Suffragette
Authors: Carol Drinkwater
In loving memory of a dear friend and a fine and generous woman, Dr Jill Wolff
Contents
28th March 1909
Lady Violet Campbell, the owner of this Georgian manor house in the depths of the Gloucestershire countryside, was buried today in the cemetery of the church at Dymock. Lady
Violet, whom I loved with all my heart, died peacefully in her sleep six days ago after a short illness.
Many of her family and friends travelled up from London yesterday to be here for the service this morning, and tonight the house is packed to the rafters with sleeping people. Most of them know
nothing of my existence and I am keeping myself well hidden.
I made my way here by train from Cheltenham to pay my respects. Charlton Kings is where I live during the week. I lodge with a kind-hearted family who were chosen by the late Lady Violet to look
after me during school term. I could have boarded at my school, the Cheltenham Ladies’ College, but Lady Violet decided that it would be better for me to share the company of a family.
“Because you have lost your own, dear,” she reasoned.
You would assume from reading this that I am from a wealthy family, that I was born into the upper class, known here in England as the privileged class, but that is not at all the case.
My name is Dollie Baxter. I am fourteen-and-a-half years old, and I am the only daughter of a working-class man, John Baxter, who spent all his life labouring for a pittance at Bonningtons, one
of the two biggest dockyard companies in London. But my father, who was a stevedore by profession, has been dead these past four years. I was ten years old when he passed away and his leaving us
changed my life more than I could ever have dreamed was possible. I was uprooted and, quite literally, furnished with a new existence. All that was left of my past were my memories and my name.
So you see, I am a working-class girl of no means, and the knowledge of this fact might better explain my plight now that dear Lady Violet has passed away.
My mother is illiterate. Not a single syllable can she read or write, and nor does she have employment. The opportunities were never made available to her. Still, in a roundabout way, it is due
to her illiteracy that I have been given this new life, this splendid opportunity. When my father died she was grieving and almost destitute. The only path open to her was to give me away. Lady
Violet offered to take me, in a manner of speaking, and, eventually, my mother accepted.
I have four brothers, all of whom are older than I am. I never see them because they live in the same area as my mother in the East End of London. They have followed in my father’s
footsteps and are all employed at the Bonnington dockyards. I suspect that they disapprove of this gift of education that has been settled on me. Perhaps they blame my mother for what she did? Who
can say? I cannot answer because I don’t know. The important thing for me is that I don’t blame her. I firmly believe that she judged it to be the best course open to me and, in any
case, she had no real choice.
Lord, I am exhausted. All these memories are distressing. But if I don’t write about my situation how else will I ever come to terms with it? I have no one now. I am alone and must find a
way to fend for myself. That is the reason for this diary. I shall use it, these blank pages, as I would a friend, a kindly ear, as Lady Violet has always been for me.
There’s someone knocking at the door! I’d better stop writing and turn down the gaslight. I will continue later or tomorrow.
Later, almost midnight
That knock gave me quite a fright, but I had no reason to worry. It was Rachel and Sarah. They work in the kitchens here and were bringing me a tray of food. They knew that I
had not eaten since before I set off this morning. I could not be more grateful for their kindnesses. They made up this room for me and welcomed me as the regular visitor I have always been to this
house. Of course on previous occasions I had my own suite of rooms and tonight I am up in the staff quarters, but that doesn’t really bother me.
Rachel and Sarah sprawled on the bed and chatted while I devoured my vegetable soup and roast chicken. I was ravenous.
“Who’s stayed over?” I asked.
“The whole bloomin’ family,” replied Sarah.
“Lady Flora, too?”
“She’s in the room beneath. What a beauty she is. Slender as a stalk of hay.” This was Rachel, who always worries that she is fat and plain and will never find a husband.
“Are you going to introduce yourself to her, Dollie?”
I shrugged. “Not yet. It’s too soon.”
“What are you going to do then?”
“I don’t know,” I answered.
“Don’t none of them know about you?”
I shook my head.
“Same boat as us you’re in then. Out on a limb. We don’t know if we’ll have jobs this time next week.”
“Whoever inherits this house will keep you on. Cook will speak up for you both,” I assured them. “I’d help you, if only I could.”
They wished me goodnight and we all expressed the desire to meet again before too long when, I hope, all our circumstances will have improved.
They will find positions, no doubt about it. My own situation is more awkward and I have no idea how it will be resolved. You see, I was Lady Violet’s secret.
29th March 1909, before dawn
In spite of tiredness, I cannot sleep, so I shall write on.
Yesterday morning I was in a real sweat. I was running late because my journey took longer than I had anticipated. Starting out from Cheltenham, I was obliged to change trains in Gloucester.
Unfortunately my first train was delayed, so I missed my connection and had to hang about for the next one. Once aboard I settled to the journey. It was a beautiful morning. Everywhere the fields
were carpeted with daffodils. Staring out at the rolling green hillsides, the fresh spring growth, the orchards in bud, ponds with ducks and clear streams with men on the banks fishing for trout, I
was marvelling at the sharpness of life beyond the carriage window, while I was en route to say my farewells to the woman who has lavished more generosity on me than any other. As my train drew
closer to its destination, I spied the steeples of the neighbouring parishes, all of which I have explored many times so I know their streets and leafy lanes by heart. It’s a glorious sight,
I said to myself as the train steamed along. I shall miss it all horribly.
Upon arrival at Dymock, I hared up the hill, muttering crossly to myself about not having taken the dawn train. By the time I reached the village church, which is set back from the road and
hidden behind spreading chestnuts and a splendid yew tree, the service was already under way. Try as I might I could not squeeze my way in. It was jam-packed. The crowds were spilling out of the
great Norman doorway, pressed up tight against one another on the gravelled path, straining to hear the sermon. Finally I gave up, stepped away from the path and settled on the grass beneath a
chestnut tree adorned with sticky buds.
Once the service was over, groups of people began to make their way across the cemetery to the graveside, where the sight of freshly dug earth heaped high made my stomach tight. There must have
been more than 400 present. I held back, not only because I had arrived late and felt ashamed for it, but because there were so many faces I wanted to see in the flesh for the first time and
because my emotions were at sixes and sevens. What would be my role in this county of Gloucestershire after today? Would I ever set eyes on this place again? I speculated. Who, if I had stepped
forward and announced myself, would have opened their arms to accept me as a Bonnington? Many of the Bonnington clan, as well as the staff from their family house in Cadogan Square in London
– all great admirers of Lady Violet – were present. I recognized Flora the instant I set eyes on her.
Well, it was not so difficult. Her picture has frequently appeared in newspapers due to her activities as a prominent suffragist and because she is carving a career for herself in the modern
industry of the art of the motion picture. Also her grandmother, Lady Violet, kept dozens of photographs of her all over the house. There’s a stunning one on the grand piano in the music
room. She spoke of her favourite granddaughter endlessly and with enormous affection and pride. Sometimes it made me quite jealous.
So even though I was seeing Flora for the first time, I felt as though I already knew her. I watched her intently, scrutinizing her. She is every bit as lovely as the world says. How I longed to
move up close but, sensitive to her loss and grieving, I kept my distance.
Flora was accompanied by two young men, both of whom are writers and applauded for their poetry: Rupert Brooke and John Drinkwater. Each of them has a small house only a few miles distant from
the village of Dymock and they were frequent guests at Lady Violet’s dinner parties. I stepped back into the shade as the trio, deep in subdued conversation, passed by. It was not that I
wished to avoid them. On the contrary, they are both fascinating company, but I was not prepared in that moment to be introduced to Flora. It was not the right occasion.
Following behind were Mrs Millicent Fawcett and her equally celebrated sister, Dr Elizabeth Garrett Anderson. Both visited the house during my years there and I was presented to them, but only
for split seconds. They worked and campaigned alongside Lady Violet. They are suffragists. In fact, Mrs Fawcett is a very famous name in the fight for women’s votes. I have many newspaper
cuttings about her and her sister in my suffrage scrapbook.
The Bonnington family and friends encircled the graveside. I easily recognized Henrietta, Flora’s older sister, and her husband, Viscount Marsh. He was born in this county – his
family own vast acres of arable farmland here – and he and Henrietta met at Lady Violet’s many years ago. Their two small sons flanked them. They were also in the company of an elderly,
stooped gentleman with grey hair and moustache. I felt my heart race and my blood boil as I stared hard at his face, at his impassive features. Sir Thomas Bonnington, Lady Violet’s
son-in-law, founder of the Bonnington dockyard empire and my mother’s enemy. How she hated him! The accursed man who, she claimed, drove my poor father “to an early grave”.
