Dangerous Destiny

by Chris Longmuir

  ‘That’s something I wanted to ask you.’ Ethel hesitated, not wanting to admit her confusion over the different suffrage societies.

  ‘What’s the difference between the WFL and the WSPU?’ Martha predicted the girl’s question.

  ‘Yes. We’ve all turned out for this rally to hear Christabel speak, although we don’t support the same societies . . .’

  Martha laid the news-sheets on the cart and leaned back against it.

  ‘I suppose it can be confusing. What you need to remember is the different societies have the same aim – every one of us wants women to get the vote. But each organisation has a different way of tackling it. Christabel’s mother, Emmeline Pankhurst, considered the suffrage movement too passive, so she formed the Women’s Social and Political Union. She believed suffragettes should be more militant, and I shared her belief. “Deeds not words,” she used to say. And that’s why I joined.’

  Ethel’s confusion grew greater, and she shook her head.

  ‘But you’re not a member of the WSPU.’

  ‘I was, but Emmeline Pankhurst expected members of the WSPU to increase their militant activities. It was when they started setting fires and planting bombs in England that I decided it was too much for me. A lot of members felt the same way, so we left and set up the Women’s Freedom League – that was just last year. We still believe in using militant methods – petitioning and all that passive stuff doesn’t get us anywhere. But we don’t believe in using the more extreme methods Emmeline Pankhurst advocates.’

  ‘It’s all terribly confusing.’

  ‘Once we gather the news-sheets in, come with me to our headquarters and I’ll give you some pamphlets to read. It might help you to understand.’ Ethel and Martha, their arms full of papers, walked out of the square and along the street.

  ‘When I put your name forward at the next meeting, I’m hoping you’ll join us on a more official basis.’

  Ethel hesitated before she replied.

  ‘I’d like that, but I can’t be as available as the other members. There’s my da, you see.’

  They walked on in silence.

  ‘Your home life is not a happy one, I think.’ Martha’s eyes remained focused on the road ahead.

  Ethel blinked and pulled at her sleeve in a subconscious action. She was sure Martha had spotted the bruise on her wrist when she handed her the news-sheets.

  She didn’t look at Martha but could sense the woman watching her.

  ‘My home is far too big for my needs, should you require a sanctuary.’ Martha paused. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t intend to intrude.’

  ‘I . . . I don’t know.’ Ethel gripped the news-sheets closer to her body. Her mind whirled. Did Martha mean it? Was this a chance to escape from her life with a bully of a father, who might turn on her whenever he grew tired of beating on her mother?

  Martha stopped walking and turned to look at Ethel.

  ‘I can sense your hesitancy. Perhaps that is because you think accepting my offer would be an intrusion. But, if you do decide to come and stay with me, it will not only benefit you, it will also benefit the Women’s Freedom League. You will be more available to take part in our activities than if you remain at home.’

  ‘You really mean it? I can stay with you?’ Ethel’s pulse quickened.

  ‘Of course, I mean it. I always have rooms ready for suffragettes looking for somewhere to stay.’ Martha paused for a moment before adding, ‘And, you are a suffragette.’

  Ethel’s mind whirled. She knew what awaited her when her da got home tonight. Someone was bound to have told him she’d missed work today; if he didn’t know by now, he would find out tomorrow. She shuddered at the thought.

  ‘You’re shivering. Is something wrong?’ Martha’s voice was full of concern.

  ‘It’s my da; he’d never allow it. And he’ll be angry because I missed work today.’

  ‘I see.’ Martha paused. ‘Will your father be at home when you get back?’

  ‘I don’t think so. He usually stays at the pub until closing time.’

  ‘In that case, you must leave while you have the chance. You can move in with me right away.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘It’ll be all right, Ma.’ Ethel stopped pushing clothes into the bag so that her hands were free to hug her mother. The older woman shrank back – they’d never been a family who touched or displayed emotion. But, after a moment, she relaxed and accepted her daughter’s embrace. Ethel tightened her hold, surprised by the sharpness of her mother’s shoulder blades and the wave of emotion this provoked within her.

  A tear trickled down her mother’s face.

  ‘I’ll miss you, hen.’ She scrubbed the moisture away with a hand as wizened as her cheek.

  Ethel turned back to her packing.

  ‘I need to get this finished before Da comes home.’ She shivered at the thought. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d suffered from her da’s fists, but she had no intention of staying and being one more punch-bag for him.

  She pulled the top of the bag closed and took a final look around the only home she’d ever known. Two damp, dilapidated rooms, similar in size and layout to every tenement house in Dundee. The front room, known as the kitchen, connected to the front door by a tiny lobby. This was where the family ate, washed, slept and lived. Another door at the rear of this room led into a box-room.

  The kitchen was a spartan place, containing a jawbox sink in front of the dingy, net-covered window which looked out on to the shared landing. On the opposite wall, an ash-filled fireplace, in sore need of the black leading brush, held a dead fire that rarely blazed. The table in the centre of the room was strewn with the remains of the last meal. Milk in a bottle, sugar still in its bag, and dirty plates and cups littered the surface, leaving scant space for anything else. An unmade bed, partially hidden in a curtained alcove, awaited its night-time occupants.

  Her ma had brought up eight kids in these two rooms while her husband spent his life in the pub. Ethel was the only one who had remained. The rest of them had fled as soon as they were old enough.

  Ethel remembered her ma when she was younger. Not that she was old now, although she looked more like a woman of sixty-five than the forty-five she was. Ma had been bonnie then, but Da had beaten that out of her over the years. There was no way Ethel meant to fall into the same trap. Men! She’d see a man in hell before she’d take one.

  ‘I can’t come back, Ma. You know that, don’t you?’ She looked at the older woman with troubled, brown eyes. They were a warmer, deeper, more vibrant version of her mother’s.

  Margery Stewart nodded.

  ‘He’d have the hide off me if I returned.’ She grasped her mother’s hands. ‘I love you, Ma.’ She’d never told her mother this before and it embarrassed her. Hugging her one final time, Ethel ran out of the door, leaving behind her childhood home and all the poverty and dirt and hurt it contained.

  She fled along the landing, a stone platform suspended in mid-air which provided a passage from the central stairwell to each individual house. These platforms, known locally as platties, jutted out behind all the Dundee tenements. No one knew what miracle stopped these platties, and the stairs that led on to them, from collapsing; though that was one worry which didn’t enter Ethel’s mind as her feet clattered along the stone surface.

  Several sets of grubby net curtains twitched as she ran past and a new worry took root. What if someone followed her? What if they told her da where she’d gone? It didn’t bear thinking about. She didn’t stop running until she reached the foot of the Hilltown. Da never frequented the town centre and rarely came this far down the steep hill. He preferred the drinking howffs nearer to home. Ethel leaned against a wall, waiting until she stopped gasping and her breath became more even, then she started to move forward again, walking at a more sedate pace.

  * * *

  Margery Stewart watched her daughter leave the house. Ethel was her youngest child, her favourite, but she wouldn’t sto
p her from going. She’d done her best for the child but knew it hadn’t been enough. Ethel was twenty-one now, her own person, and she could do what she wanted. But Hughie never saw it that way. A shudder passed through her slight frame. Hughie looked on Ethel as his possession in the same way Margery had become his to do with as he wished when they married.

  Hughie wouldn’t like it when he found out Ethel had defied him and left home. Margery clasped her hands around her middle, already feeling the blows to come. If Ethel wasn’t here, he’d take it out on her. She moaned gently in anticipation, a wounded sound which seemed to emanate right from her heart. And yet, she was glad for her girl. Ethel had escaped and, so long as she wasn’t fool enough to return to this dingy house, Margery knew her youngest daughter would do all right for herself.

  Margery stood. She’d best get food ready for when Hughie came home from the pub. It would be one less excuse to hit her. Not that he ever needed one, but it didn’t pay to antagonise him. She opened the paper bag sitting on the table. It contained one meat pie. That would do for Hughie; it didn’t matter for herself, which was just as well, because she’d only had enough money for one, and Hughie wasn’t the sharing kind. She scrabbled under the sink for two potatoes and, running the tap, started to peel them.

  Once the potatoes were cooking and the pie was in the oven, she cleared a space on the table for her husband’s meal. She threw the dirty dishes into the sink, swilled a dirty cup under the tap and replaced it, sniffed the milk to make sure it hadn’t soured and placed a knife and fork at the empty place.

  She should tidy herself now but was too tired to care what she looked like. Her dusty, brown hair straggled in rats’ tails on her neck, and she spent her whole life in her mill clothes. What was the point of doing anything else? Hughie never noticed, and anyway, it didn’t matter if she got blood on her working clothes.

  There was a blankness in her brown eyes as she stared at her surroundings. What did anything matter any more?

  She sat down and waited for Hughie to come home.

  * * *

  ‘I thought you were never coming,’ Martha said, as she opened the door and took the bag from Ethel.

  ‘It was a wee bit difficult. Ma was upset.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’ Martha closed the door behind Ethel. ‘It was to be expected. But your father – did you get away without him knowing?’

  Ethel followed Martha up the corridor. This house was massive compared to the one she’d grown up in, as well as being a lot cleaner and better furnished.

  ‘Yes. He’ll be in the pub until closing-time.’ A worried frown creased her forehead. ‘I expect Ma will catch the brunt of his temper.’

  Martha set the bag on the floor.

  ‘He’d do that, anyway, whether you were there or not. You’re well out of it.’ She led Ethel up a staircase and opened one of the doors off the landing. ‘This is your bedroom. I hope you like it.’

  The room was small and functional, with a double bed, wardrobe, chest of drawers, chair, and thick, red, velvet curtains. To Ethel, it was a palace.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ she whispered. ‘You’re sure you won’t regret offering to take me in?’

  ‘Regret? Why would I regret it? You’re part of the cause and you’ve already proved your worth.’ She reached out and placed a hand on Ethel’s shoulder. ‘Take your time, get unpacked and join me in the drawing-room when you are ready.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Hugh Stewart drained his glass.

  ‘Give’s another wee one before I go home.’

  ‘Can’t do it, chum. Closing-time and all that. It’s more than my licence is worth.’ Charlie rinsed a glass under the tap behind the bar, polished it with a cloth and placed it on the shelf.

  Hugh banged his glass on the bar counter.

  ‘Another wee one wouldn’t hurt ye.’ There was more than a touch of menace in his voice as he glared at the barman.

  ‘No way, chum. And don’t take that tone with me or ye can find your drink elsewhere.’ Charlie placed his hands on the bar, flexed his muscles and met Hugh’s glare straight on.

  Charlie was bigger than Hugh, though not as burly. Hugh, with his broad shoulders and long arms, had a threatening, simian appearance, intensified by his shambling gait. The two men squared up. Hugh’s unshaven chin jutted; he stared at Charlie with a wild look in his bloodshot, brown eyes. His tension built, and he clenched his fists to prepare for the expected explosion of anger.

  ‘Come on, mate. Wife’ll be looking for ye.’ His drinking partner, Angus, pulled at Hugh’s arm.

  Hugh didn’t answer for a moment, but the tension in his muscles slackened.

  ‘D’ye think I’m scared of my wife?’

  ‘Naw, I know ye’re no feart of her, but I’ve got a wee something in my pocket.’ Angus pulled the neck of the bottle up so Hugh could see.

  ‘Aye, well, then. If ye insist.’ Hugh allowed himself to be pulled from the pub.

  Hugh gulped a greedy mouthful from the bottle, gasping as the fire hit his belly.

  ‘Whaur did ye get it, then? Ye’d nae mair money than I had.’ The two men hunkered on the grass in the back green, out of sight of any curious eyes.

  ‘Nabbed it from the back o’ the bar when Charlie was seeing to yon rumpus.’ Angus took the bottle from Hugh.

  ‘Good lad.’ Hugh’s hands reached for the bottle to be returned and he took a long draw. ‘Aw, bugger it! There’s nane left.’ Hugh shook the bottle. ‘What’ll we do now?’

  ‘Go hame, like we always do,’ Angus mumbled, hoisting himself to his feet with a hand on Hugh’s shoulder.

  The stairs shifted and swayed as Hugh climbed them. His drunken state wasn’t unusual, though, and he negotiated them with his hand clamped to the iron handrail. Hand over hand, he pulled himself upwards until he reached the top landing.

  ‘Nosy bugger,’ he roared at one window as he saw the curtains twitch. ‘Mind your ain business or I’ll come in there and help ye mind it.’

  He hammered on his door until Margery opened it.

  ‘Good lass,’ he said. ‘Have ye got my supper ready?’

  Margery placed the plate with a meat pie and potatoes in front of him and stood back.

  He looked at the plate.

  ‘What’s this?’ he roared. ‘A burnt pie and potatoes no better than mush.’

  ‘Ye were late . . .’

  The fear in her voice fanned his temper. Why would she never stand up to him?

  ‘Shite. That’s what it is.’ He lifted the plate and threw it at her. Margery sidestepped, and it skiffed past her shoulder, splattering against the wall behind her. The pie slid to the floor, while the potatoes stuck like lumps of white cement.

  ‘Don’t just stand there!’ he roared. ‘Wipe that bloody mess up.’

  Margery grabbed a washrag out of the sink and scrubbed at the wall, only widening the affected area and spreading the grease.

  ‘Bloody useless, that’s what you are. This place is a hovel.’ He watched Margery through narrowed eyes, enjoying her fear. Tension built within him, tightening his muscles and feeding into his rage. It was a familiar feeling; one he knew could only be relieved through using his fists. He clenched his fingers into his palms and hit her on the side of the head with his knuckles.

  ‘No, Hughie, don’t,’ Margery pleaded. He liked it when she begged, but he wanted her on her knees.

  He hit her again and again; she sank to the floor.

  ‘Stop! If I can’t work, we’ll have no money.’ Her voice was barely audible.

  ‘We’ll use Ethel’s wages.’ He raised his hand again. ‘She’s a good lass, she’ll not see us starve.’

  ‘But Ethel’s not here,’ she said, just before the blow struck.

  ‘What do ye mean, she’s not here?’ His knuckles were bloody; his fists ached. ‘Away with some toerag, I suppose. She’ll be having it off up one of the closies. Well, I’ll soon sort her out when she appears.’

  ‘She’s not comi
ng back.’ Margery looked up at him from bloodshot eyes and he could have sworn a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. ‘She’s moved out and taken all her belongings with her.’

  ‘Moved out? She can’t do that – I won’t allow it.’ Heat flooded Hugh’s body, spreading up through his neck to his face. The veins throbbed in his temples and a drumbeat of anger pounded in his head. His fists clenched, and he punched his wife until his knuckles ached so much he had to stop. Then he used his feet.

  * * *

  It didn’t take Ethel long to unpack the few belongings she had. The board money she paid to her mother swallowed up most of her pay. Although she didn’t grudge her mother taking the money for food, she knew her father drank most of her mother’s wages and hers, as well. Meeting Martha had been one of the most fortunate things that had ever happened to her.

  They’d met several weeks ago at an open-air meeting on Magdalen Green. The speakers that day had been interesting and spoke with passion about women and their rights. Ethel had never thought women had any rights, and she had been overcome with excitement at the thought that these women were prepared to fight for what they wanted.

  ‘You seem to be enjoying the meeting,’ a voice next to her had said, and Ethel had turned to the lady, nodding in awed agreement. She’d never spoken to anyone like this before, someone fashionably dressed and quite obviously not a working woman.

  ‘My name’s Martha Fairweather.’ The woman offered her hand.

  Ethel stared at her for a moment before responding. Martha was the most beautiful woman she had been this close to – small and delicate, with bluest-of-blue eyes and blonde curls tucked up under her elegant bonnet. Her cheeks held the faintest blush, while her lips had the softest touch of rouge. Ethel touched her own lips. She’d never used rouge, but she liked the effect. An uninvited thought seeped into her mind that she was being propositioned for a life of vice. But Martha didn’t seem that kind of woman and Ethel felt instantly embarrassed by her thoughts.