The latter gave me rather a shock, as Papa brought a policeman home to question me! He was nice enough, but asked me so many questions about that awful afternoon in Hyde Park that I began to be confused about exactly when Ivy May went missing. I tried to be brave but I’m afraid I went through all the handkerchiefs we had just bought. Luckily Mama was upstairs and so did not have to hear the details. Papa had tears in his eyes by the time I finished.
The policeman kept asking me about the men in the crowd. He even asked about Simon, as if Simon were someone to be suspicious of! I put him straight there. And I told him about the men who chased Maude and me at the demonstration, and how frightened we were.
I did not tell him about the man who put his hand on my bottom. I knew that I should have, that it was just the thing he was looking for. But I was embarrassed to have to speak of it. And I could not bear to think that that man got hold of my sister. Telling the policeman about him would be like an admission that he had. I wanted to keep Ivy May safe from him, in my mind if nowhere else.
No one has talked about what actually happened to Ivy May. But I can guess. I am no idiot. I saw the marks on her neck.
Tonight I was standing at my window when I saw Maude standing at hers. We waved to each other, but it felt very peculiar, and after a moment I stepped back from the window. We are not allowed to visit each other, as one is not meant to pay visits while in mourning. Besides which, I don’t think seeing Maude would bring much comfort to me now-all I can think of is her mother abandoning us in that huge crowd, and Ivy May’s sweaty hand slipping from mine.
I sat on my bed and looked at Ivy May’s little white bed in the corner. We would never lie in our beds again at night and whisper and tell each other stories-or rather, I told them and she listened. I am all alone now.
It hurt so much to look at that bed that I went down right then and asked Papa to move it.
Gertrude Waterhouse
I am so heavy with guilt that I cannot get out of bed. The priest has come, and the doctor, and neither can rouse me.
I did not tell them, nor Albert either, that I pretended to have a sprained ankle. Albert, bless him, thought it was real. If I had not pretended, if I had taken the girls to the march-or indeed if I had stood up to Livy and not allowed her to go-Ivy May would be sitting here with me now.
I have killed my daughter with my own stupidity, and if she is not here I do not want to live either.
Edith Coleman
The first thing I did was to give that impertinent maid her notice. I am sorry to admit that anything in a house of mourning could give me satisfaction, but that did. Of course she wailed and wrung her hands, but her dramatics had no effect on me-if anything they made me more determined that I had done the right thing, and none too soon.
Jenny had the nerve to mention Maude. “What will she do?” she kept crying.
“Maude will continue as she has always done. I will look after her-I have come to stay and will remain for as long as I am needed. But that is no concern of yours.”
Jenny looked stricken.
“I let you go two years ago,” I reminded her, “for reasons I’m sure you remember. My daughter-in-law should never have taken you back. Pack your bag and go. Your final wages will be sent to you.”
“What about my reference?”
I snorted. “Do you think I would give a reference to a girl like you?”
“But how am I to get another position?”
“You should have thought of that when you lay with that man.”
The girl ran from the room. To my surprise Mrs. Baker appeared a few minutes later, asking me to keep Jenny on.
“Why should I keep on a girl of such lax morals?” I replied. “Believe me, she will be much better off staying home and looking after her child, the poor mite.”
“And what will she feed him-air?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind about Jenny’s son, ma‘am,” Mrs. Baker said. “It’s for Miss Maude’s sake that I’m asking you to keep Jenny. The poor girl’s just lost her mother-I hate to see her losing the people round her too. Jenny’s been here since Miss Maude was a baby. She’s like family to her.”
“That girl is nothing like family to Maude!” I was so furious it was a struggle to keep my voice down. “How dare you compare her to the Colemans! And Maude doesn’t need her-she’s got me.” By losing a mother, she has gained a grandmother, I almost said, but thought the better of it.
So Jenny went. Maude said not a word, though she stood in the hallway and watched her go with a very pale face.
Then, for her sake and Richard‘s, I made another decision. Already the morning after Kitty’s death the flowers had begun arriving-elaborate arrangements of lilies, irises, cornflowers, white roses, all tied up with purple, green, and white ribbons. The cards read things like “To Our Fallen Comrade” and “Hope Is Strong-In Heaven As On Earth” and “She Gave Herself To The Cause.” And that infernal telephone rang so much that I had a man come and disconnect it. Then suffragettes began coming to the door to ask about the funeral, until I had the hired girl who replaced Jenny turn them away. It was clear that Kitty was becoming a martyr to them. I dreaded to think what would happen if the suffragettes turned up en masse to the funeral-they might take it over and turn it into a political rally. I would never forgive myself for allowing James’s family name to be dragged through the mud yet again.
I would not let it happen. I spoke to Richard of my plan and he readily agreed. After that it was not so difficult to arrange things to our satisfaction-after all, discretion is paramount in the undertaking trade.
Jenny Whitby
She come running after me as I walked down the street with my bag. I’d stopped crying by then-I were too scared of what was to become of me even to cry. She didn’t say nothing, just threw her arms round me and hugged me tight.
There ain’t nothing she can do-a girl of thirteen up against such a grandmother? I feel terrible for breaking my promise to her mum about that witch, but I got no influence with someone like that-the missus should’ve known that. Nor can I do nothing about keeping her secret from the men. That’s in God’s hands now-or Miss Livy‘s, more like.
None of this should be my concern now, though-I got my own troubles, like how to keep me mum and me son and me on no wages and no reference. I’ve no time for tears. I’ve the rest of the missus’s sil- verware in my bag, but that won’t last forever.
Albert Waterhouse
I am rather ashamed of my daughter. I know these are difficult days for her, as they are for us all; indeed I’ve wondered if she would hold up under the strain. But I wish Livy and Maude had not said such awful things to each other in public, and right at Ivy May’s grave-my poor Ivy May, who I could not protect from evil men. I am just glad Trudy was being comforted by a sister and did not hear them-she would have been horrified to hear herself argued over.
It was at first something to do with Maude’s dress. I am no judge of these things, but she was wearing a rather fine silk dress that Livy clearly envied. Livy said something about the dress being ostentatious for a girl of thirteen to wear.
Maude then replied, “Lavinia, you can’t spell the word, must less understand what it means. Mourning dresses by definition are not ostentatious.”
I was a bit surprised, as Maude is usually so soft spoken. But then, she has just lost her mother. And Livy was shocked-and livid, I am sorry to say.
“I know enough to know that you should not be wearing a boater with that dress,” Livy said. “Nor should you put your hair up under a boater-it just looks silly. And it’s coming down at the back. Your hair isn’t thick enough to put up the way mine is.”