by Rosie Blake
‘Still bloody at it. There are more of them, Teddy. More.’
Grandad was completely quiet by my side. What was going on? How was this meeting of prostrate women my fault? And when would I get a chance to talk to Grandad?
Nearing the group I instantly recognised Paula brandishing a placard that read WE WILL NOT BE PUTT IN OUR PLACE and, more surprisingly, Margaret dressed in a hot pink long-sleeved top and sporty leggings with a fleece hairband, hands cupped around her mouth as she appeared to start up one of the chants.
‘They won’t let us in – it is a sin!’
It was catchy and I found a small smile building as I looked around the group. There must have been at least thirty women there. Some had obstructed the door by lying horizontally on the path, blocking the way in or out. A young guy in his twenties, dressed in the customary royal blue polo shirt of the club, was standing nervously in the doorway, wringing his hands and every now and again trying to clear the path of horizontal women.
‘This is ridiculous. It must be stopped. Teddy, get her to say something.’ Howard was gesturing at me.
Forgetting my own troubles for a minute, I looked at him in amazement. ‘How am I meant to stop it? And what do they want anyway?’ I asked, starting to realise I knew the answer.
Margaret spotted me, her face breaking into a wide smile, both hands waving enthusiastically.
‘Christ, it’s a coven. This is what it will be like, Teddy. There will be no escape. Women. Everywhere.’
Grandad had turned to fill me in. ‘They want to be allowed to join the golf club. They’re only allowed to play on a Wednesday morning at the moment and a lot of them are taking a taxi to a club a few miles away but they want the Men Only rule on the course broken.’
‘And what do you think?’ I held my breath, not sure I really wanted to hear the answer, but before I could I heard a roar from Howard.
‘Arjun!’
Turning, I spotted Arjun walking past not ten feet away, both hands clutching a placard that said, OUR TREATMENT OF WOMEN IS WELL UNDER PAR.
He jumped and froze as Howard’s cry hit him. Some of the women nearby looked around.
‘Arjun, what are you doing?’
Arjun stayed rooted to the spot.
‘Tell me you have confiscated that,’ Howard asked in a warning voice.
Arjun looked momentarily terrified, as if he was considering throwing the placard at us and escaping in the other direction, but then he puffed out his chest and jutted his chin and met Howard’s eye. ‘I agree with them. They should join us. It’s an archaic rule. It’s a sin not to let them in. No longer shall we oppress them!’ His voice wobbled on the last line and I couldn’t help but grin as he bravely waved the placard around.
‘You fight the patriarchy, Arjun,’ I called out, nodding at him enthusiastically. He gave me a sisterly fist pump and went back to his placard and the latest chant.
Howard turned on me. ‘I brought you here to end this madness, not encourage it. Margaret claims to have picked up this notion from you. Have. A. Word.’
‘Me?’ I said with surprise, glancing at Grandad, who I could have sworn was laughing into his hand. ‘OK, I’ll go and see what’s going on.’
Feeling rather conspicuous as I moved through the gathering crowd, I stepped over the liver-spotted legs, some surprisingly tanned and toned, past flasks of tea, grey heads bent together and the odd golf club (possible weapon if the polo-shirt attendant got frisky?) and headed towards Margaret.
‘Lottie, you came! How lovely. Did Teddy tell you to come? How sweet of him. I did hope he might approve of what we’re doing.’ Margaret’s cheeks were flushed, two pink spots, and her eyes sparkled. She looked to be burning with restless energy. I couldn’t dim that gleam on her face.
‘Did you organise all of this?’ I asked, staring round at the women, some of whom were looking curiously over at her as if awaiting instruction. She bent down and picked up a loudhailer.
‘What do we want?’
‘Inclusion!’ the crowd chanted.
‘When do we want it?’
‘Now!’
Then she put down the loudhailer and continued chatting to me. I didn’t recognise this Margaret, this sharp-eyed, confident woman bossing people around. ‘Phyllis, take that placard to Hetty. I think her F has fallen off and women’s gol makes no sense. Paula, could you round up that group at the back? They’ve just arrived and they look lost.’
She picked up the loudhailer again. ‘We want in, we want in.’ The crowd took up the chant.
Arjun was front and centre joining in, grinning at me and giving a thumbs-up. I was glad to see him looking a little healthier, more colour in his cheeks, energy in his stride. I was being swept up in the atmosphere, the cries from the women, the bickering of the polo-shirt man who had been joined by a polo-shirt woman who was looking rather confused, all my other thoughts fading away.
Men were picking their way across the women lying down, manoeuvring their clubs over their bodies to get inside.
I returned to Howard, wondering just what I was going to say.
‘Well,’ he said breathlessly as I approached. ‘Did you talk her down? Woman to woman?’
‘Er . . . not exactly.’
Howard’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean, not exactly?’
‘Um.’ I scuffed my toe along the ground. ‘Um, I agreed to take over the loudhailer for her so she could go to the toilet.’
Howard was turning a funny shade of magenta and Grandad had definitely lost it now, patting him on the back and stifling a laugh with his other hand. ‘Maybe it’s for the best, old chap. Give the club some new energy. And we could use the green fees. Clubhouse looks rather dated.’
‘Clubhouse will be turned into a pink hell on their watch, all china cats and tea pots,’ Howard spluttered. ‘They’ll get rid of Sky Sports, they’ll demand one of those fancy coffee machines. They’ll want wine in those silver ice bins.’
‘You’ve been saying for ages we should get a cappuccino maker,’ Grandad protested.
‘This was not how I wanted it,’ Howard spat. ‘And I’m not talking to Arjun ever again.’
Grandad opened his mouth and sensibly shut it again. We both knew we would get nowhere while Howard was in this mood. I bit my lip and stood there, listening to the chanting behind me and trying to look vaguely like I cared. I tried to sympathise: Howard was a man who didn’t like change, knew where he stood. On the other hand the rule was archaic and ridiculous, and of course the women should be fighting to access the golf club they all live close to.
‘Why don’t we get off and get Lottie back to her flat, eh?’ Grandad said, clapping a hand on Howard’s shoulder.
‘Fat lot of good she did us. Inciting things further,’ he said, glaring at me as I realised Margaret was beckoning me over for her loo break.
Feeling strangely shy I turned to Grandad. ‘Don’t worry, I can make my own way back. I’d better . . . ’ I nodded my head in Margaret’s direction.
‘Lottie, about the other night . . . it really isn’t what you think.’
I nodded slowly, knowing there was more to say but realising this was enough for now. ‘OK,’ I said, a weak smile on my face.
‘Lottie!’
The loudhailer called me. I cringed. ‘I better go.’
Grandad tipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘Right, well, Howard, that leaves you and me,’ he said in a bright voice. ‘How about we head home, put the kettle on and—’
‘HEAR OUR CALL, GOLF IS FOR ALL. HEAR OUR CALL, GOLF IS FOR ALL.’
He had to raise his voice. ‘I’m sure all this will die down soon enough.’
I crept away back towards the gaggle of women and Margaret. One elderly lady had hoisted herself up on to the low stone wall and was marching along it with her placard. The polo-shirted workers were desperately pleading with her to get down and simultaneously asking the lying women to get up. I felt a burst of pride for Margaret doing what she thought she nee
ded to do to be heard. Heading over to her, I took the loudhailer.
‘Thanks, Lottie,’ she said, almost crossing her legs she was so desperate to get to the toilet.
Grandad was leaving, a shy half-wave in my direction. Feeling marginally better I switched on the loudhailer and raised it to my lips. ‘WE THOUGHT YOU LOVED BIRDIES. LET THE WOMEN IN.’
Darling Cora,
I saw Lottie today. Howard frog-marched her to the golf club to help stop the protest (a long story). I’d made things so much worse between us the other night and could barely look at her. She looked wan and pale and her flat was unkempt and as sad as her and Luke. How did I get myself into this position? She thinks I’m withholding all these terrible dark secrets from her, when really I am just trying to keep a promise to Arjun. I know I need to fix things but I don’t seem to know how. And I couldn’t find the right words today. What should I say? How do I make things right again? Why aren’t you here to advise? You would know precisely what I should do.
I miss her, my darling, and of course I miss you too.
Teddy x
Chapter 25
Love is like a good pair of shoes – you search for the prettiest but the ones you need are the most comfortable
CELIA, 83
The morning had been a bit of a boost. As I headed home on the bus I couldn’t help replay the scenes: more women had appeared, one of the polo-shirts had started handing round refreshments, the crowd had been joined by some of the male members of the club and the atmosphere had felt like a mini carnival. With a renewed gush Margaret had told me that she had secured a meeting with the general manager of the club. ‘It’s such a coup,’ she cried, squeezing me before leaving to tell Paula the news.
Arjun had then sidled over to persuade me to give up the loudhailer. ‘I’ve come up with a really good chant. Please, Lottie.’ He held out his hand and I paused, secretly not wanting to relinquish the power. He looked so earnest, though, with his drooping placard and his flushed cheeks that I handed it over with a nod.
He took it and switched it on but then the crowd turned, assuming he was the enemy, there to shut them down, and began pelting him with balled-up socks/headbands until he began his new chant: ‘I’M TEED OFF WITH HOW WE TREAT OUR WOMEN’ and they all delightedly started screaming along with him.
‘WE’RE TEED OFF . . . ’
Ascending the stairs to the flat I felt my bright and breezy mood plummet. Opening the door into the stale, semi-dark space it hit rock bottom. I had envisaged telling Luke all about it, seeing his face crinkle as I described the scene. As I stared round at the cluttered flat I realised the silence would stay until he returned, if he ever returned. I didn’t even move from the corridor but slid down the closed door, feeling drained and hopeless. I deserved this scene. I had driven him away. In the wall mirror opposite I took in my appearance: hair scraped back, no make-up, filthy clothes. Who would return to someone who couldn’t even look after herself?
Resting my head against the wood I started as the buzzer went. Frowning, I dragged myself to my feet, finger lingering over the intercom. An irrational thought that it might be Luke made me press down. Maybe he’d lost his key? Maybe he thought this was more formal?
‘Hello?’ I couldn’t keep the hope I felt out of that one word.
‘Lottie, is that you?’ A female voice, I realised with a flash of disappointment. I pressed the buzzer. ‘It is, come up.’
Margaret appeared in the bottom of the stairwell and I watched her, still dressed in her fluorescent outfit, move carefully up the stairs, one hand on the banister.
‘Margaret, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be celebrating?’ I tried to inject my voice with enthusiasm but my words sounded hollow, even to me.
‘Hold on, let me catch my breath,’ she said, three-quarters of the way up.
I waited as Margaret moved past me into the flat, her eyes scanning the debris. I felt hot shame creep up my neck and into my face.
‘I, um, sorry, I’ve been working, it’s not very . . . ’ I tailed away. This wasn’t exactly the flat of someone over-working, it was the flat of someone who had lost the will to function in a basic way. I appeared to have reached Amateur Hoarder status in a single week. There could be another species living under those pizza boxes – I couldn’t be sure and the smell wasn’t pretty.
There wasn’t really a clean space to offer her and I fussed in the kitchen, hoping she was one of those people who didn’t take milk in her tea because I was fairly sure the milk was now a toxic substance.
‘Why don’t we head out, love?’ Margaret said, a gentle hand on my forearm.
I bit my lip, knowing she was right but feeling embarrassed all the same.
We made a strange pair as we walked past various shoppers in the weak afternoon sunshine. I steered us to a small café on the corner of the street.
The bell tinkled as we entered a room full of the aroma of fresh coffee with a counter crammed with cakes and pastries. Realising I had barely eaten in the last couple of days my mouth watered at the sight. A small round table was being wiped down as we arrived and I headed towards it. Margaret watched me closely as I ordered our cakes and coffees. I found myself threading my fingers together under the table, crossing and re-crossing my legs from the scrutiny.
‘Can I say something, Lottie?’ she said in her soft voice, her kind eyes trained on me.
I swallowed, ‘Of course.’
The waitress brought over our cups and plates, taking her time to place everything on the table as I tried not to fret as to what Margaret was about to say.
‘You don’t seem yourself. I was a little worried about you this morning. You looked so drawn, tired, your clothes weren’t you at all, dirty and shapeless . . . ’
I wanted to be offended, to lift my chin and challenge her words or storm out of the place, flounce down the street huffing about meddling old women, but I couldn’t. My hand shook as I went to lift the cup to my lips, coffee sloshing into the saucer. ‘I . . . ’
‘And your flat . . . ’ She tailed away, perhaps noticing the misery etched over my face.
Momentarily panicked, I felt tears build in my throat. I took a decisive sip of coffee, scalding my tongue in the process. The pain distracted me from anything else.
Margaret was leaning towards me in her chair, ‘What’s happened, Lottie? Things seem to be getting on top of you.’
I stared at the top of the table, unable to meet her eye. Shoulders slumped forward, any attempt at false bravado fading.
‘I’ve really messed everything up,’ I said, my voice choked.
Margaret was quiet and I kept my eyes down, trying to put into words all the things I’d been thinking these past few days and weeks. ‘I’ve been a rubbish friend, a rubbish granddaughter – I was a cow to Grandad – and I’ve been so’ – one slow tear tracked down my cheeks as I admitted it – ‘so horrible to Luke. He didn’t deserve it and now he’s probably gone for good, or with someone else, and I’m alone and I know I deserve it but’ – I sped up, my worst fears spilling out between us – ‘I’m scared I’ve screwed up the best thing I had going for me and I don’t know how to do anything right.’
I was fairly sure people were watching now. The café seemed horribly silent and I wished we had stayed in my flat if I was going to have this breakdown. Tears dripped on to the table and Margaret pushed a paper napkin towards me.
‘That’s all right, here you go.’
Dabbing at my face I stared glumly into my lap.
‘Do you want to know why we were all there this morning?’
This wasn’t the response I had envisaged and I found myself looking up.
‘Because I organised it. I thought enough is enough and I made posters and I went door-knocking and I asked those women to join me in our fight.’
I smiled weakly at her. ‘It was brilliant.’
‘Ssh,’ she said chidingly. ‘I asked those women to do it because I felt stronger, I was inspired by someo
ne with courage and passion and belief in their convictions.’
I sniffed pathetically, glad to have the napkin.
‘I thought, how can I change this unfair thing? What would Lottie do?’
As she finished the sentence I almost dropped the napkin, my mouth fell open.
‘What would I do?’ I repeated, unable to believe that anyone would feel inspired to behave like me. Surely she had seen me? I was an actual walking mess, a dustbin of a person right now, clothes I hadn’t bothered to wash in days, grubby skin and hair, neglecting everyone in my life to the point that now I was utterly alone. Why would anyone think I had any answers at all?
‘Well, not this you, this you is rather a diminished version,’ Margaret went on, a teasing smile on her face, ‘but, Lottie, when I met you I was blown away with your energy, your sense of justice. You are so impressive, trying to juggle so much in your life, trying to be a good granddaughter to Teddy – and don’t think you haven’t succeeded there, of course you have, he loves you, deeply – and your work, your beliefs. Lottie, if I had had half that passion when I was younger I can only imagine what I could have done. I held myself back for years, not realising I could just grab opportunities, that I was worthy of them . . . ’
It was quite a speech and I could feel the tears building again. ‘I think you’re giving me a lot more credit than I deserve.’
Margaret waved cake on a fork around. ‘Don’t you dare put yourself down. You need to be kinder to yourself, Lottie. You are trying to take on the world and it’s all got on top of you, but you can fix it.’
‘I . . . ’
‘What is important to you?’
In that moment her simple question put so much into perspective. I hadn’t always been the girl who placed ambition above everything else. I had allowed myself to become swept up in chasing impossible goals, working myself into the ground, competing with others and not even stopping to ask if I was competing for something I truly wanted. And on the way I had ridden roughshod over the people I had always loved, the people I needed in my life. Amy, Grandad, Luke . . .