Crooked Pieces

by Sarah Grazebrook

  It was wrong of me, I know, but seeing them there, it came to me how many women in my street would give a week’s rent for just a touch of such soft fine garments, for all they were torn and muddied.

  The next day there was a great turmoil at the office, for the newspapers were all full of what had happened, although I do not think they got it right for they said it was the fault of the women, and not the Parliament that seemed to me more like a bear garden than a place for making laws. They have named us the ‘suffragettes’ to set us apart from men who also want the vote. I venture they would not be so hard on them! Still it seems our efforts were not lost. The Prime Minister has decided he will receive the ladies on May 19th.

  There is to be a great rally in celebration. Women are to come from all over the country. Every kind, rich and poor, high and low, old and young. I have worked my fingers dizzy typing. Miss Sylvia was going to order more buns but her mother advised against it, saying the time for buns would be when they had the victory. Miss Sylvia remarked they would be stale by then, but Mrs Pankhurst said if that were her only worry she would die a happy woman.

  I understood her reasoning, but I think Mrs Pankhurst, and Miss Christabel, too, do not entirely understand what a difference a little food may make to a hungry woman. It is all very well for the helpers to have lemonade and potted meat and pastries when they have but put out a few tables and hung the banners. That could be left. But when a woman has walked an hour to the starting point and must walk another two in the procession…

  I cannot complain. I am fed like a queen at Mrs Garrud’s. She says she has found an old coat that I may borrow to learn the fighting in, so I have no excuse! I am to go on Tuesday evening for an hour to see how I like it.

  I do like it! At first I thought I would not, for the hall was full of the most fierce-looking creatures I ever saw. They were huffing and snorting and whipping their arms around like they would slice through a brick wall if it stood in their way, but Mrs Garrud calmed them down and introduced me to each of them and they all shook my hand and said they were glad to know me, and generally made me feel so welcome, by the end of the lesson I was slashing and wheezing away like I was born to it.

  Mrs Garrud says it will make me strong as a lion and twice as flexible. I looked that up. It said: ‘will bend without breaking’. We shall see.

  Such a rally! Women – more than the eye could see – from every rank and trade, all along the Embankment cheering their very hearts out. Brass bands playing; costumes of every hue – shawls, clogs, purple gowns, the leather aprons of the tanners, – oh, so many different garbs, so much colour.

  Off marched our leaders, heads held high like a conquering army, banners flying in the breeze, the traffic forced to stop and make way. I could have burst for pride to be a part of such a day, for all I had done but little towards it. I was there, and that was enough.

  We waited and waited, all hopeful and gay in the spring sunshine, for we truly believed no man and no Parliament could ignore such a throng. We joked and laughed and took turns to say what we would vote for first. I said, ‘Sugar’, and a woman by me said, ‘enough money to bury me babbies decent’, which seemed a bit of a waste. Another wanted a straw hat with ribbons, and another, a smeary broken-looking woman with dark cracks in her skin, said, ‘Daylight’. I thought to myself, no one should have to ask for that.

  At length came word that the meeting was over. We clambered to our feet, breathless, hardly daring to speak, dizzy with excitement. Even the bands fell silent, cymbals raised.

  They never sounded. The meeting was indeed over. And nothing achieved. It seemed although this Sir Henry, this Prime Minister, had owned himself in favour of the Cause, he durst not go against his fellow ministers. I wondered what sort of a leader he could be that was afraid to force his will on those beneath him.

  A sort of dull emptiness spread over us.

  The ladies came back very down, except Miss Annie who looked crosser than I ever saw her. ‘We are not going to stop for this,’ she cried out, as they came near. ‘We are going on with our agitation.’ All who heard her cheered for she has a way of lifting people’s spirits. Nothing ever dismays her for long. She is like a rubber ball. You may throw her down from the greatest heights but she will bounce right back again, and higher than before.

  So we did not give up. We marched to Trafalgar Square. Not an inch of pavement was free. Bodies everywhere. Even the great stone lions had mill girls draped about them like they were no fiercer than factory tom cats.

  The traffic had to stop all over again and some of the cabmen who started off yelling at us gave up and joined in, many swearing it was better than the vaudeville.

  Speaker after speaker.

  ‘Are we to take this? Are we to accept that our words, our wishes count for nothing in the eyes of this mean and cowardly government?’

  ‘Look about you. What do you see? Hundreds, nay, thousands – from every part of the country, come here today to demand justice. The right to be heard.’

  ‘If God had not meant women to speak out he would not have given them voices.’

  ‘He slipped up there,’ yelled a man from the back of the crowd. Lucky he was at the back or he would have been hung from the nearest lamp-post judging by how the mill girls turned on him.

  One old lady told how she had been fighting to gain the vote for forty years, and swore she would go on another forty if that was what it took. I was much moved by this for though she was bent and crippled in her body, her eyes were like a young girl’s, spilling over with hope.

  So many came forward and such a mix – governesses and fishwives, carders and clergymen’s daughters. How odd to think that people who would pass each other in the street should stand together on a wooden platform and swear that they are sisters.

  Then at last, Mrs Pankhurst, her voice, so low and calm, carrying to the furthest reaches of the square (I swear, even the pigeons heeded her) urging us on – never to give up, but to fight for what should be ours of right, to work day and night till our goal was met and only then to look for just repose.

  ‘Remember always, we women are the mother half of the human family. What family can survive or thrive without a mother? We are its very spine, its heart, its life-blood. Without us the human race would cease to exist, and yet we are denied our place in society as though we were no more than animals, pets, and irritating ones, at that! Indeed there is one gentleman in Parliament who, I am told, has likened the female species to rabbits. I wonder how his mother feels about that. Or indeed, his wife.’ Waves of laughter echoed round the square. ‘I am also told by those who consider themselves to be experts on the matter, that what distinguishes a human being from an animal is a sense of humour. It is some time since I heard a rabbit laugh as you have just done.’ That set us off again. ‘But I must, in all fairness, point out that none of the gentlemen we met this morning so much as mustered a chuckle throughout our visit.’ Her face grew serious. ‘I know today has brought its disappointments. I, too, had nourished great hopes for our meeting with the Prime Minister. No one more than I had longed to stand before you this afternoon and cheer our victory, but patience, good friends. If this bright morning has turned all too suddenly to dreary night, remember still that tomorrow a new day awaits us. So I say to you all, let us take courage and together, arm in arm and shoulder to shoulder, stride bravely on through taunt and difficulty towards the dawn, united as ever, in hope.’

  How I would love to have the gift of words – to make strangers stand out in the open and heed me. More than that, to cheer me and clap and stamp their feet, and go away persuaded, for such is Mrs Pankhurst. That Prime Minister could learn a lesson from her, that is afraid of his own party.

  Miss Annie says that Mrs Montefiore (with the great big hat) has refused to pay her taxes till she has the vote. She has locked up her gates so that the bailiffs may not enter. We all went to see and surely she is a very brave lady. High on a wall was nailed a huge banner: WOMEN SHOUL
D VOTE FOR THE LAWS THEY OBEY AND THE TAXES THEY PAY.

  After a few minutes she came to a window wearing a fur hat with a tassel and holding a noisy little dog. She shouted out to us that if the Parliament men were against us they were wrong. She mentioned one in particular: ‘Asquith’. Such a strange name. I think he must be foreign and if so, maybe a spy, for why else would he be in our government? She said his house had windows, which I thought a little mad, for most houses do, but if she is locked up all alone with only a yapping dog it is possible she has lost her mind, just for now.

  More newspaper men were there, which was good for we had brought banners and posters to drape on the fence and some food for Mrs Montefiore, although I did not think it likely she would starve with such a big house and so many hats.

  Miss Annie is in prison! It is a terrible thing. We had heeded Mrs Montefiore’s word and gone to this Asquith man’s house, for it is said he is our worst enemy and so must be brought round above all others. He had twice refused to show his face but we were forty strong and quite settled we would not quit till he had spoken with us.

  As we arrived a crowd of bobbies (but not mine) came charging at us and fairly ripped our banners away. Miss Billington, who is very attached to hers, as we know, tried to grasp it back, whereat one of the bobbies, a very mean-faced creature with a crooked lip, struck her hard across the face and, next we know, she has slapped the man full square across his scabby cheek. At this another leaps upon her as she were a wild tiger and near throttles her. A big round woman tries to pull him off and is herself quite slit about by his nails. The police fight like rats and not as men should do, is my opinion.

  In all, four were arrested: Miss Annie, a little lame woman who tried to free her, and a poor old woman who did no more than shake her fist at the windows. Also Miss Billington. They have been sent away to Holloway prison for six long weeks.

  I cried mightily when I heard it, but Miss Sylvia and Mrs Pethick Lawrence said I must not fret for they had done it for the Cause and it was a mighty blow for freedom. I cannot think how being shut up in a cell can make for freedom, but they seem to think it is so. I wonder if they have ever seen the inside of a prison. I did once, when my nan was there for selling flour mixed with chalk, only to make it stretch and so to sell more bags. Prison is a wicked place, full of coldness and holiness, which I think lie side by side together.

  Miss Kerr visited them. She told us they were well and bearing up and the old lady was even enjoying it, for it was years since she had had a decent rest and a room to herself, with enough to eat and not much to do but knit socks for the other prisoners. I thought of Ma and wondered how she might like it.

  I will go home soon. I know it is wicked, but I like my life so much now, with my fighting and typewriting and clean smart clothes, I hold back, for it always brings me down to see how rotten is their life, even with what Frank and I can send.

  It is near eighteen months since I saw Frank. I wonder if he would recognise me now, for I am so tall and every way different. Or am I? To look at, yes truly, but in my heart? In my head? In my resolve? Here I am safe, but I cannot run away forever for if I do… I know I must speak to him, tell him…beg him… Not Lucy. It is different for me. God’s punishment. I will not think about it any more. My eyes are closed.

  Since Miss Annie has been in prison I have given much thought to all I have learnt about the Cause. I own at first I cared for nothing but my wages and fine new clothes. I believed myself near enough to heaven just to be paid to write letters and then take them to the post office. Perhaps if I had not read the leaflets, not seen my friends arrested, I would have stayed of that opinion. Happy and stupid. Sometimes I wish I had.

  All the time my mind is churning – Why? Why? Why? Why is a man paid more than a woman for the same labour? Why can a woman not decide for herself who should rule over her? Why, when work is scarce must a woman be the first to lose her post? I have read how some are forced on to the streets, merely to feed their children. Others are humping sacks of coal – breaking their backs, for women were never made to carry such weights. What is it in us that lets us be so used? All this is whirling in my mind when I sit down at a meeting, and yet I say nothing, though sometimes I could scream with aggravation.

  I do believe the ladies mean the very best, but how can they ever know what it is like to live in wretched damp lodgings, with a child coming every year and half of them dead before walking? They can easy talk about a vote for each woman in the land, but will that bring her food or coal for the fire? I know very little, but I do know those grey men care nothing for the likes of us – man, woman or child – and if it is for them we must vote, so they can live in a palace and lean their elbows on a great marble mantel, while women like my ma stand in the rain and beg for a minute of their time, then where is the point in this struggle?

  I asked Miss Sylvia if she truly believed their minds could be turned. She was quiet a long time. ‘I do, Maggie. In the end. If only because we have men like Keir Hardie to fight for us. Ten years ago he was fighting for his own right to have a voice in how he is governed. He has told me himself how many times he felt like giving up, slinking away, “burying himself”, he said, so that he need not face another day of battling against the arrogance and stupidity of those around him.’

  ‘So what made him keep at it?’

  ‘Belief. Pure and simple. If you truly believe in something then you must fight for it, whatever the cost.’

  ‘That’s easy said, miss.’

  Miss Sylvia looked quite down. ‘I know what you think, Maggie. You think this is just a game for women who have nothing better to do with their time. Am I right?’

  I shook my head. ‘I don’t know why the ladies do it, miss. I only know it is a world away from the likes of me. And that when you talk about “cost”, for them it is marching in the rain and having their hats knocked crooked. For my sort it is risking a beating, to lose our work, our homes… It is so…different. And for what?’

  ‘For justice. The right to decide how you will be governed and by whom.’

  ‘A prison is a prison, miss. No matter who guards the door.’

  Last night, after my fighting lesson, I felt a low achy pain in my belly. I had had it before, on and off for a few days and thought perhaps the dinner fish was bad. This morning when I got up I found that I was bleeding down my legs. I washed as best I could but more kept coming from inside me so I knew I must have harmed myself most dreadfully. I durst not tell Mrs Garrud for she has been so kind to me and would be mortal worried if I said that I had damaged myself in the fighting.

  I walked to Lincoln’s Inn, all the while fearing lest my innards should fall out on to the pavement, and when I got there was so pale and faint that Miss Kerr sat me straight down and would have called a doctor.

  Mrs Pethick Lawrence ordered hot sweet tea to be brought to me and asked what signs I had of illness. I told her and her face hardly moved, but she patted my hand and said I must not worry and she would ask Miss Annie (who is back at last, praise the Lord) to come and talk to me.

  Miss Annie took me aside to the store-room and gave word that we should not be disturbed, then she explained that my bleeding was a sign that I was fully grown up. I thought it strange that I should fall apart so soon, for I am not fifteen and healthy up till now. It seems that what I have is not a wound but occurs to all women and goes on forever, every month till they are old. I have seen Ma with blood down her but thought it was from arguing with Pa. Miss Annie said it came from not having a baby. ‘But if all women bleed, how can there be any babies?’ I asked.

  She looked a bit confused. ‘When they have babies it stops. It starts again after. Every month. You will get used to it.’ I said I did not want to, for surely there must be some cure? She smiled and said, none that she knew of, but it was not such a great thing and would be gone very soon, and fetched me two pieces of shortbread which she said was the best medicine she knew for it. She has given me cotton pads for my bl
oomers. What a business is growing up.

  Word has come of a new order from Mrs Pankhurst and Miss Christabel. We are to have no more to do with the politicians unless they are on our side. Miss Sylvia was deeply upset by this for it seems they include Mr Hardie, since it is he and not his party that supports the Cause. She has resigned her post as Honourable Secretary. Also we are to move into offices downstairs as Mr and Mrs Pethick Lawrence are quite overrun with all the banners and bills and helpers and all.

  There are meetings held two or three times a week now. To save money on printing I am sent out with chalk to scratch news of the time and place upon the walls and pavements. I was chosen, Miss Annie says, because I have the fastest legs for running away and can bend over without getting the backache (this, I think, is due to my fighting, for we start each class with stretching and truly I am getting very springy).

  I have at last been to hear Miss Christabel and surely she is the bravest speaker in the world. It was a rough windy night and we were outside the fish market at Billingsgate. At first she made to stand on a chair but the men, fresh from work and smelling like manky herrings, brought out a great wooden chest that they said she might have for a platform. She thanked them and climbed up on it. She spoke of justice and fairness and our need to stand together, men and women, to fight for what was right. ‘Shoulder to shoulder, like warriors of old, unflinching, unafraid, unstoppable…’ Just as she had the whole crowd eating from her hand there was a mighty thump and the lid of the chest started to heave beneath her feet.

  Miss Christabel carried on, though I could see she was unsettled. ‘Men have kept from us many things. There is one particular thing that they have kept from us, and that has been the joy of battle. They tell us women cannot fight…’

  The lid gave a mighty judder so that she must stand, legs spread like a common sailor’s, to keep her balance and hold it down. The men could scarce hold their laughter, slapping each other’s backs and braying like idiot donkeys. ‘See, she can raise the dead with the power of her tongue,’ one yelled, which started them all off again. She straightened up then turned to them, cool as a summer’s breeze. ‘It seems I can also walk on water,’ which brought forth such a cheer from the women about that the men looked fair ashamed, for they had stood her on a box of live eels, hoping to see her thrown into the crowd. She smiled and held out her hands to them. ‘And they say women cannot fight!’