Since the surprise victory of the Social Democratic Party in the latest Canadian federal election, the Canadian press had wallowed in references to its leader's famous ancestor, English inventor of the flush toilet. Some journalists said that Margaret Crapper was brave to keep her family name, while some implied that it contributed to Canada's status as a joke in the rest of the world. Hardly anyone suggested that her wife Paulette should give up her own name, Frisson, although Conservatives kept dropping hints in the Canadian House of Commons that if Paulette really loved Margaret, let alone her country, she would quietly disappear.
The limousine pulled up to the entrance of Buckingham Palace, where Margaret and Paulette and their entourage were invited to the traditional visiting dignitaries’ luncheon in the Bow Room.
Paulette sighed. Her scalp itched under her thick, dark shoulder-length hair and black straw hat. She was a 45-year-old professor of history in a small Canadian university. She had never planned to become the Consort (a title chosen in preference to First Lady) when her first political argument with Margaret had turned into an all-night filibuster that segued into passionate sex.
Paulette reminded herself that the sacrifices she was making were nothing compared to those of the Feminist Martyr whose death a century before would be honored by the whole world, starting at dawn the next day. A skipping-rope rhyme from Paulette's childhood bounced into her head:
Emily Davison ran on the track,
Grabbed the horsey's bridle and tack.
Horsey trampled over her back.
How many tramples did she get?
One (whack of the rope on the ground), two (whack), three (whack)...
What a sadistic little ditty, thought Paulette. She remembered the sepia-toned photos of a small, pitiful shape in a rumpled white gown, curled into various positions on the ground as horses reared nearby, bewildered and panicky as domesticated animals tend to be when their routine is disrupted.
Paulette had spent her whole adult life trying to understand the motives of dead people, including Emily Wilding Davison, devout worker for the Women's Social and Political Union, which eventually won English women the right to vote. Emily had been carrying the purple, green, and white flag of the WSPU when she threw herself—or tripped and fell—in front of the King's racehorse at Epsom racetrack in 1913.
A thought jumped into Paulette's mind: What if Margaret gets killed in the same place? What would the photographers capture if she were attacked by the force of bullets or the rage of a man?
"Smile, honey.” Margaret nudged Paulette, who immediately remembered where she was. She reached up to hold her hat in place for the cameras as she reached down to make sure her blue geometric-print silk dress covered her knees. She felt too fleshy to look dignified on TV, but she thought it better to show cleavage than a flash of bulging knees, given the choice. Paulette had chosen her ensemble to compliment the ivory raw-silk pantsuit that skimmed Margaret's elegantly tall, slim body and her matching three-cornered hat.
Paulette thought Margaret's look was too suggestive of the reign of mad King George and the rebellious American colonies, but all the fashion magazines were touting three-cornered hats as the latest in retro-chic, and Margaret did not want to seem out of the loop.
Paulette hoped that her own look wouldn't attract sarcasm from the British tabloid press. Margaret loved to see Paulette's curves spilling out of her black satin merry widow or lacy red set of bra, thong and garter belt, and Paulette loved to wear the slutty lingerie that Margaret liked. Who else, thought Paulette, would grin at me like that, instead of laughing?
Paulette believed that she had to keep all her sheer, shiny, or lacy underthings well covered-up in public. There were no role-models for her to follow as first lesbian Consort, so she made up her own style, intended to fend off ridicule. She wondered whether any self-respecting member of the left wing of the Social Democratic Party could play that role well.
Margaret smiled blandly at Prime Minister Reginald Peek, leader of the British Conservative Party, the female friend who usually appeared with him in public, King Charles and Queen Camilla. Margaret almost ignored the stiff man in a suit who gripped her hand to help her rise out of the limousine. Paulette was trying to emerge as gracefully as Venus from the waves when the whirr of a helicopter distracted the audience.
Shouts rose as eggs fell like messy little bombs from the helicopter, followed by dozens of flyers which instantly dampened in the humid air. “Wildings!” yelled several onlookers, sounding more impressed than alarmed. Paulette was grateful that no one in a uniform opened fire.
Margaret snatched a whirling flyer while dropping a brief curtsy to the King and Queen. She had spent her youth playing basketball, and it showed. “Men have rights too,” she read aloud then smiled into the nearest television camera.
"Of course!” laughed Margaret. “The government of Canada supports the rights of all people. We follow the tradition of British Common Law.” She implied that egg slime on her clothes was a small price to pay for universal rights.
Clever all around, thought Paulette. No one here could take offense at that little speech. But the Wildings want to be known as the voice of martyred men, while reminding the public that they can strike anyone, anywhere, at any time. She knew that their choice of Emily Davison's middle name was not a coincidence.
Paulette was familiar with their philosophy. It was no different from that of the Free Men who were wildly popular on university campuses in Canada and the U.S. “Why can't men be men?” male students would ask her, shifting or pacing like caged animals. “If you really believe in equal rights, how can you expect guys to take a back seat to girls?"
Most of them were sheltered middle-class boys who believed that they were less likely to get scholarships or prestigious jobs than their female classmates. Some of the male rebels in Paulette's classes were young refugees from poor neighborhoods who were determined to move out of there at any cost and not to accept sexual rejection or disrespect in any other form.
Most of the young men in her life blamed their own disappointments, all current wars, and the destruction of the natural world on the unnatural rise of women since their grandfathers’ time. They yearned for a general return to common sense, and they expected Paulette to agree with them until they decided that she was ruled by her female hormones rather than her brain.
Paulette watched the helicopter speeding toward the horizon like a rogue dragonfly dodging a predator. The short, balding Prime Minister welcomed Margaret without acknowledging her spouse or the Wilding raid.
King Charles welcomed Margaret with a smile, and gamely added, “We must all beware of helicopters bearing gifts."
Paulette knew that the Wildings called him a house-broken husband and a tragic symbol of the conquered men of the twenty-first century. She wondered if all kings with that name were under a curse. Most of the crowd wandered away, wiping their clothes with whatever came to hand.
The luncheon was a predictable three-course affair. Paulette was seated across from Margaret, according to custom, and suffered gamely through it.
During a post-luncheon tour of one of the palace gardens, Paulette managed to insert herself next to Margaret for a private conversation. “Marg,” she asked quietly, “are you worried about Epsom? Could you find an excuse not to go?"
"Fuck, Pauly,” Margaret whispered in her ear. “You can't be serious. We came here for that. Number one, we both have to show our respect for Emily Davison, Mother of Women's Rights. Number two, we can't look like chickenshit femmy colonials. We're statespeople from the True North or we're nothing."
Paulette was miserably aware of the logic of that argument. Image was everything. “Sure,” she snarked. “Better to be martyrs than hicks from the sticks, eh? And Goddess forbid we should look feminine."
"Pauly, you know—"
"Yes, I know. Have there been any threats? That you've heard of?"
"Yes, from the usual suspects. That's why we have to be t
here, rain or shine. Pauly, I need you to be with me on this."
"Oh, I am, Marg. I've been crazy enough to come this far. I just don't want to see—you know."
Margaret wrapped an arm around Paulette's shoulders and squeezed, ignoring the chorus of surrounding photographers clicking in unison. “I know, honey. I know."
Margaret and the British P.M.—known as Reggie to his tricks, allies, and corporate patrons—had both consented to an in-depth interview in the studio of a major television station later in the afternoon. As Paulette fidgeted in a viewing room, Margaret was ushered into a stage-set parlor where a young woman posed self-mockingly in a large red three-cornered hat with an ostrich plume atop curly blonde hair, a clingy V-necked blouse, and the ruffled trousers that were known as the signature of a certain French designer.
"Welcome to A Friendly World!” bubbled program host Felicity Friend. Margaret's eyes narrowed briefly. “It's such an honor to have two important world leaders in our studio today!” Felicity seemed to aim her cleavage at Margaret without looking her in the eyes. She nodded almost imperceptibly at Reginald.
Felicity wasted no time. She explained to her viewers that Prime Minister Crapper had traveled a long way to attend the opening of the Derby, which would also be the hundredth anniversary of the death of the suffragette leader who died so that all women might be free. She asked Margaret whether she had to attend many horse races in the line of duty. Margaret couldn't think of a sufficiently witty response.
Felicity carried on. “Minister Crapper, we understand that your unfortunate nation is on the brink of civil war. Do you feel that your unorthodox—erm—marriage has offended French-speaking Canadians? Aren't most of them Catholic?"
Margaret reminded Felicity and her viewers that same-sex marriage was legal in Canada, that the election process had been democratic and above criticism, that conflict between French and English Canada could be traced back to the British conquest of 1759, and that her wife was, in fact, of French-Canadian descent.
Felicity beamed with delight at being offered so many avenues for humiliating her guest. To show her impartiality, she asked Reginald whether recent rumors about him and several male models had damaged his popularity with voters. He responded that he always declined to answer personal questions because his constituents valued privacy—his and their own—and deplored the tasteless practice of inviting the press to follow one into the loo. He and Felicity shared a laugh, looking at Margaret.
"Privacy,” Margaret responded, emphasizing the long ‘i’ sound, “is simply the efficient disposal of embarrassing material which does not disappear on its own."
Felicity fairly cooed. The look she gave Margaret was inviting and provoking, as though she wanted to lure Margaret into a bout of mud-wrestling. She sneeringly referred to several Canadian government scandals from before Margaret's time. She went on to say that it must be hard to govern a multi-cultural Tower of Babel.
Like the ‘United Kingdom?' thought Paulette, wishing she could simply barge into the interview space, preferably flanked by some wild-eyed Celtic nationalists in traditional war paint. Felicity asked why Canada's aboriginal population was largely exiled to the wilderness while homosexuals were encouraged to adopt innocent children from poorer countries.
Each answer from Margaret led to more questions. Why did the Canadian government refuse to help Britain and the United States manage the Middle East for its own good? Was it true that Canada was a haven for international criminals?
Margaret returned the challenge in Felicity's eyes, but she struggled to sound both prepared and spontaneous. Paulette struggled to restrain the urge to strangle Felicity.
Reginald, in his turn, showed that he had learned how to control his vocabulary and his speaking tone since his first one-sided adolescent crush on an upper classman in a school for the sons of the corporate rich. Reginald waxed emotional about the “less fortunate,” the young, the old, and the time-honored institution of The British Family, which consisted of parents and their children. He repeatedly declined to answer personal questions, claiming that the focus of the interview should be on more important issues.
Too soon Margaret, Paulette, and Reginald were being separately escorted past rival crowds of picketers with signs reading “Felicity Fuck-Em, Get Off the Tube,” illustrated with a crude image of a woman with exaggerated curves being thrown off a train, “Welcome, P.M. Crapper and Wife,” and “Keep Canadian Perversion Where It Belongs."
As soon as they were out of earshot, Margaret admitted to Paulette that the interview had been an ambush, a fox hunt, and a train wreck.
Paulette dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief—tissues being considered environmentally unfriendly—until it was too wet to do any good, and then she simply let the tears wash away her makeup. “A lot of people must have known what that bitch was planning to do. They let you walk right into it."
"It comes with the job,” Margaret reminded her. “I've never been good at one-line retorts, and I won't borrow brother Peek's act, so I was vulnerable. I need more practice before the next public spectacle. It's war out there, but it wasn't personal, honey. Think about it. Our girl Felicity probably doesn't get enough good sex."
Paulette rolled her eyes. “She's probably getting it from the media mogul who gave her a platform. Same as Reggie-boy. They'd probably do each other on prime-time TV if they thought it would help ratings and votes."
"But would they really get into it, my dear wife? That is the question.” Margaret scooped Paulette into her arms in the relative privacy of the limousine. Like a gentleman, Margaret removed her hat before kissing her distraught spouse, whose own squashable straw headpiece rested in her lap.
Paulette responded in spite of herself. Margaret usually had that effect on her.
Margaret gently withdrew when they were within sight of the palace, where they were expected for tea. “Hold that thought,” said Margaret. “They have to let us go to bed some time."
"Oh,” complained Paulette. Much as she craved the comfort of Margaret's sure touch and the familiar taste of her skin and her fluids, she wanted to continue reading the letters of Emily Davison and her own irresistible lover, Christabel Pankhurst. Paulette felt privileged to have received this treasure-trove via email from a male historian at Oxford who seemed to regard Paulette as the ideal recipient. So far, he was unable to find a British publisher.
Margaret seemed to read her mind. “Maybe I'll just ravish you while you're reading. It might enhance the experience."
Paulette laughed, breathing in the light musk of Margaret's sweat. “Maybe I need a little distraction.” How unfair, thought Paulette, that she should have to comfort me. But she's still high on adrenalin, and I'm the one who had to watch her being publicly attacked. Paulette vaguely remembered the slogan “From each according to her ability, to each according to her need,” and decided that it applied well enough to the mini-society of a marriage.
Tea seemed less formal to Paulette than the luncheon, largely because the King, Queen, and Prime Minister were all absent. Paulette almost missed the King and Queen, who seemed to her like seasoned survivors of the slings and arrows of the British media. No one mentioned Margaret's interview on A Friendly World, and the silence was deafening. Paulette forced herself to eat, and spoke only when spoken to.
At length, Margaret and Paulette retired to the suite assigned to them. “Jesus, Marg!” Paulette burst out when they were alone. “I thought I knew about the English stiff upper lip, but these people wouldn't offer you a glass of water if your hair was on fire. Quebec has its problems, but none of us would treat you like this."
"Probably not, honey. Not the ones in your family, anyway. Did you read all the signs when we were leaving the TV studio? Did you read the article in People-Watch magazine? It claimed that young people all over the world who want to escape from cultures dominated by old men are thinking of moving to Canada because it has such a hip, modern image—mostly because of us. It claimed we're typic
al of a generation of women in positions of power in the industrialized world."
"Mmm, I should have read it. I will read it—even if it's written for ten-year-olds—as soon as I've finished reading Emily Davison's letters. Oh Marg, you should read them. The real woman is so much more interesting than the saintly teacher and organizer we all learned about in school. I can't believe no one cracked the code of her letters before Robin Digwell."
"Your buddy at Oxford?"
Paulette knew that Margaret wasn't really interested in revisionist research. She was breathing down Paulette's neck as she held her from behind and tweaked her plump nipples through her dress. “Read me, honey,” said Margaret. “Read my fingers and my arms and my mouth and my wet twat and my hot breath.” She stuck a tongue in Paulette's ear. “I'm not in code."
Margaret wanted to shift Paulette's attention, and she did. Once again, she enabled Paulette to feel voluptuous and desirable and glad to be where she was at that very moment. Both women were well aware that the past is every historian's Demon Lover, especially when dressed up in seductive new clothes. Sometimes Paulette loved being seduced into staying present in the here and now.
Paulette turned to face Margaret. The heels of Paulette's shoes didn't seem high enough, so she stood on tiptoes to reach Margaret's mouth. Paulette kissed her fervently, prompting Margaret to make a sound in her throat and hold her wife tightly enough to keep her at the right level.
Paulette's nipples were still very alert from Margaret's attention. “Too many clothes,” mumbled Paulette, and Margaret certainly agreed with her.
Margaret turned Paulette around to unzip her dress, and Paulette let it drop to the carpet, pushing her half-slip down with it. Paulette let Margaret's gaze linger on her turquoise satin bra with matching panties and garter belt before she pulled everything off to expose her hungry skin to the air.
Margaret had already shed her suit-jacket, but Paulette knew that she was more efficient at such things, so she took over the job of getting her spouse out of her clothing as quickly and neatly as possible. In a trice, both women were rolling naked on a bedspread, feeling like naughty children.
Coming Together With Pride Page 5