Various Flavors of Coffee (48 page)

Back in England, Pinker was exultant—once again his instincts had been proved correct. “You must tell the world, Robert.Your Fleet Street contacts—have lunch with a few of them, and let them know how the Brazilian government betrays its commit-ments. But do it subtly—it should not look as if it comes from us: people will say we have an interest, and we must not let their cynicism get in the way of the truth.” I did as he asked, and when articles appeared criticizing the valorization program, he professed himself well pleased. The market wobbled—and we milked the fluctuation for all it was worth.

But what had really delighted Pinker, I could tell, was the letter from Howell. I did not know what it contained, but the news was evidently good. “You have achieved exactly what I hoped, Robert,” was how he put it to me.“Howell would have been suspicious had I sent some smooth-tongued ambassador.You told the truth, and that is what mattered.”

[
seventy-five
]

If the coffee has picked up a taint or fault, the off-flavour begins to be-come detectable in the aroma of the freshly brewed coffee.

—lingle,
The Coffee Cupper’s Handbook

*

hile I had been away the suffragettes had changed

their tactics, and were now heckling politicians at public meetings.

They would conceal a banner under their coats—they soon learned to have two or three of these, as the banners themselves were usually the first casualties—and sit in different places around the hall, never together. One woman would get to her feet and shout a question, unfolding her banner as she did so; while the stewards were ejecting her, the next would stand in a different part of the hall and repeat it.

I accompanied Emily on one of these outings, on a mission to interrupt a speech by a senior government minister. Perhaps he had got wind that something might occur. Anyway, after we had been waiting for half an hour a spokesman announced that the

Great Man had been delayed on parliamentary business, but that his place would be taken by the MP, Mr.Arthur Brewer.

I glanced across at Emily. She had gone quite pale.

“You need not do anything,” I told her. “There are enough others to make a show.”

She shook her head. “A principle is hardly a principle if it is dropped at the first sign of adversity.The others will be looking to me to do my part.”

The debate
began. Arthur spoke well—the writer in me noted and approved the clever phrases, the way he posed questions and then immediately answered them himself, the way he built up a rhythm of emphasis, one-two-three; all the tricks of the trade. His theme was Liberty and Security, and the balance that must be kept between the two; how the hard-won freedoms of Great Britain must not be thrown away, and how the first duty of the libertarian is actually thus defense—

To my right, a small figure in a smart green dress rose from her seat. Molly Allen, fearless as ever.“If you think so much of Liberty,” she said in a high, loud voice,“don’t keep it just for the men.” She took out her banner and shook it.“Votes for Women!”

Uproar. Instantly three stewards were pushing toward her, but she had quite deliberately seated herself in the middle of a row. A furious clergyman sitting behind her tore the banner from her hand.“You may pass that one around,” she said, unrolling another. “I have more, if anyone would like one.” Then the stewards reached her—one on either side, and there was a tug-of-war as to which would manage to yank her to him.

On the platform, Arthur was watching all this with an expression of amused tolerance.“I see we have been graced by the presence of the ladies,” he said with a smile.“But as I was saying—”

Geraldine Manners got to her feet. Geraldine was frail, passionate and nearly fifty years old; it was she who recruited Emily to the militants, after the episode in Regent Street. “Answer the question!” she shouted. “Will a Liberal Government give Votes to Women?”

Stewards charged toward that inoffensive little lady as furiously as if she were running at them with a rugby ball. She barely had time to unfold her first banner before she was dragged backwards from the hall by a steward.

Up on the platform, Arthur’s composure did not waver—I had to admire the man: he seemed inoffensive enough, but he was doggedly, determinedly inoffensive. As soon as he could make himself heard over the hubbub, he raised his hand and said, “The lady herself has had to rush off ”—laughter—“but I will address her question in her absence. The answer is: no.” Thunderous applause.“Now to return to the real issue of the day, and one which will be close to the hearts of many in this room: Employment—” From the back of the hall I heard Edwina Cole’s voice. “Why do you take taxes from women when you won’t let them vote?” She waited until they were all looking before she got to her feet,

her banner in her hand.“Votes for Women!”

In their haste to reach her the stewards were climbing over the chairs. “Show some respect for your Member of Parliament,” a man’s voice cried angrily.

“He is not my Member of Parliament,” she retorted. “I am a woman, I have no member.” One or two people laughed at that, though others winced at the coarseness of the joke.Then she was pulled down. There was a shriek; it sounded as if someone had punched her.

Emily was still deathly pale.“There is no need,” I said quietly. She neither looked at me nor answered. She got to her feet—

she was shaking, shaking like a leaf. She pulled out a banner. For a long agonized moment I thought she was going to lose her nerve.

“What about the women?” she called.“Why no votes for us?”

Brewer looked at her—and his smile froze. More stewards— those who had been unsuccessful in the race to get to Edwina Cole—thundered toward us.

“Very well,”Arthur said slowly.“I am for Free Speech: I will an-swer this question.” There was a ripple of applause, mingled with one or two boos. The stewards continued pushing through the crowd.

Arthur hooked his thumb in his waistcoat. “Madam, your friends have done us a great service today,” he said with icy contempt. “They have illustrated far better than I could how dangerous it would be to give the vote to people like you—people who would abuse the democratic process without a second thought.” Applause and cheers from the audience. “They remind us that women who can resort to this sort of behavior in seeking the vote would, if they were successful, resort to the same methods to ob-tain any other political objective. Those who will not behave as citizens cannot expect the rights of citizens.”

More applause, over which Emily could just be heard, shouting, “Other methods have failed! It is precisely because—”

But Brewer was in full flow now, and the crowd had ears only for him.“Not only do they seek to achieve their ends by hysterical methods—they would incorporate that hysteria permanently in the political life of the nation. They seek votes for women—yet they are prepared to betray womanhood and all the gentle virtues of their sex to get it.What does that say about them? What kind of example do they set their children? What kind of message do they send to our enemies abroad?”

And thus he was back, neatly, where he wanted to be—and with the meeting giving him a standing ovation, too, just as the stewards were laying violent hands on his wife. “Get off me,” she cried, flailing at the men as they pushed and pulled her along the aisle, but there was no question of them letting her go now.

She had dropped a banner behind her on the seat. I did not stop

to think. I got to my feet. No one looked at me to begin with— we were all on our feet, clapping the glorious protector of our liberties, and a man amongst all those men was hardly noticeable. I shouted,“Votes for Women!” to get their attention, and, as soon as there was a lull in the noise, called out, “What does it say about your marriage, Brewer, that your own wife is a militant?”

There was a pause. People looked from one to the other of us. Just for a moment he seemed uncertain how to answer. Then he said languidly,“I have already given this subject far more time than it deserves. Do we want to talk about women—or work?”

The cry came back “Work,” but by then I too was already be-ing manhandled out of the hall by the stewards, with a few beefy kicks into my kidneys while they were about it.

That evening,
of course, she had to confront him—what in those days we used to call a
mauvais quart d’heure.
He had arranged himself in their sitting-room, with his papers around him, waiting for her when she returned—the master in his domain.

She busied herself picking up her letters from the stand. He seemed quite composed, but she knew with Arthur that was no indication of his real mood.

At last he said, “I was surprised to see you at that meeting, this afternoon.”

She took a deep breath. So they were going to talk about it. And she was going to tell him why she had done what she did— why she would not stop. This was hard—harder even than the meeting. It was one thing to stand and shout a slogan into a crowd; for a woman to stand up to her husband in his own home was unthinkable.

“You were already aware, I think, of my political views.” She matched the even modulation of his voice.

“I was aware that you supported extremism. I had not known

that you were now actively engaged in attacking the democratic process.”

“It is not a democratic process. Democracy requires the enfranchisement of the whole population, not just the male half—”

“Please,” he interrupted acidly. “We have both had enough speeches for one day.” She bit her lip.

He said,“What you forget is that when you behave like this it is my name you are trampling in the dirt.”

“I hardly think—”

“First, because it is my name that you now carry—as a Brewer, the reputation of the family is in your hands. Secondly, because as my wife your actions reflect on me. If you attack me in public, people will think I behave badly to you in private.”

“That is ridiculous.”

“Oh? You were not there, I think, when your friend Wallis made that very point to several hundred of the electorate.”

“Robert had no right to do that,” she muttered. “I did not ask him to.”

“Perhaps you have less control over him than you think. People like that will use your movement for their own ends. Just as he will use you for his own purposes.”

“Arthur, you misunderstand.There is nothing between Robert and me.”

“Well, it hardly matters now. Emily, I have made some decisions on this matter. I have decided that you must give up Wallis completely.And you must give up Votes for Women.”

“What do you mean—give up?”

“Just that.You must no longer be involved. Not in any form.” “Arthur—I cannot agree to that.”

“I am no longer seeking your agreement. I am overruling you. This is my decision. And as your husband I expect you to abide by it.”

“And if I do not?”

“You are my wife—”

“But you are not treating me like your wife.You are treating me as something lower than a servant—”

“I would remind you of your marriage vows—”

“Is that what this is about? As if I have broken a contract of sale, and you would be recompensed?”

“For my part,” he said quietly, “I meant every word of those vows. I made them before God, and I will honor them until my dying day.”

He was so obviously sincere that for a moment she was caught off guard. “It did not feel that way when you spoke to me in that horrid fashion in front of all those people.”

“The time and place was not of my choosing. Besides, I was trying to protect you.”

“Protect me!”

“If I had not addressed you when I did, the stewards would have treated you far more roughly. As it was, they were forced to wait until I had finished. It calmed them down.”

She was not sure whether to believe him, or if this was just a politician’s way of retelling events to his own advantage.

“In any case,” he added,“there is something else I wish to say.” “What is that, Arthur?”

“What Wallis shouted out . . . He asked what it said about my marriage, that my wife was a militant. It was offensive and personal—typical of the man. But I concede he may have a point. Our relations . . . Perhaps I have not been as attentive to domestic matters as I ought.”

She saw, suddenly, where this might be leading.

“Dr. Mayhews is of the opinion that your hysteria will be eased when you are fulfilling the purpose for which nature intended you. Certainly I have noticed that few of these militants seem to be young mothers.”

“That is because young mothers cannot leave their children—”

“Be that as it may.” He paused. “I have decided it is high time we started a family.”

“What!”

“Mayhews is in full agreement. Although you are somewhat delicate, he observes that it is frequently nature’s way to strengthen the female frame during pregnancy, with corresponding benefits for mental robustness.”

“Is this to do with politics?” She was aghast.“Has someone decided that your party is for the family?”

“All parties are for the family. Families promote stability—as you will doubtless discover, when you have one of your own.”

“Arthur, I am too busy to have children just now.”

“But you are not going to be busy, because you are going to give all that other business up,” he said reasonably. “We will start immediately.”

“What? Here? Now?” she said despairingly.

“There is no need to be vulgar.” He stopped. “You would not refuse me this?”

“Of course not,” she said dully.“If you will excuse me, I will go and ask Annie to draw me a bath.”

“And I shall be up presently.” He gestured at the papers.“I have some work to finish, but I will not be long.”

Of the details
of what followed, I cannot bring myself even to think. Emily would not, in any case, have spoken to me of such things. What little she did tell me she let slip only because I was cross-questioning her about Arthur’s reaction to their encounter.

Finally she said—with a little gasp that was attempting to be a laugh—“We are trying for a child.”