American Dreams (4 page)

Emmeline Pankhurst held up her rolled paper. 'We are here with resolutions to be presented to members of Parliament. Please step aside so that we may speak to them.' Others, including Julie, echoed the demand. The constable shook his head.

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'Can't be done, madam, and well you know it. You're not allowed to enter the building, or speak with any of the members. It's best you turn right around and cease this disruption of the public order'

'We are going in,' Mrs. Pankhurst announced. 'Ladies? Forward.'

She walked past the dumbfounded constable, who was unprepared for disobedience. No doubt he expected the women to trot off like dutiful pets. Mrs. Pankhurst bore down on the cordon of policemen blocking the doors. Two of the officers had no choice but to push her back, then grapple with her.

The women broke ranks. Paul cranked steadily but kept a wary eye on his wife. The women feinted this way and that, trying to dodge between the constables, open the doors. The horns, jeering, and cursing had risen to a bedlam.

The police fended the suffragettes with their hands and jabs of their truncheons. It was evident to Paul that the officers, well trained and physically stronger, would overwhelm the women. Antagonized by rough handling, some of the suffragettes punched and kicked. Paul saw rage in the eyes of several beleaguered bobbies. A truncheon opened a bloody gash in one lady's cheek. Another whacked Sylvia Pankhurst's ankle, tripping her and sending her sprawling.

The exchange of blows went on for another minute or so. Then Mrs.

Pankhurst took stock and rallied her troops with a cry. 'All right, all right!

Retreat! We shall try another time, I want no serious injuries.'

Just that quickly the assault fell apart. But the women didn't seem disheartened; they'd given the coppers a lively run. Shouting and catcalling, they promised to return.

Paul and His Wife

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Paul kept cranking, thankful Julie hadn't been hurt. He watched her lean over with a piece of chalk. The WSPU often left messages for all to see. VOTES FOR WOMEN. END MALE DOMINANCE. WE SHALL BE HEARD.

Julie bent forward from the waist to write. The chief constable, short of breath and angry, took note, ran at her, and delivered a hard, vicious kick to her backside. Paul heard the sickening sound of Julie's head hitting the pavement.

He yelled her name, abandoned the camera, charged across the street, ignoring a hot iron of pain that seared his back. Julie lifted her head groggily, supporting herself on her hands a moment before she collapsed again.

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'Stand back, bucko,' a bobby said, hanging onto Paul's lapels. 'You've no call to--'

'Get out of my way, that's my wife.' Paul punched the copper in the stomach, bruising his knuckles as he sent the man reeling. He dodged another truncheon, shot his hands out to seize the officer who'd kicked Julie; the man was turned away from him, issuing orders.

A policeman behind Paul grabbed him, smashed the small of his back with a truncheon, and sent him flying forward. Paul's temple hit the curb, jarring and dazing him. He rolled over. His assailant crouched down to club him again. Paul drove a heavy shoe into the man's groin. The man reeled away.

On hands and knees, Paul crawled to Julie. He pressed his mouth to hers frantically; felt the warmth of her breathing. He groaned with relief.

When he raised his head he saw that bright blood from a cut on his cheek smeared her pale chin.

Rough hands fastened on his neck and arms. He was dragged up, spun around. The policeman in charge fairly spat at him:

'That's all, laddie-buck, I saw you assault an officer. You're for the clink, sure.'

Struggling futilely -- there were three holding him now - Paul looked across the street and felt his stomach churn. Michael Radcliffe was gone.

So was the camera.

But he didn't go to jail. Instead, mysteriously, he was released after three hours. He went home from magistrate's court to the flat overlooking the Thames on Cheyne Walk, Chelsea. Julie was resting comfortably in bed.

Philippa, the housemaid, was looking after the children, Joseph Shad Crown, called Shad, who was six, and Elizabeth Juliette, called Betsy, two.

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Paul sat beside the bed while Julie drowsed. Presently she opened her eyes; recognized him. 'You must think I'm a dreadful fool.'

He bent to kiss her cheek, scrubbed clean of blood. 'I think you're a remarkably brave woman mixed up with other women who tend to do foolish things for a noble cause.' He kissed her mouth, long and sweetly; squeezed her hand. 'Sleep now.'

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She murmured assent and turned her cheek into the pillow.

Next morning, still baffled by the abrupt way he'd been set free, Paul was summoned from his office in Cecil Court to the owner's suite on the highest floor of the Light, in Fleet Street. A male secretary with an embalmed look ushered him into the opulent grotto in which Lord Yorke conducted his affairs.

The proprietor was a short, round man, bald as an egg. Michael Radcliffe, married to his lordship's only child, had described him as having the eyes of a startled frog and the disposition of a cornered cobra.

His lordship wasn't a likable man, but he paid well and looked after his employees with the fervor of a reformed Scrooge. Born Otto Hartstein, child of a Dublin rag-and-bone merchant, he'd bought his first provincial newspaper when he was twenty-two, and built it into a publishing empire.

'Well, sir?' he said, dwarfed by the great padded throne seat behind his desk. 'What do you have to say for yourself?'

'I did what any husband would do if his wife was brutally attacked.'

'But her assailant was a police officer in pursuit of his duty.'

'I come from America, your lordship. No one's above the law. Is it different here?'

With a raucous snort that substituted for a laugh, Lord Yorke slapped the chair arm. 'Cecily's husband saved you.' Michael was always 'Cecily's husband,' and it was always said with distaste, as someone might refer to a troll under a bridge.

'Before the film ran out, you caught that bobby kicking your wife in a most barbarous way. How is she, by the by?'

'Doing well. She was more bruised and frightened than anything.'

'Pleased to hear it. As I was saying, Cecily's husband hauled your cinematograph to safety before the coppers could smash it. Then he rang me. I in turn called two persons in Whitehall who would not wish to have that kind of police behavior shown to the public. Of course, we've lisa's Worry

19

already destroyed the offending section' - in light of his good fortune, Paul restrained a protest - 'but that shall be our secret. Count yourself lucky.'

'I do, sir. And I thank you.'

'Give your lovely wife my warm regards, and urge her to be more
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careful. I urge you to do the same. You are a valuable employee, Paul. Try to stay out of trouble. Don't antagonize persons in authority, here or elsewhere.'

'If

I do that, I won't get good pictures.'

Crankily, Lord Yorke said, 'The newsman's dilemma. Damned annoying sometimes. Good day'

I

4 lisa's Worry

Cold December rain created a virtual lake in Wells Street. Nicky Speers carefully poked the long maroon Benz touring car through the water, fearful of stalling the engine. He parked successfully at the curb outside Restaurant Heidelberg and climbed out with arthritic slowness. Nicky was the family's English chauffeur, loyal but elderly. He hobbled around to the passenger door with the umbrella to shepherd Fritzi, then lisa to the ornate entrance. 'I'll be standing here in an hour and fifteen minutes exactly, mum.'

'Thank you, Nicky,' lisa said.

The first person she saw in the foyer was Rudolfy the maitre d'. He was one of the few human beings lisa actively disliked. It stemmed from the man's haughtiness and bad manners, more appropriate, in her opinion, to the worst sort of Prussian colonel. Speaking on the podium telephone, Rudolf didn't deign to notice them.

'We shall expect you, Herr Klosters, vieten Dank.'' Rudolf banged the earpiece on the hook and immediately bent his shaved head over a reservation book big as an altar Bible. As he wrote away, lisa tapped her shoe.

General Crown's wife was not a woman to be trifled with.

'Rudolf. May we have a table for two, please? I didn't have time to telephone ahead.'

'Out of the question, we are completely--' He looked up. 'Oh. Gnadige 20

Dreamers

Frauf Humblest apologies! Of course we have room for you. Who is this young lady?'

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'Our daughter, Fritzi.'

'Ah, certainly. Grown so big! Follow me, please.'

He jammed two enormous menus under his arm, pivoted, and marched off with a stride suspiciously like a military goose step. Fritzi lifted her skirts and started to mimic it, but lisa whispered, 'Don't be naughty.'

Fritzi clasped her hands with a penitent's long face. lisa couldn't help smiling.

Rudolf seated them, unaware of the byplay. 'Boris will attend you momentarily, meine Hebe Damen."1 After an unctuous bow he marched away. Fritzi removed her hat, the ribbon damp from the rain.

lisa Crown had matured into a stout, commanding woman with the kind of strong yet feminine features magazine writers loved to call 'handsome.'

lisa was fifty-nine. Her silvery-gray hair, worn in a high pompadour, showed no trace of its original reddish brown color. She always dressed smartly and expensively, today in a white blouse with a large bow under a dark green tailored suit with a shoe-top hemline.

Though long skirts with dust ruffles were still common, they were in her opinion dirt- and mud-catchers. She couldn't tolerate men who sneered at shorter skirts, and the women who wore them, as 'rainy-daisies.' On a nasty day like this, how could they be such idiots?

She drew off her long mauve gloves, still amused. 'You are a wicked child sometimes, liebchen. Several other people enjoyed your little impersonation.

They must know Rudolf.'

'Well,' Fritzi said with an airy shrug, 'bullies deserve whatever they get.

Rudolf thumped me on the head once.'

'Is that so? When?'

'When I was little. I was here with you and Papa. You were both talking with the Leiter family. Rudolf came by and hissed like a snake -- I mustn't fold my leg under me and sit on it! I don't remember what I said, but he thumped me, like this.' She flicked her middle finger off her thumb.

lisa laughed in spite of her tense state. She'd brought her daughter to the restaurant with serious intent. She knew Fritzi was unhappy. It was no sudden flash of insight; she'd known for months. She remembered her daughter in better times. When Fritzi was content, she wasn't restless.

She seldom frowned, and her brown eyes glowed; everyone succumbed to her lighthearted charm. Fritzi wasn't a conventional beauty, to be sure, but she had a shining prettiness born of good humor, keen wits, and an inner lisa's Worry

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ruceness that people quickly sensed. To lisa's regret, no suitable young man had discovered those good qualities. At least she knew of none.

'I confess I was feeling like a caged tiger all morning,' Fritzi said as she opened her menu. 'I was ever so glad you thought of coming downtown for luncheon.'

'Piffle, not luncheon, that's for little birds. We'll have a proper Mittagessen. This is a German establishment, after all.'

German to a fault, with a strolling accordion player in lederhosen and a green Tyrolean hat, fresh flowers on spotless white tablecloths, massive shelf displays of foot-high beer steins, and an overabundance of cuckoo clocks that tweeted and bonged with annoying regularity.

lisa regarded the menu through rimless bifocals connected by a chain to a matching gold case pinned to her formidable bosom. 'Many fine specialities here, liebchen. I really hope you will eat something substantial. If you don't mind my saying so, you are too thin.'

Fritzi pulled a face. 'You mean not enough chest.'

LAch. Such bold language everyone uses these days.'

'It's a new age, Mama. It's all right to say words like leg and bosom.'

'Well, I don't agree, and I for one understand too little of this so-called new age. Now, what shall we eat? The liver and dumplings are good.' lisa nodded toward some fish mournfully awaiting their fate in a lighted tank.

'Also the carp.'

'Believe me, Mama, I do eat properly. I stuff like a horse sometimes. It never seems to put on weight where I need it.'

lisa leaned forward to pat Fritzi's hand. 'I recently saw something at Field's that might be helpful. Christmas is coming.'

It pleased lisa when Fritzi ordered a decent meal of beefsteak, potatoes, and string beans, lisa chose carp, preceded by noodle soup. She asked for a bottle of Liebfraumilch. She raised her first glass of the sweet wine, clinked it with Fritzi's. ''Prosit.'1 The wine slid down golden-warm, buffing a little of the edge off her nerves. She was worried about Fritzi's future in a profession that was not secure, or even respectable. Unlike German parents of long ago, lisa and her husband couldn't direct or influence Fritzi's life, though lisa was concerned enough to make an attempt.

Before she could, Fritzi asked, 'Have you heard from cousin Paul?'

'No, only from Julie. You know Pauli, always dashing somewhere with his camera. Julie said she is marching and demonstrating with Mrs.

Pankhurst's organization.' lisa's expression suggested a lack of enthusiasm
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for the militant British suffragists. 'She prides herself on being one of the 22

Dreamers

New Women, as they're called. I hope she is not endangering herself. I admire her idealism, but she has responsibilities to her husband and children.'

'Julie's

a lovely, courageous person. I'm awfully glad Paul is so happy with her. I just adore him.'

There was a wistful quality in Fritzi's remark. After Paul had come from Berlin to live with the family, Fritzi, age thirteen, had confessed to lisa that she desperately wanted to marry him. It fell to lisa to say that in proper and upright families, marriage between first cousins was not permitted.