Things a Bright Girl Can Do

  She paused. The room was silent. This was not at all what they had expected to hear. But there was a focus to the women’s attention which had been lacking from previous drawing-room meetings Evelyn had attended.

  ‘Florence Nightingale,’ Mrs Leighton went on, ‘once wrote –’ she opened a piece of paper and read aloud – ‘“O weary days! O evenings that seem never to end! For how many long years I have watched that drawing-room clock and thought it would never reach the ten!”’ She smiled, without any hint of self-consciousness. ‘I felt when I read that, that Miss Nightingale had spoken for me, and for thousands of women like me. That – and I say this without particular pride, for truly I am a most ordinary women – that I was a creature full of potential, which had been tossed onto stony ground like the corn in the parable. My father, my brother, my husband – they all lived lives full of purpose and interest. They had work to do and they did it.

  ‘I know that making a home and a family are fine things to do with one’s life; I am very proud of my home and my son. But I also knew that they were not enough to satisfy me. And when I spoke to my friends, I found that most agreed with me. They had entered life hoping for more, and had been disappointed.

  ‘It was this which led me to the Suffragettes. Our critics say that we go to prison for the fun of it – to which the only answer is, what sort of life have they made us lead, that we are driven to suffer such hardship for amusement? I did not go to prison for fun. The three weeks I spent in Holloway were the most wretched of my life. But it is true that I am a Suffragette not just because I believe – passionately – that modern society wastes and destroys the talents of half of its population. I am a Suffragette because for the first time in my life, I feel as though I have a purpose, a goal. I feel as though I am useful. I am powerful. I am doing the job I was put on this earth to do.

  ‘In two weeks’ time, I am going to take part in an action which will very probably result in my going to prison again. It is a simple action – any one of you ladies here could take part, and would be welcome. I am not a courageous woman; I am afraid of going to prison. I am afraid of the hunger strike. But I am more afraid of the life I would be forced to live if I had never found the Suffragettes.’

  She paused. The silence was electric. Evelyn could feel the focus of all the ladies in the room fixed on this slight young woman standing before them. She half expected Mrs Moran to stand up and volunteer to take part in the action, but she didn’t, of course. And then Mrs Leighton began to talk about statistics and reforms from countries where women had already been emancipated, and the moment passed.

  After the talk had finished, there was time for questions, which were less combative than Evelyn had predicted. And then the women broke into applause, and the maid was summoned to bring in the tea, and the business part of the evening was over.

  Mrs Moran’s friends were talking amongst themselves. Some looked scandalised. A few even looked thoughtful. Evelyn went up to Mrs Leighton, who was arranging her pamphlets and copies of Votes for Women on the coffee table.

  ‘About that action,’ she said. ‘The one you spoke about. About it—’

  Behind her, she could hear Teddy stirring uneasily. She ignored him.

  ‘Yes?’ said Mrs Leighton.

  ‘I’m in,’ said Evelyn Collis. ‘If you want me. I’m in.’

  An Ordinary Member of the Public

  MRS LEIGHTON’S ACTION was a simple one. Three Members of Parliament were speaking at an open meeting at a public hall in Camden. Several of the Suffragettes had purchased tickets and would enter as ordinary audience members. Such actions were common enough that policemen were likely to be guarding the entrance; however, Mrs Leighton did not foresee any problems.

  ‘It’s astonishing,’ she said, ‘how easy it is to disguise oneself as an ordinary member of the public when one is an ordinary member of the public, you know. If we all looked like the harridans in newspaper cartoons, we’d have a far harder job of it.’

  Partway through the meeting, these women would stand up and demand whether or not the Members of Parliament supported women’s suffrage. They would continue to press the question until they were evicted.

  Meanwhile, their supporters – including Evelyn – would be gathering on the pavement outside. When the dignitaries left the building, the Suffragettes would do all they could to bypass the policemen, reach the MPs and continue their demands. They were to do so, Evelyn was instructed, until they were arrested.

  This all sounded straightforward enough. But it quickly got worse. Once convicted, all of the women would be expected to begin hunger and thirst strike immediately. Evelyn would have to refuse to eat or drink until she was too weak to stay safely in prison. Then she would be released for a week on licence to recover, after which she would be rearrested, and would have to start the whole thing again. She would keep on doing this until she had served her entire prison term.

  ‘It’s a lot to ask,’ Mrs Leighton said, holding her teacup and slice of Madeira cake, while Evelyn tried desperately to look as though they were discussing the weather. ‘Take some time to think about it perhaps, and let me know.’

  ‘I don’t need time to think about it,’ said Evelyn.

  Other ladies were moving forward to talk to Mrs Leighton. Evelyn squared her shoulders, moved aside, and went to look for Teddy.

  He was waiting on a chair in the hallway, pretending to read the newspaper. Evelyn, remembering her father’s jibes about her ignorance, glanced at the front page, but it didn’t look very interesting. HEIR TO AUSTRIAN THRONE MURDERED IN SARAJEVO the headline said. She wondered vaguely why any English person was supposed to care what happened to Austria.

  Teddy clearly didn’t. He shot up as she came through the door, grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her into the morning room. She said, ‘Ow!’ And then, ‘Teddy, get off me, can’t you? That hurt.’

  His face was tight and furious.

  ‘You’ve volunteered,’ he said. ‘Haven’t you?’ And then, when she didn’t answer, ‘Haven’t you?’

  ‘So what if I have,’ she said, a little sulkily. He dropped her wrist.

  ‘Evelyn!’

  ‘Evelyn what?’ She faced him. ‘What are you going to do about it? Forbid me from going? You couldn’t be such a scab as to tell my father.’

  ‘Oh, couldn’t I, though? What sort of a fellow doesn’t tell a chap when his daughter – his schoolgirl daughter – is about to get herself flung into gaol? It’s hardly cricket, is it?’

  She said, despairingly, ‘You beast. Is that how you think of me – as a – a schoolgirl?’

  ‘Well –’ He had the grace to look awkward. ‘I mean, not exactly, but—’

  ‘And I suppose you think it’s your job to protect me and revere me and keep me in my proper sphere and all that bosh?’

  ‘It’s my job to tell you when you’re being a bloody fool!’ he said, pushed at last to his limit. ‘You think this is all some sort of game – holy martyrs and whatnot – but you know what happens to martyrs, don’t you? They get roasted at Tyburn. Haven’t you seen enough of this mess already to know what it’s going to be like – the policemen, the cell, the – the feeding-tube?’

  ‘They don’t use the feeding-tube any more, actually,’ she said. He looked for a moment as though he were going to strike her. She was suddenly very tired.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Fine. I won’t go.’

  ‘Evelyn—’

  ‘I said, I won’t go. There, is your blasted honour satisfied now? Get out of my way.’

  ‘Of course you’re going to go,’ he said. He wasn’t arguing. He was stating a fact. She’d hoped he might have had the sense to leave it.

  ‘I don’t believe what I do or don’t do is any business of yours,’ she said. ‘In fact, I believe my parents have expressly forbidden you to have any contact with me whatsoever. Perhaps I should tell my father what use you had for that little edict. Or wouldn’t that be cricket?’

  ‘Evely
n, for God’s sake! This is serious!’

  She rather wished she had accepted his bally marriage proposal. She would have liked an engagement ring to throw at his feet.

  ‘Have you only just realised that?’ she said. ‘How quaint the human male is.’

  And before he could think up a response, she’d gone.

  Names

  ‘WHY DO YOU wear boy’s clothes?’ said May.

  The two of them were up in May’s bedroom. Nell was restless, wandering around the room, touching May’s postcards, picking up her ornaments and putting them down again. She felt the force of May’s attention on this most private part of herself, and panicked.

  ‘I dunno,’ she said briefly. ‘Cos I looks such a guy in petticoats.’

  May sensed the lie, sensed the wall, and retreated. Then, cautiously, she said, ‘Mama has a friend who dresses like you. I mean, she wears her hair short, you know, and all her friends call her Cyril. But her name is Mary really. Mama told me.’

  Nell’s mouth was working silently, but she did not look up from the china shepherdess. At last, she said, ‘Don’t nobody mind?’

  ‘Well –’ May tried to be honest. ‘Someone wrote a beastly lot of bosh about her once in a newspaper article. And boys in the street call things – and men too, sometimes. But none of Mama’s friends care. And Miss Jones doesn’t either – at least –’ May was still trying to be honest. She was naturally honest anyway, but she was also – dimly – aware of how important it was never to lie to this girl, of how important all her words might be to the rest of her life. ‘At least, she’s never told me she minds. But then she wouldn’t, would she? She’s a grown-up, and I’m just a kid. But she’s always rather grand about people who say things. Blithering wretches, she calls them. What do you call people who say things to you?’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Nell. ‘I just punch them.’

  This was not entirely true, but it sounded impressive. Honesty mattered far less to Nell than it did to May. She was more interested in the woman with the man’s name.

  ‘Do lots of ladies do that?’ she said. ‘Use men’s names, like?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said May, still trying to be honest. ‘I only know Miss Jones who does. And Mama’s got a book all about – about – about people like us, you know. It’s called The Intermediate Sex, and it’s ever so famous. Mr Carpenter who wrote it says there’s men and there’s women and then there’s people in between like you and me, who are a bit of both, and it’s just nature and nothing to be ashamed of. It’s jolly interesting.’ This review was somewhat disingenuous; May’s tastes ran more to storybooks than to anthropology, and she had abandoned Carpenter as too dull for words, somewhere towards the end of the first chapter. But no need to tell Nell that. ‘Did you ever call yourself a boy’s name?’ she said.

  Nell flushed. May thought she wasn’t going to answer. She wondered if she shouldn’t have asked. It was a horribly personal question. But then Nell, in a low voice, said, ‘When I were little, I used to pretend I were called Arthur.’

  ‘Arthur?’

  ‘After the Duke of Wellington.’

  ‘Arthur,’ May said wonderingly. Then, ‘I could call you Arthur, if you liked.’

  ‘No!’ Nell’s head jerked up. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I ain’t a kid.’

  ‘I could call you something else,’ said May, cunning May, May who knew the power of a private name. ‘What would you call yourself if you could?’

  Nell blush deepened. ‘I dunno!’ she said.

  May tilted her head on one side, studying her.

  ‘You might be a Jack,’ she said. ‘Except your brother’s a John, so I suppose you couldn’t be. Maybe you should be something short from Ellen. Eli. Or Lenny. Or Len. Or—’

  ‘I ain’t a Len!’ Nell protested. She was watching May with a sort of wonder. ‘What’s it like in your head?’ she said.

  ‘It’s full of you,’ said May, honestly.

  ‘Danger’ Duty

  THE DAY FIXED for Evelyn’s protest was Monday the thirteenth of July. Evelyn should have been at school, of course, but this was all to the good – her absence wouldn’t be noticed until much later. If the protest had been on a Saturday, things would have been much more complicated.

  Breakfast was a noisy, friendly affair. Kezia and Hetty argued amicably enough over the jam spoon and the butter dish. Hetty was chewing on her toast, smearing jam halfway across her cheeks, and relating the plot of Stalky and Co. in a rambling fashion to anyone who would listen, which was most of Miss Perring, about half of her parents, and a quarter of Evelyn. Evelyn’s mother was trying to talk to Evelyn’s father about the missionary tea she was taking the younger girls to that Saturday.

  ‘Of course, it doesn’t matter if you don’t come, John, but they do always ask after you, and Mrs Fisher in particular would be so pleased—’

  ‘It’s a ripping tea, Father,’ Kezia interrupted. ‘Mrs Robinson brings the best meringues you ever tasted, and—’

  ‘Father,’ said Hetty, giving up on Stalky. ‘Father, who do you think was the bigger giant, Goliath or Polyphemus? Miss Perring says Goliath, but I don’t see how. Goliath was a man, wasn’t he? But Polyphemus was a cyclops, so—’

  This evening, thought Evelyn, all this happiness will be ruined. She felt obscurely that she ought to warn them somehow, say goodbye perhaps, or apologise. But she said nothing at all.

  Miss Perring took Hetty to her junior school. Kezia and Evelyn went to wait for the motor omnibus from the stop on the road to the Heath. Evelyn waited until they were at the ’bus stop, then grabbed Kezia’s arm.

  ‘I’m not going to school today,’ she said. ‘I’m going to see the Suffragettes.’ (Well, that was true, as far as it went.) ‘You’ll have to tell them at the school office that I came over faint on the omnibus or something and had to go home. It’s political rebellion,’ she wheedled, as Kezia hesitated. ‘It’s frightfully important, and you’ll be jolly grateful for it when you’re emancipated. And I’m going to go anyway no matter what you do, so you might help and save a row.’

  ‘I thought you said all that schoolboy chivalry was rot,’ Kezia grumbled.

  ‘Sixpence?’ said Evelyn, and Kezia beamed and held out her hand.

  There was a crowd of perhaps twenty women gathered around the door of the Civic Hall, wearing suffrage sashes and rosettes, and waving variations on the usual VOTES FOR WOMEN placards. They were singing, noisily and cheerfully, and not at all like people who were planning on getting arrested. Several women were busy thrusting handbills at passers-by, most of whom hurried past, heads down. Four policemen were standing on the corner, watching, obviously uneasy. They had made no move against the Suffragettes yet, but their presence made Evelyn wary. These were the policemen they would have to charge when the meeting was over. These were the policemen they would have to persuade to arrest them.

  ‘Sometimes the constables get too rough,’ said Mrs Leighton. ‘They should arrest you when you start to show resistance, but they don’t always. If it’s getting dangerous, stop fighting and cause some property damage instead. Once you start breaking windows, they have to do something about it. I’d always rather not smash up some poor grocer’s shop, but sometimes they leave you little choice about it.’

  ‘All right,’ said Evelyn. She took the stone that Mrs Leighton offered her and put it in her pocket-book. Someone had pasted a handbill with some argument for Votes for Women around it. She wanted to say something jokey, something about bricks, it being a brick, or her, or Mrs Leighton, or the handbill, but she couldn’t find the right words to frame it, and then, thinking about it, she realised that probably it wouldn’t have been that funny, so she turned away and busied herself selecting a placard from the pile: NO TAXATION WITHOUT REPRESENTATION, this one said.

  Not that Evelyn paid tax.

  But it rhymed.

  Sort of.

  There were twelve women who were planning on being arrested, and the rest, Evelyn supposed, who were
there to support them. The others would not actually break the law, but would content themselves with shouting slogans, giving out handbills and singing.

  Placard in hand, Evelyn squared her shoulders and went to join the women. Most were strangers, but there was Miss Wilkinson from the West Hampstead Franchise Society, and a dark-haired young woman called Miss Miraz, who Evelyn had been introduced to on the march to Wellington Arch and been rather overawed by, because she was an actual student of chemistry at Imperial College, and seemed to Evelyn to be everything a New Woman ought to be. She smiled at Evelyn encouragingly, but Evelyn was too shy to do more than mutter a ‘Hullo’ and turn away.

  The Suffragettes were singing now, to the tune of Auld Lang Syne:

  ‘I saw a man in tattered garb,

  Forth from the grog-shop come.

  He squandered all his cash for drink,

  And starved his wife at home.

  I asked him ‘Should not woman vote?’

  He answered with a sneer.

  ‘I’ve taught my wife to know her place,

  Keep woman in her sphere.’

  Evelyn didn’t sing. She didn’t feel like it, and anyway, she didn’t know the words. She moved away from the other women and began walking up and down, her placard high in the air, trying to make herself believe she was doing something very important, and so wouldn’t have to talk to anyone.

  She wasn’t funking it. She wasn’t. Anyone might get the wind up about a thing like this. It didn’t mean anything.

  And nobody could be such a worm as to back down now.

  They waited outside the building for what seemed to Evelyn like for ever, but must only have been about an hour and a half. She was grateful for the other women, and for the banner and the chants. Belonging. A group of women, all together. That was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? Did she feel like she belonged, now? She couldn’t say. A little, perhaps. But mostly what she felt was fear: a low, dull, wholly selfish terror.