The Suffragette's Secret

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  On the next day, Grace left the office prepared for her forthcoming duties. She closed the door and stepped out into the cool caress of the breeze blowing up from the sea.

  ‘In consequence of inflammatory speeches made by Miss Grace Emmerson a vast amount of damage to property had been done within the last two months in and around Brighton,’ a voice suddenly boomed from behind, startling her. She turned to see the most recent edition of the Brighton Argus being held up, covering the man’s face, as he read.

  Grace rolled her eyes and pushed down the newspaper to see Cecil’s grinning face.

  ‘The condition of things,’ he continued in a mock-upper-class voice, ‘that was brought about by Miss Emmerson was such that the defendant, who had uttered some very violent speeches, should be brought before a magistrate in order that she should be put under sureties to be of good behaviour for the future.’ Cecil cocked one eyebrow and stared at Grace. ‘Are you being good, Miss Emmerson?’

  ‘Only an angel could be more righteous,’ she answered.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Cecil said, folding up the newspaper and tucking it under his arm. ‘Now, how about that cup of tea you promised me?’

  Grace furrowed her brow. ‘I’m not sure I recall promising you anything.’ She glanced up at the clock tower. The Lyons Tea Room was just a stone’s throw from the WSPU headquarters. One cup wouldn’t hurt. ‘Alright.’

  They crossed the street together and stopped at the windows of the Lyons Tea Room, which were filled with a multitude of different cakes.

  ‘Tempted?’ Cecil asked, watching Grace lingering beside the windows. ‘That Victoria Sponge looks nice.’

  ‘I’d better not,’ she replied. ‘I’ve got a busy day today.’

  ‘More inflammatory speeches, Miss Emmerson?’ Cecil asked, leading them inside.

  ‘Something like that, yes,’ she answered. Grace cast her eyes around the tearoom. The sounds of working-class chatter muddled in the cool air around her.

  A waitress in a black uniform, white cap and apron approached them with a smile. ‘Table for two? she asked in a bawdy East London accent.

  ‘Yes, please,’ Grace replied.

  They were led to a round table with two chairs close to the front window.

  ‘What can I get ya?’

  ‘Just a cup of tea for me, please,’ Grace ordered.

  ‘Same for me—thank you.’

  ‘Sure I can’t tempt ya to one of me delicious cakes?’ she asked, pointing at the window displays. ‘All freshly made on the premises.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Grace said.

  ‘Right you are,’ the waitress conceded, as she trotted off.

  ‘So, what have you been up to lately?’ Cecil asked her, placing his elbows on the table and leaning closer.

  Grace tapped his newspaper. ‘Haven’t you read this?’

  ‘Yes, but what else have you been doing—not work to do with the WSPU, I mean.’

  ‘What else is there?’ she asked defensively. ‘It’s the only thing that matters right now.’

  ‘And when it’s all over? When everyone has the vote—then what?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll become an MP, then Prime Minister.’ Grace shrugged and laughed.

  Cecil mirrored her good humour, but his fixed smile belied the seriousness underneath his question.

  ‘What about you?’ she asked. ‘What has life got in store for Cecil Barwise?’

  He inhaled and thought for an inordinately long time before answering. ‘I expect I’ll stay on at Linden Grove for the foreseeable future, then keep a lookout for a post somewhere with bigger stables.’

  ‘’ere we go,’ the waitress said brightly, setting a tray down on the immaculate white tablecloth. She carefully lifted off and set out the teapot, two tea cups and saucers, a small jug of milk and a bowl of sugar. ‘Not changed your mind about me cakes, have ya?’

  ‘No, thank you,’ Grace insisted politely.

  ‘Right you are. Enjoy.’

  ‘Grace—last time I mentioned Linden Grove you said that it deserved to be fire-bombed and then, just now when I said it again, you tensed up. Do you know of the place?’

  Now, there was a question. She busied herself pouring the tea as she considered her answer. ‘I knew it once—a very long time ago—so long, in fact, that it’s almost like a dream. Tell me, is Mister Wild still the master of the house?’

  Cecil nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how do you find him?’ she asked, pouring the tea.

  Cecil shifted in his chair, looked about the room, then lowered his voice. ‘Like most of his sort: a devil as a husband, indifferent as a father and a tyrant as an employer.’

  ‘A remarkably apt description,’ Grace murmured. ‘And his wife?’

  ‘She does what’s expected of a woman of her station. She usually treats me and the other servants alright, most of the time.’ Cecil eyed her suspiciously. ‘Did you once work there?’

  ‘I was there for a very short time,’ she answered with a heavy sigh. In the gap that opened up in their conversation, Grace realised that her palms had become moist and her fists clenched. She tried to relax.

  ‘Why do you not speak of your past at these meetings you do on the promenade? Tell those poor souls that you weren’t born with a silver spoon in your mouth like they think.’

  He was referring, of course, to her years as a child in the Brighton Union Workhouse. It was a past that tormented her and that she would now rather forget. When preparing the notes for her third speech, Olivia had visited her bedroom and suggested the very same thing as Cecil was now mooting. But she couldn’t do it. It was now, thankfully, a long time ago. She shook her head and drank some tea. ‘I don’t want the sympathy.’

  ‘But these women see you as something you’re not—or at least weren’t—they think you’re better than they are. If they knew you grew up in the workhouse…’

  Grace shrugged. ‘I want to look forwards, Cecil, not backwards.’

  More silence followed as Grace finished her tea. She caught the attention of the waitress and waved her over. ‘One piece of your Victoria Sponge, please.’

  ‘I knew you’d come ‘round!’ the waitress sang.

  Grace placed 4d down on the table and stood up. ‘Well, it was lovely to catch up with you, Cecil. But now I must leave.’

  Cecil looked surprised at the abruptness of her departure. ‘But I haven’t even finished my tea, yet,’ he complained.

  ‘You stay here and enjoy the tea and cake—I insist.’ She shook his hand and turned to leave.

  ‘Can we go out again sometime?’ Cecil called.

  ‘Maybe,’ she replied, without turning around.

  Chapter Five

  Morton was in the land of the living dead. He had no concept of what time it was, nor what day it was. Every muscle in his body begged him for sleep. It had been, what, five days now since they had brought the baby home and, since that moment, he and Juliette could count the number of hours’ sleep that they had had on two hands. Yesterday, after they had both inadvertently fallen asleep at the kitchen table, they had decided to devise a sleep rota. Now, it was supposed to be his turn to sleep. Except that the banshee wail, emanating from his daughter’s lungs downstairs, penetrated the closed bedroom door, through the pillow placed over his head, before finally breaching the set of ear plugs that he had rushed into town this morning to buy.

  Dragging the duvet and pillow off the bed, Morton left the bedroom, climbed the stairs to his study and shut the door. Collapsing into a heap on the floor, he listened carefully. Nope, he could still hear her. In fact, the whole of Rye must be able to hear her, he decided.

  With a sigh, he closed his eyes and tried to settle his mind. He needed to imagine that he was somewhere else, lying on a deserted beach. Isn’t that what people did to try and relax? The beach that popped into his mind was Chatham Lighthouse Beach on Cape Cod—one of the places that they had visited on their honeymoon last summer. Warm, perfect sand. Gentle waves breakin
g on the shoreline. He was almost there. His breathing was beginning to slow and the extraneous sounds were subsiding. He was back there, Juliette sunbathing beside him. As sleep lured him in, so his thoughts began to tear and fact became tangled with fantasy until he slipped into the enveloping darkness.

  The sound woke him instantly. He tried to sit up but struggled to raise his forehead from the damp pillow. He was hot, sweating and his pulse was racing faster than if he had just completed a marathon. His eyes flicked open to try and determine the source of the noise. It was the house phone, he realised, disorientation messing with his mind. He was in his study and the phone was ringing.

  Grappling up to his desk, Morton knocked the phone to the floor, then picked it up to answer. He spoke: ‘Hello?’ but nothing except a croak came out.

  ‘Is that you, Morton?’

  He cleared his throat, then tried again. ‘Hi, yes.’

  ‘It’s Margot here.’

  Oh, joy, Morton thought. Juliette’s mother, the living embodiment of the interfering mother-in-law. ‘Hi, Margot. How are you?’ he asked, trying to pull his splintered thoughts back together.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she answered. ‘How’s my daughter and granddaughter? Have you got a name for her, yet? Everyone’s asking.’

  ‘They’re good, thanks. We’ve chosen Ethel. Like it?’

  There was a short pause on the other end of the line. ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘Yes,’ Morton replied.

  ‘Right,’ she said flatly. ‘I take it that’s a no, then. Listen, is there anything I need to bring tomorrow?’

  Morton outwardly groaned when he realised that she was coming to stay for a few days, then quickly turned it into a cough. ‘Excuse me, Margot. Erm, no I don’t think you need to bring anything…unless you can supply sleep in pill form?’

  ‘Right, only I’ve got…’ She continued blithering on about gifts from neighbours and cousins, but his addled brain had stopped listening. His eyes settled on Margot’s name on the pedigree chart on the wall in front of him. He traced the line of ascendancy up through her mother, then on to Grace Emmerson.

  ‘Actually,’ he said, interrupting her mid-flow. ‘Do you have anything at home about your grandmother, Grace?’

  ‘What?’ Margot stammered.

  Morton repeated his request.

  Margot blew out a puff of air. ‘I’ll have to have a look. I know I’ve got some photos and maybe some jewellery somewhere. I’ll have a think. So, what about Sue’s fruit scones, then?’

  He had no idea to what she was referring. ‘Yes, lovely—thanks.’

  ‘What?’ Margot demanded.

  ‘Sorry—got to go—Albert’s crying.’

  ‘Who’s Albert?’

  Morton ended the call, placed the phone back into its cradle and rubbed his face. How long had he been asleep? It could have been minutes, hours, days or weeks for all he knew. One thing was certain, though, and that was that he felt no better for it. And now, thanks to Margot’s call, he was wide awake. He glanced at the clock. Seventeen minutes he’d been asleep. Seventeen. Brilliant. He craved coffee—desperately—but considered the veritable orchestra of creaks and groans that would inevitably accompany his journey downstairs. No, he needed to stay put for the time being.

  His thoughts turned back to Grace Emmerson. He had achieved absolutely nothing more on his research into her life and, in fact, couldn’t now recall where he had even got up to. He opened his laptop lid and was presented with the newspaper report which he had found but not yet read, entitled Suffragette’s Violent Speeches. Now he remembered.

  ‘Miss Grace Emmerson, a prominent local suffragette, was yesterday afternoon arrested outside the Brighton branch of the Women’s Social and Political Union building. She was taken to Brighton Magistrate’s Court, where she was remanded until this morning. The warrant on which she was arrested, and which was granted yesterday afternoon set forth: ‘For that she is a disturber of the peace and is an inciter to others to commit diverse crimes and misdemeanours. In consequence of inflammatory speeches made by Miss Grace Emmerson, a vast amount of damage to property had been done within the last two months in and around Brighton.’

  Morton couldn’t help but grin at the thought of Juliette’s great grandmother causing havoc in the genteel seaside town. And these were just the crimes that she had been caught committing. Goodness only knew what else she had got up to. He continued reading the legalities contained in the article: Grace had been released on condition that she ceased her inflammatory speeches. Judging by the other newspaper reports, she had satisfied this criterion but had progressed on to more violent acts. She certainly was a character, Morton thought, convinced that, had the same social inequalities persisted to this day, Juliette would readily switch her career in the police force for a life of campaigning on the other side of the law.

  Printing the article, Morton clicked back to the set of results. The headline of the next offered an enticing read: Brighton Suffragettes on the Warpath but it would have to wait. Juliette was shouting his name up the stairs. He supposed this was how it was going to be for the foreseeable future.

  In the lounge he found a haggard, exhausted version of his wife sitting on the sofa, elbows on her knees, hands supporting her head. ‘She’s just been fed and changed,’ Juliette muttered, barely able to look up. The baby was lying in her Moses basket, enthralled by the colourful toys that dangled down above her face.

  ‘Do you want anything—food, drink?’ Morton asked, stroking her wild hair.

  ‘Just sleep,’ she answered. ‘Who was on the phone earlier?’

  ‘Oh, yes—it was your mum. Wanted to know if we needed her to bring anything. I said we didn’t.’

  Juliette nodded and made for the door.

  ‘Do you think when she arrives I could do a little work—I’m getting a bit behind?’

  She paused in the doorway and turned, an eyebrow cocked in the way that implied suspicion. ‘Is that just because my mum’s coming and you want to escape?’

  ‘I like your mum,’ Morton defended.

  ‘I didn’t say you didn’t,’ she said pointedly.

  ‘I just think it’ll be good for you—three girls together, plus I get to catch up on a bit of work.’

  Juliette waved her hand dismissively and left the room. ‘Sleep…’

  Morton crouched down to the basket and kissed the baby on the forehead. He marvelled at how it was possible to love so deeply, profoundly and instantaneously. How far he had come. Just five years ago he was single, resolutely childless and hauling around the chronic bitter burden of his adoption. He realised now that from the ignorance of his biological parents’ identity had grown a rancorous mental cancer that, were it not for having met Juliette, would have swollen inside of him, eventually taking him over.

  ‘I love you,’ he whispered, taking her tiny hand in his.

  She stopped playing and squeezed his finger, her sparkling brown eyes meeting his.

  She was true perfection.

  She held his gaze for some time, then switched her focus back to the stripy lion above her.

  On the coffee table beside Morton was the baby name book, 60,001 Best Baby Names. With a sigh, he opened the book at the girl’s section and began to scan down the long lists. Aaliyah, Aamori, Aarika, Aarionne, Aaronita…Addison? According to the book it meant awesome. No. He continued. Alessia? Italian for nice. Nice Farrier. Maybe not. Auburne? American for tough-minded. One tough-minded woman was enough in his life. Next. Audrey? English for strong and regal. He leant over the baby’s face. ‘Audrey?’ Then he shook his head. Definitely not Audrey. Bahama? Barcelona? Did they want to be one of those couples that copied the obscure names which celebrities saddled their kids with for the rest of their entire lives? Barcelona Farrier. Nobody would ever forget that name. Next. Beatrice? Latin for blessed woman. Yes, he liked that name and made a note of it, the first to make the list. Beatrice Farrier. Morton smiled then carried on reading. Blake? English for dark—n
ot a good sign. Plus, she would sound like a (male) private detective. Blake Farrier at your service. Nope. Burgundy? French for red wine. He added it to the list, just to see Juliette’s reaction. Catherine? Greek for pure. Traditional, historical; he liked it.

  The baby began to cry in her zero-to-a-thousand-decibels-in-under-two-seconds way.

  Morton scooped her up and cradled her to his chest, lightly bouncing around the lounge.

  It took ten minutes and she was asleep in his arms. He gently laid her back down in the Moses basket, pulled the curtains and crept from the room.

  In the kitchen, he made himself a strong coffee and opened up his laptop to read the next newspaper report into Grace Emmerson’s activities. ‘29th December 1910. Brighton Suffragettes on the Warpath. Two Bottles of Dye Emptied into Pillar Box. Brighton suffragettes were out on the warpath last night. Some of the sisterhood placed two uncorked bottles containing a dark fluid in a pillar letter-box, spoiling and besmearing several letters that the postal authorities have been unable to decipher. The letter-box attacked is that situated on Queen’s Road in the town centre. A collection of letters took place shortly after six o’clock, and at that time the contents were all correct. When a postman went to clear the box at seven o’clock, he was astonished to find that a large number of the letters and postcards were covered in a brownish fluid. A well-known local suffragette, Miss Grace Emmerson was apprehended at the scene, shouting a tirade of suffragist propaganda at the arresting police officers. She was detained in police custody overnight and will go before magistrate’s tomorrow.’

  The next article was brief, summarising Grace’s court case. She was sentenced to two months’ hard labour for her actions. Poor woman, Morton thought, but very admirable and courageous. According to the newspaper indexes, her next arrest came just two months after her release from prison.

  ‘22nd February 1911. Suffragette Raid on Downing Street. Ministers Assaulted—Windows Smashed. Mr Asquith’s statement in the House of Commons on Tuesday, regarding the facilities the Government were prepared to give next session to the Women’s Suffrage Bill, raised the wrath of the militants. A meeting of suffragettes was being held in Caxton Hall when the terms of the Prime Minister’s announcement were made known. The meeting refused to accept them as satisfactory and Mrs Pankhurst announced that she would go herself to Downing Street, and the whole body of women, armed with banners on bamboo pole, set out to march to the Premier’s House. On arrival there they found only three or four policemen on duty, and thinking they had at last outwitted the powers of Cannon Row, they raised a cheer. Their victory, however, appeared to be more apparent than real. The constables on duty at once did their best to check the invading women, and in response to their whistles, a special force was despatched from Cannon Row. This force marched along Charles Street and through the Foreign Office quadrangle, emerging right opposite to the residence of the First Lord of the Treasury. The suffragettes threw themselves upon the police. For some minutes a bitter struggle prevailed, and then the police were forced back, and a shrieking, hysterical mass of men and women poured into Downing Street. For some moments a scene of pandemonium reigned. Policemen’s helmets were knocked off with bamboo poles, and suffragettes kicked their legs. Mr Asquith was crossing Parliament Square, apparently on his way to Downing Street, when he stumbled right into the midst of the deputation. He was quickly surrounded by the women, and one of them, Miss Grace Emmerson, approached him and struck him, saying, ‘You tax women as heavily as men, and yet not one woman is represented.’ Half a dozen policemen surrounded Mr Asquith, whistles were blown, a taxi-cab was driven up, and the Premier was hustled into it. As the cab was driven away Miss Emmerson shouted ‘Traitor, coward,’ and then put her fist through the small pane of glass at the back of the cab. Arrest after arrest was made and soon Downing Street was cleared.’