And then eternity was over.
The jolt of reins, stamp of hooves. Silence. No breath. No movement.
The doors flew open. There before us, the Parliament building.
And between us and it, a forest of bobbies, dark, not moving, waiting to swallow us up.
As the members arrived they parted for them. We followed. Then they swooped, grabbing necks, arms, hair; swinging us round like kittens to be drowned, hurling us at the ground. The sound of splitting bones. The hiss of pain. The Black Maria.
I fled down a side street. Ran all the way to Caxton Hall. Miss Annie was just about to address the meeting. I rushed up to her.
‘It’s all gone wrong, Miss Annie. Everyone’s arrested. And horrible beatings.’
‘Sit down, Maggie. Catch your breath.’
She strides on to the stage. A storm of applause. She holds up her hands. ‘Ladies, fellow suffragettes, please listen to what I have to say. Today I have a special request to put to you. As we feared, many of our number have been arrested at The House this morning and may well be on their way to prison as I speak. They are brave true warriors of the Cause. Some will have endured prison sentences before. For others it will be a new and dreadful experience.
‘One thing you may be sure of, they will not be from wealthy families. We all have seen how the bobbies back away from a lady in furs. Well, let us show them now that ours is a movement for all the women of Britain, high and low. Let the world see that we stand together, shoulder to shoulder, and when it does, those who oppose us shall have just cause to be afraid.’
Up they all rose.
The papers next day looked like they had attended a fashion parade. Hats, furs, velvet cloaks, fans even. A smarter set of people could not have been found at the opera. More arrests and the judge has threatened a new law, or rather a very ancient one – the Tumultuous Petitions Act, (was there ever a sillier name?) saying that thirteen shall be the most people allowed near the House of Commons in a procession. Or else three months in prison.
On hearing of this Mrs Pankhurst straightway called for twelve volunteers and off they went, cheered to the rafters by the rest of us.
So much for a bold departure. Not an hour later word came back that Mrs Pankhurst herself had been arrested. This sent a true shock through us all, for we had never thought the police would lay a hand on her.
Six weeks in Holloway, even Mrs Pankhurst. And in the second division, which is for common criminals. There is no justice in this world. Or perhaps a little, for now the papers are finally coming to our aid. They say such treatment is wrong. Suffragettes are not thieves, but political prisoners and so should be placed in the first division, (which is much better for you may read and talk and wear your own clothes).
There was a poem published in the Daily Mail, very funny like a nursery rhyme and praising Miss Christabel’s brilliance to come up with the Trojan Horse. When I showed it to her she smiled deeply. I was surprised she did not remember it was her brother who had thought of it.
Mrs Pethick Lawrence organised a week of fund-raising. So many schemes! Some ladies gave tea parties and charged a sixpence to all who came. Others sold embroidery or paintings they had done. Those too poor for such things merely gave up their favourite food for a week and paid the cost of it to the Cause.
Mrs Garrud decided we should give a display of fighting and charge a shilling to let people watch. Fred was by when she suggested it and was very taken with the idea. He even threatened to bring his friends from the constabulary, but I think he was teasing for they would hardly like to contribute towards paying our fines.
He said at any rate he would come, and would buy two seats so that he could stretch his legs out. I was not very happy about this because my coat is shorter than anyone else’s and the thought of Fred sitting there watching me trying to break a pillow in half was not my idea of fund-raising. I even offered to give up chocolate instead, but it seemed Mrs Garrud had her heart quite set on it, so on the Friday evening I and the rest of my class – two ladies from the Poor School, some nurses from the asylum and a very fat lady who plays the cello at people’s funerals – all lined up.
Fred had brought someone with him. A kind-looking man, somewhat older, with a ginger moustache.
We started by showing some exercises – bending and twisting and the like, and then we did some slow movements to show how we would break people’s necks if they annoyed us in any way, and then we each killed a pillow with great deep thrusts and slashes and cries of ‘Aaagh! Thwaagh! Thwackkkk!’ which Mrs Garrud insists we make as she says it frightens an attacker more than being kicked.
I durst not look at Fred but when I did (we had our hands over our eyes, showing how to gouge them out) he was sitting with his chin in his hand, looking as studious as he was attending a lecture, and likewise his companion.
When it was done everybody clapped and Mr Garrud made a speech to say that all the proceeds from the evening were to go towards the Cause. He then passed round a hat. Fred and his friend put in a whole handful of coins between them and seemed to think it money well spent, for they were smiling like a couple of loons, as Mrs Drummond would say.
Then Fred held out his hand to me. ‘Maggie, I would like to introduce my friend, Mr Edwin Neal, to you. He has been most impressed by the performance.’
‘I have indeed,’ said Mr Neal. ‘And I’m mindful to send some of my men to train with Mrs Garrud.’
‘Why, sir? Do you meet with a lot of violence in your profession?’
‘I never used to, but of late it has grown quite out of order.’
‘Are you a soldier, Mr Neal?’
At this they both broke out laughing.
‘No, Miss Robins. I am a police sergeant.’
Afterwards Fred and I went for a soda at the corner house. I asked why he had brought Mr Neal with him.
‘He gave me the tickets for the opera and besides, he is a friend.’
‘Yes, and a policeman.’
‘I am a policeman.’
This flummoxed me somewhat. ‘But before that you are Fred, are you not?’
‘Are the two so very different?’
I had no answer. ‘What did you think of the display?’
‘Amazing.’
‘By that you mean “stupid”, I suppose?’
‘I do not. I mean I had not thought you capable of it.’
‘Of bursting a pillow?’
‘No. I was well sure you could do that. Of…’
‘Of what, then?’
He looked at me and though I know he was jesting, he said, ‘Of wanting to hurt someone so much.’
Wonderful news! A Liberal!! Member of the House, a Mr Stanger of Kensington, who must be exceeding courageous to go against his own government, has put forward a private bill to give us the vote. ‘The Women’s Enfranchisement Bill’. Not only that, but it has gained one hundred and seventy-nine votes and will go forward for further discussion. If it passes that, it will be made law, Miss Lake says.
We held a great meeting at the Albert Hall and all the more stirring for, centre stage, an empty chair was placed, and on it a placard, Mrs Pankhurst’s Chair, lest any should forget she was that very moment imprisoned for her bravery. Or so we had believed.
Suddenly the great wooden doors at the rear burst open and there she stood.
‘Women, as you see, I am back!’
A great cheer went up. Everyone rose to their feet, handkerchieves waving till the hall looked like a field of flowers, every colour under the sun. Mrs Pankhurst smiled and waved too, then turning to her chair, removed the placard and laid it on the table in front of her. ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said, and sat down as though she had just got off an omnibus, not been released from that terrible place.
There was more money collected that afternoon than in all our week of fund-raising.
Mrs Pankhurst and Miss Christabel are gone north again. There is a man they particularly dislike (the same Churchill, whose poster
s Harry writ all over) and he supports a bill to stop the barmaids working. Why? Why must he take work from those who need it? Does he think they labour so of their own free choosing? Does he believe they would not rather ride around in carriages and dine with the nobs as the ladies of his acquaintance do, than pour beer down the necks of rough rowdy menfolk? It is said seven thousand of them will lose their jobs if he succeeds. Does he say what they will do then? How they will live? How can he be so blind? I hope he is beat and beat rotten.
And so he has been, but what of that, for he offs up out of it to another town and two months later is back in the House.
One of Mrs Despard’s ladies got it into her head to follow him from meeting to meeting ringing a great brass muffin bell every time he opened his mouth to address the crowd. At first this was thought great good fun and the papers showed many a picture of her, but in the end the people got sick of it and so they voted him in for not having heard a word he said.
Worse than that, though – poor grey old Sir Henry Campbell-Bannerman is dead and replaced by that monster and our greatest enemy, Asquith. What is his first act? To kill stone dead The Women’s Enfranchisement Bill.
Mr Pethick Lawrence brought us the news. Miss Christabel turned quite white with fury when she heard it.
‘How can he? How can he do this when one hundred and seventy-nine members have given it a second reading? One hundred and seventy-nine. What possible excuse has he come up with this time? A sign from heaven? A ram caught in a burning bush, bleating “No votes for women?” An eleventh commandment: “Thou shalt not have justice”?’
Mr Pethick Lawrence laughed; no one else dared to. ‘Well, you are not far wrong, Christabel, as I understand it. His reasoning is he cannot be sure it is the wish of the whole country’s women to gain the vote.’
‘What! Processions, meetings, petitions, the press – what will it take to unstop his ears?’
‘As you said, a sign from heaven, I should think.’
Miss Christabel fair snorted with contempt. ‘Well, let it be a thunderbolt. The man’s a charlatan, a cad, a reprobate. What does he take us for? Idiots?’
She stormed out, slamming the door so hard all Miss Kerr’s letters for filing went flying.
Mr Pethick Lawrence shook his head. ‘Poor Christabel. It is a wicked blow, to be sure, but our task now is to think of ways to counter it.’
I asked, ‘How can he know women do not wish it, sir, for he has never asked?’
‘No, indeed, Maggie. Nor will he, if he can help it. He thinks to avoid it by concentrating on granting the vote to more men.’
‘Well, how does he know they want it, for he’s never asked them either?’
Mr Pethick Lawrence nodded thoughtfully. ‘You’re right, Maggie. He’s never asked. Perhaps it’s time that we did.’
Mr Pethick Lawrence has come up with quite the most brilliant idea. ‘Women’s Sunday’. We are to take over Hyde Park for a whole afternoon and show the people and the Government just what we are fighting for.
Dozens of new people have been brought in to help with the arrangements. We have had to take two more rooms at Lincoln’s Inn just to squeeze them all in.
There are to be seven processions, each coming from a different part of London and all meeting together in the park at an appointed hour. Billboards the height of houses with giant Miss Christabels and Miss Annies beaming down from them. We are sent out to factories, hospitals, restaurants, schools, shops – anywhere with working women, to spread the word.
We have our own special colours now: purple, white and green. Mrs Pethick Lawrence explained they stand for Justice, Purity and Hope. I wonder what Mrs Beckett would make of that. She said nothing pretty could ever be good as well.
The shops have gone quite mad for us and are packed full of ribbons, scarves, bonnets, all in our colours. Newspapers are crammed with articles and advertisements for the great day. Fred gave me a doll he bought off a vendor in the street. It is rubber and dressed just like a tiny suffragette. I asked if I might give it to Evelyn and he said, of course, ‘But this you must wear’, and gave me a little package all wrapped up in tissue paper. It was the most glorious silk scarf, purple, green and white stripes, softer than a baby’s skin. Well, I can hardly bear to save it till the day, but I must be strong.
A company has sent Mrs Drummond a whole uniform with a sash lettered, ‘GENERAL’ across it and a peaked cap and everything. She says it is just what she needs for she is in charge of the processions and no one will dare gainsay her when they see her all dressed up. Miss Kerr and I agreed that it would be a brave man who tried to, anyway, but she looks mightily fine in it, and a man from the Daily Mail came specially to take her photograph.
Extra buses and trains are ordered, for thousands are expected. Stewards have been chosen to sort them into line as they alight, and Miss Sylvia asked if I would be willing to assist her. She has charge of St Pancras which is where Fred caught his train at Christmas. She says I shall have an official sash. I asked if I might still wear my scarf and she said, certainly. I showed it to her and she agreed it was quite the finest she had seen. She suggested it would look well around my hat (I have a new straw summer one). I tried it and it is just perfect. Oh, please don’t let it rain on the day.
Fred took me to the variety theatre last evening. Can you believe it, halfway through a curtain was dropped and on it were pictures of Miss Christabel and Mrs Pankhurst and a great big notice telling about The Day. I cheered and cheered, so much so that when the comic came on after, he looked straight down at me and said, ‘I hope you’re going to cheer like that for me, pretty miss’, and everyone laughed and cheered some more. I went redder than a radish but something mad happened in my head and I answered right back to him, ‘I will if you come to Hyde Park on June 21st and bring your family with you.’
He looked quite stunned for a moment, but then he laughed and said, ‘I reckon I shall have to now. Don’t let them suffragettes beat me up, though, will you?’ which made everyone laugh all the more.
I replied, ‘Well, we won’t throw any eggs at you, that’s for sure,’ and there was a great burst of laughing and cheering and I felt quite as though I had made a speech at the Albert Hall, I was so up in the air.
Afterwards as we were walking home Fred asked, ‘Would you have liked to be an actress, Maggie?’ I said I had never thought about it for, in truth, I had not. What would a girl from my street be doing dancing and singing for her supper?
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I think you would do very well at it. You answered that man back as though you had been working the halls all your life.’
This worried me, for actresses are not considered respectable in the main. ‘I do not think the life would suit me.’
Fred smiled. ‘Maybe not. And yet I cannot make you out. Sometimes you are so quiet and timid I think a leaf would frighten you, and then other times you are…like tonight.’
I knew when he called me timid what he was thinking of – that I will not let him touch me where he wants to. I cannot. Not yet. But when? When?
I said, ‘Was I wrong to answer him back? It was only for the Cause. I would not have spoken otherwise.’
Fred nodded. ‘The ‘Cause’ is very dear to your heart, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Dearer than anything else?’
‘I do not know. Why do you ask?’
‘Because one day you may have to choose, that’s all.’ Seeing my anxiety he drew me right up close to him and kissed me all slow and beautifully. ‘But not tonight,’ he whispered. ‘You do not have to choose tonight.’
I shall never forget that day. June 21st 1908. It is carved on my memory forever. There will never be another day like it.
The sun shone, no cloud in the sky, the birds sang in their trees and I swear it was ‘Fight on, Women’ they were chirping as we passed below in our great ranks, as wide as the road and a mile long, at least. Thousands and thousands of women, all
dressed in white with purple and green sashes and ribbons, and flowers in their hats. A great field of violets and gardenias waving gently through the streets.
A million bobbies (thereabouts) lined the way, but they, too, were happy, smiling, joking with us as we passed. I wondered how it could be that men who had ridden at us with chargers could now be marking our route so peaceably. Maybe they were not the same ones, but in my heart I think it must be as Fred said: you can be two people at once. Perhaps we are all like that. He thinks I am, I know. Maybe he is right. Maybe I am a thousand people. Perhaps I should have been an actress, after all.
Twenty huge wagons snowy with white rosettes served as platforms for the speakers. In the middle of the park a great pantechnicon towering over everything; Mr Pethick Lawrence stood on top to order the proceedings. Around him a mob of pressmen and a bunch of nobs desperate to see (and be seen, I should not wonder).
As two o’clock drew near crowds began to swarm towards the platforms, and nowhere greater than at Number Eight, for this was where Miss Christabel was to speak. No sooner had she stepped up than a gang of loud-mouthed idiots came shoving through to the front and started to yell and holler so that her voice was all but drowned. Still she continued, and as word got out that it was the famous Miss Christabel Pankhurst speaking, hundreds more came thronging round the wagon, their cheers noisier than the idiots’ ranting. And how she stirred them up!
‘By our actions we have exposed this government not only to the contempt of our own people but to the contempt of the whole civilised world. We suffragettes pity, indeed almost despise the women who can stand aside, who take no part in the battle. It is we militants whom men respect. If you cannot be recognised as a citizen, it is best to be in the front, fighting for a citizen’s rights.’
Over the whole park people were clustered, listening, cheering, picnicking. Full of sunshine and goodwill and hope. Policemen sat with suffragettes, nobs with shop assistants, coalmen with cooks.
I saw her first. Sitting with a cloth spread out on the grass, all by herself and tucking into a veritable feast of cold meats, brawn and pastries. I flew across the grass.
Crooked Pieces Page 18
