The Suffragette's Secret

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  Grace picked up her walking cane and calmly left her bedroom. The injury sustained to her right leg on Downing Street had still to heal and navigating the three flights of stairs was a painful undertaking.

  ‘Grace, Cecil’s here for you!’ Olivia yelled up.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ she called back. ‘Tell him to pop back in a few hours, by which time I’ll be there.’

  She reached the final flight of stairs and saw him waiting at the bottom, cradling the red roses.

  ‘Hello, Grace. How are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Better, thank you,’ she answered. ‘I won’t be joining the circus acrobatics team anytime soon, though.’

  ‘I got you these from the market,’ he said, offering the flowers.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, touched. It was another first for her—nobody had ever bought her flowers before. ‘I’ll put them in water. Tea?’

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble. Do you need a hand?’

  Grace nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  Under Grace’s guidance, Cecil placed the flowers in a vase of water and made two cups of tea, which he carried out to the terrace at the rear of the house.

  Outside, the sun was high and hot, beating down onto the large parasol raised above a white cast-iron table and set of four chairs. Cecil pulled one of the chairs out for Grace to sit upon.

  She nodded her gratitude, simultaneously hating feeling like an invalid but all the while grateful for the assistance. Cecil sat opposite her and perched his elbows on the table.

  ‘Is the leg getting any better?’ he asked.

  ‘Slowly,’ she answered. ‘The doctor is hopeful that I’ll eventually make a full recovery. How are you?’

  Cecil shrugged. ‘I’m still trying to find a new job.’

  Grace frowned as she poured the tea. ‘You really shouldn’t have resigned on my account, Cecil—but thank you.’

  ‘It was the least I could do,’ he said. ‘I hope it helped.’

  More than you can know, she thought, sipping her tea. Much more. ‘It was very good of you—it did indeed help to know that there was a friend just a stone’s throw away.’

  ‘Are you ready to talk about it, yet?’ he asked. ‘Prison, I mean.’

  She hadn’t spoken to anyone about it in any detail—she couldn’t. To retell it would be like revisiting an awful, dark, atrocious nightmare. At night-time, her brain seemed to delight in scavenging through the bones of her memories, replaying the most harrowing parts of her time there over and over, like a vivid projection from a Victorian magic lantern. When people had enquired about what had happened she had tended to gloss over the prison sentence and regale them with tales of the Downing Street escapade. She drank more tea and placed down the cup. As she did so, she caught the earnestness in his face; he wasn’t asking for the tittle-tattle, he was asking so that he understood her, fully, completely. Could she trust him with everything—her whole past?

  ‘You don’t have to talk about it,’ he added upon seeing her reticence. ‘Only if you want to—it might help?’

  ‘It was hard,’ she began. ‘The cells were small, dark and ill-ventilated. There were lice on the damp mattress. We were forcibly searched, weighed and medically-examined at the whim of the wardress and doctor. We were allowed little exercise and nothing to read nor to occupy our minds. We tried singing and telling stories to keep our spirits up. And of course, we were absolutely starving hungry. Do you know what it takes to refuse a mug of cocoa and some bread and cheese when you haven’t eaten a single thing in two days and it’s placed down on the cell floor in front of you? Just the smell of it…’

  It was a rhetorical question but Cecil shook his head. ‘I can’t imagine,’ he mumbled.

  ‘It was my own choice, of course: I could have eaten it and, on several occasions nearly did, but at that point it felt like running a race and giving up just before the finish line. We’d done so much. We made the national press,’ she said with a wry smile. ‘I knocked on Number 10 Downing Street and hit the Prime Minister: not many women from the workhouse can say that, now, can they?’

  Cecil returned her smile. ‘No, I don’t suppose they can.’

  ‘Being force-fed was…’ She couldn’t quite find the words: ‘…it was inhumane, barbaric, mediaeval…torture, really. Having a doctor shove a rubber tube down your throat—a tube not washed or sanitised from the last person—was just…’

  Cecil leant over and touched her arm. ‘You don’t need to carry on, Grace. Maybe it’s better forgotten?’

  ‘I’ll never forget it; not ever,’ she said, touching his hand with hers. ‘Do you know what the worst part was, though?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘The special cells. Dark, damp and cold. The singing stopped. A single day felt like a month. Hours and hours were spent staring at the walls. By the end of it, I came to know the lines, contours and cracks of each and every brick like those of my own palms. Loneliness and despair came hand-in-hand. The one thing that helped me through it, that made me believe that it would all be worth it in the end, was the light across the street.’

  Cecil was taken aback and his eyes moistened.

  ‘Even when I was moved and could no longer see it, it was there in my mind. You were there—not banging drums and shouting propaganda—just waiting for me. Thank you.’

  Cecil wiped his eyes. ‘Goodness, you’re making me look a complete sissy.’

  Grace laughed and squeezed his hand.

  ‘Will you carry on?’ he asked.

  ‘Until my leg improves, I’m limited to letter-writing and speeches. I’m back on the promenade next Saturday if you want to come and listen.’

  ‘I might just do that,’ he grinned. ‘Have you heard about the big meeting tomorrow night at the Brighton Pavilion?’

  Grace shook her head and frowned. ‘Tomorrow? Are you sure? Minnie or someone from the WSPU would surely have said something. I don’t know anything about it.’

  ‘No, it’s an anti-suffrage meeting: the Brighton branch of the National League for Opposing Women’s Suffrage. There’s to be a march to the Pavilion where Mrs Wild is going to speak.’

  ‘Oh, golly!’ Grace muttered, sitting bolt upright. She had to be at that meeting. ‘That awful man’s wife.’

  ‘Why do you hate him so, Grace?’ Cecil asked.

  ‘The way he treats women,’ she answered. ‘Every woman in his life—family, servants and in his big factory—they’re all treated like third-class citizens. He needs bringing down a peg or two. Will you come to the meeting with me tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course, I will.’

  Grace sighed and squeezed his hand again. Inside her heart an unknown warm sensation began to smoulder. ‘Perhaps afterwards we could have a walk and a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’d like that very much,’ he replied. ‘Maybe this time you’ll stay long enough to let me finish my drink?’

  ‘Don’t push your luck, Cecil Barwise.’

  A deep rage gathered inside Grace, as she used her walking cane to step out of the taxi motor-car. A large crowd—maybe up to one hundred people, predominantly men—was gathering under the clock tower, just across the street from the WSPU office in the town centre. The gall of it! Their appearances revealed them to have largely come from the working classes. Didn’t they know better? Grace questioned. They, too would benefit from universal suffrage. The anger began to bubble up at the stupidity of what she was seeing. Someone on the other side of the crowd, out of Grace’s sight, began to corral the men into lines. A brass band struck up with the opening bars of an unfamiliar tune.

  The taxi pulled away and Grace was left alone on the pavement, feeling decidedly vulnerable. She straightened her sash around her and raised the wooden placard. ‘Votes for women!’ she shouted.

  A sea of choleric faces turned in her direction. The jeers began.

  ‘Votes for women!’ Grace shouted. ‘Votes for all!’

  ‘Votes for dogs!’ one of the men shouted back. ‘Votes for cats
!’

  ‘Votes for flour!’ one of them laughed, rushing up to Grace and emptying a bag of flour over her head.

  She swung her placard round to swipe the juvenile delinquent but he was too fast and ducked down before scurrying back to the pack of laughing men.

  Grace shook herself down like a wet dog, then combed her fingers through her hair to pull some of the flour free. Two hair pins tumbled to the ground, bringing with them a lock of hair from her previously neat pompadour.

  Something hard suddenly struck her on the right temple. She yelped and dropped the placard, realising, as she raised her hand to touch the point of impact, that it had been a rotten egg, its green viscous contents now dribbling down the side of her face.

  ‘Anyone got any milk? Turn her into a cake!’ one of them yelled.

  ‘Votes for cakes!’ another called.

  ‘How utterly moronic and cowardly,’ Grace shouted. ‘With bovine men like you lot running this country, it’s little wonder we’re such a backward-looking nation. Our empire is built on the stupidity of idiots like you.’

  The men sneered but appeared to have lost interest in her now; they were being galvanised, ready to march along North Road towards the Pavilion.

  Pulling out a handkerchief, Grace wiped as much of the egg from her face as she could. The foul stench of decay, however, remained like a malodourous tattoo. Inside, she was trembling with anger, but the last thing that she was going to do was give up. She crossed the street just as the march began and stood directly in their path, holding her placard high. ‘Votes for women!’ she yelled, as the band guided the baying group towards her.

  Another egg struck her on the chin.

  ‘Votes for women!’

  The band were level with her, the pumping brass tones juddering in her ears.

  Another bag of flour was emptied over her head, gluing to the foul egg trails that coursed down her face and dress.

  ‘Votes for women! Votes for all—even the working men!’ she chanted.

  As the group surged past her, elbows were rammed into her side. Someone punched her in the stomach, sending her to the ground. Grace pulled herself into the foetal position, as the men stepped over her. She yelped out in pain when a heavy boot crushed down on the ankle of her bad leg. She looked up and saw the perpetrator, Mr Francis Wild standing over her with his arms folded, continuing to hold his boot on her ankle. He laughed, removed his foot and continued marching.

  Within seconds, the crowd had passed: the jeering, the shouts and the noisy band were fading behind her. She sat herself up and glanced around. Her placard was destroyed but her walking cane had survived.

  ‘Do you want a hand, lady?’ a young lad asked from the pavement. ‘You’ll get hit by a carriage, if you ain’t careful.’

  Fearful of where his allegiances lay, Grace shook her head.

  The lad shrugged and walked away. ‘Suit yourself.’

  Pulling herself up onto her cane, she hobbled to the side of the road and examined her ankle. It was red, swollen and painful. ‘Damn that bastard man,’ she seethed. He would get what was coming to him. She shook off as much of the egg and flour as she could before straightening herself out and standing tall again.

  Slowly, Grace ambled down North Road, the distant sound of brass guiding her forwards. She walked as fast as her bad leg—and now bad ankle—would carry her. But it was slow progress. At this rate, the meeting would be all over and done with by the time she got there.

  At last, the distinctive grand minarets of the Brighton Pavilion came into view. The building was in the Indo-Saracenic style and, with its pendentive decorations, balconies and arches, always appeared to Grace so incongruous with the rest of the town’s buildings. She would never have imagined such a building being constructed in Brighton, but rather plucked from some exotic Arabian land and dropped into the centre of the town.

  Grace hobbled on towards the entrance. A short line of diversely attired men and women fed in through the open doors. She spotted Cecil standing outside, his eyes anxiously searching the crowds. He saw her.

  ‘What on earth’s happened to you?’ he begged, running over to her, his eyes running up and down the length of her body.

  ‘The latest fashion,’ Grace answered with a smile, as she ruffled her hair, sending a veil of flour down in front of her face. ‘Did you not get the telegram that you had to come covered in half the ingredients of a Victoria sponge?’

  Cecil was unsmiling. ‘It’s not funny. Let me get you a taxi back home.’

  Grace shook her head. ‘After the meeting—by all means—that would be much appreciated. But, right now, I’m going inside there,’ she said, raising her cane to the entrance.

  Cecil sighed, threaded his arm through hers and together they joined the end of the line of people queueing to enter the building. The line moved quickly and they found themselves at the doors of the Banqueting Room, where a fat policeman extended his arm in front of them.

  ‘Not going to have any trouble, are we?’ he bellowed at Grace.

  She smiled sweetly and touched her hair, dusting her shoulders sending up another cloud of white powder. ‘Heavens above, no.’

  He nodded and they proceeded inside. The policeman shut the street doors behind them.

  Grace gasped at the spectacle. The room was dramatic, elaborately decorated like a royal palace: rich colours, domes, canopies and canvases showing Chinese domestic scenes adorned every wall. Dominating the room, though, was the thirty-feet-high central chandelier which hung from the claws of a silver dragon.

  ‘Could they have chosen anywhere more ostentatious?’ Grace mumbled, glancing around the room at the assembled crowd, whose number she guessed to be more than one hundred. There was little room left in which to stand. ‘What have they all come to hear, for goodness’ sake?’

  ‘Damned if I know,’ Cecil answered. ‘But I’m guessing we’re about to find out.’

  Appearing on a raised stage at one end of the room, was a well-dressed gentleman with a thick white moustache. The murmuring crowd fell into a still silence as he reached the centre of the stage. The man drew in a lengthy breath and took his time to survey the packed room.

  ‘Who’s he?’ Grace whispered.

  ‘Sir Theodore Angier, some local shipping magnate,’ Cecil replied.

  ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, I warmly welcome you to this meeting of the National League for Opposing Women’s Suffrage.’

  The cheers and applause from around the room squashed the few dissenting voices.

  ‘Tonight, you will hear an auspicious range of voices—fervent and passionate in their opposition to women’s suffrage. But now is not the time to merely listen passively; now is the time to act. A man, if he is a man at all, must start with all his prejudices in favour of the sex we love. But he must study his reason as well. If we adopt that course, there will be few supporters for the female vote. To give women the vote would be to make a revolution, damaging to the State, to the Empire and the family.’

  ‘Hear, hear!’ Grace shouted. ‘The Empire will surely collapse!’

  Sir Theodore Angier smiled in her direction. ‘Thank you, Madam. And I bid a warm welcome to our opponents. We are pleased to live in a society where mature, adult debate can occur.’ He paused amid indecipherable murmurings. ‘Our first speaker tonight is Mrs Francis Wild. Please would you join me in welcoming her to the stage.’

  A polite round of applause rose from the crowd and onto the stage glided an elegant middle-aged lady in a floor-length blue dress.

  Grace watched her intently, not even wanting to blink. So, this was she, Mrs Francis Wild. She was beautiful, for her age, yet there was something about her face that appeared hard and cold.

  Mrs Wild reached the centre and raised her hand to subdue the clapping. ‘Things,’ she began, once she had achieved silence, ‘are at a critical time. Our opponents are demonstrating in the streets and hoping to accomplish by smashing windows what they cannot do by argument. This idea of any n
umber from three to eight million women voters would be a vast change, altering at a blow the system on which the civilized world has acted. It can bring no corresponding advantage to women; it can bring only danger and disadvantage.’

  ‘Rubbish!’ Grace called. ‘Coward!’

  Hers was not the only opposing voice. Mrs Wild, however, persisted without pause. ‘If,’ she continued, ‘any measure for women’s suffrage passes into law, then the first step will be taken in the decline of England, and the first suffering of ideals, in the true and fruitful powers of her life, will be the women of England…’

  A volley of cheers and applause rang around the Banqueting Room.

  Grace’s attention was snapped from Mrs Wild’s absurd rantings by a set of fat fingers digging sharply into her upper arm. She turned to see the policeman. ‘Anymore interruptions and you’re out on your ear. Do you understand, love?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ Grace said, shaking off his grip.

  Cecil rolled his eyes at her then whispered, ‘Behave, Grace, or you’ll get us thrown out.’