The Custom of the Trade Read online

  ‘Eva, my darling,’ he called. ‘Pack my bags. I’m leaving in twenty minutes.’ He mounted the stairs at twice the speed he had descended them.

  Chapter 2

  ‘God bless ye, ladies.’

  The beggar outside one of the elegant shops at the east end of Oxford Street tipped his cap to the three ladies who had just given him some loose change. In many respects they were like hundreds of others that Saturday afternoon of the second of March 1912. Two were well-dressed and, from their dress and deportment, clearly from middle to upper class backgrounds. He spotted that the clothes of the third, although fashionable, were factory manufactured, perhaps suggesting she was from a working class background. The beggar had served as an intelligence scout in a mounted yeomanry troop during the Boer war and had learned to take notice of small details. His curiosity was aroused when he noted that, despite their class differences, what the ladies had in common was that not one of them was wearing a scrap of jewellery. He wondered who they were.

  The three women were very different in looks, although they were all tall for their sex. Indeed, it was as if each had been chosen to form the group as a representative of different hair colouring. One of them had the air of being in charge. She was a brunette and slim in build. Her social equal was also slim, but had auburn hair. The odd one out, in terms of her apparent class, was blonde and different, too, in that she was quite stout in her build.

  He watched them in their turn scan the busy street, up towards Oxford Circus and then down towards Tottenham Court Road. They seemed satisfied that the coast was clear for their purposes, as they all looked at each other and nodded significantly. The beggar considered whether he should look for a constable, but he had already had his unfair share of interaction with the police, and in any case, none seemed to be present. What did it matter? What harm was he thinking three women could cause? However, after the briefest of pauses, they burst into action, to the obvious shock of the passing shoppers. The brunette reached into her large handbag and started to hurl stones at the windows of the shop facing her on the north side of Oxford Street. Meanwhile, her two colleagues crossed the street and, using hammers previously concealed on their person, began to smash the windows of the shops opposite. As they hurried about their work they shouted in high-pitched voices, ‘Votes for Women. Votes for Women.’

  Once the women with the hammers had smashed two shopfronts, they reached once more into their copious handbags and removed several pamphlets, which they began to hand out to the surprised onlookers. The pamphlets were the work of the Women’s Social and Political Union, or WSPU.

  By now the shock and bemusement of the passers-by had turned to outrage and, spurred on by the generally male shopkeepers in the vicinity, three of whom had just seen their shop windows destroyed, the crowd surrounded the suffragette campaigners to prevent their escape. ‘Call a peeler!’ one of them shouted and the cry was repeated by several until one of them was actually galvanised to take the action demanded. The three women were herded together and completely surrounded by a large crowd of shoppers and other onlookers. The beggar could no longer see them and moved closer to gain a better view of the altercation.

  ‘What you done that for, you vandals?’ one of the male shopkeepers remonstrated loudly. ‘’oos gonna pay for it? It’s my liveli’ood you’re playin’ with ’ere, make no mistake.’

  The crowd seemed to agree with the sentiments expressed and started to hiss at and jostle the three women campaigners. Four of the male onlookers surrounding the blonde and auburn-haired women decided to make sport of the occasion.

  ‘What we got ’ere, ducks? You sure you’re women? It’s only men that get the vote, ye know. You sure you’re not men in disguise? Let’s check it aht’. The thugs then began to poke the women and squeeze various parts of their flesh.

  ‘Hey, look! They seem to have the right bumps in the right places, but there’s not much flesh on this one, is there, lads?’ one of them cried. ‘Tho’ mebbe we’d be better to take a closer look to make sure, hey?’

  ‘Whatch ye think?’ another cackled.

  In response, some of the female members of the crowd started to look decidedly uneasy and pulled away a little, but the mood of the crowd was still unsympathetic. The beggar was relieved to hear, in the distance, several police whistles. The peelers could look after the women. They should be safe now. He began to edge away from the crowd, but first heard the plump suffragette whisper to her colleagues, ‘Look, girls. I’m going to create a diversion. As soon as I start, you get out of here, all right?’

  The beggar assumed neither of her two partners in the deed had any idea what she had in mind, or, perhaps, they were simply too shocked to debate the issue. Instead, they just nodded and looked for a possible escape route from the current indignities. He made way for them and pointed with his stick to a gap in the crowd.

  ‘All right, you brave men,’ the blonde suffragette cried out. ‘You want to see what a real woman looks like in the flesh, then stand back and I’ll bloomin’ well show yer.’ At this, she started to remove her coat.

  ‘Ain’t no one got no music to accompany my turn?’ she called. The crowd stepped back as one in amazement and the thugs were as shocked as anyone.

  ‘Whoo-hay, this is a bit of awright,’ one of them shouted.

  Perhaps still dazed by their recent treatment, the brunette and auburn-haired women hesitated momentarily and then took their cue to pass through the crowd as unobtrusively as possible. As they made their escape, the blonde cried out, ‘Now whose gonna unzip my skirt and let me show yer my bloomers?’

  The beggar saw both women shudder at the steps their colleague was taking on their behalf, before they hurried away from the scene. Their escape seemed to have gone unnoticed and they quickly came across the entrance to Tottenham Court Road underground station. Without hesitation this time, they entered the ticket hall and disappeared from the beggar’s view.

  *

  ‘My God, Christabel,’ the auburn-haired beauty exclaimed, ‘I can’t believe Ellie would pull a stunt like that. What will become of her?’

  Christabel, the brunette, replied, ‘I wouldn’t worry about her, Lizzy. She knows how to handle herself and I suspect she is timing matters so that the peelers arrive in the nick of time to protect her modesty. I have to grant it was quick thinking, though, and certainly got us out of an awkward spot. The actions of those yobs made my flesh crawl.’

  Lizzy shuddered at the memory. ‘So what are we to do now, Christabel?’

  ‘Stay calm. I don’t fancy prison any more than you. Go home as if nothing had happened and come up with a story if necessary to explain your movements this afternoon. I think it’s time I put into action my plan to relocate to Paris. Are you still up for meeting me there and helping me continue the fight, Lizzy?’

  ‘Of course I am. But is it absolutely necessary to escape to Paris? After all, Ellie’s not going to preach and there’s nothing to tie us to this demonstration.’

  ‘I know that, but London is becoming too hot. It’s only a matter of time before the police catch up with us and I’ll confess to you alone, Lizzy, I’ve not got it in me to put up with what my mother has. The thought of being force-fed revolts me. Now, stop shilly-shallying. Go. I’ll follow in two minutes and catch another train. We can talk more next weekend in Paris, right?’

  With that, the two women embraced and exchanged a kiss so long and tender that it aroused the disapproval of more than a few fellow passengers of the underground station.

  *

  The Hôtel Citi Bergère was situated down an alley off the main street. It was, thus, quiet and unobtrusive. Qualities that suited its fugitive guest very well. Miss Amy Richards had fled London the previous weekend on the boat train from Victoria to Folkestone. Having spent a few days in a hamlet near Boulogne, she had decided it was safe to continue her journey to Paris. Even so, she had decided not to use her real name. She had no wish for the Metropolitan Police in London to discov
er her whereabouts. All day, she had anxiously awaited the arrival of her two friends. Having left London with only £100 on her person, she was keen to receive further funds to enable her to settle permanently in Paris and, perhaps, in due course, in more luxurious surroundings. More importantly, she wanted to hear the latest news from London. Miss Richards had been worried. Her friends should have been here yesterday, but she had received no further news from them, other than to confirm their arrival this weekend. It was, therefore, with much relief when she answered the door to be met with the beaming grins of her two friends, Annie Kenney and Elizabeth Miller.

  ‘Where have you been? I’ve been so worried about you. You should have been here yesterday.’

  ‘I say, that’s a fine welcome after a long journey, Christabel. Aren’t you going to invite us in?’ Annie replied.

  ‘I’m sorry. Come in. How rude of me. I’ve just been beside myself with worry.’

  The two visitors entered the hotel room and after several hugs and kisses were invited to sit in the small sitting room. Before they settled down to conversation, Christabel Pankhurst, alias Amy Richards, rang for tea.

  Annie explained the delay. ‘I’m sorry, Christabel. We had a change of plan. We came over on the overnight ferry from Southampton to Le Havre.’

  ‘Why ever did you do that? No wonder it took you so long.’

  ‘It’s my fault,’ Elizabeth replied. ‘Just as we reached the platform at Victoria, I swear I saw my Uncle William catching the same train. It put the wind up me, I can tell you. We thought about taking a later train, but then thought, if the police really were looking for us, then we might be better taking a more devious route.’

  ‘And is there any reason why the police should be looking for you, Lizzy?’

  Elizabeth and Annie shared a meaningful look before the latter took up the story.

  ‘Well, yes, actually. I’m afraid, the day after you left London, the police raided the offices in Clement’s Inn. They seized several documents and I cannot be sure they didn’t find a list of members. Your mother is back in prison and there’s a warrant out for your arrest. The good news is that your disappearance is bringing the movement some good publicity. See here, I’ve brought you a paper.’

  Christabel would ordinarily have read the headline, ‘Where is Christabel?’ with some amusement, but the news that her mother was back in gaol prompted tears of sadness. Emmeline had already suffered so much at the hands of the establishment and her health was starting to deteriorate after the effects of prison and force-feeding. The two friends remained silent whilst Christabel recovered her composure.

  ‘Oh, dear. We cannot just give up and allow the Government to think they have deprived the Union of all leadership. Annie, I want you to take full charge of the policy and I will continue to write the editorial for Votes for Women.’

  ‘But why not get Sylvia to run the policy, Christabel?’ Annie interjected.

  ‘No. My sister is not fit for it, Annie. Now, Lizzy. You speak French and are less well-known than Annie. Do you think you could come over every weekend to collect the editorial and update me on the latest news?’

  ‘I’d be delighted, Christabel, but I do have to be back in Liverpool at the end of the month. Perhaps Annie and I could take it in turns if I could find another French speaker to accompany her. What do you think, Annie?’

  Annie responded with a rumble from her stomach. ‘Ooh, I am sorry,’ she said, before putting her hand over her mouth and blushing. ‘That’s fine by me, Lizzy, but I refuse to discuss anything further until I’ve had a bath and eaten. After twenty-four hours of travelling, I’m dirty and starving. Christabel, where are you taking us for dinner?’

  Chapter 3

  After all the confusion and commotion of the past few minutes, Richard Miller thought the submarine strangely quiet. He could hear a few groans forward and made a mental note to check for casualties, but for now his priority was to assess the situation. Most of the lights had gone out after some form of electrical explosion forward, but some were still on and this made his life easier. Clearly the submarine was lying on the seabed. The inclinometer showed a twenty degree bow-down attitude and he could feel the hull was heeled over a little to starboard. The depth gauge showed eighty-four feet.

  He first spoke with Chief Engine Room Artificer Waterfield to check on the situation down aft. The CERA reported that the motor room staff had had the sense to stop both engines, without orders, when the submarine had started sinking and, other than a few bruises, were all in good shape. There were no signs of leaks. Forward, the situation was less good. Richard could not establish any communication with the fore-ends and he suspected the compartment was flooded. Otherwise, the hull seemed intact and D2 was free from flooding. The Coxswain, Petty Officer Goddard, confirmed the flooding of the torpedo compartment and also reported one serious casualty. Leading Seaman Smith had been badly scalded by boiling water from the galley stove and was suffering burns to his face, neck and left shoulder.

  Richard retired to the wardroom and drew the curtain behind him, separating the space from the control room and giving himself some relative privacy. Johnson was gone, whether alive or dead, and he was now the senior survivor and in command. It was a moment for which he had been trained, but dreaded. From now on, the lives of the men in D2 would depend on his judgement and cool thinking. He wondered if he was ready for the responsibility. But, ready or not, the responsibility was his and his alone. He had to succeed. He retrieved his Bible from his bunk and prayed silently to the Lord for courage, inspiration and, above all, luck.

  Ten minutes later, Richard summoned Waterfield and Goddard to the wardroom for a council of war.

  ‘Coxswain, how many men are not accounted for?’

  ‘Twelve, sir. That includes the captain and four lookouts. There were seven men in the fore-ends, including the TI and ERA Watts. With those present, sir, that makes an unlucky thirteen survivors.’

  ‘Thank you, Coxswain. As it happens, thirteen is my lucky number. I was born on the thirteenth, so I’d say that’s a good omen.’

  Richard knew it wasn’t a good joke. He recognised that he was not known to have a sense of humour, but the senior rates smiled nonetheless.

  ‘Now, here is the situation as I see it. We’re lying in eighty-odd feet of water, not far off the coast. We’ve clearly collided with something up top and are holed forward, so there’s no prospect of surfacing on our own. However, we’re lucky that, thanks to the captain’s good judgement, the only flooding we’ve suffered is in the fore-ends. So we’re watertight otherwise. I’ll be straight with you. I can’t be sure if whatever hit us even knows they suffered a collision. It’s thick fog and going dark up there. If they didn’t notice us going down, then we have to hope one or more of the bridge crew are picked up to report the accident. Otherwise, we’ll have to sit tight until we’re posted missing by our escort. That might take a couple of hours.’

  Richard allowed the two senior rates a moment to absorb the information.

  ‘Could we swim to the surface when it gets light, sir?’ Waterfield asked. ‘If enough of us get out, then we’re bound to be spotted floating on the surface.’

  ‘We could, but I wouldn’t recommend it. I’m no diver, but I do know that at this depth we’ve a chance of contracting the Grecian Bends. Moreover, atmospheric pressure doubles about every thirty to thirty-five feet so, in our position, the air we’re breathing will be about six or seven times the pressure of that of the surface. For that reason, we would have to exhale all the way to the surface and avoid our lungs expanding as the external pressure decreases. The odds are that somebody is going to ignore instructions, hold their breath under water and need immediate medical attention on the surface. For that, we need to await the arrival of a salvage force with a decompression chamber. In any case, we’re better making sure there’s somebody on the surface ready to pick us up before we bob up like corks. It might still be foggy and who knows how long we would float arou
nd before somebody found us? No, far better to wait until the boat can be lifted to the surface by crane or we escape when the surface forces are ready. So here’s my plan.

  ‘We need to conserve both the battery and air supply. That means we need to reduce the lighting to a minimum and avoid heating the galley stove. We’ll leave some lighting on for morale, but I’ll leave you to turn off what we don’t need, Chief.’

  Waterfield nodded in assent.

  ‘Coxswain, I’d like you to arrange for the men to be fed a cold meal and issued with plenty of water. We need to avoid dehydration but, as we can’t use the heads, put out buckets. We can empty them in the bilges. Sorry, Chief.

  ‘To conserve our air I want everyone who is not essential, and I would have thought that’s everyone but a single watchkeeper, to turn in. For the sake of morale and maintaining bodily warmth, I suggest everyone slings a hammock in the control room area. It’ll save on lighting, too. Any questions?’

  Both Waterfield and Goddard looked glum. They both started to ask questions, but it was Goddard who held sway.

  ‘How do you rate our chances, sir, and what do we tell the men?’

  Richard thought a moment before replying.

  ‘Frankly, if nobody saw us go down, our chances are not good. I’d say our air will last not much more than twenty-four hours. Being morbid, there are fewer of us to use up the air, but we’ve lost the fore-ends reserve. Nevertheless, however long we’ve got, there’s nothing we can do for the present. That means we have no choice but to tough it out. A sincere prayer might help things along.’ Richard spotted the suppressed grins of the two senior rates.