I put a rug over her and wondered when we would see each other again. I loved her, and I feared for her. I wondered if this was what it felt like to be a sister. Not a comrade – I knew I wasn’t that – but a flesh-and-blood sister. Like Rosfrith and Elsie. Like Ditte and Beth. I watched the breath go in and out of her, watched her eyes twitch. I tried to imagine what she was dreaming.
When the day shone pale through the front windows, I heard the gate sing.
The Oxford Times ran the story of Rough’s Boathouse. The fire brigade could do nothing to stop it burning to the ground and estimated the damage bill to be more than three thousand pounds. No one was hurt, it said, but four women had been seen fleeing: three in a punt, and one on foot. None had been caught, but it was generally suspected they were suffragettes, following the distribution of pamphlets targeting rowing clubs for their objection to women joining the sport. The act of arson signalled an escalation in their campaign. In a show of concern and opposition to militancy, Oxford’s established suffrage organisations had already condemned the act and were collecting money for the workmen who had been laid off because of it.
When Mrs Murray came into the Scriptorium the next day with a collection jar, I gave all the change I had.
‘Very generous of you, Esme,’ she said, shaking the jar. ‘An example to the gentlemen of the sorting table.’
Da looked in my direction and smiled, proud and oblivious.
I never said goodbye to Da. When they took him from the house, one side of his face had collapsed, and he couldn’t speak. I kissed him and said I would follow with pyjamas and the book that was beside his bed. His eyes were desperate as I babbled on.
I changed his sheets and put the vase of yellow roses I’d arranged for my room on his bedside table. I picked up his book, The Getting of Wisdom. ‘An Australian novel,’ Da had said. ‘About a bright young woman; it’s hard to believe a man wrote it. I think you would like it very much.’ We might have talked more, but I couldn’t. Australian. I’d made an excuse and left the table.
When I arrived at the Radcliffe Infirmary, they told me he was gone.
Gone. I thought. It was wholly inadequate.
Gareth hauled a mattress up the narrow stairs to Lizzie’s room, and I slept there until the funeral. Lizzie collected what I needed from the house so I wouldn’t have to face its emptiness, but I couldn’t help thinking of her going from room to room, checking all was well. In my mind, I followed her from the front door, saw her collect the post and pause as she wondered what to do with it. I suspected she would protect me from whatever the letters might contain be leaving them on the hall table.
I didn’t want to go any further, but Lizzie, I knew, would pop her head into the sitting room, then the dining room that we never used. She would walk through to the kitchen and wash the dirty dishes. She would test that the windows were firmly shut and check the locks on every door. Then she would put her hand on the banister at the bottom of the stairs and cast her eyes to the top. She would pause, take a deep breath and begin her ascent. She got a little heavier every year, and this had become her habit. I’d seen it a thousand times as I followed her up her own staircase.
I wanted it to stop, but I had no more control of my thoughts than of the weather. I imagined her searching my wardrobe for a black dress, and my weeping began. Then I remembered the roses beside Da’s bed. Lizzie would find them drooping. She’d pick up the vase to take it downstairs, and she’d wonder whether Da had had the pleasure of seeing them at their best before he was taken to Radcliffe.
I wanted the flowers to stay. Not to rot, but to stay, slightly wilting, for eternity.
May 5th, 1913
My dear Esme,
I will arrive in Oxford the day after tomorrow, and I will not leave your side the whole time I am there. We shall hold each other up. You will, of course, have to shake the hands of a lot of well-meaning people and listen to stories of your father’s kindness (there will be many), but at the right time I will lead you away from the sandwiches and the well-wishers, and we will wander along Castle Mill Stream until we get to Walton Bridge. Harry loved that spot; it’s where he proposed to Lily.
This is no time to be strong, my dear girl. Harry was father and mother to you, and his passing will leave you feeling lost. My own father was very dear to me, and I know a little of how your heart must ache. Let it ache.
My father still echoes in my mind whenever I need good counsel; I suspect yours will do the same in time. In the interim, make the most of that young man you have become so attached to. ‘Lily would like him very much,’ Harry said in his last letter. Did he ever tell you? There could be no higher blessing.
I expect you are camping in Lizzie’s room. I will go straight to Sunnyside from the train.
All my love,
Ditte
As promised, Ditte led me away from all the well-wishers. We didn’t say goodbye; we just walked into the garden, past the Scriptorium and out onto the Banbury Road. On St Margaret’s Road, I
