Past Caring (9 page)

When the Metropolitan Police Commissioner advised me that a
mass meeting of all groups supporting female suffrage was to be
held in Hyde Park on Sunday, 21 June 1908, I approved his proposals for policing the event and decided, without his knowing, to be
present in person.

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It was a memorable occasion. I was not sufficiently well-known
to the public to be noticed, discreetly clad amongst the vast crowd
that gathered, but I took good notice of what took place. There
were speeches by Keir Hardie—of the new Independent Labour
Party—and Emmeline Pankhurst, pleading their cause with great
force and conviction. There was also a stirring contribution from
Mrs. Pankhurst’s daughter, Christabel, whom I remembered from
our encounter in Manchester in October 1905. It was a wholly
peaceful gathering and I walked away amidst the departing throng
wondering if something could not, after all, be done for them.

I conveyed my views to the Prime Minister, urging that the
government should commit itself to female suffrage on a long-term
basis, arguing that this would defuse much ofthe frustration clearly
displayed at the meeting I had attended. I received a cursory answer to the effect that this was something against which the Cabinet
had already set its face. In private, Lloyd George advanced a more
cogent argument to me. What was the point of considering such a
move when the House of Lords was certain to veto it anyway? I
gained the impression that I was advancing a radical departure
from agreed policy rather too soon after my appointment, so resolved to bide my time and say no more on the subject.

In the event, the suffragists proved quite capable of involving
me in their campaign without any effort on my part. Later that
summer, Emmeline and Christabel Pankhurst were arrested for in-citing a mob to charge the House of Commons. Their case came up
at Bow Street in late October. Much to my astonishment and that of
Lloyd George, we were both subpoenaed by the defence. I myself
was subject to some energetic interrogation by Christabel—a qualified barrister—but my experience in the House of Commons enabled me to refute her guileful arguments. My contention that the
laudable theory of female suffrage was being done more harm than
good by her antics cast me in a good light both in court and in the
press, though I was wigged afterwards in a note from the Prime
Minister for letting slip my private views.

Lloyd George invited me home for a drink after our court appearances and I expressed my fear to him that on female suffrage,
as on some other issues, we were allowing more radical elements—

such as the Labour Party—to steal our thunder. He agreed, point-

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ing out that, whilst the House of Lords’ Tory majority continued to
veto Liberal legislation , it could hardly be otherwise. But he said he
hoped to do something about that and, as events showed, he was as
good as his word.

Lloyd George’s fulfilment of his pledge was the Budget of 1909.

Well I remember the many Cabinet meetings during March and
April which pored over that gargantuan , revolutionary document.

What he had contrived to do was to meet all the various claims upon
the Exchequer—from an expansion of the navy to counter Germany,
to the requirements of the new old age pension—by an extensive
raid upon the resources of landed wealth, by income tax, super tax,
death duties and, most dreaded of all, land value duties. And behind
it all, as we argued the details back and forth, was an awareness that
the Lords would never bear such a blow at their class. And since
their rejection of a Budget was unprecedented, this was bound to
bring to a crisis their repeated veto of other legislation. How it
would be resolved nobody knew or cared to guess, certainly not the
Prime Minister. Nevertheless, in the absence of any alternative and
with Asquith’s awe of Lloyd George ensuring that none would be
found, we pressed forward. On 27 May 1909, the Finance Bill was
issued in its final form and so was set in motion a trial of strength
between the two Houses of Parliament.

Yet I remember that warm spring evening of May 27 for quite
other reasons. I returned to my house in Mallard Street tired and
thoughtful, wanting nothing so much as some peaceful solitude in
which to turn over these portentous political events in my mind. I
had resisted the Metropolitan Police Commissioner’s wish to place
a constable at my door and so there was only Prideaux—my father’s old valet who had come up to London with his wife to attend to
my wants since my father’s death—to greet me at home. He took
himself off to the kitchen to instruct Mrs. P to prepare supper for
me, she being well-used to my irregular hours. I poured myself a
scotch and sat down to peruse that morning’s
Times
. This was my
first opportunity of the day for some rest and relaxation. I embarked upon it a single-minded young politician with thoughts
fixed upon weighty matters of constitutional import, oblivious to the
imminent explosion into my world of a personal but far more potent
force.

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I set down the newspaper and crossed to the window, tiring for a
moment of editorial speculation. As I toyed with my drink and
gazed out onto the street, softly lit by evening sun , I observed a slim,
elegant young lady dressed in grey pass by the window and turn in
at my door, then heard the sound of a letter landing on the doormat.

My curiosity aroused, I hurried out into the hall and picked up the
letter. It was, in fact, only a note on plain paper, folded in half.

Unfolding it, I was taken aback to see that it read: “Whilst women
are denied the vote, politicians shall have no peace.”

At this point, there was the sound of breaking glass from the
drawing room, splintering the quietude of evening. Glancing back
into the room, I saw a half housebrick lying on the carpet where I
had just been standing, shards of windowpane scattered around
it. My elegant young caller had just hurled a brick through my
window!

I flung the front door open and ran out onto the pavement.

There she was, hurrying away down the road. Calculating that she
had not reckoned upon immediate pursuit and enraged by this assault, I made after her. The street was empty, so she at once heard
me running towards her, glanced round in alarm, then quickened
her pace and turned right into a side road. I was at the corner in no
time and saw she was only thirty yards or so ahead of me, dress
gathered in her left hand as she now ran headlong in flight. She
looked back again as she heard me drawing closer, shouting out for
her to stop and, in so doing, failed to avoid the bootscraper by the
door she was passing. She tripped and fell awkwardly against some
railings flanking the door. The chase was over. I stooped over my
fallen young assailant and turned her round by the left shoulder to
face me.

“Do you realize . . . you might have killed me?” I said, breathless and angry.

“Are you Edwin Strafford?”

“I am.”

“Then you’ve only yourself to blame. Did you read the note?”

“Yes . . .”

“Then you should see sense and meet our just demands . . .

you’re foolish, obdurate and wrong.”

At this, the young lady sought to rise, only to slump back with a

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cry and clasp her right knee. Suddenly, absurdly, I was touched by
her spirit and her injury. She had knocked her chin against the railings and this was reddening into a bruise. There were tears at the
corners of her eyes so much had her leg pained her. She looked very
young and beautiful, her mouth set in a frown of discomfort but her
eyes flashing with determination. Strands of dark hair had escaped
from her wide-brimmed hat and fell now across her flushed face. I
forgot my outrage and felt, of all things, remorse for frightening her
into a fall. That she, so young and vulnerable, should have been
driven to this defiance, so ill-equipped to escape yet even now prepared to defend her cause, made me feel old and heartless.

“You’ve hurt yourself,” I said. “Let me help you up.”

Biting her lip, she was reluctantly obliged to accept my assistance. She flinched as she set her foot on the ground and I had to
support her.

“I think,” I said, “that, even if I am not to arrest you, I must insist that you accompany me back to my house.”

She had no choice but to agree. Taking her firmly by the arm, I
marched her back along the pavement as fast as her limp would permit. Indoors, I found the Prideaux in a fine state of consternation ,
Mrs. P having convinced herself that I had been borne away by intruders. I explained what had actually happened and asked Mrs. P

to tend the young lady’s injury. She led her charge away firmly but
dutifully. Prideaux, who had cleared away the broken glass, asked
if he should now call the police.

“Thank you no, Prideaux. For the present, a glazier will suffice.” Prideaux took himself off, muttering some inaudible protest
under his breath.

A few moments later, Mrs. Prideaux returned with the young
lady. “The little minx ’as taken no ’arm, sir. What shall us do
with ’er?”

“Leave her to me, Mrs. P,” I replied. “I want to have a few
words with her.” She hesitated. “Don’t worry. I shan’t let her out of
my sight.” With this assurance, the good soul withdrew. I turned to
my young guest.

“The question arises,” I said, “of what is to be done with you.”

“You may call the police and have me arrested if you wish.”

“I think not. Your trial would provide just the sort of publicity
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you desire. And, besides, with Miss Pankhurst to defend you, I
would be assured of a hot time in the witness box.”

“As you were when Christabel was tried last autumn?”

“Quite so.”

“I was there, Mr. Strafford. You acquitted yourself well, but it
was a sophist’s victory.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. It was an accomplished political performance, paying no
heed to truth or justice.”

Still this beautiful firebrand was prepared to debate with me. I
was surprised at the force of her convictions and the intelligence of
her arguments, above all at my willingness to overlook her throwing of the brick, my wish to sit and talk with her rather than hand
her over to the police.

“Won’t you sit down? Your leg must be hurting you.”

“It is nothing. Your servant bandaged it.” But she did sit down
and was still a little flushed and breathless, though she had ordered
her appearance since her fall, so that her dark eyes were dry and
her hair in place.

“Since you know who I am, will you at least tell me who
you are?”

“Elizabeth Latimer.”

“And how old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“What would your parents think if they knew what you had
done here this evening?” It was a foolish question , the sort of question I knew I would resent in her shoes.

“If they were still alive, Mr. Strafford, they would be as uncomprehending as you, though with the excuses of being older and less
well-informed.” I was suitably rebuked.

“I’m sorry, Miss Latimer. You must forgive any testiness on my
part. It is a reaction to having a brick thrown through the window of
my private house.”

“You have been Home Secretary for a year now. What have you
done in that time that would prevent an unenfranchised woman
throwing a brick through your window?”

“But, Miss Latimer, you have not yourself come of age.”

“For shame, Mr. Strafford. More sophistry.”