The Liberation of Celia Kahn

by J David Simons

  “If I don’t get arrested first.”

  Agnes searched around inside her coat pockets, brought out a piece of paper covered in crumbs. “I’ve written the instructions where to go. You never know, you might meet some boys your own age. If you’ve a mind for such things.”

  She took the note, picked up the bags of flour, stuffed them in her message bag, strode off, down past the young men busy with their game of football, not a head turned to mark her departure. She decided on the long way home round the outside of the park, past the Victoria Infirmary, that impressive grey-stone building sprawled across the whole side of a hill that left even her young lungs breathless. She looked up at the wide hospital balconies where some of the male patients sat in their wheelchairs, others leaned on crutches against a back wall, heads raised to the weak sunshine. Sad and pale they were, all wrapped up in an assortment of scarves, greatcoats and dressing gowns. A couple wore peaked caps. One man had a medal pinned to his pyjama jacket. Most of them smoked cigarettes or pipes.

  “Bloody war,” she said to herself. “Bloody, bloody war.”

  Seven

  CELIA HUNG AROUND THE HITCHING POST at the bottom of Buchanan Street where the carthorses were gathered for the haul of their wagonloads a quarter-mile up the easy slope to the station. The beasts were restless, flicking their tails, flies buzzing around the gunge lining their eyes, bothering her too, having to keep the pesky insects off her face with a constant wave of her hand. A boy weaved through their flanks, sweeping up the manure, left her wondering how much a person was paid for doing a job like that. And even though Avram wasn’t in the mood to be obliging, she’d managed to get him to ask one of the drivers to give them a ride. For the fun of it really, given that his baggage was light enough to carry up the street, just a knapsack of his clothes, some samples for Uncle Mendel.

  The cart-driver was merely a lad, his sleeves rolled up over brawny arms. He looked at her too straight for her liking, let out a shrill whistle, said:

  “I shouldnae really… och aye… hop on.”

  She waited with her hands clamped to her waist while Avram swung on his bag and parcels, heaved himself on to the rearside of the wagon. Then she grabbed his held-out hand, pulled herself on board, careful of her own satchel with the flour inside. Bits of straw littered the wooden slats, squashed vegetables, a couple of tea-chests up the driver’s end, plenty of space to spread out if she were careful of the splinters.

  “Mind yer dress from the wheels,” the driver shouted over the chests. “Don’t want to be getting yer skirts dirty. Yer young fancy man wouldn’t be wanting that.”

  “He’s not my fancy man.”

  “Right then.” The driver gave his brace of Clydesdales a flick, the horses began their plodding ascent.

  She knew she should be feeling sad about Avram’s departure hanging as he was off the backboard with the face of a graveside mourner, but all this fine weather, the flock of people, only served to fire up her excitement. A Salvation Army band struck up with its brass and its Christian soldiers chorus as they passed by St. Vincent Place, she couldn’t prevent her legs swinging in time. Then the wagon pulled up sharp for a group of women crossing their path, two stern-faced matrons at their head stretching a white sheet declaring the procession’s purpose – Defending Our Homes Against Landlord Tyranny. The cloth brushed over the pricked-up ears of the horses but the beasts just snorted, wriggled their thick necks, jingling the buckles and straps of their halters.

  The wagon-driver sprang half-way up from his bench. “I’m with you,” he shouted, pumping a fist. “Bloody landlords and their factors.” Then, as if he felt the need to give some explanation, he twisted his head back. “On their way to the courts. For the big demonstration.”

  “I know,” she said. “Protesting against those eviction cases.”

  “I’ve never seen so many folks in the town. Not even for the footba’.” The young man cracked a broad smile then flicked his whip. The team started moving again.

  “How do you know so much about this?” Avram asked her.

  “I read the newspapers. You play your football.” Then to prove her point, she called out to the driver. “Are you getting any increases where you’re from?”

  “Aye, I’m frae Partick,” he shouted back over his shoulder.

  “That’s one of the worst areas affected.”

  “Aye, all those workers from outside floodin’ into the steel and engineering works. Landlords are rubbin’ their hands like they’re kindlin’ fire with sticks. They’ll either force the increases or have us out on our arses with the newcomers ready to step in. Meanwhile my faither’s off in France fighting for King and country. And I could be joining him any day now.”

  “The Government and the sheriff will pay attention. You’ll see. These wifies will make them.”

  “That’s a fine way of thinking ye’ve got for being a lassie.”

  “I’ve got a fine way of thinking, lassie or not,” she said firmly. “Now can you stop to let me off, please.”

  “I’ve no offended ye, have I? We’re almost at the station.”

  “Please stop.”

  The driver pulled up the horses.

  “Where are you going?” Avram asked.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, easing herself down off the backboard. “But I need to go. You should keep on to the station.”

  “I’m coming too.”

  “Please don’t.” But he was already gathering his baggage together in a scramble, jumping off after her. “Wait,” he shouted.

  She stopped, spun back at him. “I have to meet someone.”

  He fumbled in his pocket, pulled out a small box. “Here. Take it.” He clawed back the lid to reveal a silver thimble.

  She stared at his outstretched hand. “What’s this?”

  “I want you to have it.”

  “But your mother gave it to you.”

  “Please.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Please, Celia. Please take it.”

  “No, no. I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s all you have left of her. It’s too precious.”

  “That is why I want to give it.”

  “Oh, Avram. Don’t be silly.”

  She looked round after she’d moved away from him, tried to catch a glimpse, but he was already smothered by the crowds, a little eye of hurt concealed within the storm of the marchers. She was swept up herself, driven across a George Square that was usually a blank open space with more statues than pedestrians, funnelled into a side-street, heading for the Sheriff Court. There were women, women, women everywhere, raising more noise than a Clydeside shipyard on launch day, the drums, the horns, the ricketies, the speakers on their makeshift platforms blaring out their causes.

  She felt their anger. And sense of determination. But most of all, this intoxicating drug of power. The power of a united force. Of women together. Women taking control. It was like pollen floating in the atmosphere. She no longer felt herself as an individual. No longer Celia Kahn of 32 Thistle Street, The Gorbals. But part of something greater. Was this the revolution Agnes talked about? Her skin tingled and prickled with the potency of it all. She was sure these other women felt the same. She could see it in the jut of their faces, the delirium in their eyes, the shininess of their skin.

  Above her, office windows gaped open, figures bent over sills to watch and wave. The procession began to slow, tiny steps forward now, bodies bunching up as they approached a junction. Something was going on ahead but she didn’t know what. She worried about the time, one of the clock-towers showing she’d five minutes in hand, her nerves already all over the place without adding Agnes’ displeasure to the mix. A belly-deep rumble rose up from beyond the Central Post Office, then a wave of squealing coming at her from the women in front as if someone had pinched them, told them to pass it back. People stacking up against each other, straining their necks for answers. She was being pushed from behind, forced up agains
t the foxtail collar of the woman in front, fearful her satchel would be squashed, making her flour more ready for the baking than the throwing. Everyone peering this way and that as each row crept forward out of the side-street into the broader avenue of Ingram Street. And then she saw the reason for the delay. Coming down the road in a broad swathe of chanting, blackened faces, an army of men. Hundreds of them. In their factory-soiled jackets and dungarees. Some holding colourful ward banners, others waving caps, spanners, striding in step, to the sound of the bagpipes.

  “Christ, it’s no just a rent strike,” a woman in front shouted. “It’s a bloody munitions strike as well. The men have downed tools.”

  Their ranks mingled, flowed into each other seamlessly as if in some massive choreographed movement, two rivers of protest joining in their surge towards the Sheriff Court. Her feet hardly touched the road within the press of bodies, crushed up as she was against a lad with an oil-smeared face, a pale stripe across his forehead where his cap had been.

  “Which yard are you from?” she asked, her voice scratchy from the shouting.

  “I’m from Dalmuir, miss. But there’s men here from all over. From Clydebank, from Cathcart, from Parkhead Forge. The factories are empty. They’re bloody empty.”

  The main body of the march primed itself for its protest in front of the Sheriff Court while she headed off smart along the east side of the building. She found the entrance painted in its Glasgow Corporation green, knocked gently, her heartbeat stuck half-way up her throat as she waited. The door opened a crack, swung wide to let her in.

  “Get in,” Agnes said. “Before anyone sees.”

  She stepped into a cramped, dim vestibule with a wooden stairway leading off. Standing beside Agnes, a bespectacled lass with lank red hair, her arms clasped around a bundle of red-ribboned files as if it were her very own bairn she was protecting.

  “This is Elsie,” Agnes said. “She feeds me the advance information about the eviction notices. Our secret agent at the heart of the Scottish legal system.”

  “A clerk in the warrant office,” Elsie said with a little laugh.

  Agnes frowned, then asked. “What’s happening outside?”

  “The men from the munitions factories have downed tools, joined in on the march.”

  “Oh for Christ sake. It should just be us. Why do they always have to interfere?”

  “Oh come on, Aggie,” Elsie said. “Can you no forget about your feminist crusades for just one minute? We need the men to join us on this. Having the munitions factories idle will put far more pressure on Sheriff Lennox than a few harridans scratching at the courthouse door. The poor man’s on the telephone right now to the Munitions Minister, Lloyd George himself. All the way to London.” She nodded to the stairway. “Now up you go, the two of you. The gallery’s packed to the rafters with the press. I’ll keep this door unlocked.”

  “And the constables?” Agnes asked.

  “They’re all round at the main entrance. I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got my own work to do.”

  Elsie was right. The place was packed. Not just the gallery benches but also below in the main courtroom. Hot and airless too, the closed windows holding in the stink of sweat, hair cream and cigarette smoke, keeping out the noise of the crowds. Agnes stretched herself up straight in the aisle, stuck out her bosom, surveyed the scene, just like that day back in Govan commanding her troops. A few of the reporters looked up, dipped their chins, flicked a hat brim.

  “Why if it isn’t Jimmy Docherty?” Agnes wheezed, addressing a lanky, grey-haired man scrunched in at the end of the back row.

  “I’d doff my hat if I were wearing one, Comrade Calder.”

  “Writing your poison for the Evening Citizen?”

  “It pays the rent. More than I can say for that lot down there.”

  “What’s your headline? Strikers commit treason while country’s at war?”

  Docherty shrugged, smiled back as if he’d been caught out, a gold filling catching the light. Celia thought he’d probably been a good-looking man in his time. Before the alcohol had veined his nose and cheeks, pouched up his eyes. “Something like that,” he sighed. “What are you here for? Enlisting supporters for the Bolsheviks? Or is it the Women’s Peace Movement?”

  “Just one revolution at a time.”

  “Is she one of your brigade then?”

  “Not yet.”

  Docherty turned to her. “Well, don’t let Comrade Calder indoctrinate you, lass. Or she’ll have you burning down all kinds of buildings in the name of the suffragettes.”

  “I’ve got my own mind, Mr Docherty.”

  “I’m sure you have.”

  She gave him a slight curtsy, swept her skirts forward, sat down on one of the aisle steps. She’d never been in a courtroom before. “Have we missed much?”

  “Quite a lot I’d say.” Docherty showed her his legal pad with a page full of notes. “The factor Fothergill has refused to drop his eviction cases against the tenants for the arrears. Sheriff Lennox then tried to explain to this mob here that despite the passions raised by this issue, he could only decide the case on its legal merits. Needless to say that particular speech didn’t go down well with the great unwashed, forcing a delegation from the protestors to approach the bench. Now they’ve all gone off into a wee back room to discuss the matter. I believe Lloyd George himself is being consulted, fact to be confirmed in time for the evening edition.” Docherty scraped the back of his shaved-red neck with the tip of his pencil. “Meanwhile, I’ve never seen so many women in court in my life. Outside of a trial with a hanging at the end of it.”

  “Who was in the delegation?” Agnes asked.

  “No-one I recognise. For the sheriff to meet with them at all is an extraordinary break with procedure. And a bloody disgrace, if you ask me, the court kow-towing to a bunch of anarchists.”

  “What do you think will happen, Mr Docherty?” Celia asked.

  “My money’s on a postponement, lass. Until the Government sorts something out.”

  “You’re wrong there, Jimmy,” Agnes said. “This crowd won’t settle for anything less than these cases being thrown out altogether. Otherwise, Lennox will have a riot on his hands.”

  “It’s no up to the crowd, Agnes. Or Westminster. Remember this is a court of law.”

  To confirm his point there came a command of ‘all rise’. Sheriff Lennox bustled in from a side-door, a good deal of irritation on his face. A dozen or so men and women of the delegation followed, easing themselves into a line along a side wall, eyes to the ground, hands in a fold in front of them. She saw two other men take up position at a table before the sheriff. Agnes hissed over at her, drew a finger across her upper lip, then pointed down at the two men. The one with the moustache was Fothergill.

  Sheriff Lennox settled into his chair, took his time sorting out the folds of his robe.

  “Be seated!” an usher cried.

  A unanimous thumph. Then silence. She felt as if the whole courtroom had taken a deep breath. Even the noise of the crowd outside had quietened.

  She gripped her step with both hands, felt the rough wood dig into her skin, tiny ripples of nerves spreading out from her abdomen. Docherty beside her on his gallery bench, hunched forward, chewing on his pencil. Agnes heavy breathing behind her, stubbing out a cigarette on the wooden floor, giving her a tap with her toe, time to get ready. Her fingers trembled as she fussed with the buckles on her satchel, wished she’d brought her other bag, the one with the simple clasp. She could taste the bile risen in her mouth, a violent clench in her stomach, thought she might throw up over Jimmy Docherty and that smart suit he was wearing, didn’t take a tailor’s daughter to notice that. She imagined this must be how those soldiers felt in the trenches, snapping off the pin of their real grenades, pushing out of their shelter for a throw, never knowing if they’d get their heads blown off in the process.

  Lennox surveyed his courtroom over his glasses, leaned forward to speak, appeared to change hi
s mind, drew back into his high-backed chair. She watched him carefully, trying to second-guess the verdict, thought he had a kindly face, the sort of person who might be favourable to bending points of law in favour of what was right and ethical. Otherwise, any second she was going to be up on her feet with a bag of flour in her hand trying to target that shiny-suited factor man Fothergill with his slither of a moustache.

  The sheriff cleared his throat, placed his hands on his bench, the white cuffs of his shirt sharp contrasting the black of his gown. She released the straps on both buckles, slid a hand inside, felt one of the flour bags, something quite comforting in the way it moulded into her palm. The silence filled the room, then snapped taut, waiting to be broken. Sheriff Lennox leaned forward: “On the understanding Parliament itself is about to consider legislation that will make the matter before this court redundant, the pursuer, Mr Daniel Fothergill, representing the factors, has agreed to drop all claims for ejectment.” He brought down his gavel. “Case dismissed.” And as if by some magical connection to this sound of hardwood on hardwood, the whole courtroom rose to its feet and cried: “Yes!” Everyone except Docherty.

  “That’s the whole concept of the law thrown out the window,” he grumbled. “Mob rule is what I call it. And the interference of Government in the judiciary. They couldn’t stomach the munitions industry grinding to a halt over this.”

  “The rent increases were unfair, Jimmy,” Agnes said. “You know that.”

  “What do you think, lass?” he asked. “Does the end justify the means?”

  She looked over at him as she buckled up her satchel. There was a weary wisdom about the man that made her think he could be right, that everyone else was wrong. Then she glanced at Agnes who’d moved down to the front of the gallery, smiling and shouting down to her colleagues in the main court room.

  “Oh, I think justice was done, Mr Docherty,” Celia said. “Justice was done.”