next person in the chain so to speak. At meetings it's rare to know people's real names. M says, the plan is to simply demonstrate in large numbers, and with each demonstration the numbers will grow, through word of mouth. Until they are so large that they can no longer ignore us.
At about eleven a cry went up, 'Mac is coming!' and the whispering of the crowd turned in a flash to an excited hubbub. People moved forward, jostling towards Africa House. At that point M and I were not that far from the front; I could see the troops run across from the embassy and, with rifles held across their bodies; attempt to hold some of the crowd back. Stop it from crossing the road. A policewoman with a megaphone was stood by the balustrade in front of South Africa House. She called for calm and asked people to stay off the road. There was an oddness to her commands, as if she were embarrassed to be asking. Her tone was supremely polite; I remember thinking that it struck me as bizarre and discordant with the moment.
I stood on tip-toes, arching my neck to see the black cars coming up Whitehall. Sleek and modern compared to the few other petrol cars still on the road. American imports. Sunshine flashing from the darkened windows. They went out of view as the crowd surged again. I was fairly lifted off my feet and somehow separated from Aunt M in the bustle.
In amongst the tide a stout blonde woman gripped my arm and smiled as we both prevented each other from tumbling. She pulled me forward until I was on the pavement opposite the embassy; two rows back from a young black soldier, rifle raised, eyes darting between our faces with fear. Behind him the white South African officer, pistol drawn; bawling at the men to keep the line. His drawling accent stark against the chatter of women.
The black cars seemed to be taking an age to move through the crowd that was blocking the road further down the square. And then the singing came, from somewhere at the back of the vast crowd of women. 'We shall not be moved,' they sang. At first a distant ripple, then it surged to a crescendo until every female voice was soaring. So loud it seemed to echo from every stone of every building in the square. I don't mind saying J, that at that moment, as I was singing at the top of my voice, I was so filled up with emotion that warm tears fell from my eyes. I grasped the small hand of the blonde women next to me and we both cried. I cried for D and for my father. I cried for you and I cried for the feeling of true hope that the singing brought us. Each and every one of us.
Eventually the cars somehow pierced the crowd and drew up sharply beyond the line of soldiers in front of the arched entrance. Quickly they opened the doors of the two cars. At the sight of the Prime Minister the crowd surged again. Shouts began to mix with the singing. All I saw was his shock of white-grey hair as men in bowler hats and dark suits bundled him up the steps. I suppose at this point he was perhaps in full view of most of the crowd and the surge forward became immense. A seething uncontrollable mass trying to push across the road. The tide of dissent trying to crash against the beach.
The blonde woman and I again struggled to keep our feet. I never saw Watkinson. My feet seemed to float as I stumbled and was lifted off the ground more than once by the crowd. Like my shoes were running on air as the breath was squeezed from my lungs by the crush. The poor frightened black soldier in front of us was flung to the ground and women's heels of all kinds stepped on him and over him. I heard him groan as I jumped over him. His officer was stumbling backwards right in front of us, I could see panic in his eyes as he lifted his pistol high, aiming above our heads, and pulled the trigger. The crack of the shot sharp and loud. It emphatically cut across the singing and shouting of the crowd and immediately induced panic.
The multitude around us surged again, this time backwards against the tide; screams mixed with the shouting and swearing and those still somehow singing at the back. It was frightening. Women were flung to the ground and trampled like that black soldier. Like the women trampled at the symphony concert. There is something incredibly frightening about an uncontrolled crowd, as if every woman was connected, part of one organism; a massive writhing animal in pain. I felt scared J, but also strangely exhilarated. Exhilarated by the power of it.
I think I heard more shots from the front, but everything was happening so quickly. M says there were many shots fired and that some shots were fired from windows and balconies that actually hit the crowd. She says that women were killed that day. Although we have no way of knowing for sure. I certainly saw many women being taken away in ambulances afterwards. And blood. Lots of blood. Blood of women trampled and shot. Blood of women hoping for peace spilled on the hard stone paving of the square.
And it was 'peace'; the desire for peace that stopped the carnage being worse that day. Stopped the panic.
The first word was 'ceasefire!’ A female voice shouting it over and over. The policewoman had now reappeared on the balcony with her megaphone. 'Ceasefire!' she shouted, 'ceasefire!' and slowly but surely a hush descended, the crowd stopped where they stood and settled themselves; women helping each other to their feet. Calming themselves and regaining dignity in a way that I think only women can do. I even saw a woman straightening her hair and checking her lipstick in her compact mirror as the silence descended. The whole square seemed to hesitate, draw breath and look at the balcony.
I was still grasping the hand of the blonde woman and we both looked up like everybody else. I could see the young policewoman, megaphone pressed to her lips, curly brown hair tumbling from her helmet. She also had paused and even from a distance I could see her breathing deeply. Above the heavy silence of the multitude she spoke again. No longer shouting, her voice soft and deliberately calming despite the metallic tone of the megaphone.
"Peace..." she said, and again, "Peace..."
The hush remained, as if everyone wasn't quite sure what was happening. Soldiers and policewomen, on the street and from windows and balconies all stood looking, unsure what to do next.
"My name is Marion Braithwaite," said the policewoman, her amplified voice, echoing around the square. A repeat bouncing back from the buildings on the far side.
"My son...my son was Charles Braithwaite...he was taken at Arras. He was just seventeen..." her voice was more hesitant now, you could detect the emotion, as if it were about to crack. I wasn't close enough to see but I like to believe she had a tear in her eye.
"His father, George...was taken when he was twenty four...I barely knew him..." she paused, "I was lucky enough to marry again and have another child...my husband...like so many...is wheelchair bound..."
Still the crowds were hushed. She continued "I became a policewoman because I wanted to do my bit, and like every one of you help to end this war..."
At that there was a slight ripple of a cheer and some applause. The policewoman paused to let it die. I didn't know what to think. I suppose I thought that she was about to order us to go home and 'do our bit' to defeat the Hun. I suppose most of the crowd thought something like this.
"Last week..." she said, now obviously choking emotion, "last week...my daughter, my precious daughter, and...and my mother were taken. Killed by one of those foul rockets...just last week...she was only five..."
Again the crowd was hushed. Women around me were crying. The Policewoman seemed to slump with the emotion of it all and let the megaphone drop for a moment. Then she did something wondrous. Slowly she undid the chin strap of her blue helmet and lifted it from her head. The dark curls of her hair shaking free. She held the helmet high for all to see, and put the megaphone back to her lips.
"No more..." she began quietly, "No more am I a policewoman. I am a widow and a grieving mother...and a grieving daughter...just like...just like...all of you...so I say no more, no more of this! No more death and destruction! No more sons or daughters or husbands or wives or mothers or fathers taken from us! No more!" and with that she threw her helmet high; spinning like a top over the crowd. There was an explosion of noise; cheering and clapping from the four corners of the square. It was unbelievable. The other policewomen and soldiers on the balcony seemed dumb
founded, rooted to the spot, slow to react.
"No More War!" shouted Marion Braithwaite, "Can you hear us Macmillan! No More War!" the crowd was tumultuous, joyous in repeating her chant. 'No More War!' we shouted at the top of our lungs. And despite the injuries that day, despite the fear and the hurt and those who probably lost their lives, that moment of unadulterated joy was perhaps one of the best feelings I have ever had in my whole life J. I wish you could have been there.
Of course it didn't last. Black suited figures and more soldiers appeared on the balcony and jostled Marion Braithwaite away. M says she will be 'disappeared'; put away somewhere in some prison or hospital. Diagnosed as insane or something. Or worse still quietly shot or hung for treason. M says that this happens to some objectors. They are got rid of without trial.
Marion Braithwaite. I want you to remember that name J. I wish I could have met her, thanked her for her bravery.
After she was gone the crowd continued chanting and singing for at least the next hour or two. The police and soldiers simply hung back; not wishing to provoke anything, but as the afternoon came they were reinforced with more units until they were on all sides of the square.