Crooked Pieces (21 page)

I went home with a very heavy heart. I can see what Miss Christabel means and I am sure she is right. Fred would do anything to stop the arrests and violence, but to ask me to quiz him and then relay it all back to the office… It fills me with a feeling of…dirtiness, I suppose. And I am trying so hard to get clean again. I will not think about it any more. My eyes are closed.

We have started our own newspaper. It is called
Votes For
Women
and costs threepence. It comes out once a month, but we have a smaller one each week that costs only a halfpenny and sells like hot chestnuts.

Mr Pethick Lawrence is in charge and he and Mrs Pethick Lawrence write brilliant articles about the Cause. Miss Christabel tells all about how things are going and what we are to do next, and Miss Sylvia writes about the history of the movement which I find most interesting of all. I read one day how a lady was sent to the lunatic asylum by her own father, rather than let her marry a common labourer she had met while doing charity work. A doctor came to her house on the eve of the wedding and asked her if she would leave off the engagement. When she refused he pronounced her mad and had her carted off in a strait-jacket.

I suppose that’s one good thing about being common to start with, no one’s too low for me.

One issue had a whole section given over to asking the branch leaders what had first brought them to join our movement. One spoke of seeing children with their toes frozen off for want of shoes; one, of a woman turned on to the street by her husband so he could set up his trollop in her place; another of a mother whose baby was taken from her when she ran away from a man that had burnt her with her own iron for making a scorch on his shirt. Miss Christabel asked me what I made of it. ‘That women are no better than slaves to be treated so, miss.’

‘Slaves. Exactly. So we must form a slave army and drive our oppressors back to the shores of the Adriatic.’

‘Will they not get drowned on the way, miss?’

‘I’m speaking metaphorically, Maggie. Downing Street will do for now. Have you heard of Spartacus?’

I said I had not.

‘Ah, well you must read all about him. He was the leader of
a slave rebellion in Ancient Rome. He achieved great things.’

‘Did he get the slaves set free, miss?’

Miss Christabel frowned. ‘Not exactly. He was crucified along with most of his followers, but that’s not the point. He was a fine and noble leader. Ask my sister to rake you out a book about him. His strategy was much admired, even by his enemies.’

I thought, admiration is all very well.

‘Have you found out anything for us from that young bobby of yours yet, Maggie?’

‘No, miss… I… He…’

‘Well, don’t leave it too long. These young men can be very fickle. You don’t want to miss your chance. Next time I see you I shall expect something tangible.’

‘Yes, miss.’

Another week goes by and I still have not asked Fred about his work. I know Miss Christabel is right for I can see how it would be truly helpful if we did know more of the police’s plans, but I cannot,
cannot
deceive him.

Last night he asked me why I seemed so low. I was so close to telling him, but then I thought, supposing he wants no more to do with me if he thinks I would act against him, so I said, nothing, only that I was not having a baby again and it always made me spiky.

He looked at me so strangely. ‘Would you like a baby, Maggie?’

‘No, not for the world. How could I do my work? And none of my clothes would fit.’

‘But one day?’

‘Yes, one day, maybe. If I’m married and have a house of my own with a garden and flowers.’

He laughed. ‘You don’t ask much. What about a husband? Won’t you need one of those?’

I went all pink. ‘Yes, but I may not be able to get one.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because…no one might want to marry me.’

He was quiet for a moment then took my hand and squeezed it. ‘Come on. I’ve found a new gallery. All the sculptures are made of wire. I want to know what you think of them.’

So we go on.

On Thursdays it is my turn to sell the paper. There are a group of us, but the others are volunteers so I am in charge. They are nice people – mostly educated. At first I felt shy of telling them what to do, but they seemed to accept it, so now I am quite unruffled. A few nob ladies complained once about being ordered about by one so young but Miss Christabel snapped right down on them, saying I had earned my position on merit and it was a pity there were not more like me, so that put a stop to that.

On the whole it is fun, for people will often stop and chat to us and wish us well. It is not all good, though, for many a time we have been spat at or called slatterns or worse, and ‘whipping’s too good for us’. When that happens we look across to each other and wave or smile so that we feel more cheerful again and can carry on. Companionship is such a fine strong thing. I had not realised for though I’m from a big family, it never felt like we were together in our hearts, bound together as we are now.

The suffragettes are my true family. My sisters. And I am
theirs. At least I think I am. Just sometimes it seems to me that however hard I try I will always be a little on the outside. Like a clever pet – praised, admired for what I am. What I am, being less than everyone else. Yet why? For we have so many different sorts – nurses, teachers, social workers, seamstresses, washerwomen…all drawn together for one great purpose and I am part of it. Surely that should be enough for anyone?

To begin with many are terrified of having to stand on a corner and shout like a newsboy, but I always stay with them the first time and by the end of an hour they are bellowing like fishwives.
‘Votes For Women’. ‘The Truth For A Penny’. ‘Deeds Not Words’.
Those who are good are recruited to our list of speakers. I wish I had the skill but I would just shake and mumble like an idiot, I’m sure, if I ever had to do it.

What everyone agrees on is that of all the speakers in the world, Miss Christabel and Mrs Pankhurst are the finest. The first so glorious – like a fizzing firework, full of passion, wit, brilliance. ‘These “Honourable Gentlemen” may try sham pledges, but they will not get the better of us, because they are fighting with crooked weapons and we are fighting with straight ones; we are fighting in a just cause and they are fighting in an unjust cause; we have courage and they have none.’

The second so gentle and calm, yet like a willow that may bend and sway but will not, cannot be broken. ‘I say to you women: put aside all fear, fight with the courage that you have had through generations of suffering, and believe me that while you and I may die in the struggle, victory is assured, and out of our struggle, even by the laying down of our lives, will
come a time so wonderful for humanity that we can only dimly see that beautiful future.’

Laying down of our lives.

1907 is nearly over. Surely, soon they must give in?

I have never liked Christmas before. Indeed there was no Christmas at our house, except Pa would go to the alehouse and not come back till he was too drunk to see a hole in a ladder. I know Jesus was born then and I truly suppose he had not much better a time of it than we did, what with cows and oxen sniffing round him. On top of that, lambs, and then real kings that must have put the Blessed Virgin in a dither. Ma is bad enough when the parson comes round to bless each baby, so what it must have been like to have kings hanging over you…!

This Christmas was entirely perfect. Fred bought me two presents. One, a fine leather purse, softer than silk and of the most beautiful brown colour you ever saw. I like brown now. But not for a dress.

The other was a book of poems. Fred loves poetry – all kinds, funny, sad, romantic, and often asks me why I do not care for it. I say I do. Some of our women send verses in to be printed in
Votes For Women
and I have always thought them very clever.

‘But is that all the poetry you have come across?’

‘Yes, I suppose it is.’

‘Ah.’

Now I see what he means. It is like someone drawing back a curtain and a whole magic world just waiting for you on the other side of it. From now on I shall read nothing but poetry,

I bought him a knife. He had never said he wanted one, but I had no idea what to buy him and had wandered the whole length of Oxford Street looking for something he might fancy and there it was, in a window display, shining up at me, glinting in the sun. It was fifteen shillings. I have never spent so much on a present for anyone before. After the man had wrapped it up for me, calling me ‘Madam’, which was worth at least a florin, I felt guilty, for it was more than I had spent on my whole family together. But then I considered that they would have nothing at all for me and it would discomfort them if I should make a show of giving them expensive gifts when they could not return them. Besides, I was taking home a ham and a whole bag of candied fruits so it will not be such a poor time for them at all.

Fred was to go to his father’s house on Christmas Day. He said they did not mark it with any celebration, but his cousins would call in and he should like to see them again.

Some of our helpers who had nowhere to go were asked to The Mascot which is the name of the Pethick Lawrences’ house in the country. Oh, how I should have loved to be one of them for I have heard it is very fine and there is a great garden with a swing. I have seen those at fairs in Battersea Park. They are the most wonderful objects. When Fred and I are married and living in Wood Green we shall have a swing.

He was pleased with his knife. At least I think he was. He looked most surprised when he opened it, and just sat there gazing at it.

‘Do you like it?’

He nodded. ‘It’s beautiful. What made you buy me a knife, Maggie? Is my hair too long?’

I said, just for a joke, ‘No, but your trousers are,’ and made to slash at them. Fred caught me by both my wrists and pulled me right up close to him so I could feel his breath, hot against my face. ‘I’ll take them off if they bother you.’ We stared at each other and my heart was like a galloping whirlpool for I knew what he wanted… His eyes were bright and strange like a tiger waiting to pounce. I could see myself in them, a piece of flesh to be torn apart and devoured. And the worst of it was, I wanted it to happen. I wanted to be his. Only his. But then he would know. I know he would know. And he would hate me. He would leave me. And I could not bear it.

I dragged myself away. ‘No. It was a joke.’

Fred dropped his head into his hands then sort of sighed. ‘I was joking too, Maggie.’ He kissed my forehead gently. ‘I shall use it to cut my meat at Mrs Blackett’s. It must be nearly strong enough to saw through logs and that is what is needed.’

We walked into Trafalgar Square, him holding my hand. I wished I could really understand what his fingers were saying. And more than that, I wished mine could speak back. ‘Forgive me. I never meant to. He was bigger than me. Stronger. I don’t know how to mend it.’

People were singing carols and collecting for the poor. He gave them a shilling. It was a small shiny man with the tin. He looked at me as he expected me to give some money too. It rankled me somehow so I asked, ‘Do you believe in votes for women?’

His face went all puffy. ‘We are collecting for widows and orphans.’

‘There might not be so many if they had the vote.’

Puffy turned to plum. ‘God has ordained that men should command and women obey.’

‘God created all mankind equal.’

‘Exactly – mankind.’

‘Does that not include women?’

Much rattling in his throat. ‘There is a divine order to things. In that order men have been placed above women. Just as women are above animals and animals above fish. That is how it is and how it should be.’

‘Why?’

‘Because…because that is how it is. Men are superior in every respect to women. Their beings, their intellect…’

‘But it is they who make widows and orphans through their fighting.’

‘Through their labour. War may be a part of that.’

‘Do you think men have bigger brains than women?’

He sighed crossly. ‘It is a known fact.’

‘Just as elephants have bigger brains than men?’

He snorted and turned away. Fred was grinning all over his face. ‘Tell you what, Maggie. When you lot do get the vote I’ll lay ten to one you end up Prime Minister.’

I laughed. ‘Can’t you just see it? “All be uprising for the Prime Minister, Miss Maggie Robins”.’

‘You might not be a “Miss” by then.’

‘No, but I shall still be a Maggie. Is that a name for a Prime Minister?’

Fred shrugged. ‘It would serve as well as any other, I should say.’

We bought some roasted chestnuts and sat on a wall outside
one of the galleries to eat them, then it was time for Fred to catch his train. I went with him to the station. What a messy rowdy place, full of people shouting and blowing whistles and great belches of steam spouting up like an angry whale.

I waved as it set off and Fred hung out of the window waving back and blowing me kisses and I saw how other women were looking at him and thinking how handsome he was. I felt so proud and happy that if someone had asked me just at that moment, I would have said, ‘Yes, I will be Prime Minister one day.’

The next day I went home. I had bought a rag doll for Evelyn with wool plaits so what was the first thing she did? The wool went all straggly and we had a fine time trying to braid it up again.

For Will I had some wooden bricks which he first chewed and then threw at everyone, much to Pa’s annoyance who threatened to chuck them in the fire.

I had a pipe for him and a shawl each for Ma and Lucy, though Ma’s was softer by far. She straightway wrapped it round the baby which vexed me considerably but I said nothing. She still looks pinched and skinny but at least there are no more babies in sight.

I gave Alfie a spotted necktie which made him look quite the dandy, we all agreed; at least it did when we had showed him how to knot it, and not in a bow like his laces.

When she saw how big the ham was Ma asked if she might invite Mrs Grant to eat with us. I said I would run round to her house and fetch her. At first Mrs Grant said no, fearing she would be depriving others, but I told her if she did not come we would be throwing the leavings in the street for it
would not keep (not true, but it worked).

On the way back I thanked her for all she had been doing to help Ma out. ‘It’s a lot for her to manage till her health is mended. And I fear Lucy does but little.’

She glanced at me. ‘Has your Ma spoken to you about Lucy, Maggie?’

‘Not really. I wanted to thrash it out with her but Ma almost begged me not to. She is too soft on her by half, I think.’

Mrs Grant sighed. ‘Lucy has taken up with some bad company. She is a good girl at heart, but somewhat weak in her judgement, I would say.’

I remembered what she had said of not needing presents. If she had taken to thieving I think Ma would die of shame. ‘What sort of bad company?’

‘Well, I cannot be sure. But I have seen her more than once with friends of your Frank’s. Fellow seamen.’

‘Oh well,’ said I, much relieved, for Mrs Grant is something of a prude, ‘if they are Frank’s friends he will make sure they bring her no harm.’

Mrs Grant said nothing, but her expression was far from happy. She asked me how I thought my ma was looking.

‘Not well. Too thin. And last time I was home her arm was wicked bruised.’

‘She has something wrong in her blood. I’m sure good nursing would cure it, but where’s that to be got without money?’

‘I would pay for it,’ I declared, fearing she thought me unwilling. ‘I have told her so.’

Mrs Grant nodded. ‘I know. You are a good generous
daughter, but all you provide her goes on the family or the rent or such. She will not use it to buy medicine for herself. I have told her it is foolish for if anything should happen to her…’

I stopped her. ‘Nothing will happen to Ma. I will make sure of it. I will find a cure for her. She will be well again. I have made up my mind.’

Mrs Grant smiled. ‘I see you are a true suffragette.’

So, a new year. 1908. And it has not started well. Mrs Pankhurst has been attacked! By a mob of drunkards down in Devon, wherever that is. Miss Sylvia says it is because she persuaded so many to vote against the Liberal man, he lost his seat. Lost his brain, more like. For what sort of man would set a bunch of hooligans to beat a lady? And one so gentle and dignified? I wish I had been there. I would have thrown them in the air like pigeon droppings and trampled them in the mud when they came down.

Every day we hear of some meeting or other where these Liberals have refused our women entry. I wondered just what they did stand for, apart from denying women their rights, so I looked it up in Miss Lake’s great leather dictionary.
‘Liberal: (Polit.) Favourable to democratic reform and individual liberty; progressive.’
When I had looked up all of that I showed it to Miss Sylvia. ‘Perhaps we should send a copy to the Parliament. To remind them what they believe in,’ I suggested.

Miss Sylvia laughed. ‘I tell you what, it would make a very good slogan.’

The next time I saw her she had made a whole poster from it, of a fat man with his foot on a woman’s neck. Round his
hat was written ‘Liberal’. All along her back was written ‘Liberty’.

Today Miss Sylvia brought her brother, Harry, to the office. He is a lovely jolly boy, full of pranks. He told me how one night he had charged all round Manchester scrawling
VOTES FOR WOMEN
over the Liberal man Churchill’s posters and then gone to one of his meetings just to see his face. ‘Like a great bulldog. All crumpled and surly. Arrogant, too, for he fancies himself an orator and will not give way for anyone.’

I let him have a go on the typewriter which annoyed Miss Lake for he managed to twist the ribbon and all her letters came out splodged. I said it was me so Harry went haring off and came back with a great iced bun by way of thanks. He is the perfect mix of Miss Christabel and Miss Sylvia – energy, wits and warmth.

Miss Sylvia popped her head round the door and asked if he was driving me mad. I said, yes, completely, for he had got sugar all over the typewriter. He laughed so hard. ‘Well, I shall go off and find someone else to annoy. Who should it be?’ I said, ‘Try the Prime Minister.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ and away he went, taking half the furniture with him.

Miss Sylvia helped me set it right again. ‘Harry will never make a ballerina, that’s for sure.’ I said I did not think Frank or Alfie would either, but Will might for he is so altogether droopy.

The two of us have often talked about our brothers together. How they tease and torment us but still we love them. Miss Sylvia told me once how when Harry was very small she showed him a drawing she had made of him and that in his excitement he had torn it. ‘I shook him, Maggie.
Shook him till he howled. After I was so ashamed I cried myself to sleep. Swore I’d never say another unkind word to him or anyone. Would be good and kind forevermore. But if you ask him now if he remembers it, he will tell you, “No”.’

So I told her about me throwing Alfie’s apple in the fire and how, but for Pa, he would have gone after it.

‘We are a fine pair of sisters and no mistake,’ she said. ‘To think our colleagues call us “Sister” and are proud of it.’ We laughed so hard Miss Lake put on her ‘Some of us are trying to work’ face, but that just made us worse.

Harry has thought of the most magnificent plan. We are to do a Trojan horse. I did not know this story but it seems thousands of years ago some Greeks were fighting each other over a beautiful woman who had been stolen from her husband, and they got bored of the war and pretended to go home, leaving a great wooden horse outside the walls of the city they had been attacking. The enemy, thinking it was a gift, dragged the horse inside and in the middle of the night all the Greeks, who had not really gone away but were hiding in its belly, got out and captured the city.

We are to do the same. Well, almost. We shall not actually capture the Parliament, which is a great pity, in my opinion, and we are going inside two furniture vans, not a horse, but for the rest…

Crammed up against each other, clutching our petitions, scarcely daring to breathe, jittery as trapped sparrows.

Horses clattering, hooves like muffled gunshot on the cobbles. On we rumbled, for eternity.

And then eternity was over.

The jolt of reins, stamp of hooves. Silence. No breath. No movement.

The doors flew open. There before us, the Parliament building.

And between us and it, a forest of bobbies, dark, not moving, waiting to swallow us up.

As the members arrived they parted for them. We followed. Then they swooped, grabbing necks, arms, hair; swinging us round like kittens to be drowned, hurling us at the ground. The sound of splitting bones. The hiss of pain. The Black Maria.

I fled down a side street. Ran all the way to Caxton Hall. Miss Annie was just about to address the meeting. I rushed up to her.

‘It’s all gone wrong, Miss Annie. Everyone’s arrested. And horrible beatings.’

‘Sit down, Maggie. Catch your breath.’

She strides on to the stage. A storm of applause. She holds up her hands. ‘Ladies, fellow suffragettes, please listen to what I have to say. Today I have a special request to put to you. As we feared, many of our number have been arrested at The House this morning and may well be on their way to prison as I speak. They are brave true warriors of the Cause. Some will have endured prison sentences before. For others it will be a new and dreadful experience.

‘One thing you may be sure of, they will not be from wealthy families. We all have seen how the bobbies back away from a lady in furs. Well, let us show them now that ours is a movement for
all
the women of Britain, high and low. Let the world see that we stand together, shoulder to shoulder, and
when it does, those who oppose us shall have just cause to be afraid.’

Up they all rose.

The papers next day looked like they had attended a fashion parade. Hats, furs, velvet cloaks, fans even. A smarter set of people could not have been found at the opera. More arrests and the judge has threatened a new law, or rather a very ancient one – the Tumultuous Petitions Act, (was there ever a sillier name?) saying that thirteen shall be the most people allowed near the House of Commons in a procession. Or else three months in prison.

On hearing of this Mrs Pankhurst straightway called for twelve volunteers and off they went, cheered to the rafters by the rest of us.

So much for a bold departure. Not an hour later word came back that Mrs Pankhurst herself had been arrested. This sent a true shock through us all, for we had never thought the police would lay a hand on her.

Six weeks in Holloway, even Mrs Pankhurst. And in the second division, which is for common criminals. There is no justice in this world. Or perhaps a little, for now the papers are finally coming to our aid. They say such treatment is wrong. Suffragettes are not thieves, but political prisoners and so should be placed in the first division, (which is much better for you may read and talk and wear your own clothes).

There was a poem published in the
Daily Mail
, very funny like a nursery rhyme and praising Miss Christabel’s brilliance to come up with the Trojan Horse. When I showed it to her she smiled deeply. I was surprised she did not remember it was her brother who had thought of it.

Mrs Pethick Lawrence organised a week of fund-raising. So many schemes! Some ladies gave tea parties and charged a sixpence to all who came. Others sold embroidery or paintings they had done. Those too poor for such things merely gave up their favourite food for a week and paid the cost of it to the Cause.