘but Mother swore I’d been at home all afternoon.’

  Amy sometimes wished she had an unconventional, artistic mother like her friend. Lavinia’s father was a surgeon and both her parents sympathised with the movement for universal suffrage.

  ‘Did you get that paint out of your skirt?’

  ‘I had to throw the dress away, unfortunately.’ Lavinia stood up to pull down the window of the compartment, which was already growing stuffy. She sat down again on the upholstered seat below the little pictures of se
aside scenes. Coils of her long dark hair hung down below her felt hat.

  Amy travelled to Wealdham each weekday. After leaving school she had taken a course to learn to use a typewriter. She had found work in an insurance office in the town. At first she had loved the independence of working there, but now she was tiring of the monotonous clatter of the keys as she and another typist prepared similar letters most days.

  Lavinia was over a year older than Amy and they had met at the small typing college. Before long Lavinia had decided to leave, to develop her artistic skills. She travelled to Wealdham each day to her lessons at art college. Florence was Amy’s closest friend from her childhood, but Lavinia fascinated her with her determination to challenge old-fashioned attitudes.

  ‘Have you heard that Colonel Fairlawn is determined to find who’s responsible and punish them?’ Amy asked as the train steamed along between high banks of birch trees.

  For a moment a frown formed on Lavinia’s large-featured face. Colonel Fairlawn was respected and feared, thanks to his position in society and distinguished military career. With him exerting pressure, the local police would not shirk in seeking the culprits.

  A moment later Lavinia’s expression had changed to a grin. ‘I told you we needed to hit the male population in their favourite haunts,’ she said. ‘I wish I’d been there to see his face when he went into the pavilion.’

  Amy could not help admiring her friend’s bravado. ‘I’m not cut out for this kind of action,’ she admitted.

  Curiosity had made Amy and Florence attend a Suffragette rally in Wealdham. They had found Lavinia giving out leaflets and explaining the aims of the organisation. Recently they had attended a meeting held at the large house in Alderbank where Lavinia lived with her parents, to plan future events and the possibility of starting a branch in Larchbury, or staging a protest there.

  ‘Do you think there’ll be another peaceful march like that great one you joined in London last year?’ Amy asked.

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ Lavinia said. ‘Thousands of women from all classes came to the rally in Hyde Park – it was amazing. They came from all over the country and some of them had walked miles to be there.’