She sneaked out to see him one evening the following week, and found him still smarting over not having seen her on the Sunday. The explanation that her absence was due to the disaster over the window display didn’t go down well either.
‘So I come second to doing up the windows, do I?’
‘I’ve told you, it wasn’t my fault I couldn’t get home. I didn’t plan for someone to wreck it.’
‘But you know who did it?’
‘I do, and no, before you ask, I don’t intend to do anything about it. If they wreck the display again, I’ll rebuild it again. And again and again. They’ll soon grow tired of the game.’
‘You hope!’
Worse, he was not at all in favour of her attending the suffrage meeting the following week. ‘So this is your latest fancy, is it? To waste your time going to some political meeting or other with people who don’t appreciate you. They aren’t worth the trouble.’ His tone was contemptuous.
‘They aren’t just people, they’re young shop girls, many with problems of their own, and employees at my store, don’t forget. Besides, it’s not a fancy, as you call it, it’s a cause. Whatever it takes, I want to be a part of it.’
He looked at her, a mix of sympathy and exasperation on his face. ‘This is about Maggie, isn’t it? You failed to save your beloved sister so you’re trying to save all the other abused women instead.’
‘What if I am? What’s so wrong with that?’
‘You can’t save everyone, Livvy,’ he told her, sighing with impatience. ‘You aren’t responsible for anyone but yourself – and us. We can look after each other, you and I. I certainly want to protect you.’
‘I don’t need you to be my protector. I can look after myself. I’m sorry if you don’t approve, but I need to attend this meeting.’
His tone changed, suddenly frighteningly calm. ‘It could be risky, possibly dangerous, and as your fiancé I’m not sure I can agree to let you go.’
Livia looked at him, aghast. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, I’m not asking your permission.’
‘Aren’t you?’
‘No, why should I?’ Livia gave a half laugh, which sounded forced even to her own ears. ‘You’re beginning to sound like some latter-day caveman.’
Jack had the grace to flush, although whether from anger or embarrassment Livia wasn’t sure. ‘Now can we please stop arguing, I don’t have much time. I shouldn’t really be here at all, and I’m sure there are better things we could be doing than arguing.’
Livia flicked back the counterpane and slipped between the sheets. She might have said that they disagreed too much these days, but that would only have made matters worse. Generally, the best way to put a stop to these silly squabbles was to make love. There were times, however, when she’d much rather they could talk as mature adults and not always become embroiled in a quarrel.
For once, Jack made no move to join her, a cool, dispassionate expression on his face, and Livia began to feel very slightly foolish as she lay smiling up at him.
‘I wonder sometimes if you need me at all.’
She reached out to take his hand. ‘Don’t be silly, sweetheart. I love you, you know I do. Let me show you how much.’
He climbed into bed then and they made love with their usual passion, Livia’s need of him as strong as ever. Yet she felt Jack held a part of himself back, as if to punish her. When they’d recovered their composure and lay contentedly together, she kissed him tenderly. ‘Do you believe me now that I do love you and want us to be happy?’
‘I’m trying to.’
‘Oh, Jack, stop being such an old misery boots.’
She understood why he was depressed. They saw far too little of each other. Finding somewhere more congenial than Fellside and convincing Grayson she should live at home was obviously going to be a priority. And it might also remove her from the new manager’s presence, which would be no bad thing.
Chapter Twelve
The day of the suffrage meeting had arrived at last, much to the excitement of the shop girls of Angel’s Department Store. Nobody spoke to Livia as they boarded the train, nor throughout the journey, but she didn’t let that bother her. She quietly ate the sandwiches she’d brought with her and listened to their lively chatter. They changed trains at Preston, where many other girls joined them on the adventure, and continued to Piccadilly, Manchester.
Livia felt almost light-hearted as she clattered up the steps of the omnibus in the wake of Connie, Dolly, Stella and the other girls, all rushing to find a good seat so they could look out through misted windows onto the bustling traffic and crowds that thronged the city centre. Livia was filled with anticipation, excited over the coming meeting, and by the cheerful atmosphere and banter all around her. Last-minute shoppers were seeking bargains on Oldham Street; stallholders and flower-sellers crying their wares. Workers were making their weary way home along Moseley Street, while a dairy cart held everyone up as it stopped for a child who ran up to have her jug filled from one of the great milk churns it carried. There was the all-pervading smell of horses, even the omnibus being pulled by one; with hansom cabs, trams, carriages and automobiles all jostling for space in the congested streets.
But within a very short distance it seemed, the girls were clattering down the curving staircase again and spilling out onto Albert Square, heading for the Free Trade Hall. So many famous people had spoken here: Charles Dickens, Gladstone and Disraeli. Now they were to hear another great speaker, Emmeline Pankhurst herself. Lights were starting to come on outside shop windows, casting a warm glow in the November evening, and excitement warred with fear in the pit of Livia’s stomach.
Keeping pace with her colleagues, she hurried along Mount Street, past the Friends’ Meeting House and into Peter Street, where the Peterloo Massacre had taken place so many years before. Livia believed that gaining the vote for women would be equally historic, although please God without the loss of life suffered that day.
Determined to engage her colleagues in conversation whether they approved of her or not, she brightly asked Connie, ‘Have you attended one of these meetings before?’
‘A few. Generally women are banned from attending political meetings.’
Livia was shocked. ‘Banned by whom?’
‘The government. But that’s men for you. Don’t ever tell Grayson we came here. You might be safe, but we wouldn’t.’
Guilt washed over Livia as she realised she had already told him. ‘Why?’
‘Most bosses vote against suffrage, and they’d view our attendance as a form of rebellion. We’re supposed to know our place and say our “please” and “thank you”s with suitable gratitude.’
‘You aren’t suggesting the girls might be sacked, simply for attending a meeting?’ Livia asked, appalled by the thought.
‘It’s the way of the world. A man’s world. Haven’t you clocked that yet?’
‘Has any girl ever been dismissed by Mr Grayson for attending such a meeting?’
‘Not that I know of,’ Connie conceded. ‘Happen he’s too busy to notice, or doesn’t care.’
‘He seems to rather approve of women’s suffrage. He told me so himself.’
The other girl cast her a disbelieving look. ‘And you were daft enough to believe him?’
‘Why would I not?’
Connie shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t trust a word the man said, any man come to that. But then you know him better than me. I don’t cosy up to him as you do.’
‘I don’t cosy up to him, and don’t look at me like that, Connie. It was merely a passing remark during a conversation we had at his house, while we were discussing future plans for the store.’
‘Ooer, visited him at his grand mansion, did you? What an honour. He must fancy you rotten, or else he has his eye on your money.’
Livia wanted to say that she had no money but knew she wouldn’t be believed. By Connie’s standards, she was well off simply by owning the store, however much of a burden that might be. And no
t for a moment did she believe Matthew Grayson to be influenced by such a motive, at least she sincerely hoped not. Even so, Connie had touched a nerve and she was all too aware of her scalding cheeks as she recalled their encounter by the lake. Livia felt utterly tongue-tied as Connie chortled with delight at her obvious embarrassment.
‘So you’re afraid of the bosses, are you?’ Livia challenged, needing to change the subject.
‘Me? Never! The flipping ruling classes might have their big houses. They might drive everywhere in their fancy motor cars while my family is near starving.’ Connie paused to jab herself in the chest with her thumb, the light of battle fierce in her eyes. ‘But I’ll not stand by and do nowt. I’ll fight for my rights. I’m ready to take on anybody, me.’
They reached the Free Trade Hall, where a long line of women of every class and age waited patiently, many wearing the trademark wide-brimmed hats, white dresses and purple sashes that proclaimed them to be suffragettes. Others were in working clothes, having come straight from the factory, shop or office. All were chattering excitedly together as they took their seats inside, the shop girls reluctantly making room for Livia to join them on one of the wooden benches. Apart from Connie, none of the other girls had spoken two words to her all day. It was most depressing and Livia wondered how she would ever gain their trust.
An air of expectancy was almost palpable in the hall as everyone waited for Emmeline Pankhurst to arrive.
‘I’m more interested in Annie Kenney,’ Connie said. ‘She were born in Saddleworth, and is the only working-class woman to be allowed on the Women’s Social and Political Union committee, or the WSPU as it’s better known. It was right here during a Liberal Party rally in October 1905 that she and Christabel Pankhurst first got arrested. They interrupted a political meeting to ask Churchill and Sir Edward Grey if they believed women should have the right to vote. When the politicians refused to answer, the pair waved their banners and shouted “Votes for Women”. They were thrown out and later arrested for causing a disturbance. Which was just what they wanted, of course, for the publicity.’
‘I’m not sure I could be so brave,’ Livia admitted.
‘Oh, I could, but then I’ve nowt to lose. Not like you.’
Livia rather thought she’d lost everything already, save for the store, and might still lose that, but didn’t say as much. She experienced a moment’s apprehension at the girl’s recklessness and fleetingly wondered if she was wise to get involved in this cause. She couldn’t resist asking, ‘I suppose there are some who dislike the militancy?’
‘Oh, aye, some claim that carrying out a technical assault, like spitting at a policeman or knocking off his helmet, demeans women and undermines our cause.’
‘But you don’t agree?’
Connie glowered. ‘No, I reckon we need to use strong tactics to make the government listen. There was a truce recently while something called a Conciliation Bill was discussed. Lord Lytton, whose sister is a suffragette, as I mentioned before, is on the committee so we had hopes of a settlement. Trouble is, it only offers the vote to women of property, such as yourself. Better than nowt, but not enough.’
‘It can’t possibly be enough if it ignores most of the female population,’ Livia agreed.
‘Then in July, at a peaceful demonstration held in Hyde Park, the WSPU learnt that Asquith refused to give even that Bill the time it needed. When Mrs Pankhurst learnt that the Conciliation Bill was about to be killed, she and her supporters marched – again quite peacefully – on Parliament, only to be beaten back by the police. They threw the women about, struck them with fists and batons. It was wholesale brutality. That ended the truce good and proper.’
‘But why would they do such a thing? Why treat women so badly?’
‘Because the Home Secretary had decided that arresting the suffragettes allowed them to look on prison as a badge of courage. So the police were ordered not to make any arrests but to use whatever force was deemed necessary to prevent the women from reaching Downing Street. Unfortunately, many of them took advantage and carried out physical assaults. They slapped them about, grabbed women’s breasts or lifted their skirts, and well over a hundred women were still arrested that day.’
This chilling tale made Livia worry about what exactly she’d got herself into, but further discussion was halted as a sudden cheer went up.
A tall, elegant woman dressed in rose velvet and wearing a wide-brimmed hat had stepped onto the stage. She stood smiling and waving as the crowd went wild with delight, but the instant she began to speak, silence fell.
‘I want to quote to you the words of my daughter, Christabel. “Our hope of winning the vote is based on the belief that spiritual must prevail over material power.”’
The cheer that went up this time should have lifted the roof. But as Mrs Pankhurst began to talk about Conciliation Bills, battles with a government who refused to take them seriously, militant action and hunger strikes, outlining all they’d achieved in recent years and what they still needed to achieve, the audience silently drank in every word. She was an eloquent and spell-binding speaker, addressing her followers with calm authority.
‘Our decriers say that giving the franchise to women would destroy social relations between men and women. I say it would give us equality.’
‘Hear, hear!’ the audience cried.
‘They think we’ll give up on our cause, that our organisation will fizzle out if they continue to ignore us. But I say we’re going to win. They are afraid because if we had equal power we would no longer do their bidding. Women are reputed to be strong, yet with men we become weak as babies. First we are obedient daughters, then good wives to our husbands. If we have problems we look to men to solve them for us. But we cannot go through life behaving like children. We must learn to solve our own problems and to view our husbands as equals, not as father substitutes. We need to gain their respect as we offer them our own. Do this, ladies, and you will find your voice, one to which people will listen.’
Livia felt almost as if these stirring words were directed at herself personally. Throughout her life she’d obeyed her father in everything, except in his choice of husband for her. But it was equally true that she was not without strength. Hadn’t she done her utmost to protect her sisters, having promised their beloved mother on her deathbed that she would do so? Tragically, she’d failed to protect poor darling Maggie, for which Livia knew she would suffer for the rest of her life. But she still worried over Ella, wanting her to be happy and safe. Mercy too, although the silly girl seemed to view any concern as interference.
‘Our task,’ Mrs Pankhurst was saying, ‘is to show the government that it is expedient to yield to women’s just demands … We have to make English Law a failure and the courts’ farce comedy theatre; we have to discredit the government and Parliament in the eyes of the world.’
She went on to describe how this might be done, which Livia found all rather alarming.
A small, pretty woman, wearing a purple sash over a crisp white dress, stepped forward next. It was Annie Kenney. ‘We are here today to urge you to hold fast to our principles. We want to know that the women of Manchester are with us.’
‘We’re with you, Annie,’ they shouted back.
‘Like many of you, I too am uneducated, but I love my country and I long to see women free from the shackles that bind them.’
She spoke at length and with great passion and sincerity. Annie herself had begun in the movement after fifteen hard years working in the cardroom of Woodend cotton mill, going with the Pankhursts to take the fight to London. Livia was deeply moved by the stories she had to tell, and by her own life story.
‘I packed me little wicker basket, put two pounds in my purse – the only money I possessed in the world – and started on my journey. After I’d paid my fare I’d one pound and a few shillings left. Now I work in the poorest areas of London where I try to give women hope for the future. We must fight on to win.’
The
hall erupted in noisy approval.
Most moving of all was Annie Kenney’s account of prison life and how frightened she had been at her first incarceration five years ago. She spoke of the force-feeding she’d endured, and Livia shuddered. The thought of prison, of hunger strikes or violence in any form, alarmed and revolted her. But like everyone else at the meeting she was swept along by the emotion and passion for the cause.
The meeting was over and the crowd pressed out into the street, Livia along with them, her arms tightly linked with those of Connie and the other girls so they didn’t lose each other in the crush. A brass band came marching up Peter Street, sporting huge banners with the message ‘Votes for Women’, its women members all dressed in the WSPU uniform of purple, white and green. The crowd erupted in cheers at the message they carried.
And then the police appeared, batons in hand.
Pandemonium broke out as the women at the front desperately tried to escape but found there was nowhere to run as the crowd behind kept on pushing forward. Panic exploded in Livia’s breast. What was she doing here? Terrified she might be trampled underfoot she tried to force her way through the mass of bodies. Where were Connie, Dolly and the rest? They’d somehow lost contact in the crush. She half turned, lifting her head to call out, just in time to see Connie knock the helmet off a constable’s head. He let out a roar of fury as he reached out to grab his attacker, but his hands fastened not on Connie, who had dodged behind him and lost herself in the crowd, but on Livia.
‘Got you, you little heathen!’ he shouted, and lifting her bodily the policeman flung Livia into the back of a police van already packed to the doors with women. ‘See how perky you feel after a night in the cells.’
Angels at War Page 12