‘You’ll be giving the gaffer ideas. He’ll think we don’t need time to eat. Half an hour’s short enough as it is.’
Ethel turned off her machine.
‘I was too busy thinking about yesterday’s gathering in Albert Square. Martha – she’s a suffragette – let me hand out news-sheets. I was so excited. Fancy choosing the likes of me to do that! And when Christabel Pankhurst spoke . . . it fair fired me up!’
The spindles spun to a stop and Ethel opened the box at the end of her spinning frame. After removing the paper bag, which held two cheese sandwiches, she slammed the lid shut and turned to Maisie.
‘Let’s get a breath of fresh air while we eat.’
Dust motes glittered in the sunshine as they opened the door and left the spinning shed. Ethel leaned against the wall and breathed in the warm air, feeling its freshness after the dust-filled atmosphere inside.
Maisie took up a stance beside her.
‘You’re fairly into all this suffragette stuff,’ she said. ‘I’ll bet your da hates it.’
‘What he doesn’t know won’t bother him.’ Ethel opened the paper bag and broke off a piece of the bread and cheese.
‘I’ve been thinking about them suffragettes. I was at that meeting in Albert Square.’ Maisie took a bite of her sandwich. ‘I saw you handing out papers. Maybe I could do something like that.’
‘Martha says everyone’s welcome. I’ll bring you some leaflets if you like.’
‘Would you? That’d be good.’ Maisie brushed the crumbs from her hands. ‘Better bring a pile, actually. There’s more than me interested, I reckon.’
Ethel pushed the last piece of bread into her mouth and scrunched the paper bag into a ball before shoving it into her pocket.
‘I’ll see you later, Maisie. I’m worried about my ma. I haven’t seen her around this morning.’
She darted outside and over to the winding sheds. Most of the winders congregated at the end of their room, some sitting on stools and others on upturned boxes, but her ma wasn’t amongst them.
‘You looking for someone, hen?’ A big woman in a flowery overall stopped eating and peered curiously at her.
‘Margery Stewart,’ Ethel said. ‘Has anyone seen her?’
‘Sorry, love. She’s not in today. Heard tell her man beat her up again.’
‘Ta.’ Ethel’s shoulders slumped as she left the winding shed. She didn’t know why the news had shocked her; she’d known it would happen, the same as her ma had known. And there was nothing either of them could do about it.
The day ended at last and Ethel switched off her machine, sighing wearily. She untied the hook she used to mend broken ends and hung it from one of the operating switches, ready for the next day’s work. Lifting the lid of the box at the end of her spinning frame, she grabbed her shawl and shook the mill stour out of it before shrugging it on to her shoulders. She needed to hurry; she had things to do tonight.
There was a look of wariness in her eyes and she tried to keep to the centre of the crowd as she sidled through the mill gates. She needn’t have worried; there was no sign of her da.
All too soon, it was time to leave the protectiveness of the workers and, keeping her head bowed low, she scurried through the streets to the Nethergate. She didn’t feel safe until she was inside the house and the warmth of Martha’s welcome flooded over her.
‘Oh, you poor dear,’ Martha said. ‘You’re exhausted. Let me help you. I’ll take your shawl while you go through to the sitting-room and get your feet up for a while.’
‘That’s all right. I’m dirty. I should wash first.’ Embarrassment swept over Ethel in a wave. Martha wasn’t used to the dirt and dust brought home from the mill, and then there was the smell. She wouldn’t want that permeating the house.
‘Hurry, then. I’ve fetched something nice for your dinner.’ She turned aside. ‘I’ll be in the kitchen when you’re ready.’
Ethel watched Martha turn away. She hadn’t argued and Ethel took that as an acknowledgement of everything she was ashamed of. Her embarrassment increased. More than ever, she was convinced this arrangement wouldn’t work out. But what could she do? Returning home to face her father’s wrath was unthinkable.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Thursday, 25th June 1908
Kirsty dangled her feet out of bed and wriggled her toes. The air was cool at this early hour, even though it was almost the end of June. Waking early was a habit for Kirsty, who hadn’t slept well for the past three years, not since . . . No, she refused to think about it. So long as she didn’t, everything would be all right. She could continue to live her comfortable life with no pain, no regret, and no purpose. The last thought crept up on her, unexpected and uninvited, making her sigh. It was true her life lacked purpose, something to make it worth living.
Despite her resolve not to think about it – she always referred to what had happened as ‘it’ – the suffocating sensation threatening to overwhelm her was familiar. A tear gathered in her eye and she blinked it away. Kirsty hadn’t cried for three years. She didn’t intend to start now.
Reaching for her wrap, she pulled it over her slim shoulders, stood up, and shoved her feet into her slippers. The house was quiet, a slumbering prison that gripped Kirsty and kept her safe from harm and wrongdoing. She shivered again, not from the cold this time. Was that why she was still here, closeted and cosseted, because she had been guilty of wrongdoing? A small worm of anger stirred within her, wriggling through her body and mind like a hot wire. Lately, she had been feeling these flashes of rage and it was becoming more and more difficult to repress them, as she had done for so long. The doldrums, her parents called it. But Kirsty’s doldrums had lasted such a long time she’d thought they would never lift. Maybe, she thought now, the time had come.
Kirsty opened her bedroom door, barely disturbing the silence. She stood for a moment, breathing in the peaceful atmosphere, before venturing further. Wraith-like, she tiptoed along the passage, across the landing at the top of the stairs and into the next corridor. This was where the nursery was. A safe, comfortable room, containing so many of her happy, childhood memories. She smiled as she remembered how spoiled and wilful she’d been, at a time when she’d had more spirit than she had now. A time when she hadn’t been so concerned about conforming or about safety. But it was no longer a happy place for Kirsty; her memories had been replaced by a deep, painful sadness.
The nursery was dim, shadows lurking in the corners and the drapes not yet opened to the early morning light. But Kirsty had no problem finding her way to the armchair beside the fireplace. She curled up in it, in the same manner she’d done as a child, with her feet tucked under her nightgown and her auburn hair hanging in loose waves around her shoulders.
There was a familiarity about the room that was comforting and, as she became accustomed to the darkness, she identified different shapes. The dolls sitting on the shelf above the dolls’ house. She’d spent hours arranging and rearranging the furniture inside, pretending this was the house she would have when she grew up. How simple her wishes and dreams had been. Her eyes strayed to Dobbin, her old rocking horse, standing in the middle of the room waiting for his mount. He was the most patient of all the horses she’d ever had, rocking on command and never straying into dangerous places. Not like Velvet, who’d led her into danger. She pushed the thought away, but it was getting more difficult to keep memories from straying into her conscious mind from the corners in which they lurked.
The sleeping child stirred, murmured, and slept again. Kirsty leaned her head against the soft back of the chair and gazed across at the dim outline; a small mound in the bed and a fuzzy halo of hair spread out on the pillow.
Her heart ached with an anguish she couldn’t dampen; a pain that intensified as time passed. Tears filled her eyes. How was she going to cope, watching her child grow and develop when each new change increased the agony? If it was unbearable now, what would it be like in years to come?
* * *
>
Meggie, a small, plump woman who had been part of the Campbell household for the past twenty-two years, pulled her clothes on and combed her light-brown hair. She listened for a moment, but no sound came from the nursery. Ailsa wasn’t awake yet. Thank goodness for that, – today would be busy enough, so at least she could get on with the things that needed doing just now.
She opened the door into the nursery and crept in. She pulled the bedcover over the child’s arm, smiling as she did so. Ailsa looked as if she might sleep for hours. A slight movement attracted Meggie’s attention, and she tiptoed over to the armchair. Kirsty’s eyes were closed but flickered open as Meggie leaned over her.
‘Hush.’ Meggie nodded toward Ailsa. ‘We don’t want to wake her, not yet, anyway.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Kirsty murmured. ‘I shouldn’t be here. Mama wouldn’t like it.’ Her hazel eyes, more green than brown, swam with unshed tears.
‘No, I don’t think she would.’ Meggie’s heart ached, knowing only too well what Kirsty was suffering. They were both her girls, in a way. She’d been nursemaid to Kirsty from the day she was born, nursed her through illnesses, covered up for her when she was naughty, cried with her, laughed with her, loved her and mothered her. Now she was doing the same for Ailsa.
Kirsty stood.
‘I’d better go. You won’t tell Mama, will you?’
‘Of course not.’ Meggie put an arm around the girl’s shoulders. ‘But you’re cold.’ She walked to the door with Kirsty. ‘Come on, I’ll help you dress and do your hair. It’ll be like old times.’
The corridor seemed endless. Kirsty had moved out of the nursery when Ailsa came, as was only right, but the room they had given her was at the opposite end of the house which, in Meggie’s opinion, was too far away. If she’d been nearer, Meggie could still have looked after both her girls.
‘You’re spoiling me,’ Kirsty said after Meggie finished buttoning her dress and started to brush her hair.
‘Well, what of it?’ Meggie replied. ‘Haven’t I done that all your life?’ It was nice to feel the brush in her hands again and she took pride in the firm strokes which made Kirsty’s long, wavy hair gleam with its auburn tint. It reminded her of Kirsty as she’d been before, a girl who’d bubbled with happiness and mischief and feared nothing. She sighed as she laid the brush back on to the dressing-table.
‘What are you thinking?’ Kirsty’s green-brown eyes stared at her from the mirror. ‘You just came over all pensive.’
‘Nothing much,’ Meggie responded. ‘I was just thinking about the old times and wondering why things can’t stay the same and why we all have to change.’ She put her arms around Kirsty and hugged her. ‘You were never one to brood, Kirsty. It pains me to see you like this.’ Her arms tightened around the girl’s shoulders. ‘Don’t you think you’ve paid enough? Isn’t it time for you to live again?’
CHAPTER NINE
Kirsty couldn’t get Meggie’s words out of her mind. They whispered and buzzed with an insistence that refused to go away, probing into areas of her consciousness that had long been closed. They were with her as she descended the stairs to the breakfast-room and still with her when she said good morning to her father.
The room was bright with the early sun and Kirsty wished they could eat all of their meals here rather than in the darker, more formal dining-room. The breakfast-room, with its southern exposure and views over the lawns, inhabited by strutting peacocks, was friendlier.
Breakfast was an informal meal in the Campbell household, with family members coming to the table at different times. Robert Campbell, who had to drive into Dundee to attend to his mill, was always first, so it didn’t surprise Kirsty to see her father had finished eating and had now turned his attention to the newspaper.
Robert, a tall man with stooped shoulders and unruly, reddish-brown hair, becoming increasingly sprinkled with grey, was a kind man at heart. He knew how to assert his authority, but his workers and his family respected him. He loved his family and considered it his duty to protect them from the evils of the world; he also prided himself on being a conscientious man who worked the same hours as his employees. The option of going to the mill later, because he was the owner, would never have occurred to him.
He looked up from his newspaper and nodded to Kirsty.
‘You are up early this morning, my dear.’
‘I couldn’t sleep, Papa.’ Kirsty ladled porridge out of the tureen into a bowl and carried it to the table.
‘Mmm.’ Her father turned a page in his newspaper.
Kirsty spooned some porridge into her mouth. The silences between herself and her father bothered her; lately, they had become longer and more difficult. She never knew what to say to him, though it hadn’t always been that way. There had been a time when they’d had plenty to say to each other, but that, like so many other things, seemed so lost in the past she sometimes thought she might have imagined it.
‘Papa,’ she ventured. ‘I was wondering . . .’
‘Yes, Kirsty?’ He placed his paper on the table and helped himself to tea from the silver pot.
‘Well, it’s just that my life is so aimless. I wondered if there was anything I could do. You know, a job or something. I need to get out of the house.’ She toyed with her spoon, afraid to look at him. ‘Maybe I could do something at the mill?’
Her father laughed.
‘Out of the question. I can’t have you at the mill. It would not be proper.’
‘Why not? You used to take me there when I was a child.’
‘That was different. Those were visits to let you see how our living is made.’ He sipped his tea. ‘No, Kirsty.’
‘If I’d been your son, you would allow it.’ Kirsty suspected it had disappointed her father that his only child was not a boy.
‘That is not the point. You are my daughter and it is not appropriate. I’ll hear no more about it.’
‘Something else, then? University, perhaps? More women are being accepted now. Maybe I could train to be a teacher.’
‘No, Kirsty.’ Her father’s voice rose and he pulled his shaggy eyebrows together in a frown. ‘People would think I couldn’t support my daughter. You will stay here in this house until you find a husband. Until then, busy yourself here or do some charity work.’ He picked up his paper. ‘Discussion closed, and I mean it.’
Angry heat coursed through Kirsty’s body. Restraining herself, she laid her spoon on the table. With exaggerated carefulness, she pushed the plate away, her appetite swallowed up by anger.
‘Good morning, Robert, Kirsty.’ Ellen Campbell, a plump, motherly looking woman, entered the room and, walking over to her husband, kissed him on the cheek. Even at the breakfast table, she was formally dressed for the day, her brown hair pinned up on top of her head. Kirsty had never seen her mother’s hair hanging loose, and she often wondered if it was as long as her own.
Robert glanced up from his paper.
‘Good morning, my dear. You slept well, I hope?’
‘Yes, dear.’ Ellen helped herself to porridge and sat. She lifted her spoon and then frowned at Kirsty’s full plate. ‘Aren’t you hungry this morning, Kirsty, dear?’
‘No, Mama.’ Kirsty struggled to keep her voice even.
‘But you must eat something.’ Ellen sipped porridge from the end of her spoon. Everything she did was ladylike. ‘It was only the other day Maud Wilberforce was telling me that her Janie never eats breakfast and now she’s prone to fainting fits. They can’t take her anywhere for fear she swoons.’
‘Yes, Mama.’ Kirsty reached for a slice of toast. ‘Will this satisfy you?’ She didn’t care if her mother heard the resentment in her voice. She was tired of being treated like a child and wished her parents would see her as the woman she had become. But she knew that was a vain hope; in their eyes, she would remain a child forever.
‘Is there anything exciting in the Dundee Courier?’ Ellen never read the newspaper and relied on her husband to provide her with any t
itbits of news.
Robert Campbell turned over a page in his paper.
‘I notice Winston Churchill is in Dundee today. He’s speaking at the Kinnaird Hall this afternoon and evening. The afternoon meeting is for women only. Whatever next?’
Kirsty scraped butter on to her toast.
‘I’ve heard so much about this Winston Churchill, I wouldn’t mind going to the meeting this afternoon.’
Her father rustled his newspaper and frowned at her over the top of it.
‘Political meetings are no place for you, Kirsty.’
‘Why not? Why shouldn’t I go to a political meeting if I want?’
Her father slapped his paper on to the table.
‘It is no place for a decent woman to be seen.’
‘But the meeting is for women, Papa.’ Kirsty frowned in puzzlement. ‘What harm can come to me?’
Robert Campbell’s face turned red.
‘I will not have any daughter of mine mixing with the type of women who attend such meetings.’
‘What kind of women would that be?’ Kirsty had trouble controlling her voice.
‘Suffragettes, that’s who!’ Robert slapped the table with his fist. ‘I will not have my daughter becoming involved with those banner-waving, window-breaking, trouble-making –’ he was running out of breath and adjectives – ‘women.’
‘I see,’ Kirsty said and left the table before she exploded with rage.
* * *
Ellen jumped as the door slammed behind Kirsty.
‘Whatever’s taken the girl today? She’s usually so amenable.’
Robert glowered at the closed door.
‘She had the cheek to argue with me. Me? Her father? She hasn’t done that since before that bit of bother she got into. But she needn’t think she’ll get the better of me.’
‘Calm down, Robert.’ Ellen gazed at her husband with concern. She hadn’t seen him so upset since Kirsty had her ‘bit of trouble’, as he called it.
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