The Suffragette's Secret: A Morton Farrier Short Story (The Forensic Genealogist Series)

by Nathan Dylan Goodwin

  ‘I’ll be ready,’ Grace shouted through the closed door. Her lodgings here at Sea View on Victoria Road were small and simple. The floor was bare boards and on the walls was hung a plain green paper. Her rent, which provided her with a single bed, wardrobe and chest of drawers, was the lowest of all the guests. The best bedrooms were reserved for visiting holidaymakers—mostly fellow suffragettes. Of the two remaining bedrooms, one was occupied by her friend Olivia and the other by Minnie, the owner of the house and a prominent figure of the Brighton branch of the Women’s Social and Political Union.

  She needed to stop dithering. Pulling her nightdress over her head, she slipped on a floor-length, wine-coloured, two-piece walking dress that the other women in the house had presented to her for her first public speaking event. She styled her light-brown hair into a simple rounded pompadour, then carefully placed her straw hat upon her head. Lastly, she pulled on a pair of white lace gloves. She was ready.

  Imitating a confidence which she had observed in the other women, Grace opened her bedroom door and descended the stairs to the sitting room.

  ‘Well!’ Minnie cried, leaping up from her chair and clapping. ‘You really look quite the part, Grace.’

  ‘Very sophisticated,’ Olivia chimed in. She was herself dressed in her best clothes and her black hair was styled in a similar fashion to Grace’s, revealing her somewhat harsh facial features.

  Their reaction, although inflated, drew a calmness to Grace’s breathing and a smile to her face.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Minnie asked, taking Grace’s left hand in hers. ‘My goodness, you’re shaking.’

  ‘I’m just a little chilly, that’s all. I need to get my cold bones out into that glorious sunshine,’ she replied brightly.

  ‘Let’s put these on, then we can leave,’ Minnie said, holding aloft three freshly pressed tri-coloured sashes bearing the words ‘VOTES FOR WOMEN’.

  They placed the sashes over their heads and flattened them to their bodies. Olivia picked up a plain wooden box, Minnie collected a bag of leaflets and a small placard, then they made their way out of the house. In unison, the three women raised their parasols against the high heat of the summer sun, crossed the road and walked down Victoria Street, which ran perpendicular to the house. In the near distance, the sea sparkled hypnotically; there was little doubt that thousands would today be drawn to the town by its bewitching allure. The promenade would be packed.

  The closer they got to the seafront, the more breathless Grace became. The sensation in her tummy had grown into a dull, uncomfortable ache. She wished that she had drunk some gripe water prior to leaving, but it was too late now.

  Slowly and sedately they walked towards the seafront, as though they were on a leisurely Sunday afternoon stroll. The closer they drew to their destination, the more the crowds increased in number. Stares, glares, frowns, but also nods of approval, came from the men and women whom they passed. Some muttered their displeasure. Others vocalised their support. An elderly crone, being pushed along the pavement in a bath chair, barked her disgust at them.

  ‘Thank you, Madam, for sharing your troglodytic views,’ Minnie responded, with an extravagant wave of her hand.

  The solemnity of Grace’s face cracked into a light chuckle. Minnie was an old hat at this and such altercations were easily batted off with a pithy comment and a smile; she had endured much worse.

  They arrived at the promenade and Grace’s resolve curdled as they waited for a line of three horses and carriages to pass. Before them was the long, thin Palace Pier, jutting out almost two thousand feet over the cold English Channel. She raised her hand to her stomach and began to dig her fingers into the gripe.

  Minnie reached for Grace’s hand and pulled it down. ‘You’ll be wonderful,’ she whispered, as they crossed the road. A warm smile spread across her soft round face.

  When they had reached the other side, close to the entrance onto the pier, Grace looked about uncertainly and asked: ‘Whereabouts should I stand?’

  ‘Wherever you like—let the people come to you. You are in charge.’

  ‘Here,’ Olivia answered decisively, dropping the box down onto a random spot in the centre of the promenade. She stepped back and held her open hand aloft, waiting.

  Grace drew in an extraordinarily long breath, placed her left hand in Olivia’s and stepped up onto the box. She cleared her throat and tried to remember the opening lines of her speech, but the thinking space in her mind was knotted up with intangible threads and by the faces of passing strangers. Scowling. Snarling. Smiling. Smirking.

  ‘Ladies, gentlemen—our good and kindly friends,’ Minnie shouted, hoisting her placard above her head. ‘The esteemed Brighton branch of the Women’s Social and Political Union is delighted to present—for her very first public oration—Miss Grace Emmerson.’

  Olivia reached into the bag and pulled out a handful of leaflets, poised and ready to pass them out to members of the public.

  Not a single, solitary person stopped.

  ‘Thank you,’ Grace murmured.

  ‘Louder,’ Olivia urged.

  Grace coughed, trying to dislodge the gritty blockage in her throat. ‘Thank you,’ she repeated, indeed more loudly this time. ‘People of Brighton, I stand humbly here before you as one of your fellow citizens, entreating the charity of just a few moments of your time.’

  Two ladies—charwomen, Grace judged by their outfits—stopped to listen.

  ‘Our town is not a fair town. Our country is not a fair country,’ Grace continued.

  ‘Life ain’t never fair, love—better get used to it,’ one of the charwomen jeered. ‘It ain’t fair that I ‘ave to work me ruddy fingers to the bone and the likes of you lot get to stand all ‘oity-toity on the promenade in ya Sunday best.’

  ‘Ours is not…’ Grace stumbled, the words of the charwoman jarring her thoughts back to the unspeakable years in the Brighton Union Workhouse. If only these women could have known of her upbringing…

  A group of young lads and a well-to-do woman paused, curious.

  ‘Ours is not…’ Her words were stuck. The charwomen sneered. The young lads whispered and giggled.

  ‘…a fair government,’ Minnie hinted quietly.

  ‘Our government—Asquith—is not fair,’ Grace stammered. ‘It’s…it’s…’ More people began to gather.

  ‘It’s time you learnt to speak proper, miss,’ one of the lads taunted.

  ‘Leave her alone and she might be able to,’ someone said from the back of the crowd. A male voice, which Grace thought that she recognised.

  ‘It’s…’ she said, searching for the man who had decried her antagonist. But she couldn’t see familiarity among the people—just hostility and derision.

  More women joined the thronging semi-circle around her. She paused and searched her mind for the speech that she had diligently written, practised and rehearsed for hours on end. The jumbled words began to reassemble in her mind, slowly forming complete sentences. ‘It’s high time that we women rose up—together—women of all social backgrounds—young and old, workers, the privileged, married and single; uncommon in so many ways, yet superbly united in our inequality and our societal disadvantage.’

  Grace eyed the crowd: she held the attention of each and every one of them now. And yet more were coming. Confidence elevated her stature, furnishing her voice with a new vigour and strength. ‘Your fellow women around the country have written tens of thousands of letters to the dishonourable gentlemen running this land—and what for? All for nothing! They simply are not listening. If they won’t listen to us with welcoming ears, then we must jolly well make them listen to us. Our time is now! And it is a time for action—deeds not words.’

  ‘What good’s a vote to me?’ a bedraggled woman in her late thirties shouted. She was surrounded by a barrage of scrawny and unkempt children with bare feet. ‘I need work. I need money. I need a proper place to live. What I don’t need is a bloody vote.’

  The woma
n’s words were met with nods and murmurings of approval. One man clapped.

  ‘But don’t you see?’ Grace answered. ‘If you had a vote and you used it wisely, then you might be helped towards changing those other things. Do you think a female Member of Parliament would stand by and watch such social injustices?’

  The crowd burst into laughter.

  ‘What poppycock!’ a different woman spat. ‘You need locking up in the Hellingly asylum.’

  Grace dropped her speech and directed her attention towards the woman, who was now walking away. ‘Madam—do you hold regular employment?’

  ‘Yes, I do, actually,’ she answered indignantly.

  ‘I trust, therefore, that you are contented that in this respect the government treats you as an equal to men—to tax you, to take your money and spend it as they, the representatives of the male population see fit? That sits right with you, does it, Madam?’

  The woman had no answer.

  Grace was on a roll. ‘And are you, Madam,’ she continued, before widening her gestures to the rest of the crowd, ‘and the rest of you women out there, required to abide by this country’s laws?’

  ‘Course we are!’ several women chanted.

  ‘What a stupid question,’ another chipped in.

  ‘And yet you have absolutely no say in what those laws mandate!’ Grace cried. ‘Written by men for men. What if this government introduces a law that says women must dress in a certain way, or behave in a certain way? Who shall stop them?’

  ‘Right,’ a voice boomed, ‘I’ve heard quite enough of this.’ Two bulky policemen barged their way through the crowd. One of them grabbed Grace’s hand and pulled her down from the box. ‘On the subject of laws—real laws—not your fancy made up ones, I’d like you to explain what you mean by deeds not words, because it sounds to my ear suspiciously like incitement, for which you would be arrested.’

  Some of the crowd booed at this latest drama, but most simply dissolved back into the passing throng. A small handful took from Olivia’s proffered leaflets.

  ‘Arrest me, please,’ Minnie entreated, offering him her hands. She turned her head to the parting crowds and shouted, ‘Deeds not words, ladies! Burn down their offices! Smash their windows! Make your voices heard!’

  ‘Right, you’re coming with us,’ the policeman said, his fat hairy hand reaching around Minnie’s upper arm.

  ‘Deeds not words!’ Olivia chanted. ‘Deeds not words!’

  ‘Olivia, no,’ Minnie called. ‘Just me—you come back here tomorrow and carry on. Votes for women! Deeds not words! Burn their buildings until they start to listen!’

  Minnie made herself a dead weight and the two policemen, taking an arm each, dragged her along the promenade. All the while, she repeated her call: ‘Votes for women! Deeds not words! Join the WSPU now! Votes for women! End the tyranny!’

  From a crowd that had peaked at nigh on forty, there was now just Grace and Olivia—standing stones among a sea of promenaders.

  ‘Well done, Grace,’ Olivia said, throwing her arms around her. ‘You were amazing—really amazing.’

  Grace shook her head, a hollow feeling now occupying the space where the griping nervousness had taken root before. She had not been amazing. She had been heckled, forgotten her words, then when the test came and the police had arrived, she had stood silently whilst her friend had been dragged away. ‘Let’s just go home,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I thought you were really amazing, too,’ a voice said. That same male voice which had urged the crowd to listen to her.

  Grace turned and smiled. ‘Cecil Barwise. What a surprise.’ She rushed over to him, quite forgetting herself. She reached him and offered her hand, which he shook vigorously. He was dressed well—at least for a man of his station—and his dark hair was oiled from a side-parting. His upper lip protruded out slightly and he reminded Grace, as he had used to, of a pouting duck.

  ‘I must say, it was a wonder to see little Grace Emmerson up there like that, standing up for herself,’ Cecil said with a grin.

  ‘Why?’ Olivia barked. ‘Because she’s a woman?’

  Cecil’s face fell. ‘No, not at all—because when I knew her she was… she was just ever so quiet, that’s all.’

  ‘Calm down, Olivia,’ Grace urged. ‘Cecil’s a decent chap—we worked in the same house a few years ago.’

  ‘And his views on women’s suffrage?’ Olivia demanded to Grace, her voice barbed.

  Cecil turned his trouser pockets inside out. ‘I am not eligible to vote. I don’t own anything, never mind property.’ He shrugged. ‘My views are simple: I think all women and men—regardless of how wealthy they are, or whether or not they own property—should be able to vote. It’s as simple as that. I hope as much as you to one day see female Members of Parliament.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Olivia mumbled.

  ‘Are you still working for the Smiths?’ Grace asked.

  Cecil shook his head. ‘No, I left the winter after you. I’m Head Groom over at Linden Grove now. I’m actually…’

  Grace cut him short. ‘Linden Grove?’

  Cecil nodded.

  ‘That place needs fire-bombing if anywhere does,’ Grace said. Hearing the name again brought cruel flashes of the past into her mind.

  ‘Never heard of it,’ Olivia chipped in. ‘Can we go now, Grace? We ought rather to be going to the police station to find out what charges have been brought against Minnie.’

  ‘Yes, we ought,’ Grace agreed, more than happy to shift the conversation on.

  ‘Oh,’ Cecil said. ‘I was rather hoping that we might get to go to the Lyons tearoom together.’

  ‘No time for that,’ Olivia declared. ‘Come along, Grace. We’ve got planning to do. Deeds not words. Or, in your case, action not cake.’

  ‘Another time, Cecil,’ Grace said. ‘Good day.’

  Cecil nodded his head. ‘Good day.’

  Grace and Olivia gathered up their things and moved off.

  ‘Presumptuous fellow,’ Olivia mumbled, as they crossed the road. ‘Who does he think he is?’

  ‘He’s harmless enough,’ Grace replied with a smile. ‘Now, I don’t think turning up at the police station with all this’, she indicated the box and placard, ‘will do us many favours. Let’s return it all home first. Minnie might even have been discharged; it wouldn’t be the first time the police have done that just to break up our meetings.’

  ‘Well, she didn’t actually do anything, did she?’ Olivia said.

  ‘No, but it’s high time we did. We’re preaching to the public about deeds not words, yet we’re not doing anything ourselves.’

  ‘What are you thinking of?’ Olivia asked.

  ‘Something that actually warrants getting arrested.’

  Chapter Four

  1st August 1910, Brighton Magistrate’s Court, Brighton, East Sussex

  Grace Emmerson marched haughtily towards the exit of the Magistrate’s Court. Her fourth speech in as many weeks on Brighton promenade had seen her get arrested by an oafish bobby for incitement. Her speeches had become more confident and she had quickly learned how to handle hecklers and jeerers. As the crowds had grown, so too had the violent rhetoric of her words.

  She opened the doors and stepped out into a cold and cloudy morning.

  ‘You’re out!’ Olivia said, flinging her arms around Grace, as she exited the doors of the court.

  ‘I know, but did you hear what I had to agree to in order to get out?’ Grace asked, unsure if she had done the right thing. She was riddled with an acute feeling of shame at what had just happened.

  ‘Yes, I was in the public gallery,’ Olivia confirmed. ‘You did right—you’re more use to us out here than inside prison.

  ‘Yes, but I’ve had to agree to making no further inflammatory speeches.’

  ‘There are plenty more of us waiting in the wings, don’t you worry.’

  They walked in silence for a short way, Grace replaying over and over her first court appearance.
She felt as though she had failed yet again. Should she have refused to agree to silence and taken a custodial sentence? Women around the country were enduring much greater suffering than that. Hunger strikes for suffragettes serving prison sentences was actively encouraged in order to highlight the fact that the women’s crimes were not being treated as political acts.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Grace asked, suddenly realising that she had no clue where they were headed.

  ‘Home,’ Olivia replied with a smile. ‘Some Sea View relaxation is what you need.’

  Grace stopped and looked at Olivia. ‘It most certainly is not what I need. We’re going…at least, I’m going to the headquarters.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘To plan what I’m going to do next.’

  Olivia laughed. ‘You know what, Grace. I used to wonder if you were actually up to all this.’

  ‘Really?’

  Olivia nodded. ‘But look at you, now: Mrs Pankhurst herself would be proud.’

  ‘Mrs Pankhurst wouldn’t have ducked out of a prison sentence,’ Grace countered.

  ‘She would have, were it for the greater good of the cause; she’s different—she’s famous—her actions make the national papers because of who she is.’

  ‘I’ll make the national papers, just you wait and see,’ Grace promised with a chuckle.

  A few minutes later, they arrived at the Brighton branch of the WSPU. Their office was above the Singer Sewing Machine shop, on the busy junction of North Street and West Street in the town centre.

  As usual, the door was locked. Grace knocked firmly and waited.

  Moments later, the door crept open before being snagged back by a metal chain. Through the narrow gap appeared Minnie Turner’s distrustful face.

  ‘Ah! Grace, Olivia!’ she beamed, briefly closing the door to release the chain before pulling it wide and bidding them to enter. ‘How wonderful to have you back. You’re just in time for a planning meeting.’

  A planning meeting was the nebulous description of what upcoming actions the branch would be orchestrating.

  Grace closed the door, ready to voice her desired actions.