by Mary Hoffman
“Are you travelling alone?” the lady asked.
“Yes. I’m meeting my daddy at the race course.”
“It’s an awfully big place.” The lady looked doubtful. “With very many people.”
“He’s told me where to meet him. My name’s Lizzy, by the way,” she added, to stop her asking any more questions. “Lizzy’s short for Elizabeth.”
“How do you do, Elizabeth.” The lady held out her gloved hand. “I’m Emily. Emily Wilding Davison.”
“Are you meeting someone?” Lizzy enquired, thinking she ought to carry on the conversation now that they had been properly introduced.
“No. I’m alone,” Miss Davison said, as though it was important. “I do have an appointment…” She consulted a little pocket watch. “But not for a while yet.”
“Next stop, Epsom,” a voice called along the corridor. “Epsom, next stop.”
There was a bustle in the carriage, with people getting things down from the luggage nets.
When the train stopped at the station, the door swung open but Lizzy hesitated. The platform was a sea of hats – top hats, bowlers, caps and boaters, wheels of tulle, feathers and flowers. She had never seen so many people. There didn’t seem room to move between them.
Miss Davison held out her gloved hand. “Come with me.”
“Which way is it?” Lizzy asked.
“We’ll just follow the crowd.”
The road to the racecourse was white with dust and choked with traffic. Omnibuses, charabancs, motorcars, horse-drawn carts and carriages crawled in a long line, while pedestrians surged along beside the vehicles. Lizzy was glad she had a hand to hold, or she might never have gone anywhere at all
The crowds thickened near the entrance, then spilled through the gates onto the racecourse proper. It was very much bigger than Lizzy had supposed and there were even more people milling about everywhere.
“Where have you arranged to meet your father?” Miss Davison asked. She still held Lizzy’s hand.
“Up at the grandstand. On the left-hand side.”
“Let’s go there, shall we?”
There were all sorts of people here, from lords in top hats arm in arm with ladies in white dresses to chaps in flat caps and check jackets. Gypsies carried trays of charms and urchins darted about through the crowd. Lizzy held on to Miss Davison with one hand and her satchel with the other.
They fought their way past funfairs and sideshows and tents selling refreshments, where men stood, holding pints of beer and glasses of whisky. Lizzy’s father wasn’t with them and he wasn’t queuing at any of the bookies’ stands, so he was probably waiting for her at the corner of the grandstand, as he said he would be.
“Is this the place?” Miss Davison asked.
“I think so,” Lizzy looked about but there was no sign of her father.
The crowd had ceased its milling and had thickened, spreading out, snaking along the rails. Some were waving their hats and cheering. Lizzy could hear hooves thundering and the jockeys’ bright colours went flashing past, yellow and purple, blue and red, and the heads of the horses, chestnut, jet, amber and white.
“Is that the race? Has it started?”
“No.” Miss Davison shook her head. “They are just cantering up to the start. But I must leave you now.” She seemed agitated. “I really must go.”
“That’s all right.” Lizzy smiled up at her. “Daddy will be here soon. Bound to be.”
“Have you got everything you need?” Miss Davison asked. “Money? Your ticket?”
In case he doesn’t come, Lizzy thought, knowing Miss Davison was too nice to say so.
“Oh, yes. I—”
She put her hand down to her satchel. The straps were open, when she was sure that she’d done them up. She looked inside, curious as to how that could have happened. Angelina was still there, and her sandwiches and the bottle of tea, but her purse was gone. She squeezed her eyes shut then looked again. Still the same thing. She sorted through with shaking fingers.
“Oh, no!” She felt tears starting.
“What on earth’s the matter?”
“My purse! It’s gone!” Lizzy’s voice was wobbling. “My ticket, money, everything.” She put her hand to her mouth. “Mummy’s brooch!”
“Don’t cry.” Miss Davison knelt down awkwardly. She offered a handkerchief to stem the tears, then opened her small handbag. “Here’s some money,” she held out some coins, “and have my ticket.”
Lizzy looked down at the little beige stub. Epsom Race Course to Victoria.
“But how will you get back?”
“Don’t you worry about that.” Miss Davison stood up. “Here.” She unpinned the brooch from her lapel. “Have this, too. And remember what it stands for.”
“Give Women Votes.”
“Good girl.” She gave her first smile and ruffled Lizzy’s curls. “Never forget that.”
“I won’t.”
Lizzy tucked the brooch in her pocket with the handkerchief and the coins – only to find the stub of her own ticket. It must have been there all along. How silly! But it was too late. Miss Davison was now shouldering her way through the crowd as if she was in a tearing hurry.
“There you are,” a voice said. “I’ve been looking everywhere!”
Lizzy hardly heard him. She was already dodging through the crowd, shouting, “Miss Davison! I say, Miss Davison!”
Lizzy caught up with her just before the rails.
“Here,” she gasped out, thrusting the stub into the lady’s hand.
“What’s this?” Miss Davison looked down as if she’d never seen such a thing before.
“It’s your ticket.”
She took it with a muttered “Thank you,” and pushed her way on through the crowd.
Lizzy was yanked backwards.
“What the devil do you think you’re doing?” her father shouted down at her. “Dickens of a job to find you, then you go haring off! Still, Tattenham Corner. Not a bad spot to watch the race. Not a bad spot at all… They’re under starter’s orders.” He heaved her up on to his shoulders. “Up you go!”
Lizzy could now see over the heads of the crowd. There was a great cheer as the race started. People leaned forward, craning their necks for a first glimpse as the drumming of hooves turned to thunder and the horses came down the hill to the corner. They were going at the most tremendous gallop, ears back, nostrils flaring, their jockeys riding high, out of their saddles. The leaders were bunched together, iron to iron. The crowd were yelling, screaming out names as the horses streamed by – Craganour, Aboyeur, Nimbus, Day Comet, come on!
“Who’s in the lead?” her father called up to her.
They were flashing past now. Lizzy had no idea that horses could run so fast.
“Colours!” he shouted. “What colours?”
“Yellow and purple just in front of black and white.”
“Good. Good!”
Her father was jigging up and down with excitement. Lizzy felt like a jockey herself.
The leaders had passed now, the followers strung out behind them. There was a gap between one horse and another. Suddenly, a figure ducked under the rails and into the thundering charge of horses. A woman. In a dark dress and hat. It was her.
She stepped straight out. One horse missed her, but the next caught her full force. Her hat bowled over and over as she was flung aside like a bundle of washing. The horse baulked and stumbled, pitching the jockey clear over its head. The rest of the field galloped on, swerving to avoid the two bodies lying in their path, one curled in a ball, the other sprawled and still.
For a moment, there was silence, then someone shouted, “The king’s horse! It’s the king’s horse!”
People were running across the course now, crowding round the figures on the ground, but the race went on.
“What’s happened?” Lizzy’s father called up to her.
“Someone stepped out…” Lizzy started. “She’s… I think she’s…”
She cou
ldn’t speak. Her throat had closed up with sorrow for the lady who had been so kind and now lay broken.
“Thank God she didn’t ruin the race. I’m going to the finish. See who’s won.” He set her down. “I’ve got ten pounds on Aboyeur.” He ran off across the field. “Come on!”
“No, I’m staying here.”
“Please yourself. Meet me…” But his voice was lost in the roaring cheers that marked the end of the race.
Lizzy turned away. What did she care who’d lost or who’d won?
The crowd began to mutter. There was disagreement about the winner. People were walking away now, wanting to find out what had happened at the finish, moving off from the figure on the ground.
Lizzy went to the rails. Miss Davison was beyond anyone’s help but Lizzy didn’t want to leave her. She’d keep watch until they took her away. She heard someone say that Aboyeur had won. Her father’s horse, at 100-1. She knew she wouldn’t see him again today. But what did it matter? She had a return ticket in her pocket. Lizzy reached in to make sure and touched the brooch Miss Wilding had given her. She could make her own way now.
Why I Chose Emily Davison
It is over a hundred years since Emily Wilding Davison died under the king’s horse during the 1913 Epsom Derby. The whole dramatic incident was caught by early newsreel cameras. Did she mean to kill herself, or was it an accident? The debate goes on to this day, revolving around her purchase of a return ticket and new techniques for analysing the film footage. Whatever her motives, her action had an enormous impact.
I’ve always been profoundly moved by the story of Emily Davison, who was willing to lay down her life for her cause. Anyone who has been close to horses at full gallop can have little doubt that she meant to die that day. The suffragettes showed that they were equal to men in courage, passion, hope and endurance and, eventually, Emily’s sacrifice and that of many others would result in women being allowed to vote on an equal footing with men.
It was a right hard won. It is our duty to use it.
CELIA REES
Emily Davison Facts
Emily Wilding Davison was born in Blackheath, London, in 1872. She was hardworking and intelligent and in 1895, spent a term at Oxford University. Although Oxford did not award degrees to women at the time, she achieved First Class Honours in English. Emily was finally given her degree by London University and became a teacher.
In 1897, the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies was founded in the United Kingdom, to fight for women’s right to vote. New Zealand had been the first country to grant this right to women, four years earlier, in 1893, and South Australia had followed shortly afterwards, in 1894.
The more radical and militant Women’s Social and Political Union was established in 1903 by Emmeline Pankhurst. It adopted the colours purple, white and green to symbolise dignity, purity and hope. Their motto was ‘Deeds Not Words’. Emily Davison joined the WSPU in 1906 and left teaching two years later to dedicate herself to violent campaigning. Between 1909 and 1912, she was imprisoned several times, for militant acts such as obstruction and stone throwing, for breaking windows in the House of Commons and for setting fire to postboxes. Going on hunger strike while in prison was common among suffragettes and many suffered force-feeding as a result, including Emily.
In 1913, Emily Davison was killed after stepping in front of the king’s horse at the Epsom Derby.
It wasn’t until 1918 that the Representation of the People Act was passed, giving women over the age of 30 who owned property the right to vote. Ten years later, the act was extended to give the vote to all women over the age of 21. Finally, fifteen years after the death of Emily Wilding Davison, women had achieved the same voting rights as men.
The Colours
of the Day
A story about Amy Johnson
(1903–41)
BY ANNE ROONEY
“COME HERE, LITTLE GIRL.”
Ruby bristled.
“I’m not a little girl,” she said. “I’m Ruby Aurora—”
“All right!” The woman held up a fatly gloved hand. “I don’t need to know who you are. I just have to transport you. Now, let’s get you in the plane – Ruby.”
Ruby had never been in a plane, but tried to look as if she did it every day and wasn’t at all excited. She straightened her woollen hat and matching coat, picked up her smart little suitcase and started across the rigid, frosted grass. The woman took long strides. It was impossible for Ruby to walk elegantly, as a film star would – she had to skip and run to keep up.
“Slow down!” Ruby shouted, cross at this woman who was spoiling it all. She wished there was someone to wave her off, but there wasn’t. Her mother was in hospital with appendicitis and her father was sitting in the War Cabinet in London. Mummy’s chauffeur, who had brought her to the airport, had gone. No one was watching – not even the engineers, who were busy with other planes.
“I’m Amy,” the woman said. “Have you flown before?”
Ruby shook her head. She didn’t actually want to say no, but she couldn’t lie.
“Then it will be exciting.”
Amy helped Ruby on to the wing and in through a little door – an upside-down triangle, opening into the body of the plane.
“Go to the right and wait,” she said. “Sit there and be quiet. You can come to the cockpit when I tell you to.”
There were no seats. Ruby crouched uncomfortably and listened as Amy clattered around in the front of the plane. Someone else climbed in and started talking. It made Ruby cross – she was being treated like a bit of baggage. She sighed loudly and rattled some of the bits of metal stuff that lay about, hoping that Amy would hear her.
A man’s voice was talking about weather, telling Amy not to go, but she laughed. Then the engines started and Ruby couldn’t hear any more chat. The smell of cigarette smoke drifted back to Ruby. It made her even more cross – they were just sitting smoking, ignoring her!
But soon, the door slammed shut, and Amy called her to the cockpit.
“Sit there.”
Ruby wriggled into the seat beside Amy, the leather squeaking against the backs of her legs. She fixed her face into a stern, bored look.
“Are you excited?” Amy asked.
Ruby nodded.
“Then look excited!” Amy said. “Let’s get going. And don’t just shake or nod your head when I ask you a question. I can’t spend my time looking at you, I have to look at the instruments.”
There were a lot of instruments: banks of dials and switches and levers.
The plane bumped over the frozen grass, gathering speed. Then the bumping stopped and Ruby’s stomach lurched as they lifted into the air. The ground dwindled away beneath her and she squealed; the excitement wouldn’t stay inside any longer. After all – why waste something so good by trying to look grown-up? Perhaps her mother was wrong to worry so much what other people thought. It was a relief to let her excitement out, like taking off some garment that was too tight – one that had been comfortable once, but was now outgrown.
“It’s all getting so small! This must be what a bird sees!” she shouted over the noise. Amy glanced at her, and smiled for the first time. A few flakes of snow splattered themselves against the windshield, then a few more.
“It’s snowing!” Ruby called. “Is that safe? I mean, in the plane?”
“Perfectly,” Amy said. “We’ll be above the snow soon.”
“How can we be?”
Ruby soon found out. It was like stepping outside on a foggy day. Everything vanished into a swaddling of mist. Water spotted the windows, then froze into jagged lines. The lines reminded Ruby of bare branches standing out against the sky.
“We’re inside the clouds now,” Amy said as the plane bumped and bounced. “It’s lumpy to fly through. Do you feel sick?”
“I’m never sick,” Ruby said. “I have an iron constitution. My nanny always said so.”
Amy’s jaw tightened. Then she pulled the funn
y, W-shaped control wheel hard to the left and the plane tipped sideways.
Ruby did feel a little bit sick after all. But she wasn’t going to say so. She gripped the sides of her seat and stared ahead into the nothingness.
At last, they came out of the cloud into dazzling, clear, blue sky. But in just a little while, the plane churned and tossed and bucked up and down like a naughty horse, all over again.
“Is it dangerous?” Ruby asked, feeling even more sick.
“It could be. Are you scared?”
“Of course not,” Ruby said, lifting her chin.
“Well, perhaps you should be. We’re a long way up. We can’t see the ground. There are barrage balloons and wires and all kinds of things between here and Oxford. And hills.”
Ruby shifted in her seat. “Are you trying to make me scared?” she said.
Amy laughed. “Maybe a little. It’s good to be cautious. If you’re not careful of dangers, you can come to a sticky end.”
“Have you ever crashed?” Ruby asked.
“Yes.”
Amy fiddled with some instruments and Ruby waited for her to carry on. She didn’t.
“When did you crash?” Ruby asked eventually.
“In India. I was flying all the way from England to Australia and crashed on the way. But then I crashed again when I got to Australia, and that was how I met my husband, Jim! Did you know that?”
Ruby shook her head, then remembered what Amy had said about speaking.
“No,” she said. “I didn’t know. Did you go all the way to Australia in one go?”
“No. A plane can’t go that far without stopping for more fuel.”
“Will you tell me about the crash? Were you dreadfully hurt?”
“I wasn’t. They were little crashes, and only Jason was hurt.”
“Jason?”
“My plane.”
Ruby laughed. “Your plane had a name?”
“Yes. Don’t you name your dolls?”
“I’m too big for dolls. Could you mend Jason?”
“Yes. And I flew on, all the way to Australia. But three years later I flew from London to New York with my husband. We crashed again, and then we were both hurt.”