Polly's March

by Linda Newbery

  “Miss Rutherford’s going to make a speech here,” Polly said. “Edwina, who I told you about, who lives in Lily’s old flat. And there’s going to be a march to Chelsea Town Hall – a parade. It’s on Saturday.” The idea seized her. “You wouldn’t want to miss it, would you?” she appealed to Aunt Dorothy.

  “A parade?” said Lily. “We might as well come and see it. Can’t we, Auntie?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Not with my reputation to think of.”

  “Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,” Polly assured her. “No one’s going to smash windows or set fire to things, not on a parade. We could just walk along with them, just for a little way. If we went back to Selfridges and you bought coloured ribbons, like mine,” she added to Lily, “we could both put them round our straw hats.”

  “So we’d match, and we could do our hair the same, as well! Yes, do let’s!” Lily turned to her aunt. “It would be an awful shame to miss it, when it’s so close. We can come, can’t we, the three of us?”

  Aunt Dorothy still looked doubtful. “Whatever would your parents say?”

  “Invite Polly to stay the night,” Lily urged her; “then we needn’t tell her parents, or mine.”

  Aunt Dorothy was hesitating, Polly could see. “It would be wrong of me to let you keep secrets from your parents.”

  Polly had an idea. “I know! We could just happen to be here in the park on Saturday, having a picnic, say, and we’ll wander over to see what’s going on, and – no one could blame us for that, could they?”

  “Go on, Auntie – say yes.” Lily put on her most appealing expression, head on one side. “If they ask, then we’ll tell them – but they won’t. No one will mind us having a picnic in the park, and looking at a parade that just happens to be starting off.”

  “And we won’t have to tell even the smallest lie!” added Polly.

  “Oh dear, you two!” Aunt Dorothy laughed. “Determined to get me into trouble, the pair of you!”

  Polly took a few skipping steps. “Does that mean we can go?”

  “Well! I would like to show a bit of support. We’ll see.”

  Did all grown-ups say that, Polly wondered? But there was a difference: when Mama said it, it sounded like No; the way Aunt Dorothy just had, it sounded a lot more like Yes.

  It was one of the best weeks Polly could remember. Aunt Dorothy, glad of the girls’ company, was quite happy for Polly to spend nearly all the time at Wellington Square. Polly’s mother, with the Folkestone holiday to plan as well as all the knitting and sewing she was doing for the baby, did not mind her spending so much time with Lily. A visit to Regent’s Park Zoo; a tour of the city on an open-topped bus; a tea party with some cousins of Lily’s, and Swan Lake, which was so beautiful that it brought tears to Polly’s eyes, and made Lily decide that she wanted to be a prima ballerina: “I’m going to ask Mama if I can take ballet lessons,” she announced. Even Polly daydreamed about pirouetting on a stage and astonishing everyone with her grace, beauty and skill, even though she knew full well that she was far too clumsy.

  The week rushed past. At the end of it, like a birthday cake waiting for its candles to be lit, was the march. Busy with Lily and the rush of activity, Polly wasn’t able to help with any more preparations, but she did sneak upstairs one morning to push a note under Edwina’s and Violet’s door: Good luck for Saturday! I will be there at Speaker’s Corner and all the way to the Town Hall! Could I have three sashes, please? You could hide them under the blackcurrant bushes.

  The very next morning, there were the three bright sashes, tied into a neat package, with a note from Violet: Well done! I will see you there.

  “I’ve hardly seen you this week,” grumbled Maurice, when Mama sent Polly downstairs with a message for Mrs. Dalby. He was playing chess, by himself, on the landing-space, which struck Polly as a rather pointless thing to do.

  “Good job, too!” she retorted. “I expect you’ve missed having someone to tease.”

  “Mother says, would you and Lily and her aunt like to come to tea on Sunday?”

  “Maybe, if there’s time.” Polly couldn’t think as far as Sunday. Saturday came first, jostling to the front of her mind, blocking out all other days beyond. Saturday was a suffragette day, not a red-letter day but a green, white and purple day; the first day of her new career as campaigner for women’s rights.

  She took the sashes to Wellington Square. Showing them to Lily and Aunt Dorothy made her feel like a proper suffragette.

  “I can hardly wait!” Lily kept saying. “It’s going to be so exciting!”

  “Yes, but—” Polly wasn’t sure Lily was taking the campaign seriously enough. “It’s not just about having fun. It’s about standing up for what’s right. It’s about wanting things to be fair – not wanting to be second-best!”

  “I know that,” Lily said, fingering the sash. “Do you think my white lace blouse would look nice with this? Or the cream one with the sailor collar?”

  Aunt Dorothy smiled, and caught Polly’s eye. “I don’t think you’re quite cut out for political campaigning, Lily, somehow!”

  “Oh, but I am,” Lily protested. “Christabel Pankhurst’s very fashionable, Mama says. I don’t see why one should look a fright when one’s marching about the streets – who would take any notice?”

  At last Saturday came. Early, Polly packed a small bag with her overnight things.

  “I’m wondering if you really need stay overnight with Mrs. Langrish, after all,” said Mama, coming into her bedroom. “It’s very kind of her, but it puts her to a lot of extra trouble.”

  “Oh, no,” said Polly quickly. “She really doesn’t mind at all, and the spare bed’s already made up.”

  “Your father’s dining out on Saturday evening, too,” Mama said, a little wistfully. “I shall be here all on my own.”

  “Oh, but I’ve been so looking forward to it, Mama – and it’s Lily’s last night, before she goes home!”

  Mama sighed. “You’re going to miss her,” she said gently. “No doubt the two of you want to stay awake talking half the night. Well, I suppose it won’t hurt, for once.”

  Polly felt guilty for deceiving her; but suffragettes had to make plans, didn’t they, secret plans? And, after all, she was only going to walk along a street, not set fire to Mr. Asquith’s new golfing villa, or slash a famous painting in the Royal Academy, or throw flour at the Lord Mayor. She knew from Edwina that there were all sorts of plots, more and more of them, ever-ingenious: all to keep the Cause “in the public eye”, as Edwina put it.

  By the time she left, with Papa carrying her bag, she felt herself almost fizzing with concealed excitement. She was going on the march now, and nothing could stop her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Purple, White and Green

  “I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” Aunt Dorothy said doubtfully.

  They were crossing the road towards Speaker’s Corner. Already there was quite a gathering, and people were drifting across the park to see what was going on.

  “It’ll be all right, Auntie,” said Lily.

  “Well, I hope so. Now, you must stay with me, both of you, not go running off and getting into trouble.”

  “As if we would!” Lily gave her an impatient look. “Have you got the sashes, Polly?”

  “In the picnic basket.”

  They stopped by the railings, and Aunt Dorothy took out the three sashes. In her bag she also had the rather simple picnic – cucumber sandwiches, apples and a bottle of lemonade – which was their excuse for being in Hyde Park. Polly felt a swell of pride as she pulled the sash over her head and one arm, and adjusted it against her blouse. Lily, who had finally decided on the white lace, put hers on too, and tilted her hat, with its ribbon band, first one way and then the other.

  “Come on! There’s no time for primping! I want to see Edwina and Violet.” Polly tugged at Lily’s arm, moving in the direction of the wooden platform for the speakers; she scanned the faces b
eneath straw hats decked with suffragette colours. The crowd was mainly women, with only a few men. Among them Polly recognized Leonard, the young man who had visited Edwina; he was holding a megaphone by his side, and talking earnestly to a tall woman who wore a badge marked Steward. Posters on boards, like the ones Polly had helped to make, were stacked against the railings, ready to be held aloft.

  Aunt Dorothy had met someone she knew, and was standing talking on the edge of the crowd; Lily was waiting for her, looking towards the platform. Polly moved on, keeping an eye on them. Being in the middle of all this, in the warm sunshine, surrounded by people waving and calling out and greeting each other, felt like being at a party – a very special kind of party. She stood for a moment in a rush of happiness, taking it all in: the sun bright on straw hats and white dresses, the flashes of purple, green and white that linked everyone, the dappled sunshine under the plane trees, the scream of swifts high in the blue, cloud-wisped sky, the clop of hooves on Park Lane, an engine sputtering and the honk of a car horn, someone shouting from a van, the voices around her, the sense of anticipation; she felt she were living as she had never lived before. If I’m going to be a suffragette, she thought, then this is where I’ll belong – with women, with people like these, who are prepared to march the streets to stand up for what they believe in.

  More and more people were pressing into the area; Lily caught up, grabbing Polly’s arm. Polly had to crane her neck to see past the adults surrounding her. Lily, taller, was able to see better, and turned to wave to her aunt: “We’re here!” She waved energetically, and Aunt Dorothy pushed her way towards them. “Someone’s getting up on the box,” Lily reported, “she’s going to speak – she’s got the megaphone—”

  Shushings silenced the crowd, and Polly, craning, saw a tall woman – not Edwina, someone older and more weathered – facing her audience. “Ladies – and gentlemen! May I have your attention, please?” More shushings, fingers held to lips, till all conversations were silenced and everyone faced the speaker. “We of the WSPU,” the woman went on, in a loud, confident voice, “are delighted to see such a turnout today – here in Hyde Park, the scene of many glorious rallies in the last few years. In a few minutes we will move off across the park, and on to Sloane Square and the King’s Road. Please keep together. I must stress that we want no incident of any kind until we reach Chelsea Town Hall, so please do not respond to any provocation from bystanders. There will be police in attendance, of course, but also our own stewards, who will walk beside and behind the procession. In a moment we will be addressed by one of our comrades who has done so much to organize this march and countless other protests; at the Town Hall there will be more speeches until we are compelled to disperse, while six of our number attempt to enter the building and demand an audience with the Mayor. Thank you again for your support. Now, it is a great honour for me to introduce a most respected member of our sisterhood – Miss Edwina Rutherford.”

  Applause and cheers broke out as Edwina mounted the box. She seemed to stumble as she stepped up; regained her balance and took the megaphone from the first speaker.

  Lily nudged Polly. “Is that her?”

  Polly felt so proud that a lump in her throat made it hard to swallow. She nodded, balancing on tiptoe; she fixed her eyes on Edwina, who straightened and paused, surveying the crowd for a few moments without speaking. Then she began: “Thank you, Miss Selby. I would like to add my own thanks to hers for this magnificent turnout.” Her voice was quiet and calm; the effect on the audience was that everyone stood hardly moving, focusing their full attention on the slight figure with the megaphone. “Gatherings like these,” Edwina continued, “can leave the government in no doubt about the strength of our determination. Petitions with over a million signatures have now been handed in at the House of Commons. Take heed, Prime Minister Asquith” – she turned, as if sending her words over the heads of her audience in the direction of Westminster – “if you will not listen to us, we will make you listen! We will not be ignored; we will never give up the fight. For how can we give up our struggle, go back to being dutiful mothers, daughters, wives and workers, when the government insists on treating us as second-class citizens? When we are—”

  “Stand back. Stand back,” a loud male voice cut in; there was a surge in the crowd behind Polly, and she turned to see four helmeted policemen pushing towards the front. “Make way. Madam, please stand aside. I must insist you give way.”

  Edwina must have seen the disturbance, but she carried on, barely faltering: “– when we are denied the rights given to any man who happens to—”

  Polly found herself pushed aside, off balance, by the swell of movement, as people tried to push in different directions – some merely trying to get out of the way, others defiantly blocking the path of the policemen. One woman began battering the arm of the largest policeman with her fists; he grabbed her bodily and pushed her out of his way, where she overbalanced and fell, hauled to her feet by other women nearby.

  “Oh, what’s—” Lily clutched Polly’s arm for support.

  The crowd around them, orderly and still a few moments before, was now turbulent with cross-currents. Polly felt panic rising. Never in her life had she been in the middle of such a crowd; never before had she feared being accidentally crushed or trampled. “They’ve come for Edwina!” she gasped to Lily. “She knew they would – she’ll be taken back to prison—”

  “Then why did she come? She didn’t have to—”

  Hemmed in on all sides, Polly tried to see what was happening. Only four policemen, in this crowd – so outnumbered, how could they succeed? But, glancing behind her, Polly saw another line of police by the Park Lane railings – reinforcements, intimidating, with their uniforms, helmets and truncheons. Only a few of the women were brave enough to attack the officers with fists or placards or, in one or two cases, with clubs they must have hidden under their skirts. More policemen shoved through to catch hold of these women and take them to the rear. Polly glimpsed one of them, kicking and shouting as a large policeman lifted her bodily off the ground.

  “Girls, girls, come away, let’s move back under the trees—” Aunt Dorothy was trying to reach them, grabbing Lily’s sleeve. Lily moved towards her aunt, looking round for Polly, but Polly, anxious to see what had happened to Edwina, pretended not to notice.

  “Excuse me – I’ve got to—” Gradually, ducking under elbows and between bodies, she made her way nearer to the speaker’s platform. Abruptly the breath was slammed out of her lungs as someone lurched back and collided with her. Knocked sideways, she turned awkwardly and felt a wrench of pain in her right ankle. She was down, sprawled on the ground, clutching at someone’s skirt as she fell; she glimpsed lace petticoats and dainty shoes, serge trousers and a policeman’s heavy boots, then arms reached down and hoisted her upright. “Oops-a-daisy! Are you all right, my duck?” A kindly woman was brushing her down.

  Polly nodded, her eyes filling with tears as the sickness of pain reeled through her. She put her right foot to the ground, found that it would still bear her weight – not broken, then, thank goodness! “Thank you,” she managed, with a grimacing attempt at a smile, and limped forward.

  Edwina carried on speaking into the megaphone until the very last moment. Polly saw her sway and stumble as she was pulled off the box, then handcuffs flashed as she was captured. Edwina did not struggle, did not even try to resist. She held her head high, surrounded by a flock of her closest followers as two policemen led her away towards a black van that waited on Park Lane.

  It’s what she wanted, Polly realized. She wanted to be handcuffed and led away in full view of everyone. She knew this would happen. If she hadn’t wanted it, she could have kept herself hidden.

  Some of the women pursued the police van as it drove away, hammering on the roof with their fists, shouting at the policemen inside or with words of encouragement to Edwina. Others, rallied by Miss Selby, who now had the megaphone, were pressing back into Speaker’
s Corner.

  What now? Miss Selby had righted the box and was standing on it, trying to restore order. “We have just seen an example of the Cat and Mouse Act in action,” she yelled, “the Liberal government’s way of dealing with political protestors! We must not allow this violent interruption to hinder our peaceful proceedings. The march will continue as planned.” Gradually the hubbub faded, as she regained control of the throng. “Miss Rutherford, our brave comrade, was well aware that police would be waiting for her here. She helped plan the protest with this outcome in mind. She will endure another stay in prison with fortitude. Others are here to lead us to Chelsea Town Hall and to confront the Mayor and his party there. Proceed!” she finished dramatically, as if ordering a cavalry into battle.

  Polly tested her ankle, hobbling a few steps. Though weakened and painful, it would bear her weight. Everyone was gradually moving and shuffling, marshalled by stewards, into a massed column on Broad Walk. Polly could no longer see Aunt Dorothy or Lily; she thought they had moved back towards the railings. Deliberately she did not look round: if Aunt Dorothy saw that she was injured, there would be no question of marching even a short way. Having got this far, Polly was determined not to give up, even if the distance from here to Chelsea Town Hall now seemed a very long way indeed. She slipped into the column, surrounding herself with taller people.

  Posters were held aloft, banners raised, purple, white and green, giving a festive air as the procession moved off. “Votes for women!” someone shouted at the front, and the cry was taken up by others. Progress was a slow shamble at first, almost treading on the heels of people in front, then accelerating to the brisk pace set by the stewards. At first, Polly’s injured foot made her wince with each step, but the pain soon began to lessen.

  “Get back to your kitchen sinks!” a passer-by yelled from Park Lane.