by Anna Carey
‘I thought you might like a slice of this,’ she said. ‘Seeing as you’re missing that party.’
‘Oh Maggie, you’re an absolute angel,’ I said. And I gave her a hug.
‘Get away with you,’ said Maggie briskly. ‘And don’t tell your mother I gave you some. You’re meant to be in disgrace, and besides, she thinks I made it for the sale of work committee. Which of course,’ she added with a grin, ‘I did.’
I couldn’t reply because my mouth was full of lemon cake so I just nodded instead. The cake was very good – not quite as good as Mrs. Whelan’s cakes, but of course I didn’t tell Maggie that.
When I’d finished my cake and was drinking a cup of lukewarm, very strong tea from the kitchen teapot, I asked, ‘Maggie, do you mind awfully if I ask you something?’
‘Well,’ said Maggie, looking amused, ‘that depends what it is. Though I must say it’s not like you to be so formal.’
‘Well, it’s about something …’ I hesitated, then took a deep breath and went on. ‘It’s about Phyllis.’
Maggie looked at me warily and didn’t say anything.
‘I know all,’ I said. Even as I said the words I realised how melodramatic I sounded, like somebody in a cheap magazine serial (you must know the sort of thing, those stories where everyone is always turning out to be a duke’s secret daughter or an earl in disguise and they all have masses of enemies who are trying to thwart them).
‘And what exactly,’ asked Maggie, with that same look in her eye, ‘do you know?’
‘I know about Phyllis being a suffragette,’ I said. ‘I think it’s marvellous. And,’ I said quickly, ‘I’m not going to tell anyone. I know you know all about it, Maggie, and I swear your secret is safe with me.’
I was getting more magazine-serial-ish by the second but I couldn’t help myself.
‘I heard a lady called Mrs. Joyce talk in town on Wednesday,’ I said. ‘And she was so interesting and, well, I want to find out more about it, and I hoped you might help me.’
Maggie wiped her hands on her apron, took a cup and saucer from the dresser and poured out a cup of tea from the big kitchen teapot.
‘I think that’s probably cold,’ I said, but she ignored me. She sat down on the opposite side of the table to me, took a sip of the tea, and said, ‘You do know that if your mother and father thought I was telling you how to be a suffragette I’d lose my place before you could say “Votes for Women’’.’
‘That would never happen!’ I said. I almost laughed, because the idea of Maggie being dismissed was so silly. ‘You’re part of the family. Mother’s always telling Aunt Josephine how lucky she is to have you. And besides, I won’t breathe a word.’
‘Words have a way,’ said Maggie, ‘of getting breathed. And I won’t deny that your mother and father have been very good to me, and I may very well be part of the family, but it’s a part that can be sent packing without a reference, and that’s what they’d do if they thought I was getting you involved in anything they wouldn’t approve of. It’s bad enough that I’ve been talking about it with Phyllis.’
‘But …’ I began.
‘No “buts”,’ said Maggie. ‘I’m sorry, Mollie. But if you want to find out more, you’ll have to talk to your sister.’ She drained her teacup (the tea must have been practically cold) and stood up. ‘And now I’ve got to finish the vegetables for later.’ She went into the scullery.
I didn’t dare follow her. I just sat there for a moment, thinking about how … shaky Maggie’s life is here. I’d never really thought about it before. I do see her as part of the family, and it would never have struck me that my parents might ever send her away, no matter what she’d done. I still found it hard to imagine. But it was clear that Maggie knew better.
I put down my cup and went into the hall. Mother’s church friends were just leaving so I had to say goodbye to them and promise to come to the sale of work. I wish I hadn’t. Sales like that are always full of terrible stale buns and felt pen-wipers and a white elephant stall with lots of dreadful jumble that nobody wants (when I was smaller I thought a white elephant stall really was a stall selling white elephants. Obviously I knew they couldn’t be regular-sized elephants, but I thought they might be special miniature ones. Or even toys. Imagine my disappointment when I discovered it was just a stall full of old fire screens and chipped tea cups).
I was just about to escape and slip up to my room when Mrs. Sheffield said, ‘Now, Mollie, would you like to do something very helpful for me?’
If I were being perfectly honest, I’d have said, ‘Not particularly,’ but of course I couldn’t say that. In fact, because Mother was glaring at me, I couldn’t even make a polite excuse like telling her I had lots of schoolwork to do. Instead, I said, ‘Of course!’ as sincerely as I could, which was very sincerely indeed. I think I really might be quite a good actress. Maybe I will be one when I grow up, though I can’t imagine Mother and Father would approve (and Aunt Josephine would probably disown me – which doesn’t sound that bad, actually).
Anyway, Mrs. Sheffield was taken in by my acting and said, ‘That’s marvellous. I was hoping you’d be able to take Barnaby out for his walk in an hour or so. Thomas is away and I can’t take him because Father O’Reilly is calling around to talk to me about this sale of work.’
I needed a lot of acting skills to do what I did next. I said, ‘That sounds lovely’ very enthusiastically. In fact, I might have gone a bit overboard on the enthusiasm because Mother gave me a very surprised look. She knows perfectly well that nobody in her right mind would describe taking Barnaby for a walk as ‘lovely’, not even Mrs. Sheffield.
Barnaby is not a person, in case you were wondering, but a very noisy and very fluffy little white dog who is also an absolute menace. Whenever anyone passes the Sheffields’ house, he pops up in the bay window like a jack-in-the-box, barking his head off. And that’s not the only annoying thing he does. They had to add an extra foot of fence to the wall of their back garden because Barnaby kept bouncing over the original one.
In fact, he is so bold and dreadful that Phyllis, Harry, Julia and I started calling him ‘The Menace’. Even Mother and Father sometimes call him The Menace by mistake. It’s reached the point where I forget that his real name is actually Barnaby. And I couldn’t think of a worse way of spending a Saturday afternoon when all my friends were at a party than taking him for a walk, but I couldn’t get out of it. Mother doesn’t usually like me wandering off on my own (as she puts it), but I suppose she thought nobody dangerous would go anywhere near me if I was with Barnaby. And so an hour later I was standing outside the Sheffields’ front door, holding a lead with Barnaby at the end of it.
‘Just about an hour or so should do it,’ said Mrs. Sheffield, who looked delighted to have got rid of The Menace for a while (as well she might). ‘Maybe you could take him to the Botanic Gardens, if they don’t mind dogs.’
‘All right,’ I said, though I was quite sure you’re not allowed take dogs into the Gardens and even if you were, I couldn’t imagine they’d let The Menace in once they’d laid eyes on him. He just exudes badness. I looked down at him, and he stared boldly back at me with his bright button eyes. Then I said goodbye to Mrs. Sheffield and set off down the road.
The Menace always strains at his lead so much that the Sheffields became worried that a normal collar and lead would hurt his neck, so they had to have a sort of harness made for him which means the lead is attached to his back. I was worried that he’d break free from my clutches so I wrapped my end of the lead firmly around my wrist. As you can imagine, it wasn’t a very relaxing walk, not least because when The Menace wasn’t pulling on his lead (he is surprisingly strong for such a small fluffy dog), he was making sudden stops and barking so loudly that passers-by kept turning and staring at me in a disapproving manner, to see what I was doing to make him bark so much. I wished I was wearing a large rosette like the one the woman at the meeting was wearing, except instead of saying ‘Votes for
Women’ it would say ‘He’s not my dog’.
I was so busy feeling sorry for myself as The Menace barked and strained his way along the road, I didn’t notice that I wasn’t grasping the lead quite as tightly as I should have. And just as we were passing a small green park, The Menace broke free and ran away from me as fast as his fluffy white legs could carry him.
For a split second I was frozen to the spot with horror, and then I raced after him. But he is surprisingly fast as well as surprisingly strong, and I couldn’t catch him. He was soon far ahead of me.
‘Oh, please, stop that dog!’ I cried.
There weren’t many people around, and none of them seemed eager to grab hold of Barnaby’s lead, which swung out behind him as he ran. And which, I realised to my horror, was now swinging around a corner. Those streets are like a maze. If I lost sight of him in there, I was doomed. I’d never find him again. And while I didn’t particularly care if I never saw Barnaby again as long as I lived, I didn’t want him to be lost and alone on the streets. Besides, I’d get into terrible trouble once Mrs. Sheffield found out.
‘Catch that dog!’ I shrieked, or tried to. But by the time I staggered around the corner I could barely breathe, let alone shout, and I was starting to get a stitch. And then I saw a glorious sight.
If you’d told me last week that I’d ever be so happy to see either Barnaby the dog or Frank Nugent the boy, I’d have thought you were mad. But when I saw Frank walking towards me, holding the lead of a surprisingly docile Barnaby, who was trotting along beside him with a totally innocent look on his fluffy face, I was so overcome with joy I nearly burst into tears.
‘I believe you must be looking for this little chap,’ said Frank. ‘I heard you calling after him.
‘Oh Frank!’ I said. ‘Thank you, thank you! How did you manage to grab him?’
‘I’ve had plenty of practice tackling your brother at rugby,’ said Frank, and smiled. He has a nice, friendly smile.
‘Barnaby’s almost as aggravating as Harry,’ I said, as Frank carefully passed over the lead. ‘I’d better take him home now before he does anything else dreadful.’
‘Would you mind if I walked part of the way home with you?’ said Frank. ‘It’s on my way.’
I told him I didn’t mind at all, which was true, and asked him why he wasn’t still at the rugby match.
‘It’s my father’s birthday,’ said Frank. ‘We’re having a special birthday tea. So I had to leave half way through.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said. And I couldn’t think of anything to say after that. I don’t think I’d ever been on my own with Frank before. Or any boy, for that matter. He didn’t seem to be able think of anything to say either, and we walked along in a slightly awkward silence until Frank said, ‘Is he new?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ I said, confused.
‘The dog,’ said Frank. ‘Harry didn’t mention that you were getting a pet.’
‘He’s not ours!’ I said, in tones of such outraged horror that Frank started to laugh, and then so did I, and I explained about Mrs. Sheffield and how awful The Menace was. After that things were much more comfortable between us. Even The Menace behaved himself and didn’t pull on his lead, which was slightly irritating in one way because it made it look as though I had been too feeble to hold onto a normal dog earlier, rather than a monstrous fiend with superhuman – I mean supercanine – strength.
We had been walking along for about ten minutes when Frank mentioned that he was taking part in a debate at school about the future of the Home Rule bill.
‘But I don’t suppose you’re interested in politics, are you?’ he said. ‘Most girls aren’t.’
Well, I hadn’t been particularly interested in politics, but I couldn’t help resenting his assumption.
‘Maybe I’d be more interested,’ I said, a little stiffly, ‘if I knew that I’d have a say in things when I grow up. I mean, if women had the vote.’
‘Oh, well, yes,’ said Frank. ‘Maybe you would. I hadn’t really thought of that.’
‘What do you think?’ I asked. ‘About women’s suffrage, I mean.’ And for some reason, I don’t know why, I really cared about what his answer would be.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I suppose I hadn’t really thought about that much either.’
I was going to make a smart remark but then I remembered that I hadn’t thought about it much until last week, so instead I said, ‘Well, I think women should have the vote. Why shouldn’t we? It’s not fair that we shouldn’t have a say in anything.’ I remembered what Mrs. Joyce had said last week. ‘We have to keep to the laws of the land, don’t we? But we don’t have a say in who makes them.’
I almost held my breath as I waited for Frank’s answer. He ran a hand through his fair curls and then he said, ‘I suppose you’re right.’
I let out my breath.
‘My mother did once say,’ Frank went on, ‘that she couldn’t see why my uncle Stephen should have a vote when she didn’t. And if you’d ever met my uncle Stephen, you’d see why.’ He laughed. ‘Oh, this is my turn.’
We paused at the corner.
‘Thanks for grabbing The Menace,’ I said.
‘Don’t mention it,’ said Frank. He bent down to pat Barnaby’s white fluffy head.
The Menace, as if aware that he’d soon have me all to himself again, started straining against his harness.
‘Goodness, he’s a strong little chap, isn’t he?’ said Frank, giving Barnaby’s woolly curls a last rub. ‘He doesn’t look it. Well, goodbye. I’m sure I’ll see you soon.’
‘Goodbye,’ I said.
He lifted his hand in a sort of salute, and headed off. I looked after him for a moment, but Barnaby was straining himself in the direction of home so I took him back to the Sheffields’ house.
‘Back so soon?’ said Mrs. Sheffield, after her maid Agnes had fetched her. She looked slightly disappointed to be reunited with Barnaby so soon. ‘Was he any trouble?’
‘Not at all,’ I said, which was my third convincing lie of the day. I’m starting to get a bit worried at how easily these lies spring to my lips, even if they do mean I’m a good actress.
Anyway, Mrs. Sheffield thanked me, and I was so immersed in my role as someone who had enjoyed taking Barnaby for a walk that I almost offered to do it again in the future, but luckily I restrained myself in time. And then I walked home and went into the dining room to write this letter. I am in a strangely good mood and I don’t really know why. Maybe it’s the exercise. I can’t remember the last time I did so much running in one go. It must be good for me.
But I am finally going to finish this letter now. If I wait to write until after I’ve got something out of Phyllis, the letter will get so long it’ll be more of a package and then it will definitely be too expensive. It’s long enough as it is. I do hope you haven’t been bored reading it. So I will bid you farewell.
Write soon!
Best love, and Votes for Women!
Mollie
13th May, 1912.
Dear Frances,
Thank you for the letter of the 10th. Your school has always sounded very different to mine, what with being in the middle of the countryside and not having either nuns or day girls, but I was very surprised – and impressed – to read about your Miss Bridges being so keen on the cause. I can’t imagine any of my teachers taking suffragette magazines to the classroom. Since I last wrote I have seen a few suffrage magazines. And books – well, one. AND me and Nora have actually been to a meeting, not that I got to hear much of it – oh, so much has happened!
I’m afraid this will be another long letter. I hope you don’t mind. It will give you something to read while all the others are playing hockey. What rotten bad luck, spraining your ankle like that. I do hope it’s a bit better now, I know that a sprained ankle hurts like anything.
Do you remember the summer when you, me and Nora all read Treasure Island and pretended the tree in her garden was a pirate ship, and I tried
to swing down from the ‘mast’ on a rope and landed badly? My left ankle was like a balloon for a week, and I couldn’t get my boot on. I hope your ankle is less balloon-ish than mine was. And I’m sure it will be better by the time you start rehearsing your play. I’m very sorry that your plan to put on your own play was outvoted, but maybe it’s for the best? Doing a play by someone else will be excellent practice and then you can perfect your own play for next year. And, after all, if you’re going to be passed over for another playwright, it might as well be Shakespeare. I’ve read Hamlet now and it’s awfully good.
So, as I said above, lots of things have happened since my last letter. Where exactly had I got to when it finished? Oh yes, I still hadn’t talked to Phyllis about being a suffragette. Well, she finally showed up on the Saturday afternoon and after tea I followed her upstairs to her room, which in retrospect probably wasn’t the best way to approach her. She didn’t notice I was following her (I was wearing my indoor shoes and I am quite light on my feet. Maybe it’s thanks to all the Drill and Dancing at school) until she turned to close the door of her room and saw me standing right behind her. She almost screamed.
‘Mollie!’ she said.
‘I thought you knew I was behind you,’ I said apologetically.
‘Well I didn’t,’ said Phyllis. ‘Anyway, you’re sneaking around after me. Again.’
‘Oh Phyllis, this time I really wasn’t sneaking,’ I said. ‘Honestly, I thought you knew I was there. I just want to talk to you.’
Phyllis gave me a sceptical look but then she said, ‘Come in, then.’
I went into her room and she closed the door. Then she folded her arms.
‘Come on, then,’ she said. ‘What do you want to talk about?’
I took a deep breath. I had to do this properly and not annoy her.
‘Ever since Wednesday, I’ve been thinking,’ I began.
‘That must make a nice change,’ said Phyllis.
