‘Look at him. Scrap of a lad. You’re twice his size.’
She sounded irritated which was nothing to how Bill felt. He’d lived his life being goaded about his height; from the boys in school, from his father. He’d heard all the jokes and nicknames; midget, dwarf, and worse; short-arse being his father’s favourite. The familiar resentment of any perceived slight brought instant fury that he’d normally act on. But this time he managed to hold himself in check. He waited until, without a word, the man moved to one side to let him pass. A wary, grumbling dog on each side of him, he followed the woman into the small stone farmhouse, conscious of the heavy sighs and footsteps of the man behind him.
The heat of the low-ceilinged kitchen when she opened the door was stifling. Flames reached high in a large fireplace and licked around the base of an iron pot hanging by chains from a large hook. The smell of cooking meat and vegetables and fresh bread was overwhelming. Bill tried to walk further into the room but his legs gave way.
Without any effort, the man picked him up and, with his foot, pulled a chair away from a large wooden table in the centre of the room and shoved Bill onto it.
The humiliation and the hunger combined and tears scalded Bill’s eyes. He roughly brushed the back of his hand across his face as the man pushed the chair nearer to the fire. Steam started to rise from Bill’s clothes.
The woman tutted. ‘Get those clothes off, young man. Sid, find clothes for him. There’s some of your father’s still in the wardrobe.’
The man didn’t argue.
‘He’s a good boy,’ the woman said, picking up a ladle and stirring the food in the pot. She kept her back to him while he peeled off his jacket. ‘A bit slow but a good lad – until you cross him.’ She glanced up toward a large sepia photograph of a glowering man hung above the fireplace. ‘His father,’ she said, nodding at it. ‘Not with us now. But Sid looks after me.’ The warning was implicit.
Bill didn’t know what to say so he kept quiet, feeling foolish in his grubby long johns and vest.
When Sid returned he was holding a full set of clean clothes. With an exaggerated frown, he made a great show of holding them out and looking up to the ceiling while Bill stripped his underwear off as quickly as he could. Putting on clean dry clothes was wonderful, even though both the shirtsleeves and trousers were too long and needed turning up a few times.
‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘Thanks a lot.’ And meant it.
The change in the man was instant. Sid returned his smile. ‘S’all right,’ he said.
‘You’re down on your luck,’ the woman announced once he was dressed. ‘I’m Bessie Appleby. This here is Sid, my son…’ She waited while Sid shook Bill’s hand with enthusiasm. ‘We need an extra hand on the farm.’ Head tilted to one side she studied him before giving an almost imperceptible nod. ‘You’ll stay with us for a while,’ she said, taking his clogs and putting them next to a large pair of boots by the back door where the sheepdogs lay. ‘Move: Ben, Flora.’ She ushered them out of the way before saying to Bill, ‘there’s a spare room out back. You can earn your keep by helping Sid.’
Chapter 43
November 1911
Winifred shivered, her feet cold on the thin carpet, and glanced through the window at the afternoon sky. The nights had drawn in, she’d have more difficulty being with Conal; it wasn’t respectable for a woman to be out on her own after dark.
She’d see him tomorrow. The thought brought an unexpected heat between her thighs and she groaned softly; she ached for his touch. She tried to ignore the guilt and shame she felt whenever she thought of the times in his bedroom; the times Honora made excuses that she needed to go on an errand for more paint, or canvas, The look of grinning conspiracy when she left, carefully closing the bedroom door.
Sometimes Winifred thought of her craving for him must be an illness, an addiction. And perhaps it was. But she welcomed it even as she feared what would happened if they were discovered; even as she tried to find ways to get out of the shop in the daytime. The images she kept of him, of the times they were together helped, but they weren’t enough.
Hopefully they would have time after the protest march in Morrisfield to be alone. She would talk again to him then, plan something; he must be as desperate to be with her. Mustn’t he?
The fear of losing him was always with her, just as much as the fear what she, they, were doing would be discovered. The image that most frightened her was of when he walked away from her, each time he’d seen her to the end of the street. He never looked back; his head down, his hands shoved into his trouser pockets. She imagined that was how he might look were he to walk away from her for good. The anxiety was with her each moment of those empty days; that some prettier girl would entice him into her bed. Missing him was a painful physical sensation.
And though, when they lay together naked under the blankets of his bed, legs entwined, her head on his chest, he insisted they could marry, he still thought it wasn’t the right time to approach her mother. Winifred thought back to a week ago; the last time they’d spoken about it.
‘I don’t care who judges us, sweetheart.’ Winifred stroked his chest. ‘I want to be with you for the rest of my life.’
‘An’ I want to be with ya, Win. I’m gutted that we need to wait til I’m qualified. I want to prove I amn’t a Culchie.’
‘What?’ She rose up on one elbow, frowning. ‘I don’t understand. What do you mean?’
‘I want to show your ma – an’ all the ones ya know – that I’m not a country bumpkin.’
‘You’re not. We’ll tell her your father was a doctor, that you’re training to be a doctor as well. We’ll tell everyone if necessary. You’re better than them. And I’ll be the doctor’s wife, wherever we live.’ She gave a quiet chuckle. ‘Mother will be put in her place then, that’s for sure.’
‘Let me be qualified first and then they can give out all they like.’
‘I really don’t care, Conal. If anyone won’t accept you, we’ll cut them out of our lives. Move somewhere else; have a fresh start.’
He kissed her. ‘When I’m a doctor, achusla, when I’m qualified, we can do whatever we want.’ He ran his finger along her jaw and down her throat. When he reached her breast and circled her nipple with his palm she offered her mouth to him and arched her back. ‘When I’m qualified,’ he murmured.
She’d have to be content with that. But she wouldn’t ever give him up, he was her soul mate.
Would her father have understood? Would he have helped her? Winifred believed he would. He had only ever wanted her to be happy and it wouldn’t have mattered to him that Conal was Irish, only that she loved him and wanted to marry him.
Had he ever loved her mother in the way she loved Conal? Now she knew what real love meant, it made Winifred sad to remember what her father had endured at his wife’s hands. The constant nagging, the scorn, must have been so hard to accept. Yet that was what he’d let happen. Had it only ever been just to keep the peace? Or were there other reasons? Winifred remembered her mother’s words the day Granny moved in; ‘When I think what I put up with.’
Just what did that mean?
Chapter 44
Winifred studied her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. She’d had to alter the waistband of her long narrow grey skirt; she’d not worn it this winter and had filled out since last year but the stitching wouldn’t be seen once she put her coat on. She gave a small sound of satisfaction. It looked perfect; the draped skirt just covered her ankles, showing off her new grey boots. She glanced at her black gaiters, debating whether she should wear them; they would keep out the cold. But they were old, shabby. Today she wanted to feel that everything was right, smart. Today, even more than before, she was making a stand like all the others; today she would show Conal how strong she could be. If she showed her courage in this kind of adversity, she thought, he’d realize how serious she was about becoming his wife despite all the hardship and prejudice they would face.
S
he took the gaiters off and put them back in the wardrobe, taking her coat from its hanger at the same time.
Fastening her white woollen hat onto her hair with the large hatpin she wondered for a moment if the long swathe of green and purple ribbons as well as the sash over her white coat was too much. But it was too late to worry about such a little thing. She pressed her lips together and took a few breaths, bracing herself to go down and through the shop.
She went first into her grandmother’s bedroom. Florence looked around when Winifred opened the door. ‘I’m off, Granny.’ The fire in the grate had settled into a warm glow. Winifred picked up the fire tongs and placed a few more pieces of coal on top. Waiting until flames flickered and took hold she said, ‘Anything you need before I go?’
‘No, thanks, ducks. That meat and potato pie you made set me up for the day.’ Her grandmother smiled. ‘And probably until tomorrow.’ Florence was sitting in what had become her favourite place, the armchair by the window.
Winifred crossed the room and kissed the top of her head. ‘You will go down and get yourself a brew or something, later, won’t you, though?’
‘Of course I will.’
‘Hmm.’ Winifred patted her shoulder. At the door she stopped, walked back to her grandmother and crouched down at her side. ‘You are all right, aren’t you Granny. You’re not lonely?’
‘Lonely?’ Florence’s expression was unreadable. ‘With you here, Winnie? Of course not.’
‘But I haven’t been here much, lately.’
‘You have your own life to get on with and your own friends to see. Here…’ she gripped the arm of the chair and stood, balancing for a moment before she reached over and opened the top drawer of her dressing table. She took out a small box. ‘I’ve been meaning to give you this.’ She held it out.
‘What is it?’
A small oval amethyst brooch, surrounded by pearls was pinned to a velvet cushion.
‘It was my mother’s. The only thing I managed to hide from your grandfather. Wear it today. Something else purple, eh?’
‘Oh, Granny, I couldn’t.’ Winifred touched the stone with the tip of her finger.
‘Course you can.’ Florence’s arthritic fingers struggled to unpin the brooch. ‘Oh, you do it.’ She gave an exasperated sigh.
Winifred fastened the brooch onto her blouse. ‘If you’re sure?’
‘Yes. Good luck, Winnie. Look after yourself. Now, you get off. Give them what for, for me.’
‘I will.’
Straightening her shoulders, Winifred walked downstairs and stood behind the inner shop door. There was a loud buzz of conversation. Drawing in a deep breath she opened it. Might as well face whoever was there.
The shop was packed and there was instant silence.
Without looking round, and folding a small parcel of bacon into a square, her mother spoke in a loud voice. ‘Off gadding again, then?’
She’s playing to the gallery, Winifred reminded herself, noting the black cotton apron over the equally dense-black woollen dress. She manoeuvred past Ethel.
‘Leaving me here to manage on my own.’ Her mother’s voice held a martyred tone.
There were mutterings of agreement.
‘You should be helping your poor mother in the shop.’ The large-bosomed woman at the front of the queue took the bacon that her mother held out across the counter, and dropped it into her basket. ‘Widowed barely a few months ago.’
Winifred didn’t answer. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, weaving through the small crowd of customers.
‘I admire you; I wish I could come with you.’ A young girl touched Winifred’s arm as she passed and gave her a shy smile.
‘Why don’t you then?’ Winifred stopped, returned the smile.
‘I can’t—’
‘Because she’s a respectable young woman.’ An older woman pulled the girl away.
‘That’s right.’ The only man in the shop, stick-thin and bowler-hatted placed his hand on the shoulder of an equally thin small woman. ‘She’s not running around the streets causing trouble. She’s respectable.’
‘And so am I.’ Winifred glared at him. The heat rose in her throat. ‘I’m… we’re… fighting to get the vote for the likes of you.’ Her stare took in all the women.
‘And never will.’
‘Waste of time.’
‘Be content to be a true woman.’
The mutterings mixed together in disapproval.
‘And what is a true woman?’ At the door, Winifred turned to face them. ‘Someone who does what men tell them to do? A doormat? Only fit to cook and clean?’ Her stare took them all in, one by one. ‘No. I’ll tell you what a true woman should be, shall I? A true woman should be in charge of her own life. That’s what.’ She lifted her chin.
Slamming the door and marching along the street she grinned, rather pleased with herself. Her mother wouldn’t be surprised now when she was late home. Rather a good exit, she congratulated herself. Swinging her arms she hurried along the road.
Conal was waiting for her on Cook Street. His glance that took in her whole body made her blush and him laugh. He lowered his mouth to hers. Helpless against the urge, she responded.
When he finally held her away from him he said, ‘I love ya, Miss Duffy.’
‘I love you too, Mr O’Reilly.’ Winifred thought she’d never been happier.
‘God, I’m after wanting ya all the time, Win.’
She tapped his hand lightly as he reached for her again. ‘We’d better get a move on.’
‘You’re a hard case, Miss Duffy. Can ya not take pity on a poor man?’
‘I’ll think about that. Later.’ She laughed.
He tucked her arm through his. It was strange to Winifred that she was now more at ease in the back streets she was so nervous of such a short while ago than she was among the familiar streets around the shop.
Honora and the two women she’d met before were waiting for them.
‘We’re meeting the others in town,’ Honora said, barely containing her excitement. But even she grew quiet as the tram neared Morrisfield, becoming more crowded with other women.
Conal held Winifred’s hand loosely in his lap. Across the aisle, Liam had his arm over Honora’s shoulders. Remembering the first time they were all together on a tram, when she’d been appalled by Honora’s behaviour, she smiled. How far they’d come.
They tumbled off on High Street and straight into the crowds. The whole area was a sea of white dresses and coats.
She thought back to what the principle speaker had said at the last meeting in Morrisfield. To her own small contribution.
She’d been glad it wasn’t the same large parish hall as the first meeting she’d attended. Staring out at the three rows of people she’d swallowed down dry gulps of air, forcing herself to listen to the first speaker.
Winifred studied the way the woman stood, moved her arms, her head; taking in the room of twenty people as she spoke, giving emphasis to her words as she finished her speech.
‘The natural characteristics of womanhood are stifled by her dependence on man. She is expected to please a man and, to be accepted into society, woman must agree with her father, brother, husband. To believe and trust, at least in public, his opinions, merits, his reasoning, his bigotries, his depravities.’
Winifred saw Conal shift in discomfort next to Honora, a scowl on his face and muttering. She sucked in her lips to stop herself from smiling when she also saw her friend laugh and whisper something back to him.
‘Women know their own needs; have their own problems and concerns for the situations they are in. They, we, are entitled to have our say in how we deal with our lives. We are entitled to a vote.’ These last words were shouted, her arm raised. ‘Votes for women.’
When the cheering ceased, the woman half-turned and held out her hand to Winifred. ‘And now I’d like to introduce to you our newest recruit to the Morrisfield WSPU, Winifred Duffy. A young woman only with us this year, but I
’m sure she has much to say that will encourage you to continue in our fight.’ She smiled, her voice louder. ‘Ladies…’ she gestured to where Conal and four of his friends were sitting. ‘And gentlemen – Winifred Duffy.’
Winifred wasn’t sure her legs would allow her to get up. She pressed her hands on the seat of the bench and rose awkwardly. When she stood in front of the podium she clung to the edges, unable to think of the words she’d prepared.
Panicking she searched out Conal and Honora. They both smiled and inclined their heads.
The silence was beginning to feel palpable. Those seated in front of her began to shift and mutter. When Winifred did speak her words came out in a rush.
‘Women are the same as man in this country. Whatever class society chooses to put us into, we are all free in the moment in which we are born. So, whether a man or a woman, we should have the same rights. We should have the same feeling of self-worth because women have integrity the same as men, women have good judgement the same as men, the same intelligence as men.’ She paused to suck in air. ‘All we women want is that the men in Government, the men who refuse to see us as people, should recognise that.’
The shaking in her arms and legs had stopped but the unexpected awareness of her body’s stillness took away her next memorised sentence. Dismayed she met Honora’s eyes.
‘Are you okay?’ Honora mouthed.
Winifred gave a small shake of her head. She’d dried up, nothing came into her mind. Then, as she later triumphantly related to Conal, she had inspiration; a memory rose to the surface of the time she was at the vicarage, of what Dorothy had said that day and what had then happened. ‘To vote is to have power,’ she blurted. ‘We are as entitled to that power as any man.’ She gestured to Honora to join her on stage. ‘Everyone, I’d like you to welcome someone, the woman who first, not so long ago, brought our wonderful movement to my attention, who became a dear friend very quickly.’ She waved at Honora again, watched Conal, with a puzzled grin, shove his sister to her feet and accompany her to the steps of the stage.
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