Crooked Pieces

by Sarah Grazebrook

  I looked up at him and for a moment his eyes seemed darker than before and, indeed, he did not answer, though he took my hand and held it very tight.

  You think sometimes that your life is so perfect that it cannot get any better, and that day in June, I thought that. I knew that Fred loved me, though he had not said it. I could sense it in every hair on my head, bone in my body. He did not need to tell me and, indeed, it would have lessened it if he had, for we understood each other so completely that we were like one person. He was me and I was him. And at last I was free of Frank.

  That summer was a busy time for us, but a jolly one. Victory was in the air. The public was on our side and the Asquith man was becoming more and more a figure of fun.

  Mrs Pankhurst and Miss Christabel had sensed that what the people liked was a show and they made sure we always gave them one. So it was, when two ladies who had broken the Prime Minister’s windows were freed from Holloway, it was decided that women, rather than horses, should draw their carriage through the streets. This was a big mistake and very silly, in my opinion, for whoever thought six women could replace six horses? Still we learnt a lesson from it. The next time there were fifty women and it was great fun for we all took a turn.

  One of the papers asked how many men it would take to achieve the same and offered a ten shillings prize for whoever came up with the answer. A writer called George Bernard Shaw hazarded that it would take five hundred, because men would have to talk about it to all their friends and then go to the horse sales to study the form, and so forth and altogether, by the time they had hired a man to train them for the task and hired someone else to look after their business while they were away pulling the carriage… He is quite a funny man and writes plays, Miss Kerr told me. If he is lucky enough to get one performed I shall certainly go and see it.

  Miss Annie has been put in charge of the West Country. I miss her so much, although she sends regular news with often a note for me, for I think she thinks of me a little as a sister. We are all sisters, of course, but some more than others.

  Still the Asquith ignores us. Another great rally. A thousand handbills: HELP THE SUFFRAGETTES TO RUSH THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

  It seems the word ‘rush’ was worse than treason and immediately officers came to arrest Mrs Pankhurst, Miss Christabel and poor Mrs Drummond, who is with child and can hardly give over being sick long enough to do treason on anyone. All day long bobbies, reporters, visitors tramped all over Lincoln’s Inn, getting in each other’s way and under each other’s feet, but Mrs Pethick Lawrence had hidden them on the roof where no one thought to look and at least Mrs Drummond could be sick in peace for a few hours.

  At six o’clock they appeared like magic and when they had had their photographs taken (poor Mrs Drummond looking quite green) they were marched off to Bow Street by Inspector Jarvis who is sweet on Mrs Drummond, although he may not be now she is such a funny colour.

  That same afternoon a lady came to the office, offering to help. She said she would not demonstrate, but would be happy to speak to Mr Gladstone on behalf of the prisoners. Miss Lake muttered to Miss Kerr that she thought it a great cheek for the lady to suppose that she could achieve what Mrs Pankhurst could not, but Miss Kerr hushed her down and said the lady was a real Lady and had a brother who was a Lord.

  The Lady smiled at me on her way out and I thought she had a very gentle pretty face although her ears stuck out more than I should wish. She did not look at all like the Ladies in the gallery pictures, so I think Miss Kerr must be mistaken. Also, I cannot truly believe a real Lady would care about others who were only women.

  News arrived that Mrs Pankhurst and the others must spend the night in the cells because no judge could be found to let them out. This was a wicked thing, for they had no blankets or food or warm clothes with them and there are no beds in the cells, only hard wooden benches.

  Mrs Pethick Lawrence said it must not be, and she rushed upstairs and collected a whole pile of bedding so that at least they need not die of cold. She asked if I would go with her to Bow Street for she does not like to be there alone since being put in the Black Maria van. We were just about to leave when a cab drew up and out stepped the Lady, looking mighty low for it seemed no one had listened to her.

  Hearing we were on our way to the police station, she asked if she might accompany us. On the way she told Mrs Pethick Lawrence that till that day she had been merely interested in the Cause. ‘But what I have witnessed today convinces me that I must do more than stand and watch. Real injustices are being done to women, and if I have any influence, any power, any compassion for my fellow human beings, I must put my shoulder to the wheel and cease to be a spectator to the suffering of others.’

  I thought that very beautiful. If I ever am called on to make a speech that is what I shall say.

  What a lark! When we got to Bow Street, what do we find? Mrs Pankhurst, Miss Christabel, Miss Sylvia and Mrs Drummond (looking much cheerier) sat round a great long table, white linen cloth, candles in silver holders, the sparkliest glasses you ever set eyes on, dining off partridges and oysters and a whole fruited jelly!

  They had sent telegrams to such politicians as had befriended them before, and one had arranged with The Savoy to send over a dinner. Not only a dinner, but three starchy waiters to serve it! The poor young bobby left on watch did not know whether to salute them or arrest them.

  The benches in the cells were draped in the finest silk sheets and coverlets so that, if it had not been for the bars on the window, they might have been staying in a palace. The Lady looked so confused as we entered with our great pile of blankets and bread and cheese that I think she was wondering if she was back home again.

  They were charged with ‘circulating a handbill likely to cause a breach of the peace’.

  Miss Christabel called upon Mr Gladstone and Mr Lloyd George to be witnesses. They were very stuffy and dull and seemed not to understand a word that was said to them, which was hardly surprising for the judge spent the whole time interrupting and telling them they need not answer the question. Since, being Parliament men, they must have spent a lifetime not answering the questions that were put to them, they seemed quite content to obey him.

  When it was her turn Mrs Pankhurst spoke most movingly of her work with the poor and homeless and told of all she had seen of their suffering. I was stood near the back by the door and I swear the sergeant guarding it had tears in his eyes. Not the judge, of course, who sentenced them to three months in the second division. I hope there is a heaven and hell and I am stood behind the judges when we all line up at The Reckoning.

  While Mrs Pankhurst and Miss Christabel were in prison the Pethick Lawrences and Miss Sylvia took charge of the office. I must say that it was somewhat better organised than when Miss Christabel is there! I suppose it is because she is too clever and her head too full of wonderful speeches to be altogether bothered about paying bills and ordering stationery and the like.

  The Lady has called in on several occasions. She is called Lady Constance Lytton and truly does have a brother called Lord Lytton. Imagine! A real Lord. I wonder what he looks like for I still think Lady Constance looks just like a normal person.

  It seems she is working hard to bring her nob friends round. I can see it is a very good thing to have someone so highly placed on our side and, indeed, she is so genteel and gracious in her manner that it would be a very silly nob ignored her, but then most of them are, it seems to me.

  She attends the weekly meetings and though she rarely speaks, what she says makes more sense than a whole half hour of some of them, ranting on about what colour pocket to keep their stones in and whether an umbrella is ‘an instrument of violence’!

  She never offers herself for the protests, I have noticed. Miss Kerr said it was because it would bring disgrace on her family if she were charged, but I have seen how her face pales when others talk of prison life and I think she fears it dreadfully. I warm to her so much for this, for it means I a
m not the only coward in the WSPU.

  Mrs Drummond was released early, for her expecting was making her very ill. She said Mrs Pankhurst, too, had been moved to the prison hospital and she feared very much for her spirits in that dreadful place. She decided that the best tonic would be a demonstration.

  One of the helpers made us prison dresses – green serge with thick black arrows up them. Truth is, I hated mine. It scratched and tickled like fury, but the reporters were out with their cameras so I tried to look like I felt like the Queen of Sheba.

  Mrs Drummond led the way, riding with Miss Sylvia, and we followed on, handing out leaflets and singing our hearts out with a brass band to keep us in tune (mainly). Hundreds of bystanders tagged along. Round and round the prison walls we tramped, singing and shouting encouragement to those within.

  When at last we came to the hospital Mrs Drummond signalled everyone to stop. ‘Three cheers for Mrs Emmeline Pankhurst, the noblest, bravest soul in all this land.’

  What a cry went up! The people of London like to shout, for sure.

  No one could be certain, but we thought we saw her shadow at a window. I pray it was her, and she slept the better for it. It is a terrible thing to be so alone and feel yourself forgotten.

  At the beginning of December a strange thing happened. The Lloyd George man said he would address some Liberal ladies concerning women’s votes. We do not get on very well with these ladies for they are against demonstrations and would rather just write letters and sit round tables talking, but it was decided that some of us should certainly attend to see what, if anything, he had to say.

  We sat at the front in our prison dresses and made no sound, merely staring at him till he turned all sweaty and started dragging at his collar like it was stitched to his neck. He had not got two minutes into his speech when one of our number sprang up with a speech of her own. The stewards tried to get at her but she had hold of a horse whip and kept flipping them away like they were so many bluebottles. After that every time the Lloyd George started, someone else interrupted, till the whole gathering seemed more like a music hall than a political meeting.

  But there is a smell to a music hall. It is of warmth and beer and tobacco and spiced apples. There were no spiced apples that night, only sick, cold hatred between men and the women who might have been their wives if they only listened to them for half a moment. And from a music hall it grew very soon to a battleground, with the monstrous scurvy stewards hauling those women out by their hair, striking them about the head, ripping their clothes… And all for asking for justice. How, how, HOW have these animals got control of us? They are fit for nothing but to be thrown in the Thames and let them sink to the bottom and drown.

  What is happening to me, that I wish death on people I have never known? Reverend Beckett would be proud of me. ‘Their sins shall be visited upon them, even unto the third and fourth generation.’ Do Reverends have sins? Or do they lay them off on those who are bound for hell anyway?

  The press has not been kind to us of late. Seemingly the reporters think it our fault that men are driven to violence when we only ask for what should be ours of right. A number of women have formed themselves into a group to oppose the Cause. Naturally, they, none of them, have to earn a living or keep a family in boots and victuals, so I suppose they have no need to think of those that do. How Christian! But they have taken on a very powerful army and will learn to be sorry for their actions.

  I fear sometimes I am not very Christian either.

  Mrs Pethick Lawrence came rushing into the office two days before Miss Christabel was due to be released from Holloway. ‘The most dreadful thing! Oh, ladies, I really don’t know what to do about this one.’ We gathered round.

  A great procession had been organised to greet Miss Christabel and my first thought was that she was not to be set free after all.

  ‘They are out.’ Mrs Pethick Lawrence flapped her arms. ‘They are out. Released early. I don’t know what to do. Mrs Pankhurst as well. Both of them. Out. And no procession to greet them. Oh, what a mess.’

  Mrs Drummond burst out laughing. ‘But this is marvellous. Wonderful news. Better out without a greeting, than in and waiting for one, would you not say, dear lady?’

  Mrs Pethick Lawrence immediately calmed down. ‘Yes, of course. What am I at? Of course. Thank goodness for someone with a bit of sense, Flora. Sometimes I swear I am losing my mind entirely. I shall just have to cancel the procession. Are we too late to get word out, do you think, or shall I have to send them home as they arrive?’

  ‘No need to send them home at all,’ declared Mrs Drummond. ‘Why don’t we move the whole shebang to a hotel and instead of a march, have a meal? I’m sure I know which I’d prefer.’

  Mrs Pethick Lawrence positively glowed with relief. ‘That’s a brilliant suggestion, Flora. I shall set about it at once.’

  I could have kissed Mrs Drummond, although I greatly wished Mrs Pethick Lawrence had not left her in charge of the menu for, her being expecting, there were a deal of pickled walnuts and curried mutton faggots to be got through before the pudding, and that, semolina with dried figs, which is not a favourite of mine.

  When we had done eating, Mrs Pethick Lawrence rose to say how happy we were to have our leaders back amongst us and how deeply we had missed them during their absence.

  Mrs Pankhurst stood up to reply and we all cheered, expecting her to urge us on to greater acts of defiance, whatever the ordeals awaiting us. Instead, she said nothing of the fight ahead but, speaking in a low still voice, recounted how, once you had been in prison it was like being two people. One for outside, who was brave and fiery and made bold speeches at great gatherings, and another for inside – alone, silent, deserted.

  Everyone clapped when she had finished, but I could see, looking along the tables, that only those who had been through it had any idea of what she really meant. Just for one tiny second I felt that I was her true comrade at last and not just an ignorant working girl from Stepney.

  Scarce a day goes by now without some article or report about the movement in the papers, even the ones the nobs read. Several groups of professional people have formed their own branches. There is The Artists’ League with many of Miss Sylvia’s friends in, The Women Writers’ League, and my favourite, for they are so funny and pretty and generous beyond all reason, The Actresses’ Franchise League. They have actors in it, too, and sometimes the men make speeches which are quite wonderful to hear because they boom and fling their arms about and really it is just like watching a proper play – better, sometimes. Everything they do is so full of colour and noise and excitement and they do not stand on ceremony, but talk to us office girls quite as if they had known us all their lives.

  I should so like to have been an actress. Fred says I am one, for he never knows which me I will be when he next sees me. I love him so much it hurts. Yet still I cannot let him… He is so kind and patient, says we have all the time in the world and he can wait, but I can see that he is made unhappy by it. We have been walking out for over a year now. In my street there would be at least one baby on the way by then, married or not.

  One night when I was sitting on his knee in Mrs Garrud’s parlour he reached around and tried to undo the buttons on my blouse. I was off his knee faster than a lightning bolt. He just sat there staring at me, a look of such confusion in his eyes.

  ‘Why do you do this, Maggie?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know what. Why will you not let me love you as I long to? What is it that you fear so? Do you think I would hurt you? How could you believe such a thing?’

  ‘I… I do not know. I know you would not mean to hurt me but…’

  He held out his hand. ‘Come back, Maggie. Sit on my knee. I swear I will not touch you if you do not want it. See.’ He spread his arms wide. ‘I shall not move.’ I crept back and he was true to his word, sitting with his arms stuck out like a scarecrow’s. Just then Mrs Garrud’s girl came in to put some more coals on th
e fire. She stared at us like we were fresh from Bedlam. When she had gone we fell into fits of laughter. I flung my arms round his neck and buried my face against his shoulder. ‘Can I put my arms down now?’ he begged.

  ‘I think so.’

  He folded them round me and just cradled me like I was a little hurt child. ‘Oh, Maggie.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘And now you’re crying. I’ve made you cry with all my clumsiness.’

  I wiped my eyes. ‘You’re not clumsy. You’re…not… You’re…not like other men. That’s all.’

  Fred gave a sort of sigh. ‘No wonder you’re crying then. But I fear you’re wrong on that count. I’m just like other men.’

  ‘Then it is me that’s different.’

  He kissed my ear. ‘Yes, you are different. Different from every woman who ever lived. That is why I love you. Everything about you. Every part of you. Every hair on your head. And if I have to, I will wait forever till you love me the same way.’

  I cried some more.

  When he had gone home to his cold narrow room (he says he thinks it was once the meat pantry) I went upstairs to my warm soft bed. I took my clothes off and hung them on their hangers. Then I went to the mirror. I am not at all beautiful without my clothes. Indeed, if there is nothing blue or green near to my eyes I look like a boiled crab, so pink is my face. But the rest of me is not pink. It is pale – like cream – and soft and round. I have seen pictures of ladies in the galleries, some without their clothes on. I swear Fred takes me there on purpose. I hate it, for they never have hair where I have got it. I do not know if it is a disease that I have hair in all the wrong places and so much of it. I would ask Miss Annie but then she would know I have been looking at rude pictures and would never speak to me again. How could I let Fred see me, even if I wanted it, for he would think me an ape or very close?

  I hate my body. I hate it. Every part of it. It is cursed. I will not think about it any more. My eyes are closed.