100 Tiny Threads

by Judith Barrow

  ‘Ah, well now, you’d be amazed by what I know, ducks.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The Misses Johnston next door tell me all about it. They read it to me from their newspaper on Saturdays.’ She placed the spoon into the half-finished soup. ‘I’ve had enough.’

  Winifred took the tray off her.

  Florence pulled her shawl tighter and knotted it over her chest. ‘And they have quite strong views about it, them two, you know. And I agree.’

  ‘You do?’ Winifred put the tray on the floor and waited.

  ‘I do.’ Florence nodded her head vigorously, her lips pulled into a tight narrow line. ‘I think it’s appalling how those women are treated. I think them police need a good thrashing themselves.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I do.’

  Winifred gave a low laugh of relief. ‘I’ve been asked to join the Suffragettes, Granny. One of them came into the shop a while back and I talked to her about it. Then I went to meet some of them in Morrisfield. They gave me a lot of stuff to read about it all.’ She took in a long breath.

  ‘I can’t believe I knew nothing that was going on under my nose. Some of the things that happen to these women, just for wanting to have a say in what happens in their lives, is unbelievable.’ She studied her grandmother before saying, ‘I decided I would join them.’ Her next words came out in a rush. ‘In fact, they asked me to speak for them at a meeting sometime and I’ve said yes.’

  The reaction came quicker than she thought it would.

  Florence threw her head back and laughed. ‘Well, ducks, you’ve never done anything by halves, I’ll give you that.’ She patted Winifred’s cheek. ‘Good for you. If I were younger, I’d join too.’ She leaned sideway, closer to Winifred. ‘I’d give them what for, I can tell you.’

  ‘Mother doesn’t agree.’

  ‘She wouldn’t.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Her grandmother pursed her lips. ‘Never mind, Winnie. If you think it’s right, you must follow your heart.’

  Follow her heart? The image of Conal was suddenly there. Winifred’s heart thumped, she closed her eyes; what was this feeling? She’d never been in love. She knew nothing about it other than what she’d read in the secrecy of her bedroom, knowing that her mother wouldn’t approve of the works of George Eliot. And was it really like that anyway; all the conflicts, the tribulations of class divides that the author wrote about? She wasn’t sure she was strong enough to deal with the problems love seemed to bring.

  She was brought out of her contemplation by her grandmother’s next remark.

  ‘I’ll tell you something, shall I, Winifred?’

  Winifred?Her grandmother never called her by her full name. She opened her eyes. Florence was looking straight ahead. When she spoke her voice was low but strong.

  ‘It’s about your grandfather.’ She directed her glance towards Winifred for a moment, as though to assess her reaction, before looking away again. ‘Something I’ve not told you.’ She shifted as though uncomfortable in her chair, her mouth working as she swallowed. ‘I haven’t always lived here, you know. When I first married we lived in a lovely house in the village – on Harrison Street, near the chapel. My parents gave it to us as a wedding present.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘No? Your dad’s never told you?’ Florence smiled. ‘He was born there.’

  ‘No!’

  Florence nodded. ‘Mother and Father were quite well off. They owned the shop as well.’

  ‘Our shop?’

  Her grandmother nodded again. ‘Rented it out to a chap called Richards, as far as I can remember and, after he died, they gave it to your father when he was twenty-one.’

  ‘I didn’t know any of this. I thought you’d always lived here, Granny.’

  Now Florence looked directly at her. ‘Here?’ her voice took on a bitter note. ‘How long has your grandfather been dead?’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t remember him at all.’

  ‘No? Must be near enough twenty years, then. After your dad and her – your mother – were married.’ She rubbed her hands together and then smoothed them on her skirt. The slight rustle of her clothes sounded loud in the silence. ‘He left me penniless. Gambled away everything we’d got. I didn’t know how much debt we were in until afterwards; until I was turned out of the house by the bailiffs. My house.’ Her eyes reddened with the tears she was fighting to hold back. ‘That’s how long I’ve been here.’

  ‘Oh, Granny.’ Winifred knelt by her side and put her head on Florence’s bosom, her arms around the thin figure. ‘I’m sorry. Don’t cry.’ The anger was swift against the unknown man who’d done this to her beloved grandmother. ‘But I don’t understand. If it was your house, how—’

  ‘When you marry – I think it’s still the same, Winnie – when you marry – everything you have then belongs to the man.’ She stroked Winifred’s hair. ‘It’s not right and it’s not fair. But that’s how it is.’

  Winifred heard the deep breath her grandmother took.

  ‘It’s men that decides what happens with women. Them in the Government don’t want to change that, they’re sitting pretty, all right. They don’t want anything changing. But it has to. We women have rights too.’ She lifted Winifred’s head and smiled. ‘So, you ask what I know about the Suffragettes? I know they’re right. And if you think they’re right as well you should join them, never mind what your mother says. Like I said, you follow your heart.’

  This time Winifred remembered the fervour and determination of the women at the meeting. ‘I will, Granny, I will.’

  ‘It won’t be in my time, I shouldn’t think. But one day, perhaps.’ The old woman patted her hand. ‘Let’s hope women do get a say in what happens to them. Perhaps you will, ducks.’ She nodded slowly and then leaned closer, two worried lines between her eyebrows. ‘But promise you’ll be careful, Winifred. Stay safe.’

  Chapter 11

  May 1911

  The alleyway was flagged and dipped in the centre to a guttering. Along it, oily water flowed sluggishly, carrying a faltering clutter of debris with it. Bill hesitated; the houses edged on either side were grim and dark, the afternoon sun didn’t reach beyond upstairs windows. It looked as though its warmth had never touched the greasy ground. The glass lantern, displaying the word BEDS, was in the middle of the three-storeyed terrace. Two men lounged outside the door, smoking.

  One of the men rolled his cigarette to one corner of his mouth to speak. ‘Looking for a bed?’ He tipped his head towards Bill as he walked slowly towards them.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Poor man’s hotel, this. None finer.’

  The other man gave a snort of laughter and hunkered down, resting his arms on his thighs. ‘Not sure they have such small beds, mind.’

  Bill stiffened; no bugger made fun of him. He dropped his bag and squared up to the man. He was bloody sick of the jibes about his size. All his bloody life it had been the same.

  ‘Sorry mate, no offence.’ The man rose from his haunches; he was only an inch or two taller than Bill. ‘Just summat that I ’ave to tek as well. It’s a sod being a titch ain’t it?’ he held out his hand.

  Bill ignored it. ‘Your place is it?’ he said pushing back his cap and looking the first man up and down. He picked up his bag and adjusted it over his shoulder.

  ‘You must be bloody joking.’ The man spat out the tab end of the cigarette. ‘Think I’d be ’ere by choice?’ He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. ‘Doorkeeper’s down there. If you want a bed in this ’ovel yer’d better be quick, most of beds ’as gone for tonight.’

  The sour warm smell wafted up from the stairs as Bill stepped through the doorway. He swallowed, cursing himself that he’d left it so late in the day that he’d run out of choices. This place was the tenth he’d seen since getting into Huddersfield; each one worse than the last. His clogs clattered on the stone steps as he descended into a large gloomy cellar.

/>   ‘It’s sixpence if you want a bed. Pay up front.’ The woman’s voice was rasping, her breathing laboured as she pushed herself up from a small wooden chair to face Bill. Her dress, almost open to the waist, showed large drooping breasts that moved slowly from side to side as she scratched the skin. ‘I’m the Doorkeeper. I’m the one you’ll answer to if you cause bother. And don’t think because I’m a lady you get owt but short shrift from me.’ Her small eyes, almost lost in the folds of fat, glared at him. ‘Sixpence.’ She held out a grimy hand.

  Bill dropped the coin into her palm and took the brass check.

  ‘Kitchen’s through there if you’ve owt to cook.’

  He looked over her shoulder towards the end of the cellar. He could hear the muffled clunk of pans and low voices but the smell that emanated from there was like nothing he’d ever smelt before. He swallowed the sudden bile that rose in his throat. ‘No, I’ve nowt.’

  ‘Right. Your room’s on top floor, third along on the right.’

  For such a large woman she moved swiftly to block the way as he made to climb the steps. He turned his face away from the musty smell of sweat and dirt.

  ‘You leave yer bag here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You might pinch summat.’

  ‘I doubt you’ve got anything I want, missus. Now I’ve paid my sixpence– you’ll let me pass.’ Bill shouldered her from him.

  ‘I’ll have yer out.’

  ‘You won’t.’ He passed the front door and climbed the next set of stairs to a large room that held four long tables. Men, sitting on the benches, were eating silently; keeping themselves isolated from the others.

  ‘Stairs? Beds?’ Bill asked no-one in particular. The man nearest to him dipped a chunk of dark bread into a large bowl of salt in the middle of the table and shoved it into his mouth, washing it down with tea from a big mug. Without a word he pointed the mug towards one of the corners of the room.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He climbed two more set of stairs before he reached the top floor, his leg aching. He passed the first two doorways, one tiny room was empty, the next had an old man sprawled on the narrow bed. His was the next one. He stood looking in. It was slightly better than any he’d been in before; not much but at least the bedding looked a bit cleaner than others he’d slept in since leaving the hospital. Thin walls separated the rooms but, as usual, there was no ceiling to them. Nor a door. He grimaced, listening to the hacking cough from someone along the landing; it wouldn’t be peaceful night. Edging along the side of the bedstead he shoved his bag under the thin pillow and sat down. His knees touched the wall. There was a yellowing handwritten notice stuck to it. With difficulty he read No smoking, No spitting, No pissing in the rooms. Lights out at 10 o’clock.

  Without taking off any of his clothes he lay on the bed, the copper wire mattress creaking under his weight, and folded his arms under his head. The stench from the kitchens had filtered upwards; together with the stink of sweat and farts the air was fetid. One night would be more than enough in this stinking hole. There was a market in the centre of Morrisfield; he hoped to find a bit of work there before he moved on.

  Yet, despite the noises and the smell he did sleep and felt better for it. Even so, at first light he threw back the sheets and blankets and rolled off the bed, his knees banging against the wall. He stood up, stretching and yawning.

  ‘Shut your row.’ The old man in the next cubicle shouted a curse.

  ‘Piss off,’ Bill answered automatically, shouldering his bag and giving the wall a thump with his fist.

  To a chorus of angry yells he went down the stairs, his clogs thudding on the wooden treads.

  At the front door he stopped and turned the large key to unlock it.

  ‘Eh up.’ The woman was already sitting in her chair, both hands scratching at her hair, flattened by sleep. ‘Check?’

  Bill flicked the brass check in her direction; there was no way he was going near the stinking cow again.

  Flinging the door open he stepped out onto the flags and looked up, taking long breaths of air into his lungs. It wasn’t going to be a bad day.

  Chapter 12

  May 1911

  Winifred let the hat rest in her lap, the needle halfway through the material, remembering her grandmother’s words. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her grandfather and what he’d done. For her grandmother to lose her home through his gambling was awful. It was so unfair. That men had such a hold over women, that they could do whatever they wanted in a marriage, wasn’t right.

  She wondered why her father hadn’t ever told her about what had happened. The answer quickly followed the question. He would be ashamed. And he would be ashamed he’d not been able to give his mother a home. John Duffy was one man who had little say in what happened in his life. Winifred had long accepted how it was between her parents even though she didn’t understand why he put up with it.

  Absently, she smoothed the silk ribbon between her finger and thumb. Next time she saw Granny Duffy she’d ask her why she thought he accepted how things were between him and her mother.

  Taking up the hat again she focused on her stitching. Over the last few days she’d veered between excitement and apprehension at what she was going to do. Having read all the papers Mildred had given to her and listening to the girls at Dorothy’s house last week, she’d begun to believe that she could make a difference. She’d even written down a few ideas; things she could say at a meeting if she was chosen to speak.

  What if they were right? What if it did happen? If women did get the vote– get suffrage, and she’d been part of the fight, she’d be so proud. It would be something she would remember all her life; something she could tell her children. That thought startled her; she wasn’t sure where it had come from. Or why Conal’s face had been instantly conjured up. She put the back of her hand to her burning cheek. Children? She had only a vague idea how that worked. It wasn’t something she could ever talk to her mother about; the thought of it horrified her. If she couldn’t even talk about suffrage to Ethel, she surely couldn’t ask her about that.

  Suffrage, she turned the word around in her mind, firmly pushing aside the image of Conal’s face… She would go to the next protest meeting. ‘Be careful!’ her grandmother had called out to her as she’d made her way down the narrow staircase to the outside door. She shuddered, remembering what Honora had told her about what happened in London. It scared her. Could such things happen? What if it was all exaggerated? Well, if it was, so much the better, she told herself, and anyway, she gave a small shake of her shoulders, the protest was going to be in Morrisfield, not London. Probably no-one would even notice. She ignored the small voice in her head; you hope, Winifred.

  But she was determined not to stand out as different. Honora had given her the ribbons for her hat; she said all the women would be wearing them.

  Winifred tightened the last stitch and bit through the thread. She massaged the ache in her shoulders and sat back. She’d been crouched in the chair for the last two hours, revelling in the quiet of the kitchen. The soft light from the gas mantle on the wall above her was enough for her to see what she was doing and cast the rest of the room in comforting shadow. The crackle of the fire behind the door of the range was muffled. Winifred closed her eyes, eased into drowsiness.

  The gate in the yard screeched on the flagstones. Even before the back door opened she could hear her mother’s complaining tones. She only had time to push the hat behind her back and to sit up, straight-backed.

  ‘It wasn’t the right subject to be discussing in Bible class.’ Ethel Duffy swept into the kitchen pulling at the tips of the fingers of her black gloves before flinging them onto the kitchen table and tugging at the fox fur around her neck. ‘Totally improper in front of the ladies; especially with the men being there as well.’

  Winifred noticed one of the ribbons trailed across her knees. Watching her mother she quickly wound it around her hand and pushed it down the
side of the chair.

  ‘But it is one of the seven sins, my dear.’ Her father’s voice was apologetic. ‘As the minister quoted; “lustful appetites can be destructive—”’

  ‘Huh!’ Ethel stood in front of the mirror, unpinned her hat and patted her hair into place. ‘Just shut up.’ Her face and throat were mottled and there was a sharp irritation in her voice. She stopped and turned, her stare settling on Winifred sitting in the chair by the fire. ‘What are you doing? What’s that you’re hiding?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The brim of the hat was digging into her. It was bound to be crushed; her careful work ruined. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘I think that’s for me to decide, miss.’ Ethel grabbed hold of her daughter’s shoulder and pulling her forward, dragged the hat out. ‘What’s this?’ She held it out, the purple and green ribbons swayed as she shook it Winifred’s face. ‘These…these are the colours that those blasted women wear.’ She lifted the hat out of Winifred’s reach as she tried to take it from her. ‘I should throw this…this rubbish in the fire.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I will, I’ll burn the damn thing.’

  ‘Mother!’ There was shock in her father’s protest. ‘There’s no need to swear.’

  Ethel rounded on him. ‘No need to swear? Is that all you can say? You…’ She didn’t finish, whirling round she threw the hat. It landed in the hearth.

  Winifred launched herself at it, but was swung around when her mother grabbed hold of her arm. ‘It’s that Irish girl. That trash. She’s got you into this.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing. Let me go.’ Anger tightened Winifred’s chest. ‘You’re hurting—’

  ‘I will.’ The grip tightened, pinching her skin. ‘I will, if you ever think of having anything to do with those women. Troublemakers.’ Ethel yanked her towards the stair and shoved her onto the first tread. ‘You have no idea what you’re getting into. They will ruin you, ruin us, ruin our business.’