Helen leaned against the façade of the building, turning her face to catch the sun.
‘Did you know there’s a new reporter started with the Dundee Courier? He’s moved from a newspaper in Glasgow and he seems more sensitive to our cause than the others.’
‘That will make a change. Good publicity instead of bad.’ Martha brushed her skirt with her hands. ‘Strange, though, coming from Glasgow to Dundee. Isn’t that a step down for him?’
‘I’ll bring him to our meeting on Sunday at the Mathers Hotel if you want,’ Helen offered. ‘You can judge for yourself.’
* * *
After watching how the stewards had treated her new friend, Kirsty cowered back in her seat for fear they would return and manhandle her. It had been her own stubbornness that brought her to this meeting, a petty defiance because her father ridiculed her and forbade her to attend. If it hadn’t been for that and her genuine interest in the speaker, she wouldn’t have been tempted to come. When she arrived, it had been confusing, not the orderly affair she’d thought it would be, and Martha had helped her find a seat. The young woman had been polite, helpful, kind and not any different from Kirsty, herself. Kirsty had taken to her and thought she seemed nice.
Kirsty couldn’t understand it. It wasn’t as if Martha had done anything awful. She had only asked a question. And, even though men didn’t like women questioning them, Kirsty could see no reason for the rough treatment meted out. Recalling the steward’s hands on Martha’s breasts brought back memories of her own ordeal and she started to worry what might happen to her new friend outside the hall.
I should have helped her, Kirsty thought. Instead, I sat here like the mouse I am and did nothing. But it wasn’t too late. Sighing at her own stupidity for not minding her own business, she snatched the abandoned hat and parasol from the floor and squeezed her way out of the row of seats before hurrying for the exit.
Clustered in small groups outside were several women, in varying degrees of dishevelment, all of them ejected from the hall. She soon spotted Martha conversing with a tall woman older than herself. Kirsty hesitated, not wishing to interrupt, but she had rescued Martha’s hat and parasol and wanted to return them to her.
Martha saw her coming and turned to her with a smile.
‘Kirsty, isn’t it? Did you get thrown out as well?’
Kirsty handed her the hat.
‘No, I’m afraid I didn’t,’ she apologised, although why she should feel apologetic, she didn’t know. Maybe it was because Martha took so much pride in her ejection. ‘You lost your hat and parasol,’ she mumbled. ‘I thought you’d need them.’
‘That is exceedingly kind of you. Isn’t it, Helen? Few people would rescue a suffragette’s bonnet.’ She took the hat from Kirsty and tucked her curls underneath until she looked presentable.
Kirsty swallowed. What a fool not to have realised Martha was a suffragette. One of the women her father talked about so disparagingly. But Martha wasn’t an ogre or a woman pretending to be a man, she was just an ordinary woman, like Kirsty. The only other time Kirsty had met a suffragette had been at the Albert Square meeting the previous Saturday. Curiosity got the better of her.
‘What is it suffragettes do? Apart from getting thrown out of meetings.’ She laughed self-consciously.
‘It would take a long time to explain,’ Martha said. ‘Although the main aim is to fight for women to have a vote.’
‘What good would that do?’ Kirsty had never felt any need to vote, thinking politics beyond her intellect.
‘It would give women more independence. We’d have a right to say who represented us in parliament and we’d make sure we voted for people who would stand up for women and give them a say in their own lives. Men wouldn’t be able to control us in the way they’ve always done.’ Martha paused for breath. ‘If you’re interested, come to our meeting at the Mathers Hotel on Sunday afternoon. Here, I’ll write the address for you.’ Martha scrabbled in her bag for a pencil and wrote the details on the back of a leaflet.
The thought of independence intrigued Kirsty, fuelling her newly aroused rebellious feelings.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’ll try to be there.’
She scurried off, eager to get home but feeling more alive than she’d felt for a long time.
* * *
Martha watched Kirsty hurry away. She had liked the girl when they met in the crowd before the meeting. At first, she had thought Kirsty was a sister, a member of the cause, but after talking to her it was clear she was not. Martha, however, had the knack of spotting women who could be recruited, and she’d taken care to encourage the girl. It had paid off because Kirsty had followed her out of the meeting with her bonnet and parasol.
‘I can tell what you’re thinking.’ Helen also watched the girl leave. ‘Why didn’t you ask her to come along to the demonstration tonight?’
‘I thought about it, but she’s very new to all this and I didn’t want to scare her. Too much too soon can be overwhelming, particularly for someone like Kirsty.’
‘Mmm,’ Helen murmured. ‘She seemed a bit naïve. But there’s also a spark there. Didn’t you feel it? Maybe she’ll be ready earlier than you think.’
‘The meeting on Sunday should be a fruitful one if both Kirsty and this new reporter come along. Isn’t it exciting?’ Martha jiggled from foot to foot. ‘We’re really expanding in Dundee. We’ll soon have as many members as Glasgow or Edinburgh.’
‘Talking about excitement, let’s join the others and plan our action for tonight. I heard tell someone is planning to enter the hall from a skylight on the roof.’ Helen tucked Martha’s hand into the crook of her arm. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘There’s much to do before tonight’s little exercise.’
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The excitement Kirsty felt, generated by her foray into Dundee, dissipated as she returned home. Her mother’s party was in full swing and the beat of the music, along with the buzz of voices, seeped out of the marquee and across the lawn.
Several children were playing tag on the grass and a sliver of pain pierced her heart. Ailsa was among the screaming horde, and Kirsty ached to be with her. To take her rightful place as Ailsa’s mother. But that role had been usurped by her own mother, and the thought of joining the children’s game was too much for her to bear.
She turned her back on the marquee and ran to the house. No one would miss her, nor would they care. But Kirsty’s attempt to sneak into the house unseen failed – her mother spotted her before she could slip through the back door.
‘Where have you been? You know I was relying on your help this afternoon.’
Guilt swept through Kirsty as her mother berated her. Was she as selfish as her mother seemed to think?
‘I’m sorry, Mama. It was all too much for me. I had to get away.’
‘Where did you go?’ Her mother’s voice developed a strident tone, unlike her usual placid one.
‘Dundee.’
‘You can’t have gone to visit Aunt Bea, because she’s here. So, where on earth did you find to go?’
Kirsty scowled. This was ridiculous. It was time her mother stopped treating her like a child. Now that she was eighteen, almost nineteen, she was an adult and her parents should treat her like one. She squared her shoulders and glared at her mother.
‘I went to the meeting at the Kinnaird Hall. I wanted to hear Winston Churchill speak.’
Her mother struggled for words in the face of Kirsty’s defiance.
‘But your father forbade you to attend,’ she managed at last.
‘I think I’m old enough to make my own decisions,’ Kirsty snapped. She turned and pushed through the door into the corridor beyond, leaving her mother, spluttering, outside.
‘We’ll see what your father has to say!’
Kirsty heard the statement echo after her as the door swung shut behind her.
Tears of anger nipped her eyes as she stumbled up the stairs to the sanctuary of her bedroom. Once there, she t
ossed her hat on the floor and collapsed on the bed in a fit of weeping. She was tired of her parents’ restrictions on her. Other young women could lead independent lives. They weren’t tied down by silly rules. Why were things so different for her? Why was she unable to live up to her parents’ expectations?
For the first time, Kirsty began to question if those expectations were even realistic or desirable. Her father expected her to be a lady, to fit into society, to marry well, and be a credit to him. But, if they never allowed her any freedom to mix in society and continued to treat her as a child, how could she achieve any of this? As for meeting young men, that was frowned upon. Not that she was interested in meeting any. Her one, disastrous encounter with a man had killed any interest she might have in the opposite sex. She wasn’t like other young girls who dreamed of meeting a boy and marrying. Instinctively, Kirsty knew that even though she felt undecided about what she wanted from life, she did not want that.
The sound of children’s laughter outside floated up to her window, a reminder that her mother expected her to help. Kirsty sat up and swung her feet off the bed, walked to her bedroom door and locked it. Her mother could wait all evening for her to join in; she had no intention of budging from her room.
* * *
Ellen Campbell stared at the door through which her daughter had stormed. What on earth had come over Kirsty? First, that scene this morning, which had left Ellen feeling useless, and now this. Meggie had been here to calm Kirsty after breakfast, but now the nanny had needed to take time off at short notice to tend to her unwell sister in Arbroath. What was Ellen to do?
She paced back and forth outside the door, torn between whether to return to the marquee or follow Kirsty and try to make her see reason. Robert wouldn’t be home until later. He’d made the excuse this morning that he would have to stay late at the mill. Ellen knew perfectly well it was because he disliked parties and preferred the workplace. Resentment edged into her mind. He expected her to maintain a particular social image but did nothing to help her with it. He also had a responsibility to help her with any problems which arose, like the problem she now had with Kirsty. Why didn’t he realise his place was by her side?
Music and laughter drifted over the lawn. She took two steps towards the marquee before changing her mind and, pushing open the back door, slipped into the house in search of her daughter. Inside, doors led off to the kitchen and scullery areas, while a flight of stone stairs led upwards. Ellen was unfamiliar with this part of the house, which was the servants’ domain, but she guessed Kirsty must have used the stairs to get to her bedroom.
The hardness of the stone steps and the clack of her shoes echoing upwards unnerved her. She grasped the wooden bannister, making her way to the top and passing through the door to the safety of the main part of the house. She was more at home on the carpeted corridors at the top of the ornate stairway leading up from the rooms below.
Ellen’s footsteps, now noiseless on the carpet, sped along the corridor to Kirsty’s bedroom. She paused outside to allow a moment to control her breathing. It wouldn’t do to let Kirsty know the effect her behaviour had on her mother. As soon as her composure returned, she tapped on the door, but there was no response.
‘It’s Mama, Kirsty,’ Ellen called gently, waiting a moment before trying the handle, but the door was locked. She felt a flicker of panic. ‘Let me in, Kirsty. I only want to talk.’
Kirsty, behind the locked door, remained silent.
‘Please, Kirsty. I’m worried.’ She gasped; she hadn’t meant to admit she was concerned.
‘Go away and leave me alone.’ The mumbled response was only just audible.
Ellen placed a hand on her chest to calm the fluttering sensation. What was she to do? And where was Robert when she needed him?
She stumbled downstairs and out of the front door. Far-off voices carried to her over the lawn. She would have to compose herself. She had a duty to entertain her guests and maintain the family’s social standing in the community. Her distress at Kirsty’s behaviour couldn’t be allowed to jeopardise that. She forced a smile which didn’t quite meet her eyes and walked across the lawn to the marquee.
* * *
Inside the big, striped tent, boys and girls clustered around a man in top hat and tailcoat who was performing magic tricks that made them gasp. Some children sat in front of him and others hopped up and down with excitement while their voices competed with the magician’s patter. The children’s nannies were fighting a losing battle to contain their charges, while mothers smiled indulgently as they nibbled dainties and sipped their drinks.
Bea Hunter sat among them chatting, diverting any attention which might be provoked by Ellen and Kirsty’s absence. Her eyes narrowed when her sister re-entered the marquee. Something was up. She could tell, even though Ellen was doing her best to appear the perfect hostess. Her smile was too brittle and her body too stiff.
Bea rose from her chair and placed her glass of lemonade on the table. It only took a few moments to reach her sister’s side. Close-up, she detected the glimmer of unshed tears in Ellen’s eyes. It wouldn’t take much to make them spill over. She grasped Ellen’s arm and steered her out of the marquee.
‘You’re upset,’ she said, in hurried explanation. ‘You don’t want to give your guests any reason to gossip.’
Ellen tried to shake the hand from her arm, but Bea tightened her grip.
‘Is it something to do with Kirsty? I notice she’s not here.’
A tear trickled down Ellen’s cheek.
Bea pulled Ellen into her arms.
‘You can’t keep it to yourself, so tell me all about it.’
‘Oh, Bea,’ Ellen wailed. ‘I don’t know what to do with Kirsty. She’s changed so much and, now, I fear she’s losing her mind.’
Ellen’s tears soaked the shoulder of Bea’s dress and she pulled her sister closer to console her.
‘I’ve worried about Kirsty over the past three years. She was such a lively young girl and then, after Ailsa’s birth, she lapsed into the doldrums. She wasn’t the same girl. I’ve felt like shaking her sometimes.’ Bea still blamed herself for not taking better care of Kirsty at that disastrous ball. But, at the time, she’d had no reason to believe that Kirsty wasn’t safe with Johnnie Bogue. Yet it was that belief which had led to the dreadful events that followed.
She released Ellen from her embrace.
‘Let’s walk, and you can tell me what’s happening. We don’t want to be overheard.’
‘You’re right,’ Ellen said as they walked. ‘Kirsty’s never been the same since Ailsa was born. The melancholy she developed after we brought the child home was so severe, the doctor advised she should be admitted to hospital.’
‘You mean a lunatic asylum?’ Bea gasped.
‘We didn’t entertain that idea,’ Ellen said. ‘Robert thought the disgrace would reflect on the family.’
They walked on in silence, listening to the night-time rustles in the shrubbery and the distant sounds emanating from the marquee.
‘She’s worse now,’ Ellen continued. ‘Hysteria seems to have claimed her. She’s become difficult to handle. Too difficult.’ She stopped and faced Bea. ‘Do you know, she wrecked her room this morning, and sliced up some of her clothes with a pair of scissors? And after that, she attended a political meeting in Dundee, even though Robert had forbidden her from going. And now, she’s locked herself in her bedroom and won’t let me in.’
‘It seems to me,’ Bea said, ‘that, perhaps, she’s coming out of her melancholy. I can’t think what else would cause her to act in this fashion.’ She stared into her sister’s eyes. ‘Would you prefer her to suffer from melancholia for the rest of her life? Or would you like the old, spirited Kirsty back again?’
‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’ Ellen’s brow furrowed. ‘I suppose I expected her to rebel when I took over the care of her child and when she didn’t, it made life easier.’
‘Even though she was suffering
from melancholia and her condition was such that a doctor felt she needed medical treatment?’ Bea grasped her sister’s arm. ‘Did you and Robert give no consideration to the fact that Ailsa was her child? Recognise the wrench it must have been for Kirsty to give her up to you? She has had to live with her child without acknowledging her or having any part in her care. Of course, she’s bound to have feelings about that and suffer pain.’
‘There’s nothing I can do about that,’ Ellen said firmly, shaking off Bea’s hand. ‘If I had allowed Kirsty to be a mother to Ailsa, it would have ruined both of them.’
‘I’m not saying you made the wrong decision. What I am saying is that Kirsty must find the situation unbearable, and now that the melancholia is retreating, it seems, her despair is coming to the fore, resulting in this hysteria. If you want my opinion, the best thing for Kirsty is to live in a place where she’ll not be tortured by it all every day.’
‘You mean, leave home?’ Ellen’s voice sounded shocked. ‘Her father would never allow it.’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Bea tapped at Kirsty’s door.
‘It’s Aunt Bea, Kirsty. Can I come in?’
After a moment, the door opened, and after one glance at Kirsty’s tear-stained face, Bea stepped into the room and enveloped her niece in her arms.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Oh, Aunt Bea, I can’t bear it any longer. I have to live here, seeing Ailsa every day. Do you know what that feels like? She’s so close, but I’m not allowed to care for her. She’s Mama and Papa’s child now, not mine. Even my room – it’s the furthest one away from the nursery. It’s as if they fear I’ll take her from them.’
‘It can’t be easy, but I’m sure they thought they were doing it for the best.’
‘It’s not only that. They treat me like a child, but I’m growing up. I have all these feelings they never even acknowledge. It’s impossible to move or do anything without their permission. I’m not alive in this house, Aunt Bea – I’m stifled. It’s no way to live. I’d rather be dead because this isn’t living. It’s only existing.’
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