She is never at home now in the afternoons, but always at a meeting, and neglects poor Maude shamelessly. Sometimes I think of Maude as my third daughter, she is at our house so often. Not that I am complaining-Maude is very thoughtful, helping me with tea or Ivy May with her schoolwork. She sets a good example for Lavinia, who I am sorry to say never seems to take it up. It is very peculiar that one daughter can have a mother who pays her no attention and yet turns out well, while the other gets all the attention in the world and yet is so difficult and selfish.
It was a relief to leave Kitty’s At Home. Lavinia seemed eager to come away as well. Back home she was very kind to me, sending me off to bed to nurse my head while she insisted on making supper. I don’t even mind that she burned the soup.
Jenny Whitby
Lord, I hope these At Homes don’t last. Since the missus switched ‘em to Wednesdays I’m run off my feet. At least I’ve got Maude to help—though I don’t know that she’ll stick it. The whole afternoon she looked like she wanted to bolt, even when Lavinia came to keep her company.
That one makes me laugh. When she’s here she watches the missus with an outraged look on her face. And when the master’s home, she looks at him all puzzled and sorrowful. She hasn’t said nothing, though, nor tried to send another letter-I’ve kept an eye out. I’ve no intention of letting her wreck this house-I need my wages. As it is I’m not managing to pay for Jack. Or I am, but I’ve had to do something I never thought I’d stoop to-taking spoons to sell from an old silver set in the sideboard what the missus’s mum left her. They don’t use it, and no one but me ever polishes it. It ain’t right, I know, but I don’t have no choice.
I finally listened to them suffragettes today as I passed round the scones. What I heard made me want to spit. They talk about helping women but it turns out they’re choosy about who exactly gets the help. They ain’t fighting for my vote-only for women who own property or went to university. But that Caroline Black had the nerve to ask me to donate some of my wages “for the cause.” I told her I wouldn’t give a penny until the cause had anything to do with me!
I were so mad I had to tell Mrs. Baker about it when we were washing up afterward.
“What did she say to that?” Mrs. Baker asked.
“Oh, that men would never agree to give the vote to everyone all at once, that they had to start with some women and once they’d secured that they would fight for everyone. But ain’t it always the way, that they put themselves first? Why can’t they fight for us first, I say? Let workingwomen decide what’s what.”
Mrs. Baker chuckled. “You wouldn’t know who to vote for if they bit you on your arse, and you know it.”
“I would!” I cried. “I ain’t that stupid. Labour, of course. Labour for a laboring woman. But these ladies upstairs won’t vote Labour, or even Liberal. They’re all Tories like their husbands, and them Tories’ll never give the vote to women, no matter what they say.”
Mrs. Baker didn’t say nothing. Maybe she was surprised I was talking politics. To be honest, I were surprised at myself. I’ve been round too many suffragettes-they’re starting to make me talk a load of rubbish.
JULY 1907
Maude Coleman
Daddy and I were on the heath when I felt it. It was our Friday night together, and we had set up the telescope on Parliament Hill. We had looked at a few stars and were waiting for Mars to appear. I didn’t mind the wait. Sometimes we talked, but mostly we simply sat and observed.
As I was sipping a cup of tea from our flask I began to feel a dull ache in my stomach, as if I had eaten too much. Yet I had hardly touched Mrs. Baker’s welsh rarebit at supper-I am never hungry in hot weather. I shifted on my folding stool and tried to concentrate on what Daddy was saying.
“At the society meeting recently someone said the opposition of Mars is likely to be very good this month,” he said. “I don’t know if this telescope is powerful enough. We should have borrowed the society‘s, though someone else may have it tonight. All this will be a damn sight easier when the observatory is built.”
“If it is built,” I reminded him. The Hampstead Scientific Society had been trying to find a site on the heath where it could build an observatory, but there had been objections to each spot, with a debate raging about it on the letters page of the local paper.
The place between my legs itched: it was damp there, as if I had spilled tea in my lap. Suddenly I understood what was happening. “Oh,” I said before I could stop myself.
Daddy raised his eyebrows.
“It’s nothing. It‘s—” I stopped, wincing with pain.
“Are you all right, Maude?”
The pain was suddenly so strong I could barely breathe. It ceased for a moment and then began again, like a hand clamped over my stomach, squeezing then letting go.
“Daddy,” I gasped, “I’m not feeling well, I’m afraid. I’m so sorry, but I have to go back.”
Daddy frowned. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
I was so embarrassed I hardly knew what to say. “It’s ... something I need to see Mummy about.” Immediately I wished I had simply said I had a stomachache. I am not much good at lying.
“Why—” Daddy stopped. I think he understood. At least he did not ask more questions. “I’ll see you back,” he said, reaching for the wingnut that held the telescope to its stand.
“I can go on my own-it’s not far, and you don’t want to have to set up everything all over again.”
“Of course I’ll see you back. I won’t have my daughter wandering about alone on the heath at night.”
I wanted to tell him that since Mummy became so busy with the suffragettes, I’d begun going all over on my own-to the cemetery, up to the village, even across the heath to Hampstead. Sometimes Lavinia came with me, but often she was too nervous to go far. But now was not the time to say such things to Daddy. Besides, he did not know how deeply involved Mummy had become—she talked about woman’s suffrage with everyone but him, and for the most part confined her WSPU activities to the daytime, and nights when she knew Daddy was busy. For all he knew, she sat at home every day reading and gardening, as she used to.
We packed up in silence. I was glad it was too dark for Daddy to see my face, for I had gone bright red. I trailed down the hill after him, forced to slow down when the pain got too strong. Daddy didn’t seem to notice, but continued down the path as if nothing were wrong. When I could I hurried to catch up with him.
We reached the edge of the heath, where the Bull and Last spilled men with their pints into the street. “I can walk home from here, Daddy,” I said. “It’s not far and there are plenty of people in the street. I’ll be fine.”
“Nonsense.” Daddy kept walking.
When we got home he unlocked the door. A lamp was burning on the hall table. Daddy cleared his throat. “Your mother is out visiting a friend who’s taken ill, but Jenny can see to you.”
“Yes.” I kept my back to the wall in case there was a stain on the back of my dress. I would have died of shame if Daddy had seen.
“Well, then.” Daddy turned to go, pausing at the door. “Will you be all right now?”
“Yes.
When the door closed behind him I groaned. My thighs were sticky and chafed and I wanted to lie down. First, though, I needed help. I lit a candle and went upstairs, hesitating outside Mummy’s morning room. Perhaps she was there after all, sitting on the sofa reading a book. She would look up and say, “Hello there, what heavenly sights have you seen?” the way she used to.
I opened the door. Of course Mummy wasn’t there. Sometimes I felt as if the room was no longer Mummy‘s, but a cause’s. The old traces of Mummy-the yellow silk shawl on the sofa, the piano with a vase of dried flowers on it, the prints of plants-were still there. But what I noticed instead was the half-finished banner draped across the sofa that read DEEDS NOT WORDS; the stack of WSPU pamphlets on the piano; the scrapbook on the table, newspaper cuttings, letters, photographs piled next to
it along with scissors and a glue pot; the box of chalk, the handbills, the sheets of paper scribbled with lists. Daddy never came in here. If he did he would be very surprised.
I closed the door, climbed the stairs to Jenny’s room, and tapped on it. “Jenny?” I called. There was no answer at first, but when I tapped again I heard a grunt, and Jenny opened the door, squinting, a red crease across her cheek where it had pressed against the pillow. She wore a long white nightgown and her feet were bare. “What’s wrong, Miss Maude?” she murmured, rubbing her face.
I stared at Jenny’s thick yellow toenails. “I need your help, please,” I whispered.
“Can it not wait till morning? I was asleep, you know. I have to get up earlier than you lot.”
“I’m sorry. It’s ... my courses have begun and I don’t know what to do.”
“What?”
I repeated myself and turned red again.
“Oh, Lord, the curse,” Jenny muttered. She looked me up and down. “Blimey, Miss Maude, twelve’s young to start-you’ve not got even a trace of bubbies yet!”
“I’m not so young,” I cried. “I’ll be thirteen in-in eight months.” I knew how silly I sounded and began to cry.
Jenny opened her door wide. “There, now, no need for that.” She put her arm around me. “You’d best come in-it won’t get sorted out with you standing there bawling.”
Jenny’s room had been Nanny’s room when I was small. Although I had been in it only once or twice since Jenny moved into it, it still felt familiar. It smelled of warm skin and wool blankets and camphorated oil, like the presses Nanny used to heat for my chest when I had a cold. Jenny’s dress, apron, and cap were hung on pegs. Her hairbrush sat on the small mantel over the fire, and also a photograph of Jenny with a baby in her lap. They were sitting in front of a backdrop of palm fronds, and Jenny wore her best dress. Both looked serious and surprised, as if they had not expected the camera to flash.
“Who’s that?” I asked. I had never seen the photograph.
Jenny was wrapping a robe around herself and barely looked up. “My nephew.”
“I’ve not heard you mention him. What’s his name?”
“Jack.” Jenny crossed her arms. “Now, has your mum told you anything, or sorted out anything for you?”
I shook my head.
“Of course not. I might’ve known. Your mother’s so busy saving women she don’t even look after her own.”
“I know what’s happening. I’ve read about it in books.”
“But you don’t know what to do, do you? That’s what’s important, what you do about it. Who cares what it is? ‘Deeds not words,’ ain’t that what your mum’s always saying?”
I frowned.
Jenny pursed her lips. “Sorry, Miss Maude,” she said. “All right-I’ll lend you some of mine till we’ve got you what you need.” She knelt by a small chest where she kept her things and took out a few long thick pieces of cloth and a curious belt I had never seen. She showed me how to fold the cloth in three and fasten it to the belt. She explained about the bucket and salt water to soak the cloths in, to be left under the bed by the chamberpot. Then she went downstairs for a bucket and a hot-water bottle for the pain, while I washed myself and tried on the towel and belt in my room. It felt like my petticoats and bloomers had become all wadded up and caught between my legs, making me waddle like a duck. I was sure everyone would be able to tell.
As awful as it had been having such a thing happen when I was with Daddy, I was glad at least that Lavinia was not there too. She would never forgive me for starting first. She has always been the pretty one, the womanly one-even when we were younger she reminded me of the women in pre-Raphaelite paintings, with her curly hair and plump figure. Jenny was right-I am flat, and as Grandmother once said, my clothes hang from me like washing from a line. Lavinia and I always assumed that she would get her courses first, would wear a corset first, would marry first, would have children first. Sometimes I’ve been bothered by this, but often I’ve been secretly relieved. I have never told her, but I am not so sure that I want to be married and have children.
Now I would have to hide my belts and towels and pain from her. I didn’t like keeping secrets from my best friend. But then, she was keeping one from me. Ever since Mummy took up with Caroline Black, Lavinia has been peculiar about her, but won’t say why. When I ask her she simply says that suffragettes are wicked, but I’m sure there’s more to it than that. It was something to do with Simon and being down that grave. But she won’t say, and neither will Simon. I went to the cemetery on my own and asked him, but he just shrugged and kept on digging.
When Jenny came back with the bucket she gave me a hug. “You’re a woman now, you know. Before you know it you’ll be wearing a corset. That’s something to tell your mum tomorrow.”
I nodded. But I knew that tomorrow I would say nothing to Mummy. She wasn’t here now when she was needed most. Tomorrow did not matter.
FEBRUARY 1908
Kitty Coleman
To my surprise, it was harder facing Maude than Richard.
Richard’s response was predictable—a rage he contained in front of the police but unleashed in the cab home. He shouted about the family name, about the disgrace to his mother, about the uselessness of the cause. All of this I had known to expect, from hearing of the reactions of other women’s husbands. Indeed, I have been lucky to go this long without Richard complaining. He has thought my activities with the WSPU a harmless hobby, to be dabbled in between tea parties. It is only now he truly understands that I, too, am a suffragette.
One thing he said in the cab did surprise me. “What about your daughter?” he shouted. “Now that she’s firmly on the road to womanhood, she needs a better example than you are setting.”
I frowned-the phrase he used was so awkward it must be masking something. “What do you mean?”
Richard stared at me, both incredulous and embarrassed. “She hasn’t told you?”
“Told me what?”
“That she’s begun her—her ...” He waved his hand vaguely at my skirt.
“She has?” I cried. “When?”
“Months ago.”
“How can you know when I don’t?”
“I was with her at the time, that’s why! And a humiliating moment it was, for both of us. She had to go to Jenny in the end—you weren’t home. I should have guessed then how deeply you were into this ridiculous nonsense.”
Richard could have said more, but must have sensed he didn’t need to. I was remembering when my own courses began—how I had run to my mother, crying, and how she had comforted me.
We were silent the rest of the way back. When we got home I took a candle from the hall table and went directly up to Maude’s room. I sat on her bed and looked at her in the dim light, wondering what other secrets she was keeping from me, and how to tell her what I must tell her.
She opened her eyes and sat up before I had said anything. “What is it, Mummy?” she asked so clearly that I am not sure she had been asleep.
It was best to be honest and direct. “Do you know where I was today while you were at school?”
“At the WSPU headquarters?”
“I was at Caxton Hall for the Women’s Parliament. But then I went to Parliament Square with some others to try to get into the House of Commons.”
“And ... did you?”
“No. I was arrested. I’ve just come back from Cannon Row Police Station with your father. Who is furious, of course.”
“But why were you arrested? What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything. We were simply pushing through the crowd when policemen grabbed us and threw us to the ground. When we got up, they threw us down again and again. The bruises on my shoulders and ribs are quite spectacular. We’ve all got them.”
I did not add that many of those bruises came from the ride in the Black Maria-how the driver took corners so sharply I was thrown about, or how the cubicles in the van were so small tha
t I felt I had been shut in a coffin standing up, or how it smelled of urine, which I was sure the police had done themselves to punish us further.
“Was Caroline Black arrested too?” Maude asked.
“No. She had fallen back to speak to someone she knew, and by the time she caught up the police had already got us. She was terribly upset not to be taken. She even came down to Cannon Row on her own and sat with us.”
Maude was silent. I wanted to ask her about what Richard had told me in the cab ride home, but found I couldn’t. It was easier to talk about what had happened to me.
“I’ll be in court early tomorrow,” I continued. “They may send me straight to Holloway. I wanted to say good-bye now.”
“But ... how long would you be in-in prison?”
“I don’t know. Possibly up to three months.”
“Three months! What will we do?”
“You? You’ll be fine. There is something I want you to do for me, though.”
Maude gazed at me eagerly.
Even before I pulled out the collecting card and began to tell her about self-denial week-a campaign drive the WSPU was initiating to raise money—I knew I was doing the wrong thing. As her mother I should be comforting and reassuring her. Yet even as her face fell I continued to explain that she should ask all our neighbors as well as any visitors to place donations in the card, and that she should send it to the WSPU office at the end of the week.
I don’t know why I was so cruel.
Dorothy Baker