A Mad, Wicked Folly

by Sharon Biggs Waller

  Lucy leaned casually against the railings, as though she didn’t have a worry in the world. “Working women and women in the home are in special need of the vote’s protection. After all, legislation interferes with our interests just as much as, or maybe even more than, it does with men’s.”

  A burly constable with muttonchop whiskers reached the scene first. He stepped in front of Lucy, blocking the crowd’s view of her. “All right, that will be enough,” he said. “So your leader’s done a bunk and left you to it, eh, lass?” He took hold of the chain and rattled it against the railing, pulling at it to test its strength. His eyes traveled the length of the chain to where it ended under Lucy’s coat. “Unlock this tackle now, there’s a good girl.”

  Lucy slid away, as far the chain would allow, to the next section of railing. “As I was saying, we want the government to remove the sex disability which deprives qualified women of their just right to vote on the same terms enjoyed by men.”

  The constable shifted back in front of her. “Enough with that codswallop! I’ll ask you one more time. Unlock the tackle.”

  She wagged her finger, smiling prettily at him. “Don’t be rude. I haven’t finished my speech.”

  But Lucy’s humor had no effect on the constable; in fact it appeared to stoke some fury within him. He towered over her, his face filled with hatred, and I wondered for a moment if he would strike her. Lucy’s calm demeanor cracked. She took another step away, but there was no slack remaining in the chain.

  “If you won’t give us the key, we’ll just take the chain off you!” he said. “I know you’ve a belt buckled round you underneath your kit. Think I won’t strip you starkers to get to it? Is that what you want? ’Cause that’s what’ll happen.” He grabbed her hips and his huge fingers fumbled with the dainty feminine buttons on her skirt.

  How could the police do this? I looked around wildly. Would no one come to her aid? But the men in the crowd who had been held captive by Lucy’s humor turned coat once again, laughing and shouting out bawdy suggestions.

  “Let go, you big gorilla!” Lucy twisted, trying hard to free herself. The constable gave up on being gentle. He jerked the placket open; the buttons pinged onto the ground like hailstones, revealing the ends of the chain latched into rings on a wide canvas belt.

  The young constable I had been drawing arrived. “Excuse me,” I said. And for the second time that day, I took hold of a man’s arm.

  He glanced at me, shook his head slightly, and gestured for me to move back.

  I didn’t budge. “That man is a beast!” I said. I pointed my pencil at the burly constable. “He should be struck off the force, handling a woman so. It’s not to be borne!”

  “Please step back, miss,” he replied, firmer this time. He put his hand on the constable’s shoulder. “Leave off, Catchpole. No need for that. Let’s give her a chance to find the key.”

  Lucy looked relieved to see the young constable. I saw them exchange a small look of recognition. I was right, he was the constable I had seen that day at Parliament.

  “Are you daft, Fletcher? She’s got no key.” Catchpole shrugged off his hand. “Our orders are to move the women along and arrest those who don’t leave. And that’s what I’m about.”

  “No need to humiliate her in the doing,” Fletcher said. His voice remained calm, even friendly, but there was a tinge of warning to it.

  Catchpole let go, and Lucy turned away and fumbled with the remains of her skirt. She was trembling, but her mouth was set hard.

  “We have to move them along, you know that,” Catchpole was saying to the other constable, who looked like he didn’t care, one way or the other. “No obstructions to the pathway.” His face was red and he was breathing hard. He eyed Lucy like a hungry wolf yearning to finish his freshly caught meal.

  “But not this way,” Police Constable Fletcher said. “Look, we’ll have the hacksaws at work soon. She’ll be loose in a trice.”

  Catchpole scowled. “Always thought you was one of them. Honorary suffragette, are you? Be wearing a skirt next if you’re not careful.”

  The insults seemed to slide over the young constable.

  “Are you all right, Lucy?” I said.

  She paused in her repair of her skirt and glared at me. “This isn’t tea with the queen. I’ll tell you again, go home!”

  And I don’t know who it was, but right at that moment, someone pushed me so hard that I flung my arms out to catch my balance. My sketchbook and pencil flew out of my hands. At the same time PC Fletcher turned toward me. And I swear I did not mean to—I was only trying to stop from falling headlong—but I stumbled forward, fetched up against his chest, and wrapped my arms around his waist.

  The next thing I knew, he toppled to the ground, with me on top of him. That would have been humiliating enough, but the force of the fall was so great that my forehead clonked against PC Fletcher’s chin with a loud whomp. Stars dazzled in front of my eyes.

  “Uhhhh.” PC Fletcher let out a groan.

  I tried to get off of him, but my skirts had whipped round my legs, and the more I struggled, the more I seemed to make matters worse. I had never been in such intimate contact with a man before, and if I could have sprouted wings and flown off of him, I would have done so immediately.

  “Will you pack it in?” he said. “I don’t wish to be rude, but you’re jabbing me in a very painful area.”

  “Well, this is no picnic for me either!”

  “I feel as though a tree has fallen on me.”

  “Oh, thank you very much.” I scowled.

  And then he smiled. And as he did so, his whole being lit up with good nature. It was as though having someone dropped on top of him was simply all in a day’s work. One hand settled on my arm, as if he were walking alongside me in the park. I could feel the heat of his hand through the silk sleeve of my coat and I found I liked it. I liked it much more than was strictly proper, and I felt my body melt against him a little. His face was only inches from mine, and up close he was even more handsome. His eyes were an unusual shade: dark gold flecked with sage green, encircled by a border of evergreen. They would have been heaven to paint.

  At that moment, rough hands grabbed me round the waist, jerked me off the constable, and stood me on my feet. I stepped forward to pick up my sketchbook but I could not. I was held fast by two of the other constables. Without wasting any time, they began to march me toward the van.

  “Let me go!” I jammed the heels of my boots against the ground, but they didn’t care one bit; they dragged me along. I craned my neck and saw PC Fletcher back on his feet. My sketchbook was on the ground near him.

  “Attacking an officer of the law is bad enough, lass. I wouldn’t add resisting arrest to it,” one of them said.

  I jerked my head around. My heart began to beat in a wild tattoo. “You’re arresting me? No! Someone pushed me.”

  “Tell it to the judge.”

  “At least, please get my book. I beg you.” But they would not hear me.

  We drew closer to the back of the van and I could see inside. It was lined with boxes, which looked like coffins standing on their ends, with only a little barred window in the top of each one.

  “Welcome to the Black Maria, lass,” one of the constables said.

  Seven

  The Black Maria

  I COULD NOT GO in there. I went dotty in confined spaces. Always had done. I could not help it.

  A constable waiting inside reached out for me. When the other two lifted me up, I pulled my legs up and planted my boots on either side of the van door, not caring that my skirt flipped up nearly to my hips.

  Panic swelled inside me, and I was having trouble focusing. Everything blurred in front of my eyes, skewing objects into splotches of color like one of Monet’s paintings.

  “Lord’s sake.” The constable on my right swore. “It’s
like trying to shove a horse though a keyhole.”

  “She’s a live one, I’ll give her that,” the other replied.

  The constable inside the van grabbed my ankles, yanking them off the door and scraping my right calf painfully as he pulled me in. “Makes a change from the usual thugs we get. At least she smells good,” he said.

  The men laughed.

  The door to one of the coffins squeaked open and I was shoved inside it. The door slammed shut and a key turned in the lock. The coffin smelled of vomit and sweat, and something soft squished underneath my boot.

  There was barely enough room to turn around, not enough to even to lift my arms up, so I leaned back and kicked at the door. “Let me out of here!” Great heaving sobs that started in my chest rose up into my throat, and I thought I might be sick. I kicked the door again. “Let me out . . . somebody!”

  The van tilted as someone else stepped inside. I stood on tiptoes and looked through the window. Catchpole was pushing Lucy forward.

  “Lucy!” I shouted. But Lucy took no notice of me. They bundled her into the last coffin and locked it. I kicked the door again and again. I would bloody well kick it down if they didn’t hear me.

  “You’re only making things worse for yourself.”

  A pair of familiar eyes regarded me through the bars. It was PC Fletcher.

  “Tell them I didn’t attack you,” I said, trying hard to keep from shrieking. “Tell them someone pushed me! You know that’s the truth.”

  “We’ll sort everything when we get to Cannon Row Police Station. I’m sure they’ll release you to your father.”

  My father? Oh, no . . . no, no, no. “There’s no reason for me to go there.” My voice rose in desperation. “Please open the door. I can’t bear it in here.”

  “Just try to calm yourself,” he said gently.

  “At least tell me, did you pick up my sketchbook? I know you saw it there.”

  Someone shouted out his name, and PC Fletcher turned to leave.

  “Please get my book!” I shouted after him, with no idea if he heard me or not. I banged the door with my fist and slumped back against the wall.

  And then the van began to move, pitching me against the side of the coffin. The horses’ heavy hooves clopped against the road, and the van’s wheels rattled. The bells of Big Ben rang out the half hour.

  “Well, Queenie”—Lucy finally spoke—“looks like you’re a suffragette now.”

  I DIDN’T KNOW which was worst: the fear of being enclosed in the Black Maria, the dread of my parents’ finding out about yet another scandal, or the loss of my precious sketchbook. If that police constable had just let me out, it would have all been fine. I could have found my book and then gone on my way. No harm done. But no, he couldn’t be a gentleman. And I certainly doubted he retrieved my book like I asked him to.

  “The next time someone tells you to scarper, I bet you’ll listen, Queenie,” Lucy called out.

  “My name is not Queenie!” I snapped, outraged that she would address me with such mockery.

  A light rain began to fall; I could hear the drops against the roof of the van. I pictured my sketchbook lying on the pavement, pages fluttering in the wind, drops of water plopping onto the charcoal, smearing my sketches until they were nothing but wet ashes on blotting paper. Work I’d been compiling for months, gone.

  What would I submit to the RCA now? My childhood drawings? Without my sketchbook, I had no chance at a scholarship. I wouldn’t even get past the application process without work to show.

  No doubt about it, the loss of the sketchbook was the worst. I leaned my forehead against the door and tried to work out how my life had gone so wrong in such a short space of time.

  Maybe there was a chance that my sketch pad was still there. Whether it was ruined or not, I could not let it lie there, abandoned, for some street sweeper to gather up along with the horse manure and cigarette stubs. Perhaps I could salvage something of it. As soon as the judge let me free, I would go back.

  THE VAN STOPPED with a jolt, and Catchpole and the others brought us out of the coffins and into the station.

  I glanced around, and dread rose inside me. PC Fletcher, the only one who could vouch for my innocence and be believed, was nowhere around. Certainly no one would listen to Lucy.

  Lucy and I stood in front of the police-court judge, a hugely fat man with a doughy face that looked like it hadn’t seen the sun in years.

  “Not you again?” he said to Lucy. “Haven’t you learned your lesson yet? Why don’t you go back to America and do us all a favor, eh?” Then he lifted his chin at me. “And you. Assaulting an officer can get you three years in Holloway.”

  My heart began to pound alarmingly, the feeling of panic rising again at the mere thought of being held in a prison cell. “There seems to be a misunderstanding,” I said. “I wasn’t even with the suffragettes. I was simply drawing them for my own pleasure. And then someone pushed me and I fell on the police constable.”

  The judge regarded me with a dubious expression as I protested my innocence. Then his gaze traveled down and landed on the lapel of my coat. “You weren’t with them, you say?” He jabbed a finger at my lapel. “Then why are you wearing one of their badges?”

  The pin! The ruddy suffrage pin that Lucy had put on me! My mouth opened, but I could not think of a word to say.

  The judge leaned back in his chair. “Well?”

  “I hung that on her,” Lucy said. “As a prank. She’s right. She’s got nothing to do with us.”

  The judge harrumphed.

  “That’s a load of old pony.” Catchpole stepped up. “She was in Fletcher’s face as soon as he arrived, then she tackled him so he wouldn’t take this un’s skirt off to get to the chain.”

  I gasped. “You lying toad! You know full well you’re the one who tried to take her skirt off.” I turned to the judge. “He did. He said he’d strip her naked, too. He’s a menace!”

  “If you were drawing, where’s your art book?” the judge asked.

  “I dropped it. I’d hoped one of your constables picked it up for me.”

  The judge leaned forward, his chair creaking beneath his bulk. “Listen to me carefully, miss. I very much doubt that you were simply drawing. If you were, then why didn’t you get out of the way when the constables arrived?”

  What a stupid thing for the man to ask. “Because I wanted to draw. As I said.” I caught sight of Lucy, who was shaking her head. Shut it, she mouthed.

  “You wanted to draw the police?” the judge said, glaring at me. “That doesn’t seem innocent. Care to explain?”

  “Explain?” I said, a feeling of doom settling over me. I should have just said I couldn’t get away, that I was trapped in the crowd. But no, once again I was my own worst enemy. “Um . . .”

  Then PC Fletcher came in, shaking raindrops off his tunic. Just as I thought, there was no sketchbook in his hands.

  “Hell have you been?” Catchpole said.

  “Witness report. I walked back.”

  “She’s claiming she’s not with the suffragettes,” the judge said. “Said she was drawing. Know anything about that?”

  PC Fletcher turned around slowly and looked at me, his jaw set hard. Disgust flickered in his eyes. “Well, I don’t know anything about drawing, but someone pushed her, sir. I can vouch for that.”

  I met his gaze with a cold look of my own. Liar! He’d seen me drawing. He knew he had. The words to tell him off were right there, ready to burst forth, but I caught Lucy shaking her head again, this time vehemently, so I didn’t. But oh, it took everything I had to hold back.

  “Wouldn’t believe a word coming from him.” Catchpole jabbed a thumb at PC Fletcher. “Always helpin’ them out. On the take, he is.”

  PC Fletcher frowned at him. “Shut it, will you?”

  Catchpole shrugge
d.

  “I’d give anything to get home to my tea on time, just for once. I’ll tell you that for nothing.” The judge cupped his chin in his hand. “I suppose you don’t want to pay the fine for obstruction,” he said to Lucy.

  “Not a chance.”

  “I’m not surprised. Looking for a news story, are you?” He sighed. “You lot will do anything for publicity.”

  “We’re fighting for our rights, sir. Rebellion is a natural reaction to repression for any human being, male or female. If our action makes front-page news and gains sympathy for our cause, then that’s the icing on the cake.”

  “I don’t need the lecture, miss. Two weeks in Holloway.” He slanted his head at Catchpole. “Take her in.”

  Lucy shot me one more warning look and then went off with Catchpole. She looked so tiny and vulnerable walking alongside the burly constable, but her back was straight and her stride unfaltering.

  The judge turned his attention back to me. “What’s your name?”

  I held my breath. If I said Darling, he’d probably ask if I was related to Darling & Son Sanitary Company, and then, I was sure, one thing would lead to the next and my father would be in the know. “It’s . . . Victoria. Victoria Smith.”

  Fletcher glanced at me and frowned. What in heaven’s name was his problem?

  “Well, Miss Smith,” the judge said. “Most suffragettes are fighting to get into jail, not out of it. So I’m inclined to believe your story. But if I see you here again, I won’t be so generous. I’m releasing you to PC Fletcher, who will escort you home. You’re lucky the missus has sausage plait and plum duff on for tea, or I might not be so generous. Off you go, then. Make sure she gets home, Fletcher.”

  “Yes, governor.” PC Fletcher took my elbow and led me out of the room.

  Once we were out of the judge’s sight, I yanked my arm out of his grasp.

  He held his hands up. “Sorry.”

  I strode in front of him and out into the rain. I had no umbrella but I didn’t care.

  “Wait a mo’.” PC Fletcher popped into the station and came out with an umbrella. “No sense catching a chill.” He snapped it up, holding it over both our heads. I stepped out of the umbrella’s shelter. I didn’t want to stand so close to him. I was too angry.