Jayne said: “I read in the paper that women can stand in the next election, and I propose that Ethel Williams should be our candidate.”
There was a moment of stunned silence, then everyone tried to speak at the same time.
Ethel was taken aback. She had not thought about this. Ever since she had known Bernie, he had wanted to be the local M.P. She had accepted that. Besides, it had never been possible for women to be elected. She was not sure it was possible now. Her first inclination was to refuse immediately.
Jayne had not finished. She was a pretty young woman, but the softness of her appearance was deceptive, and she could be formidable. “I respect Bernie, but he is an organizer and a meetings man,” she said. “Aldgate has a Liberal M.P. who is quite well-liked and may be hard to defeat. We need a candidate who can win this seat for Labour, someone who can say to the people of the East End: ‘Follow me to victory!’ and they will. We need Ethel.”
All the women cheered, and so did some of the men, though others muttered darkly. Ethel realized she would have a lot of support if she ran.
And Jayne was right: Bernie was probably the cleverest man in the room, but he was not an inspirational leader. He could explain how revolutions happened and why companies went bust, but Ethel could inspire people to join a crusade.
Jock Reid stood up. “Comrade Chairman, I believe the legislation does not permit women to stand.”
Dr. Greenward said: “I can answer that question. The law that was passed earlier this year, giving the vote to certain women over thirty, did not provide for women to stand for election. But the government has admitted that this is an anomaly, and a further bill has been drafted.”
Jock persisted. “But the law as it stands today forbids the election of women, so we can’t nominate one.” Ethel gave a wry smile: it was odd how men who called for world revolution could insist on following the letter of the law.
Dr. Greenward said: “The Parliament (Qualification of Women) Bill is clearly intended to become law before the next general election, so it seems perfectly in order for this branch to nominate a woman.”
“But Ethel is under thirty.”
“Apparently this new bill applies to women over twenty-one.”
“Apparently?” said Jock. “How can we nominate a candidate if we don’t know the rules?”
Dr. Greenward said: “Perhaps we should postpone nomination until the new legislation has been passed.”
Bernie whispered something in Jock’s ear, and Jock said: “Let’s ask Ethel if she’s willing to stand. If not, then there’s no need to postpone the decision.”
Bernie turned to Ethel with a confident smile.
“All right,” said Dr. Greenward. “Ethel, if you were nominated, would you accept?”
Everyone looked at her.
Ethel hesitated.
This was Bernie’s dream, and Bernie was her husband. But which of them would be the better choice for Labour?
As the seconds passed, a look of incredulity came over Bernie’s face. He had expected her to decline the nomination instantly.
That hardened her resolve.
“I… I’ve never considered it,” she said. “And, um, as the chairman said, it’s not even a legal possibility yet. So it’s a hard question to answer. I believe Bernie would be a good candidate… but all the same I’d like time to think about it. So perhaps we should accept the chairman’s suggestion of a postponement.”
She turned to Bernie.
He looked as if he could kill her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE – November 11, 1918
At two o’clock in the morning, the phone rang at Fitz’s house in Mayfair.
Maud was still up, sitting in the drawing room with a candle, the portraits of dead ancestors looking A down on her, the drawn curtains like shrouds, the pieces of furniture around her dimly visible, like beasts in a field at night. For the last few days she had hardly slept. A superstitious foreboding told her Walter would be killed before the war ended.
She sat alone, with a cold cup of tea in her hands, staring into the coal fire, wondering where he was and what he was doing. Was he sleeping in a damp trench somewhere, or preparing for tomorrow’s fighting? Or was he already dead? She could be a widow, having spent only two nights with her husband in four years of marriage. All she could be sure of was that he was not a prisoner of war. Johnny Remarc checked every list of captured officers for her. Johnny did not know her secret: he believed she was concerned only because Walter had been a dear friend of Fitz’s before the war.
The telephone bell startled her. At first she thought it might be a call about Walter, but that would not make sense. News of a friend taken prisoner could wait until morning. It must be Fitz, she thought with agony: could he have been wounded in Siberia?
She hurried out to the hall but Grout got there first. She realized with a guilty start that she had forgotten to give the staff permission to go to bed.
“I will inquire whether Lady Maud is at home, my lord,” Grout said into the apparatus. He covered the mouthpiece with his hand and said to Maud: “Lord Remarc at the War Office, my lady.”
She took the phone from Grout and said: “It is Fitz? Is he hurt?”
“No, no,” said Johnny. “Calm down. It’s good news. The Germans have accepted the armistice terms.”
“Oh, Johnny, thank God!”
“They’re all in the forest of Compiegne, north of Paris, on two trains in a railway siding. The Germans have just gone into the dining car of the French train. They’re ready to sign.”
“But they haven’t signed yet?”
“No, not yet. They’re quibbling about the wording.”
“Johnny, will you phone me again when they’ve signed? I shan’t go to bed tonight.”
“I will. Good-bye.”
Maud gave the handset back to the butler. “The war may end tonight, Grout.”
“I’m very happy to hear it, my lady.”
“But you should go to bed.”
“With your ladyship’s permission, I’d like to stay up until Lord Remarc telephones again.”
“Of course.”
“Would you like some more tea, my lady?”
The Aberowen Pals arrived in Omsk early in the morning.
Billy would always remember every detail of the four-thousand-mile journey along the Trans-Siberian Railway from Vladivostok. It had taken twenty-three days, even with an armed sergeant posted in the locomotive to make sure the driver and fireman kept maximum speed. Billy was cold all the way: the stove in the center of the railcar hardly took the chill off the Siberian mornings. They lived on black bread and bully beef. But Billy found every day a revelation.
He had not known there were places in the world as beautiful as Lake Baikal. The lake was longer from one end to the other than Wales, Captain Evans told them. From the speeding train they watched the sun rise over the still blue water, lighting the tops of the mile-high mountains on the far side, the snow turning to gold on the peaks.
All his life he would cherish the memory of an endless caravan of camels alongside the railway line, the laden beasts plodding patiently through the snow, ignoring the twentieth century as it hurtled past them in a clash of iron and a shriek of steam. I’m a bloody long way from Aberowen, he thought at that moment.
But the most memorable incident was a visit to a high school in Chita. The train stopped there for two days
