by Anna Carey
Sometimes I really could kill him. And I thought again about what the lady at the meeting had said about men and women being treated differently.
Anyway. Even though I am still in disgrace today, I was very much looking forward to telling Nora that I had solved the mystery of Phyllis. Dreadful Harry walked us to school this morning so I couldn’t say anything to her then, and as soon as he left us we bumped into our friend Stella. I didn’t get a chance to reveal all until we were in our first class of the day, French, when I passed a note to Nora, saying ‘PHYLLIS IS A SUFFRAGETTE!!!” As I said, passing notes is always risky in Professor Shields’s French class because of her supernatural hearing and hawk-like sight, but I really couldn’t keep it in any longer. I scribbled the words on a scrap of paper and passed it to Nora, who was sitting at the next desk. She looked very surprised when she read it and as soon as Professor Shields turned back to the board again, she looked at me and mouthed ‘How?’
But before I could write another note, Professor Shields whipped her head round like a cobra. It was clear that she’d noticed something. And she wasn’t the only one. Grace Molyneaux was sitting behind Nora and she had definitely seen both the note passing and Nora’s reaction to it.
‘Is everything all right there, Miss Cantwell?’ asked Professor Shields.
‘Yes, Professor Shields,’ said Nora. And I didn’t dare look over at her for the rest of the class. It was very boring. We were practising verbs and learning how to say things like ‘I have sold the pen of my aunt. I am selling the pen of my aunt. I will sell the pen of my aunt’ in French. I don’t know why, but we never seem to learn how to say any useful things in French class (or rather en français, as they say in France. I suppose I have learned something). If I ever tried to sell the pen of Aunt Josephine, she’d probably have me arrested for theft.
Finally, after half an hour of talking about the tables of our uncles and the dresses of our mothers, French class was over and Professor Shields left the room, but Grace pounced on me before I chance to say anything to Nora.
‘I hate to be a bore,’ she said, untruthfully. ‘But you know you shouldn’t be passing notes in class.’ She turned to Nora. ‘Or receiving them. You do need to concentrate on your French.’
‘I can concentrate perfectly well, thank you,’ said Nora politely.
‘I’m sure you can,’ said Grace. ‘But you know Aunt Catherine wouldn’t like it. And besides, it’s terribly distracting for everyone else. How am I going to win the Middle Grade Cup if you’re throwing bits of paper around when Professor Shields is trying to teach us?’
Grace’s Aunt Catherine is Nora’s mother. Poor, poor Nora. Not only does she have to worry about Grace sneaking on her to teachers, but she also has to worry about her sneaking to Nora’s parents as well.
‘I could barely concentrate on my verbs,’ said Gertie Hayden. She’s not as bad as her great chum Grace, but she’s still pretty bad. Whenever Grace does something annoying, Gertie backs her up, whether she agrees with her or not.
In this case, we knew Gertie didn’t give a fig about concentrating on verbs. All she cares about is hockey and tennis. Sometimes I think that the only reason Grace is friends with Gertie is that Gertie poses no threat to Grace’s ambition to win the cup.
Nora gave them both a haughty look. She is surprisingly good at looking like a grand old lady for a short red-haired girl from Drumcondra.
‘Then why didn’t you tell Professor Shields?’ she asked.
Grace gave a sort of tinkling laugh.
‘Don’t be silly,’ she said. ‘I’m not a sneak.’
‘Really?’ said Nora. ‘You do surprise me. Come on, Mollie.’
And she linked her arm through mine (which we are also not supposed to do, because the nuns don’t really approve of close friendships between girls. They say they are ‘unhealthy’ though I really can’t see why. It’s not as though Nora or I have germs).
Grace smiled at us in a pitying sort of way, which was extremely irritating, and then she and Gertie went over to May Sullivan, who is a new-ish girl who sometimes goes about with Grace and Gertie (presumably because she hasn’t seen through Grace’s sugary sweet act, unlike me and Nora who’ve known her for years and years).
As Nora and I marched away to the science room for our next class, I said, ‘You know, it’s not that I think you were wrong, but maybe we shouldn’t antagonise Grace.’
‘Why not?’ said Nora. ‘She deserves it when she talks like that. Going on about Mother and telling us we shouldn’t be passing notes!’
‘True,’ I said. ‘But maybe we should try and avoid her wrath at the moment. Especially if …’ I trailed off.
‘Especially if what?’ asked Nora.
I looked around to make sure Grace, or indeed anyone else, wasn’t in earshot.
‘Well, I rather think I’d like to find out more,’ I said. ‘About being a suffragette.’ And as quickly as I could, I told her what had happened the previous evening, and what the lady, Mrs. Joyce, had said at the meeting.
‘And you know, she’s quite right,’ I said. ‘I mean, think of Harry. He gets away with doing all sorts of things that we could never do.’
‘That’s true,’ said Nora.
‘And he gets the best bits of chicken,’ I said, warming to my theme.
‘So does George, when he’s at home,’ said Nora. George is her brother, in case you’ve forgotten.
‘I know, I’ve seen him,’ I said. ‘All brothers get treated better than we do. And it’s been taken for granted since they were born that they’re going to university, even though anyone can tell just looking at Harry that he’s an absolute fool, and poor Phyllis who’s so clever had to beg and beg and beg. And really, them getting the vote when they grow up is just the same thing as getting all the best bits of chicken.’
‘Goodness me,’ said Nora. But before she could say anything else Mother Antoninas suddenly loomed over us and said, ‘What are you two girls dawdling for?’ and we had to run into the classroom at top speed. It wasn’t until break that we got a chance to talk properly while we drank our milk.
‘So what exactly are you proposing?’ asked Nora, after we’d found a suitably quiet corner of the refectory. ‘Because I’m not actually sure I want to be a suffragette. I mean, it does sound quite exciting and I do see what you mean about all these things about brothers, but I haven’t really thought about it much.’
‘I’m not saying I want to be one either,’ I said. ‘I mean, I’m not even sure if you can be one at our age, but I’m not saying I definitely don’t want to be one either.’
‘That sounds like you do want to be one,’ said Nora.
‘I don’t think it matters whether I do or not,’ I said, taking a gloomy swig of milk. ‘First of all because we’re too young. But mostly because Mother and Father are never going to let me leave the house again after last night. And even if they did, they wouldn’t let me go to meetings in town.’
‘Oh, I’m sure we could think of ways around that,’ said Nora. ‘And around the being too young thing. There must be something we could do.’
‘Does that mean you’re interested too?’ I said.
‘Possibly,’ said Nora. ‘And possibly not. I’ll have to consider it. Oh watch out, it’s Stella.’
‘Stella’s all right,’ I said, because she is. In fact, Stella Donovan is our friend. She’s a boarder and she can be a bit wet and white-mouse-like, but I do like her a lot. Still, just because I like her doesn’t mean I want her to know such secret information, so I immediately changed the subject and started talking about the pair of socks I’m knitting for Father’s birthday (navy wool, very smart). I hoped Stella would be so bored by this not very exciting topic of conversation that she’d wander off and talk to someone else, but it turns out that she’s become passionately interested in socks – knitting them, I mean, I don’t think even Stella could be interested in socks in general. And she immediately started talking about cable patterns and
different ways of turning the heel.
‘If you start on a purl row, it looks so much neater,’ she said, and she was so earnest and enthusiastic I didn’t have the heart to stop the conversation, even though it was extremely dull. You simply can’t be mean to Stella. It would be like kicking a puppy.
Anyway, Stella not only wanted to talk about her sock-knitting, she had taken it down from her dorm in a little bag and insisted on demonstrating her amazing sock skills for us. And so what with Stella’s socks and Grace looking suspiciously at us all day, it wasn’t until we were on our way home that Nora and I were able to continue our conversation.
‘Thank goodness we’re free of that prison,’ she said as we turned the corner of Eccles Street. ‘Poor Stella, being stuck there for weeks and weeks at a time.’
‘It’s not that bad,’ I said. ‘Some of the time, anyway.’
We walked along in silence for a moment. But it was a comfortable silence. It always is, with Nora.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Nora, ‘about what we were talking about earlier. And we need to do some research. I’d like to find out more about it.’
I was very pleased to hear this.
‘Really?’ I said.
Nora nodded.
‘After all, I wouldn’t be able to be a doctor if women hadn’t fought for the right to go to university,’ she said.
I was so pleased to hear that she was interested in what Maggie had called ‘the cause’ that I didn’t tell her I thought she would probably want to be something else in a few months. Or days.
‘I agree about the research,’ I said. ‘Which means we’ll have to talk to Phyllis.’
‘How angry do you think she still is?’ said Nora. ‘About you following her, I mean.’
‘By the time we got home yesterday she was quite friendly,’ I said, ‘but then this morning she grabbed me when I was putting my coat on and told me I’d better not sneak after her again. She might not want to tell me anything in case I tell on her.’
‘You’ll just have to win her trust,’ said Nora, which was easy for her to say. She doesn’t know what big sisters are like. She only has George, her big brother, (and he’s away at boarding school most of the time) so I’m not sure she appreciates quite how unreasonable an older sister can be (or a younger one, come to think of it). It does seem awfully unfair that I have to put up with not only an older sister but an older brother AND a kid sister too. You’re so lucky, Frances, being an only child. I know you think it can be a bit of a bore in the holidays but it sounds awfully peaceful to me.
Saturday
I know I should have finished and posted this letter already but more things keep happening and I want to tell you all about them while they’re fresh in my mind. The letter is getting terribly long. I might have to ask Father for an extra stamp to cover the weight. Anyway, at the moment I feel jealous of you being away at school as well as being an only child, not least because last night my parents decided on my proper punishment for running off on Wednesday. I wasn’t allowed to go to Nellie Whelan’s birthday tea after school today. Which is disappointing because Nellie’s mother makes the most delicious lemon cake. I know this because she invited some of us to tea shortly after she joined our class and I had some of the cake then. When I mentioned this to Nora, she was not impressed.
‘Is that the only reason you wanted to go to Nellie’s party?’ she said severely. ‘It’s not very nice to go to someone’s birthday tea just because you like their mother’s cakes.’
‘Oh, don’t be such a prig,’ I said. ‘You know I do like Nellie really. I was just looking forward to the lemon cake as an extra treat.’
‘I suppose that’s all right,’ said Nora.
I must admit that I did feel awful when practically all the day girls and even a few of the boarders in our class, like Stella, went off to Nellie’s after school today and I had to go home, even though Nellie very kindly promised to save me a slice of lemon cake and take it to school on Monday. To make matters (much) worse, because Nora was going to the party and I was in disgrace, I wasn’t allowed to walk home alone and so I had to wait at the school’s main entrance with Mother Antoninas looking at me very suspiciously until Harry turned up to collect me.
The only good thing about this arrangement was that when Harry arrived, he looked just as annoyed by the whole thing as I was. As usual, his chum Frank was by his side. Also as usual, Harry didn’t bother saying hello or indeed anything even vaguely polite. Instead, he greeted me by saying ‘I’m going to be late for the rugby match because of you.’
‘It’s not as if you’re actually playing in it,’ I snapped as we trudged along Eccles Street. ‘You’re just watching. No one cares if two of the spectators turn up late.’
Of course, that made him even more annoyed because he really, really wishes that he was playing. But it’s ridiculous of him to expect to be in the first XV when there are boys in the school who are a whole year older than him.
Anyway, Frank tried to pour oil on troubled waters and politely asked me what I was planning to do when I left school. I don’t know if I ever told you what Frank looks like. He’s quite tall – even taller than Harry – and he has curly-ish golden hair that he keeps having to push out of his green-ish eyes.
‘I don’t know really,’ I said, after considering his question. ‘I suppose now Phyllis is going to the university, I’d like to go there too.’
‘To study what?’ asked Frank.
‘English literature, I think,’ I said. ‘That’s my favourite subject.’
‘That’s what I’d like to do too,’ said Frank, but before either of us could say anything else, Harry said, ‘It’s utterly ridiculous, girls going to college. What’s the point? They’ll just be looking after husbands and babies in a year or two. That is,’ he added, giving me a pointed look, ‘if any man will have them.’
‘Oh shut up, Harry, don’t be such an ass,’ said Frank.
I don’t know who was more surprised by Frank’s words, Harry or me. I thought he’d reply with something typically obnoxious, but to my immense surprise he just muttered, ‘I was only joking.’ And then he started talking about some boy in their class who’s supposedly an absolute wizard at rugby. It was all very dull but at least it took his mind off insulting me. They kept talking about boring boys’ school things all the way home. I didn’t particularly mind, though. Being ignored by Harry is vastly preferable to being talked to by him. Every so often Frank would politely ask me a question about my school: what sports do we play (none, in my case, at least not voluntarily) and whether the boarders are allowed out at the weekends. He doesn’t know much about Dublin girls and their schools. He has a sister, but she’s away at school in the country.
But mostly I was able to let the two of them have their conversation about rugby and how Father Jerome had made someone they kept calling ‘poor old Sheridan’ write out about twenty pages of the Aeneid as a punishment for falling asleep in class (even Mother Antoninas has never gone over five pages). And while they waffled on I was able to have a good think about the best way to approach Phyllis.
Somehow I’d barely seen her since the dramatic events of Wednesday night. On Thursday she and Kathleen went to some sort of art lecture with Kathleen’s mother and then yesterday she was at a concert in town with Aunt Josephine. I must say that it would take more than Beethoven to induce me to spend a whole evening with Aunt Josephine, but I suppose she did also treat Phyllis to dinner beforehand. As for this afternoon, I knew she was going to Kathleen’s house to help her trim a hat (I can only imagine what this one will look like) so I wouldn’t be able to talk to her when I got home.
But of course, I realised, Phyllis wasn’t the only person in the house who could tell me about suffragettes. There was also Maggie. And while I hadn’t been able to talk to her on her own since I discovered Phyllis’s secret, I knew that she wouldn’t be too busy this afternoon because Father had to go to some sort of work luncheon, and what with most
of the family being out of the house, she wouldn’t be making a full dinner. Of course, I wasn’t sure that she’d tell me anything. If Phyllis had told her about me following her on Wednesday – and she probably had – Maggie might not trust me. I was worrying about the best way to approach her when Harry shook my arm and said, ‘Mollie? Are you listening to me? Get in there quickly so I can go to the match.’ And I realised we were at our front door. It’s quite surprising how much you don’t notice when you’re thinking hard about something interesting.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said to Harry as I rang the bell. ‘I don’t want to spend any more time with you than I absolutely have to.’
Maggie answered the door.
‘I’ve taken her home,’ said Harry. ‘Be a dear and tell Mother, won’t you, Maggie? I’m late for the rugger match as it is.’
He smiled at Maggie and she smiled back. She actually likes Harry. I suppose I must grudgingly admit that he’s generally quite nice to her. Possibly the only good thing about Harry is that he is always very polite to servants. Anyway, he and Frank went off and I followed Maggie into the hall.
‘Wasn’t it nice of your brother to walk you home?’ she said.
‘It certainly was not,’ I said. ‘He only did it because Mother and Father made him.’
‘Ah, don’t be too hard on him. He’s a decent lad,’ said Maggie. Which is clearly not true. But I didn’t bother contradicting her because I had questions I wanted to ask once I’d poked my head into the drawing room and said hello to Mother. Mother was having tea with Mrs. Sheffield and Miss Harrington who live around the corner. They were talking about some sale of work the church is organising and they were all talking very passionately because some of the women who had been asked to take part refused because they think sales of work are ‘Protestant things’.
I was able to escape to the kitchen quite quickly. As soon as I walked in Maggie produced the remains of a freshly baked lemon cake.
