“The problem is I’m engaged already!”
“What? I didn’t know that! Well, if you love PC Fletcher, then you’d better break the engagement before it goes any further. You can’t marry someone when you’re in love with someone else. How’s that going to work?”
I gaped at her. “Have you lost your mind, Lucy? I have to get married.”
“Why?” She went back to work, sliding a silver bail into a pendant and pinching it closed with her little pliers.
“Because if I don’t, my father will cut me off and send me to live with my great-aunt in Norfolk. No art school. And art school is what I’m about. Not love. Not some fancy I have for a working-class boy.”
I put my head in my hands. Working-class boy. Just saying those words out loud made me feel like a toffee-nosed idiot. But that was what he was, and the way my parents would always treat him. There was a reason why Will had come to the servants’ entrance that day to bring my sketchbook back. Will knew that was the door he had to use. Of course he did. What was more, I didn’t think I’d ever walked through that door once in my life.
Lucy reached for her cigarette case. “You English are so strange about class. Listen to you.” She drew out a cigarette, lit it, and exhaled, regarding me through a plume of smoke. “‘Working-class boy’! Heavens to Betsy, Queenie.”
“It’s not I who care, Lucy. It’s my father. And my mother. They would never accept Will. It’s not the done thing to marry outside one’s class,” I said.
“If you ask me, the heart knows the way, and if you deny it, then it’s hell to pay for you.” She pointed her cigarette at me. “If money is what you’re looking for, then you’ll have a life of misery. Remember what happened to Midas, when he wanted the gold? Sure, it was all lollipops and rainbows at first, but then it all ended in tears.”
“So you’re telling me that I should break my engagement?” I was so frustrated I was close to crying. “And then do what after my father gets over his fit of apoplexy? Live how and where? He cut my brother, Freddy, off because he didn’t want to go into the family business. When he came crawling back begging for forgiveness, my father gave him an allowance. My brother can’t even manage without Papa’s money.”
Lucy shrugged. “So when you come crawling back, he’ll probably forgive you, too.”
I shook my head. “Oh, no. Stepping out with a boy below my class would be the ultimate betrayal. My father would never, ever forgive me. My fiancé is joining the family business, too. There’s no way around it, Lucy. Anyway, it’s over with. I don’t see Will anymore.”
Lucy watched me thoughtfully, turning the cigarette around in her fingers. “I’m not one to say it’s easy to break away from your family. Lord knows my pa didn’t want me to come here, but I was willing to take the chance. The way I see it, you’ve figured out how to draw PC Fletcher, be a suffragette, and get yourself into art school on your own. You’re a smart cookie. You’ll figure it out.”
I was more confused than ever now. I was sorry I had told her.
IN THE END, I told Miss Housman I would help illustrate the deputation. Using my church charity as an excuse, I told Mamma I’d be helping at St. Martin-in-the-Fields in Trafalgar Square.
The day of the deputation was scorching hot, and the sun blazed down. The black tarmacadam roads reflected the heat in shimmering waves. It was the kind of day that turned the gloomy, misty days of spring into a fond memory.
The deputation had made the papers, and a crowd had come to gape. There was a big police presence, on foot as well as on horses, lining the street. I scanned the constables for Will, but they all looked the same in their domed helmets and tunics.
I had taken up a position near the Members’ Entrance, but I stood in the gutter, as Lucy had suggested, so I would not be arrested for obstruction of the pathway. I had already made sketches of the entrance. I would sketch in Emmeline Pankhurst as she arrived. I shifted from foot to foot. The sun was hot on my head; my little straw summer cloche was no defense against its rays.
Several police constables passing by looked at me askance but didn’t say anything to me. All the same, I didn’t like them taking notice of me. When would Mrs. Pankhurst get here?
And then finally I heard some people shouting. I stood on tiptoes and looked toward Whitehall to see Mrs. Pankhurst coming down the pavement. A group of women, Lucy among them, trailed her like a wake behind a sailing vessel.
As they drew near, I began to draw, making basic figure sketches that I could finish with more detail later. I focused only on the women’s essential features and actions. Mrs. Pankhurst didn’t look anything like Christabel or Sylvia. Where her daughters were possessed of delicate beauty, their mother was what Mamma would call a “handsome” woman, with sturdy yet feminine features. She was dressed in a high-necked shirtwaist and a striped poplin skirt. And she walked with purposeful, quick strides, her gaze locked on Parliament.
I drew Clara tripping along behind, her hand clasped on top of her straw boater, her expression earnest. And Lucy, next to her, ignoring the jeers from the crowd and walking steadily, face calm, attention focused on Mrs. Pankhurst, like a bridesmaid behind her bride. I drew the angry faces of the crowd and the staid faces of the constables. My fingers began to cramp because I was drawing so quickly, trying hard to get down every detail that I could. The scene was too important to rely on my memory alone.
As the women drew nearer, some men shouted and shook their fists. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but Mrs. Pankhurst’s contingent didn’t like it. Some of the women yelled back at them. The men could do little in response, but they pushed against the police line all the same. The constables shoved back, holding the line. There was a sizzle in the air and a feeling of tension and sheer fury held in check.
One of the men cocked his arm back and threw an egg, which struck a woman in the side of her face. She staggered sideways and put her hand up to her cheek. She paused for a moment and then turned to stare down the crowd, wiping her face with the back of her arm. Lucy said something to her, and she shook her head and walked on.
Mrs. Pankhurst marched up to the Members’ Entrance, the door that admitted the members of Parliament, and spoke to a red-faced constable guarding the door. He handed her an envelope and watched while she read it. Then she threw the letter to the ground.
“I will not accept the prime minister’s refusal,” Mrs. Pankhurst said, her voice stately. “I stand upon my right as a subject of the king to petition the prime minister. I am firmly resolved to stand here until I am received.”
But the constable just shook his head.
“What’s happening?” someone near me shouted. “I can’t see!” Like water rising to the boil, the people were growing restless.
“Asquith denied the Pankhurst woman leave to see him,” a man with a broad Yorkshire accent answered. “I don’t think that will find favor with her.”
Several politicians came out to watch the proceedings. They hung on the railing like little boys on a climbing frame, laughing as though the scene was the funniest thing they had ever witnessed in their lives. Not a one of them seemed inclined to understand why Mrs. Pankhurst was there. It made me angry that none of them gave her the dignity that she deserved as a citizen.
I knew then how I would portray them. I would draw a cartoon of them as little boys dressed in suits and bowler hats. If they acted like children, then I would draw them as children.
There was a brief, heated exchange between Mrs. Pankhurst and the constable. Several constables came out to escort her away, but when one put his hand on her arm and tried to march her from the door, she dug her toes in. So he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her along with him toward the gate. They drew closer to me, so I could see clearly when she spun out of his grip and tapped him lightly on the face with her fingertips.
“I know what you’re about,” the constabl
e said in an even tone. “You’re striking me so I will arrest you, but I will not be perturbed.”
So Mrs. Pankhurst slapped him again, twice, and another woman pushed the man’s hat off.
“She’s slapped a constable in the face! She’s being arrested!” someone shouted.
The crowd exploded, shouting and pushing against the police line. The women who had been following Mrs. Pankhurst glanced around, fear marked on their faces, and shuffled up against the iron railings. An arrest was one thing, but reprisals from an aggressive crowd were not part of the plan.
The crowd shoved the line once more, and I didn’t know if they did it with malicious intent, but several constables stepped away, allowing a space to open up. The constables on the other side tried vainly to stop the gap, but it was too late. Several men ran forward and rushed the women huddled near the gate, grabbing at them and throwing things at them. It was a rugby scrum of hostile spectators, suffragettes, and police constables.
Afraid of being caught in the riot, I stepped out of the gutter and struggled through the press to find a place farther back away from the crowd.
In the middle of this melee, I saw Lucy fall to the ground. The men surrounded her, and I didn’t see her get up. I shoved my book into my satchel and pushed through the people toward her. A man in a flat cap grabbed hold of my arm, pulling me against him. I stamped on his foot hard with the heel of my boot and he let go, cursing. I finally reached Lucy. She sat on the ground, her arms over her head; people were churning and falling all around her.
“Lucy!”
She looked up. Her hat was gone, her dark hair in disarray. There was a long, bloody scratch on her cheek. When she saw me, the fear on her face turned to relief. She grabbed my hand and I helped her up, and we ran.
WE ESCAPED TO Victoria Tower Gardens and collapsed onto a park bench. I clutched my satchel against me as if I could contain the horrors I had documented inside it. But it was like trying to slam the lid on Pandora’s box. I couldn’t get the images of what I had seen out of my mind: the hatred of the people who had attacked the suffragettes, and the utter disregard from some of the police for the safety of the women. The fear in the women’s faces as the crowd surrounded them. My eyes burned and my blouse felt clammy with dampness.
“Did you know it would be like that?”
Lucy shook her head, wordless.
“You were nearly crushed! I was so afraid for you.”
“I was afraid for me too, Queenie.” Lucy’s voice shook.
“Promise me you won’t do anything like that again.”
She let out a short laugh. “I can’t promise that. Like I told you before, I’m always up for a fight.”
“A fight like that? How can you? I saw how afraid you were.”
“So what? I was afraid. If I let fear stop me, I’d still be back in America, washing another man’s underpants. And you shouldn’t let it stop you, either.”
My throat was sore from the effort of holding back tears. “I wish I could be like you, but I’m not.”
“How can you have what you want when you’re denied the same rights as male citizens?”
I shook my head.
“Here are some home truths, Queenie. That art school you’re hankering after? It gets money from the government, yet they are stingy with scholarships for women. Even though Sylvia Pankhurst won a scholarship, she didn’t think it was fair other women weren’t considered, so she challenged the school and they labeled her a trouble-
maker. Did you know that?”
“She told me she butted up against the establishment, but she didn’t tell me that.” I couldn’t imagine anyone disliking Sylvia Pankhurst, who was possibly the kindest person I knew. I could only imagine the doors that were shut against her in the art world. She couldn’t even give me a simple reference letter.
“The dean hated her for it, and he’s not someone you want against you if you want to be an artist. And Christabel. She got her law degree from Manchester University. She graduated with honors. Finished higher than most of the male students.”
“But that’s good, isn’t it?”
“It might be if she were allowed to practice law. The Bar Council won’t let women use their degrees. Christabel is forbidden to practice law because she is a woman. Is that fair?”
I bit my lip. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t know that. My neighbor is going to medical school. She might not be able to become a doctor?”
“If she dared to work alongside men, they’d treat her like a nurse, if even that. This is why we all fight so hard. Not just for the vote, but for an equal opportunity in the world. A vote is a voice. I think you underestimate yourself, Queenie. This is your fight, same as it is mine.” Lucy stood up, shoved her hands into the pockets of that ugly gray skirt, and leaned against a London plane tree. “If I could snap my fingers and give you the life you wanted, what would you say? What would your life look like?”
“I know where you’re going. I don’t want to play this game—”
“Yes, you do. Come on, what would it be? Dare to dream a bit, Queenie.”
I shrugged. “I’d want to earn my own money with an occupation that means something to me.”
“Go on.”
“To be able to say what I want, to say what I believe without being disapproved of.” I thought back to how Papa had berated me for expressing my opinion to Sir Henry.
“Sounds reasonable. How about loving who you want instead of settling for someone your parents have chosen for you? Wouldn’t it be a real lollapalooza to bring him home and say, ‘Ma and Pa, this is my guy and if you don’t like him . . . well, then, too bad. I don’t need your money or anyone’s money, I don’t even need him to have money, ’cause I got my own.’” She nudged me with her elbow and watched me carefully. “Like PC Fletcher?”
At the mention of Will, a stab of pain rent my heart. “Please don’t say his name.” I started to cry then. I couldn’t help it. I tried to hold it back, but everything came crashing down around me. Will, my parents, Edmund, art school, the suffragettes, the riot . . . it all tumbled down like a landslide.
Lucy put her arm around me. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She mumbled something under her breath. “I’m such a disaster. I know it. Everyone tells me not to be so pushy, but I just get on my soapbox and I can’t get off it. I forget this is all new to you. Sometimes things can get really intense, and we can’t take it anymore. It happened to me before I left America. Even the Pankhursts get overwhelmed. Sylvia is in Kent painting, and Christabel is at that German spa. Why don’t you concentrate on getting into art school and then see where you are.”
Lucy pulled a cloth-wrapped package out of her pocket and handed it to me. “Here. I finished it this morning. I was going to give it to you after the deputation. I knew you wanted it to show for your exam. But I think you should wear her. Maybe she’ll give you some courage. Remember why you made her in the first place? What you wanted her to mean? She makes her own shelter.”
I undid the wrapping. Inside was the mermaid brooch I had designed. She held her sea-lavender umbrella aloft, a gentle smile upon her face as she sat on her tail. An unseen wind seemed to blow her long hair back from her shoulders.
Lucy nudged my shoulder with hers. “Come and find me at Clement’s Inn when you decide what you want to do. You can even stay with me for a bit if you want.”
A lump rose in my throat just then. “Thank you, Lucy.”
She laid a hand on my shoulder. “Do you remember what Christabel said—‘women who are unwilling to fight for the vote are unworthy of it’? That applies to life, too, Vicky.”
A moment later I realized that she had not called me Queenie. For the first time since I had known her, she called me Vicky.
Thirty
Kensington, the Royal College of Art,
Thursday, First of July
IT WAS THE day of the exam. I waited in the hallway of the RCA with my drawing of Lancelot and another life study of Will safely between two large pieces of card, and the mermaid pin nestled in a box.
After the deputation I had pulled myself together and finished Lancelot. It wasn’t my best, but I thought it was good enough. I also finished the sketches of the deputation and posted them to Clemence Housman. And then I stepped back from the WSPU. I couldn’t think about it now. It was just too much.
The day after the riot, newspapers reported that Lucy and thirteen other women had protested the prime minister’s refusal to see Mrs. Pankhurst, and had thrown rocks at the Treasury Building, breaking nearly every pane of glass. They had waited until nightfall when no one would be in the building. They had even gone so far as to tie strings to the stones so they wouldn’t fly far into the rooms, just in case someone was there. The goal was just to attract police attention, not to injure anyone. As planned, they had been arrested and then released to stand trial later in the month.
Now I studied the RCA candidates, who sat on a long row of benches in the hall while we were called in one by one to show our work. There were maybe fifty men there and only ten or so women besides myself.
I couldn’t help but think about what Lucy had said about the RCA. It wasn’t fair that so few women were given a scholarship. I supposed that was why the men had reason to look so confident while the women who needed financial help were apprehensive and worried.
When my name was called, I rose and went into the room. Five men sat at a long table against the window. Only one looked up when I came in. He was the youngest of them, maybe in his forties with hair that was long enough to touch his collar. The cut of his coat was a little more modern, and he wore a colorful waistcoat, whereas the others looked as though they had been dragged from a Victorian tableau. One man actually wore a monocle, of all things.
A Mad, Wicked Folly Page 25