I have also abandoned my plan of sneaking onto the stage at the Theatre Royal. I read something about Asquith’s visit in the paper and it turns out that he is not going to a show in the Theatre Royal, he is just having some sort of meeting there. And women can only go if they are vouched for by a man, and even then they can only sit in the dress circle, so we certainly won’t get in. But of course we are resourceful girls, and we came up with some other ideas. After all, he will be parading through the streets after he arrives at Kingstown so we’ll have a chance to attract his attention.
‘We should make our own unique posters,’ suggested Nora. ‘Not just the usual VOTES FOR IRISH WOMEN business. Something that shows Mr. Asquith that the young people of Ireland are pro-suffrage. You know, so he knows the problem isn’t going to go away once all the older ladies get too feeble to protest.’
I thought this was an excellent idea.
‘Votes for Irish Girls!’ I cried.
‘That’s not bad, but we should also write “When We Grow Up”,’ said Nora. ‘We don’t expect the vote right now. It’s not as if Irish boys have the vote either.’
‘True,’ I said. ‘But maybe people would assume the “when we grow up” part. I mean, they couldn’t think we believe we should have the vote straight away.’
‘Those horrible Ancient Hooligans would believe anything of us,’ said Nora. ‘And they’d use it to make us look stupid.’ Which was a very good point.
‘Anyway, we can do more than wave posters,’ I said. ‘We could march along behind his carriage and sing our song.’ In case you’ve forgotten, this is the song we wrote to the tune of the Kerry Dances. It’s jolly good even if I say so myself. I’d rather hoped it would become a suffrage anthem, but we haven’t really had a chance to share it with the rest of the movement yet. Apart from Phyllis, of course, and she seemed amused by it rather than impressed. But that’s just because she thinks of me as her little sister and doesn’t take my work seriously.
‘Maybe we should write some new lyrics,’ suggested Nora. ‘You know, aimed directly at the Prime Minister.’
Well, I thought that this was a wonderful idea so I got a notebook and pencil and we set to work. But it turned out to be even more difficult than the last time. Of course, it would help if the Prime Minister had a surname that rhymed with more things. Nothing really rhymes with Asquith. Apart from ‘ask with’ of course, but Nora said that isn’t really a rhyme because it’s essentially the exact same sound.
I had suggested:
Come and listen Mr Asquith
To the cries of the Irish young
There is not much we can ask without
going on too long.
But even I had to admit it didn’t sound very catchy. Or even make much sense. Or scan very well. Anyway, we’ve got over a week to think about it. In the meantime, we have decided to leave his name out of it altogether.
‘How about this?’ said Nora.
When you promise Home Rule to us
Some will scream and shout with joy
But we want it for the ladies
And not just for the men and boys.
‘But you just pointed out that boys won’t get it any more than we will,’ I said.
‘So I did.’ Nora sighed and rubbed her eyes. ‘I think my brain is getting addled from all this song writing. Will we see if Maggie has any lemonade?’
Unfortunately, Maggie didn’t. She was too busy chopping up green things for a large salad that was going to be part of lunch.
‘But you can have an apple each,’ she said, pointing with her knife at the bowl on the dresser.
‘Maggie,’ I said, through a mouthful of apple. ‘If we put “Votes for Irish Girls” on our posters for Mr. Asquith’s visit, do you think people would know we meant we wanted the vote when we grow up and not now?’
Maggie put down the knife and turned to look at me and Nora. Her expression was so serious I swallowed quite a large chunk of apple in one go.
‘Mollie.’ Her voice was heavy. ‘How many times do I need to tell you? Don’t talk to me about any suffrage business. If your parents found out I was talking about these things with you, they’d think I was filling your head with notions, and that would be the end of me here.’
I felt ashamed of myself. She had pointed this out to me before, and I’d forgotten all about it. I do wonder sometimes if I’m a terribly selfish person.
‘Sorry, Maggie,’ I said humbly. ‘I won’t do it again.’
Maggie started chopping lettuce again. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, without looking up at me. ‘Now, off you go, the pair of you. I want to get this salad ready nice and early before your ma gets home.’
We went. I was just closing the door behind me when Maggie said quietly, almost as if she didn’t want me to hear her, ‘I don’t think everyone would know you meant when you grow up. Try and think of something else.’
I didn’t say anything. I just closed the door very gently and followed Nora into the drawing room. We were both unusually quiet for a moment. Then I told Nora what Maggie had said.
Nora sighed. ‘Writing things for a cause is jolly difficult,’ she said. Then I think she must have remembered our brave leaders in their prison cells, because she said, ‘But I suppose it’s nothing in comparison to what some people do.’
By the way, I now imagine the prison being like the Bastille in A Tale of Two Cities, which was absolutely ghastly and where you could languish for years while everyone forgot about you and you went mad with loneliness and misery. Phyllis told me that it’s not quite that bad in Mountjoy. Apparently the suffragette prisoners are allowed to have meals sent in from the Farm Produce Restaurant – which I’m sure you remember is the place Phyllis and Mabel took us for buns last month – and people have been sending them books and flowers so they are in no danger of being neglected or forgotten. And they can wear their own clothes, not horrible grubby prison garb. But it must be pretty rotten all the same. For ages they were only allowed one visitor per fortnight and one letter per fortnight, which is hardly anything at all. And they weren’t allowed to talk to each other when they were taking their daily exercise, which is so unfair.
They wanted the same rights as other political prisoners, which would allow them two visitors a day and an unlimited number of letters. Even the papers who are anti-suff said it wasn’t fair that they weren’t treated the same way as other political prisoners, so eventually the Lord Lieutenant agreed that they could have the same rights to visitors and letters. But they still aren’t allowed to talk to each other in the prison yard. I keep imagining what it would have been like if Nora and I had both been sent to jail and then weren’t allowed to exchange a single word. Nora says that we should come up with a way of sending messages through blinking or making shapes with our hands in case we ever do end up in Mountjoy, but I hope that won’t come to pass. We should probably bear it in mind though.
Right now we were trying to come up with a poster, not a secret language. So I suggested that we just stick with something simple, rather than trying to do something clever.
‘After all, we just painted “Votes for Irish Women” on the postbox, and that got into the police reports,’ I pointed out.
‘True,’ said Nora. ‘But this time we really need to catch Mr. Asquith’s eye. After all, there are going to be crowds there.’
‘Maybe we could do something different,’ I said. ‘Not a poster, I mean.’ A thought struck me. ‘Gosh, Nora, we could actually chain ourselves to some railings like the London suffragettes!’
But Nora didn’t think this was practical.
‘The only railings I can think of on his route through town are the Trinity College ones,’ she said. ‘And most of them are on top of a big wall. We’d never be able to chain ourselves up there.’ This was true. And even if it weren’t – or if we managed to fasten ourselves to the lower railings – there would definitely be plenty of crowds in front of us so the Prime Minister probably wouldn’t see us.
We needed to do something that allowed us to move around.
‘I suppose posters will have to do instead,’ I said. But by the time Nora went home we still hadn’t thought of the perfect slogan. I suppose we still have some time to do that.
I have some other news: Frank is arriving in our house on Friday. Nora of course is very amused by this prospect, but I just ignore her foolish remarks.
‘You must admit it will be nice having him in the house,’ she said.
‘Only because he’s generally a good influence on Harry,’ I replied. ‘Otherwise I really couldn’t care less.’
Nora made a noise that sounded like a snort, but she refrained from making any more unamusing jests. Anyway, I was telling the truth. Well, I was telling the truth about Frank being a civilising influence on Harry. I suppose that’s not the only reason it will be nice having him here. It’ll be good to have someone in the house who doesn’t talk down to me (Phyllis), insult me (Harry) or pray at me (Julia).
And that is the only reason I am looking forward to his visit.
Best love and votes for women,
Mollie
Wednesday, 10th July, 1912.
Dear Frances,
You must be in Boston by now, and I hope you are having a lovely time. For some reason I keep imagining that it is snowing there. I suppose it’s because Little Women starts at Christmas. Though I know that in reality it must be jolly hot, even hotter than here, which is saying something. When Nora called over this morning she was bright red in the face. She was also on her own.
‘Where’s Grace?’ I said.
‘I don’t know,’ said Nora. ‘Thank goodness. Gosh, it’s hot.’
I was confused. ‘Didn’t she like the tennis club yesterday?’
‘Oh, she loved it,’ said Nora. ‘But she’s not playing there until this afternoon.’
‘So where is she then?’ Nora can be very annoying sometimes.
‘She’s gone to visit the Menace,’ said Nora. ‘And I hope they’ll make each other very happy.’
‘Was she actually serious about that?’ I asked. ‘I knew she liked him, but I thought she was just, you know, being Grace.’
‘Apparently she was,’ said Nora. ‘She’s going to take him for a walk. Though I’m sure she’s regretting it now. He’s probably dragging her down the middle of Dorset Street even as we speak.’
I remembered my last attempt to take the Menace for a walk, and shuddered.
‘Let’s go to the Botanic Gardens then,’ I said. ‘I brought a notebook. We can climb a tree and finalise our song lyrics.’
‘Excellent scheme,’ said Nora, and off we went. But we hadn’t got far when we had an unexpected encounter.
‘Good heavens,’ said Nora. ‘Look!’
I looked. An incredible sight met my eyes. Grace was striding along the pavement, looking as happy as I’d ever seen her. She was holding a leather lead, and on the end of it, strapped firmly into his harness, was the Menace. And the astonishing thing was, he was not behaving in his usual menacing fashion. Whenever I tried to take him for a walk (‘tried’ being the operative word), he strained and strained at his lead the whole time, as if eager to get away. He does this when Mrs. Sheffield takes him for a walk too, by the way, so it’s not just me. But today he was very different. Today he was … prancing.
Yes. Prancing. Barnaby the Menace, the most badly behaved dog in the world, was bouncing along the pavement on his fluffy little legs, looking as innocent as if he’d never run away from an unfortunate girl who was meant to be looking after him, or never jumped up on the same unfortunate girl’s skirt and ruined it. (The stains still haven’t come off. There must have been more than dust on his horrible paws.) Even his button eyes looked less malevolent and more benign than usual as he approached us.
‘Hello, girls,’ said Grace. ‘Sit, Barnaby.’
AND HE SAT.
I was so astonished I couldn’t say a word. For a long moment Nora and I stared at the incredible sight, until finally I regained the power of speech and said, ‘How did you get him to do that?’
Grace tossed her curls.
‘You just have to treat him with respect,’ she said. ‘He’s a lovely dog.’
I have to admit I was genuinely impressed. I don’t think even Mrs. Sheffield has managed to get him to sit on command before.
‘Bravo.’ I meant it, too. ‘Honestly, Grace, he really is a Menace, I couldn’t possibly manage him. You must be awfully good with him.’
I don’t know who was more astonished by the fact that these words had come from my lips – me, Nora, or Grace, who was so surprised to hear praise from me she forgot to toss her hair or simper or look superior and just said, ‘Oh, thank you.’
‘Where are you taking him?’ I asked, hoping it wasn’t the Botanic Gardens. After Monday, I couldn’t bear another silent trudge. Besides, I really wanted to work on the song lyrics with Nora.
‘Down to the river,’ said Grace. ‘Mrs. Sheffield says he likes looking at the ducks.’
I could well believe that, though of course if Barnaby was looking at ducks, it was only because he was dreaming of chasing them. I wondered if he could swim. I bet he could, if only to unsettle people. The thought of him moving silently through the water, like the pike I once saw in the river when we visited Uncle Piers in Louth, was a very unnerving one.
‘Well, I hope it’s fun,’ said Nora.
Grace looked at her suspiciously. She clearly thought Nora was being very sarcastic. But I knew Nora was making a supreme effort to be polite, and I was awfully proud of her.
‘How was your first day at the club?’ I asked. I knew Nora had said she loved it, but that could have been wishful thinking.
‘Marvellous.’ Grace’s face lit up. ‘Miss Casey – she’s the lady we met on Saturday, you know – she really wants more girls to join the club. She thinks there should be just as many girls as boys. She’s very keen on fair play, you see.’
‘Goodness.’ I couldn’t help thinking of what Grace had said in the past about women who wanted fair play for girls, but I thought it was better to say nothing. ‘Well, we’re going to the Botanic Gardens.’
I was quite relieved that they don’t allow dogs there because it meant I couldn’t possibly ask Grace and the Menace to join us, even if I’d madly wanted to. The Menace looked up at Grace and gave a gentle tug at his lead. If he’d been with me, he’d have undoubtedly yanked it right out of my hand.
‘I’d better take him to see those ducks,’ said Grace, sounding almost normal.
We bade her goodbye extremely politely and watched as she and Barnaby, who was, miraculously, continuing to behave himself, trotted down the street in the direction of the river.
‘Maybe that Miss Casey is a good influence on her,’ I said. ‘She sounds very unlike herself today.’
Nora snorted. ‘I think she’s beyond good influences. Come on, let’s go to the Gardens.’
We didn’t get much further in our song-writing in the gardens. Or in our plans to join the protest. In fact, we got quite distracted because we bumped into Mary Cummins from school, who was there with her sister. Mary is awfully nice – you might remember that she was not unsympathetic to the cause when she found out we supported it. And she was horrified now when Nora told her about Grace.
‘In your room?’ Her face was a picture. ‘For a whole fortnight?’
Nora nodded. ‘But she’s joined the tennis club. So that’s been keeping her busy.’
‘Still …’ Mary shuddered. And maybe it’s because of my determination to be civilised, but I found myself feeling weirdly uncomfortable. It was one thing for me and Nora to give out about Grace, but talking about her behind her back with other people felt strangely catty. So I changed the subject and asked Mary how her holidays were going. Her family were going to Bray in a few weeks, but we arranged to meet when she was back and my family had returned from Skerries.
‘I think,’ I said to Nora, after we’d bidden Mary and her
sister goodbye, ‘that Mary is a possible convert to the cause.’
‘I think you might be right,’ Nora agreed. ‘Though we won’t convert anyone if we can’t even come up with a song.’
‘We can do that now,’ I said. ‘Come on, let’s find somewhere nice to sit and we can write some new lyrics.’
But somehow we ended up sitting down by the river for the entire afternoon, talking about books. I finished Anne of Green Gables this morning and I have lent it to Nora. She already likes the sound of it, not least because, like Anne, she has reddish hair.
I feel a little guilty that we didn’t come up with a perfect song or banner, but we have an entire week to do it. And besides, even the most doughty campaigners need a rest sometimes, don’t they?
Best love and votes for women,
Mollie
Friday, 12th July, 1912.
Dear Frances,
Right now – at least, if you’re sticking to the schedule you sent in your letter – you must be in New York City. When you come home I hope you can tell me what the tallest building in the world is like. Frank told me that it is in the centre of New York and is called The Metropolitan Life Insurance Building, which is a rather boring name for a giant tower. It has about fifty floors which I can’t even imagine; I think a building with three floors is pretty big. I would love to know if you have seen it (I can hardly see how you’ll be able to miss it) and whether it really does have fifty floors. That sounds like an exaggeration to me.
Anyway, as I mentioned Frank a few sentences ago you might be wondering if he has finally arrived in our house. And he has. In fact, he arrived this morning, just as we were finishing breakfast.