John Boyne - The Absolutist

“Of course you do. I seem to keep putting my foot in it, don’t I?”

“It’s very difficult for women, Tristan,” she explained, leaning forwards. “Perhaps you don’t fully realize that. You’re a man, after all. You have it easy.”

“You believe that, do you?”

“That it’s difficult for women?”

“That I have it easy.”

She sighed and gave a noncommittal shrug. “Well, I don’t know you, of course. I can’t speak for your particular circumstances. But trust me, things are not as difficult for you as they are for us.”

“The last five years might make a lie of that statement.”

Now it was her turn to blush. “Yes, of course you’re right,” she said. “But leave the war aside for a moment and examine our situation. The way in which women are treated in this country is almost unbearable. And, by the way, don’t you think that half of us would have gladly fought alongside the men in the trenches had we been allowed? I know I would have been out there like a shot.”

“I sometimes think that it’s wiser to leave action and discussion to men.”

She stared at me; she could not have looked more surprised had I jumped on the tabletop and burst into a rendition of “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said coldly.

“No,” I said, laughing now. “Those aren’t my words. They’re from Howards End . Have you read Forster?”

“No,” she replied, shaking her head. “And I shan’t if that’s the type of rot he comes out with. He sounds like a most objectionable sort.”

“Only it’s a woman who utters the line, Marian. Mrs. Wilcox says it at a lunch thrown in her honour. Rather appals the company, if I remember correctly.”

“I told you I don’t read modern novels, Tristan,” she said. “Leave the action and discussion to men, indeed! I never heard such a thing. This Mrs. Wilton—”

“Wilcox.”

“Wilton, Wilcox, whatever she calls herself. She betrays her sex with such a statement.”

“Then you wouldn’t like what she says next.”

“Go on, then. Scandalize me.”

“I won’t be able to remember it exactly right. But it’s something to the effect that there are strong arguments against the suffrage. She remarks that she is only too thankful not to have the vote herself.”

“Extraordinary,” said Marian, shaking her head. “I’m appalled, Tristan. I’m frankly appalled.”

“Well, she dies shortly after this speech so her views go to the grave with her.”

“What does she die of?”

“Unpopular opinions, I suppose.”

“Like my brother.”

I remained silent, refusing to acknowledge the remark, and she held my gaze for a long time before turning away and allowing her face to relax.

“I was involved in the suffrage movement myself, you know,” she said after a while.

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” I replied, smiling at her. “What did you do?”

“Oh, nothing very substantial. Went on marches, posted leaflets through letter boxes, that sort of thing. I never tied myself to the railings of the Houses of Parliament or stood outside Asquith’s house, crying for equality. My father would never have allowed it, for one thing. Although he believed in the movement, he believed in it very strongly. But he has a great conviction that one must retain one’s dignity, too.”

“Well, you got your way in the end,” I said. “The vote has been granted.”

“The vote has not been granted, Tristan,” she replied tartly. “I don’t have a vote. And I won’t have until I’m thirty. And even then only if I’m a householder. Or am married to one. Or possess a university degree. But you do already and you’re younger than I am. Now, does that strike you as fair?”

“Of course it doesn’t,” I said. “In fact, I wanted to publish a treatise on that very thing, written by a man, if you can believe it, pointing out the inequality of the suffrage. It was remarkably salient and would have a caused a stir, I’m sure of it.”

“And did you publish it?”

“No,” I admitted. “Mr. Pynton would have nothing to do with it. He’s not modern, you see.”

“Well, there we are, then. You have your rights, ours are still to be won. Astonishing how everyone is willing to go abroad to fight for the rights of foreigners while having such little concern for those of their own countrymen at home. But look, I’d better shut up about all this. If I get started on the inequalities that we simply accept without question in this country then we could be here all afternoon.”

“I’m in no hurry,” I said, and she appeared to appreciate the sentiment, for she smiled at me and reached across to pat my hand, leaving hers atop mine for longer than necessary.

“Is something wrong?” she asked me a moment later.

“No,” I said, taking my hand away. “Why do you ask?”

“You looked suddenly upset, that’s all.”

I shook my head and turned to look out of the window. The truth was that the touch of her hand on mine put me so much in mind of Will that it was a little overwhelming. I could see a lot of him in her face, of course. Particularly in her expressions, the way she turned her head at times and smiled, the dimples that suddenly rose in her cheeks, but I had never realized that touch could be a common thread in families, too. Or was I fooling myself? Was it simply something that I was ascribing to her out of my sheer desire to feel close to Will again and atone for my actions?

“It must be very rewarding,” I said finally, facing her again.

“What must be?”

“Helping the soldiers. The ones who are suffering.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” she replied, considering it. “Look, this is an awful thing to say, but I feel such resentment towards so many of them. Does that make sense? When they talk of what they’ve been through or when they speak of loyalty in the ranks and their sense of comradeship, it makes me want to scream so loudly that sometimes I have to leave the room.”

“But there was loyalty,” I said, protesting. “Why would you think otherwise? And there was, at times, an almost overwhelming sense of comradeship. It could be quite suffocating.”

“And where was comradeship when they did what they did to my brother?” she snapped, her eyes filling with the same rage that provoked her, I imagined, to march out of those nursing wards or consulting rooms, controlling her fury. “Where was comradeship when they lined him up against a wall and turned their rifles on him?”

“Don’t,” I begged, placing a hand across my eyes, hoping that to close them would banish the images from my mind. “Please, Marian.” The sudden rush of words produced terrible memories that sliced through my body.

“I’m sorry,” she said quietly, surprised perhaps by how violently I had reacted against this. “But you can’t blame me for feeling that there are double standards in those supposed bands of brothers. Anyway, there’s no point in pursuing this. You stood by him to the very end, I know. I can see how upset you become whenever I mention his death. Of course, you were close. Tell me, did you hit it off immediately, the two of you?”

“Yes,” I said, smiling now at the memory. “Yes, we had the same sense of humour, I think. And we had the bunks next to each other, so naturally we formed an alliance.”

“Poor you,” she replied, smiling, too.

“Why so?”

“Because my brother was many things,” she said, “but clean was not one of them. I remember before he went over there going into his room in the mornings to wake him and nearly fainting from the stench. What is it with you boys and your terrible smells?”