Friday, 14^th June 1912.

Dear Frances,

Before I write anything else, I want you to swear by everything you hold dear that you will not let another living soul see this letter. You must burn it, if necessary. Because besides me and Nora, you should be the only person who knows what happened on Thursday morning.

Have you sworn? Then I will continue. I’m sorry about all this cloak-and-dagger stuff, but it really is necessary. Because we finally did it. We took militant action. We are proper suffragettes at last! And, as it turned out, we weren’t the only ones out on the streets that morning. But I will tell you more about that later.

Anyway. Here’s how it all happened. I suppose it all began with Harry and his illness. On Monday he left the house early because he was going to Dundalk on the train with the rest of the Junior Team to play a rugby match with some school up there. Our uncle Piers, Mother’s brother, who is a solicitor in Dundalk, was going to go to the match to cheer them on and take Harry and Frank out for lunch afterwards. But Harry nearly didn’t go at all because when he was having breakfast he barely touched his toast, which is very unusual for Harry, who normally gorges half a loaf of bread every morning.

When Mother noticed how little he was eating, she said, ‘You do look pale, darling. I’m not sure you should go.’

Harry looked horrified.

‘I’m perfectly well,’ he said. ‘I’m just nervous about the match.’ And he crammed some more toast into his mouth and bolted it down. After he swallowed it, he looked even queasier.

But maybe Mother didn’t feel like having an argument with him. She said, ‘All right. But if you’re not feeling well, you mustn’t play.’

And if you want proof of just how spoiled Harry is, there you have it. If I’d been sick, I’d have been packed off to bed, no matter how much I protested! But she believes everything he says. And she regretted it later, because that evening we were just sitting down to some Peter Fitzgerald when a telegram arrived from Dundalk. I was looking forward to Peter because school had been rather awful that day. I had made an utter mess of my Latin translation and Professor Brennan was absolutely horrible to me and nearly made me cry. And then I was daydreaming in maths – not even thinking about important political things, just about Mr. Rochester in Jane Eyre, which I have nearly finished – and Professor Corcoran surprised me with a complicated maths question which of course I couldn’t answer. And then she asked Nora, who had also been daydreaming, and she couldn’t answer it either. So we both have to do some extra maths exercises tonight.

On a more positive note, our classmates have stopped badgering us about being suffragettes. But in another way that’s rather depressing because none of them seem to care about the cause very much. Or at all.

So, all in all, I was feeling glum when the telegram boy came. Mother looked very pale when Maggie handed the envelope to her, and I must say I felt pretty awful myself when she opened it and said, ‘Oh my Lord, Harry.’ I knew something bad had happened, and I know he’s very annoying, but I don’t actually want him to DIE. What if there had been a train crash? They do happen sometimes and people do die in them.

‘Is he all right?’ I asked, and I was surprised at how wobbly my voice was.

Julia started to cry. Father put his arm around her and said, ‘It’s all right, you little mouse’, but his face looked very worried. And that made me feel very worried too. My stomach felt most peculiar.

‘He got sick at the match and couldn’t travel home,’ Mother said. ‘Piers has taken him back to his house.’

‘Is it serious?’ said Father.

There was barely a second before Mother answered but somehow my mind managed to think of all sorts of terrible things: Harry with a terrible fever. Harry screaming in pain. Harry coughing up blood and dying of consumption like Daisy Redmond’s mother.

‘Piers thinks it’s just bilious influenza,’ said Mother. And she showed Father the telegram.

‘Is that serious?’ I asked. Somehow my voice didn’t sound entirely steady. And Father said, ‘Not at all, just not very pleasant.’ He kissed the top of Julia’s head. ‘Now, why don’t the two of you make yourselves comfortable and I’ll tell you what Peter Fitzgerald has been up to.’

But Julia didn’t want to listen to Peter Fitzgerald.

‘It’s not fair to read it if Harry isn’t here,’ she said. She looked as though she were going to start crying again. Father gave her another hug and said, ‘Fair enough. What about The Wouldbegoods?’

We all like E. Nesbit – even Julia – although the children get up to lots of mischief, which she doesn’t approve of. And Father is very good at reading aloud, so we all cheered up a bit when he was reading.

Still, I couldn’t help wondering if Mother and Father were just putting on a brave face so Julia and I wouldn’t be upset. I know grown-ups mean well when they do this, but the problem is that you never know whether they are doing it or not, so when they say everything is all right you don’t know if you can really believe them. Mother and Father certainly seemed all right that evening, but when Julia had measles eight years ago and almost died, they behaved in just the same way, and I only found out how worried Mother really was at the time because I ran into her room without knocking and saw her crying.

Anyway, I tried not to think about Harry and just listened to the adventures of the Bastables, and it almost worked. Good stories can be very distracting when one is worried. The Bastables seemed to work on Julia too, because by the time she went up to bed she seemed quite normal. Mother went up with her, and while Father was putting the book back in the shelf I took a quick look at the telegram, which Mother had left on a table near the fireplace. It said:

 

HARRY GOT SICK AT MATCH. COULDN’T TRAVEL. SLIGHT FEVER PROBABLY BILIOUS FLU BUT TOOK HIM HOME ANYWAY. WILL WIRE IF NEWS. PIERS.

 

The telegram proved that Mother and Father hadn’t just been putting on a brave face. I must confess that when I saw that I felt so relieved I almost started crying myself. And I was very relieved I could just go back to hating (well, sort of hating) Harry again.

But when I followed Julia up to bed a little later, I could hear sobbing coming through the door. And even though she is extremely annoying and smug, and even though I didn’t think Harry was going to die (after all, we’ve all had some sort of stomach complaint at some stage), I hurried in and found her kneeling next to her bed, her shoulders heaving. I crouched down and put my arms around her.

‘Oh Julia,’ I said. ‘You ridiculous goose.’ But I didn’t say it in a nasty way. ‘Harry’ll be all right. He’s just staying up there because he couldn’t get on a train home if he was being sick. Imagine having to share a carriage with someone who was sicking up everywhere.’ And I made a being-sick noise (which was very realistic, I really am a born actress). But Julia didn’t laugh or even tell me to stop being disgusting. She just wiped away her tears and sniffed some more.

‘Why don’t you say a decade of the rosary for him?’ I said. And because I am quite a noble big sister really, I said, ‘I’ll pray with you.’ Even though I just wanted to say my normal prayers as quickly as possible and go to bed. Anyway, Julia nodded and got her rosary beads out of their little box which she keeps on the table next to her bed, and we said a decade of the rosary for him.

Though I must confess that while we were muttering through all the Hail Marys I kept thinking, ‘If Harry is away for a few days, then I can steal his alarm clock.’ I hope that isn’t a terrible sin. I have a feeling it must be. It’s bad enough to be thinking of anything else when you’re meant to be praying, but it’s much worse to be thinking of stealing something from your sick brother. That must make me a terrible sister. But, after all, Uncle Piers seemed sure that Harry was fine. Anyway, the next time I go to confession I will say that I thought of unsuitable things during the rosary and see what the priest says.

The next day there was no news of Harry by the time I left for school, but Mother said that was to be expected and that Uncle Piers would only be in touch if there was any change, so no news was really good news.

‘And Harry might be back to full health already,’ she said. ‘He might arrive home this afternoon.’ I couldn’t help hoping he wouldn’t. It would spoil my clock-stealing plan, for one.

On the way to school I told Nora what had happened. She immediately thought of the clock too.

‘It’s as though fate is smiling on us,’ she said.

Though I did point out what Mother had said about Harry’s possible imminent return. We were discussing how long bilious ’flu would last when we arrived at school, but when we walked through the door we found the entire place in a state of chaos. Girls, nuns and teachers were running around all over the place and there were dirty wet footprints everywhere.

‘What on earth is going on?’ asked Nora, as we watched Mother Antoninas hurry past, the bottom six inches of her habit sodden with water.

‘There’s Professor Shields,’ I said. ‘She must know. Excuse me, Professor Shields!’

Professor Shields was carrying a large pile of books and looked very harassed, but she said, ‘What is it, Mollie?’ in quite a polite voice.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked. ‘Is everything all right?’

Professor Shields sighed.

‘You know about the plumbing work that’s been going on?’ she said. A lock of her hair had come loose and she pushed it behind her ear. You know something bad has happened when Professor Shields’s hair isn’t perfect. In fact, she looked much more dishevelled than usual. Even her academic gown was askew.

We knew all about the plumbing. Some men are doing something convoluted to the pipes; there has been a lot of banging and one of the lavatories was closed last week.

‘Well, the workmen have damaged the pipes by accident,’ said Professor Shields. ‘So we have floods in this part of the school and no water at all in others. And it’s most inconvenient, especially with the exams coming up.’

‘But what’s going to happen to our lessons?’ asked Nora.

‘We might have to send all you day girls home,’ said Professor Shields, and we tried not to look too excited. ‘Don’t pretend you’re not thrilled,’ she added. ‘I know I would be if I were you.’ She seemed much more human now that a crisis had struck the school.

Anyway, she told us we’d better go to our classrooms for now, so Nora and I hurried down the music corridor, where we met Stella and some of the other boarders, who were all hanging around the Middles noticeboard.

‘It happened first thing this morning,’ said Stella. ‘Daisy went to the lav and it wouldn’t flush. And then a few other girls tried to go and we discovered there was no water at all.’

I have never been so glad to be a day girl. Our house may be noisy but at least the lavatory is in working order.

‘And none of us could wash properly,’ said Daisy. ‘We just had to sort of rub ourselves down with our dry flannels. I feel awfully grubby.’

What a horrible thought. I thought fondly of the nice jug of warm water that Maggie brings me every morning.

‘I hope this doesn’t go on for much longer,’ said Stella. ‘I feel quite grey with dirt.’

But I hoped it would last for a while (though I also hoped they could arrange something so the girls could wash – we had to spend ages honestly assuring Stella that she didn’t actually look grubby at all). Because if the school closed down, then Nora and I would have more time to spend on our … activities. I didn’t have time to say anything to her, though, because the second bell rang and we all had to hurry off to class.

It was a strange sort of day. The teachers were all very distracted, and we couldn’t use some of the classrooms because the pipes had leaked all over them. During our big break we were all called into the Hall and were told that because of the unusual circumstances, at the end of lessons today the school would be closed until the following Monday, as it would take until Friday to repair the burst pipes and fix the damage they had caused.

‘But let none of you think that this is a holiday,’ said Mother Antoninas sternly. ‘We expect all of you to devote the rest of the week to your studies. After all, many of you will have your summer exams on Tuesday.’

Those boarders who couldn’t go home for just a few days (which was most of them) would be taken out for educational outings and to study in the library of one of the other Dominican convents so as to leave the school (and its water system) as free as possible before we all returned next week to take our summer exams.

Nora and I were in an excellent mood as we walked down the library corridor with Stella at the end of lessons. Stella was carrying her knitting bag, which looked even bulkier than usual.

‘What on earth have you got in there, Stella?’ I said. ‘That can’t be just knitting.’

‘I found Grace’s big study notebook,’ said Stella. ‘She left it behind after historical geography. I’ll give it to her in the cloakroom.’

‘It’s very noble of you to look after it,’ I said. ‘I’d have been tempted to drop it down the lavatory.’

‘Oh come on, Mollie, you know you wouldn’t have done that,’ said Stella. Which was true. Probably.

‘Well, I’d have considered it,’ I said.

‘Who cares about Grace and her silly notebook?’ said Nora. ‘We have a whole week of freedom. Well, practically.’

‘Not quite freedom,’ I said. ‘You know our mothers will make us work.’

‘Well, we’ll have some freedom,’ said Nora. And then she stared at me. ‘I say, Mollie. We could do it.’

‘Do what?’ I said stupidly. Then I stared back at her. ‘You mean … the painting?’

Nora nodded.

‘It’s perfect,’ she said. ‘Now we’ve got time to do the preparations, and I bet Harry won’t be back for a few days so you can take his clock. And if the worst comes to the worst and it all goes horribly wrong and we get arrested, we won’t have to miss school that day. ’

‘You’re right,’ I said, though of course I was very much hoping we wouldn’t get arrested. ‘It’s perfect.’ I looked at Stella. ‘And don’t try and talk us out of it, Stella, because we’re going to do it. Even if we do have to go to jail.’

And that was when a voice behind us said, ‘Go to jail?!’ in horrified tones.

We whirled around (Stella’s extra-heavy knitting bag whacked me in the leg) to see Grace, Gertie and May. Gertie was smirking, Grace looked like she was going to burst into (pretend) tears of horror and May looked slightly uncomfortable.

‘Why are you talking about going to jail?’ said Grace. ‘What are you planning?’

‘Nothing,’ I said.

‘Oh Mollie, don’t tell lies, you know it’s a sin,’ said Grace, sadly. ‘I heard you say something about preparations, and telling Stella not to talk you out of it.’

‘You shouldn’t have been eavesdropping,’ said Nora.

‘It’s for your own good,’ said Grace. She reached out and tried to take Nora’s hand, though Nora snatched it away. ‘I can’t let you get into trouble, Nora. What would Aunt Catherine say if she knew you were planning to do something …’ Grace paused for effect before saying, in a very dramatic voice, ‘illegal!’

‘She won’t know anything,’ said Nora, in steely tones, ‘if you don’t tell her. Because we’re not going to be arrested.’

‘But you might be,’ said Grace. ‘Oh Nora, it’s not something to do with that suffragette nonsense, is it?’

And there she had us. Neither Nora nor I could deny our commitment the cause now that we’d been asked a direct question. It would be almost (I did say almost) like St Peter denying Our Lord. So we would just have to brazen it out.

‘What if it is?’ I said. ‘It’s nothing to do with you. And like Nora said, we’re not going to be arrested.’

Gertie sniggered.

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Because you’re such master criminals. That’s why you’re talking about your stupid plans at the top of your voice in the library corridor.’

She actually had a point there, not that I was going to admit it to her.

Grace shook her head.

‘I can’t let you do this, whatever it is,’ she said. ‘I must save you from yourselves. I’m sorry, Nora, but this time I really do have to tell Aunt Catherine that you’re planning to break the law.’

I must say that Nora was marvellous. I knew that she was scared of what Grace might say to her mother (I know I was), but she hid it wonderfully.

‘You have no proof,’ she said. ‘Do your worst!’ She sounded like Peter Fitzgerald facing the jewel thieves. But it still looked as though Grace was going to call her bluff.

‘I don’t have to prove it,’ she said. ‘I just have to tell your mother and let her tackle you about it. And I know perfectly well you won’t deny your stupid cause, or whatever you call it, if somebody asks you directly.’ She was right.

Stella had been looking on in horror throughout this whole thing, but finally she spoke.

‘I can’t believe you’re being such a … such a rotten beast about this, Grace,’ she said, her voice trembling with emotion.

‘Oh be quiet, Stella,’ snapped Grace, dropping her sweet and concerned façade.

‘What difference does it make what Nora and Mollie do for their cause?’ cried Stella. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you.’

‘Nora is my cousin!’ cried Grace. ‘And they’re not going to give the Middle Grade Cup to someone who’s related to a … a … a criminal!’

And there we had it. I might have known there was a specific reason Grace had been going on at me and Nora about everything from passing notes in class to being suffragettes. It was all about that ridiculous cup and her chances of winning it. She didn’t want us – or rather Nora – to do anything in public that could damage her family in the teachers’ eyes. I was so angry I couldn’t say a word.

But Stella could.

‘The summer exams aren’t until next week,’ she said, her voice still a little bit wobbly. ‘You don’t know how you’re going to do in them. Maybe you won’t win the cup – especially if you don’t have this.’

And she reached into her bag and took out Grace’s study notebook. Grace gasped. Honestly, she actually gasped, like someone in a play.

‘My notebook!’ she cried.

‘Swear on … on your mother’s life that you won’t tell anyone about Nora and Mollie,’ said Stella, her voice sounding much more steady now, ‘or I will run down this corridor right now and drop this notebook in the lavatory. And you know I can run faster than you.’

Grace made a grab for the book, but Nora and I jumped in front of her to block her way.

‘You’re a pack of wicked blackmailers,’ said Grace.

And then May spoke for the first time. ‘Oh, don’t talk rot, Grace,’ she said. ‘You were going to tell on them.’

Grace looked like a mouse had roared at her. Well, two mice, if you counted Stella as a mouse. Which I never would again. I know I’ve said she was a bit wet and white-mouse-ish in the past, but really, Frances, she was like a lioness that afternoon. It was glorious. Especially when Grace said, ‘All right then. I promise. On my mother’s life. But I hate you all.’

‘It’s perfectly mutual,’ said Nora, which was a little like kicking someone when she was down. But I couldn’t really blame her.

Stella handed over the notebook.

‘And if you dare break your vow and say anything about Mollie and Nora,’ she said, ‘I will steal this notebook and burn it.’

It was all very dramatic. I really believed her when she said it, though now it’s all over I can’t actually imagine her stealing and burning anything. Anyway, Grace and Gertie didn’t say another word. They just stalked down the corridor, but May looked back at us and said, ‘Sorry’ before hurrying after them.

Nora and I turned to Stella.

‘You saved our lives!’ I cried.

‘Well, not literally,’ said Nora. ‘But you really did save us, Stella. Thanks awfully.’

‘Yes, thank you, thank you,’ I said.

Stella blushed (so it isn’t just me who goes red).

‘I just did what any friend would have done,’ she said. ‘Just because I’m not going to go out and paint slogans or chain myself to the post office doesn’t mean I’m not on your side.’

‘We know,’ I said.

‘And that’s why,’ Stella went on, ‘I made you these.’ And she reached into her knitting bag again and started to untangle what looked like a large moss-green bundle.

‘The complicated scarves!’ I said. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t have. Not for us.’

‘They’re not just ordinary complicated scarves,’ said Stella, who had managed to separate the tangled woollen loops. ‘Look.’ She pointed to the ends, where a lacy pattern was knitted in white and orange wool. ‘They’re the I.W.F.L. colours. Green, white and orange.’

‘Stella!’ gasped Nora. ‘They’re the most wonderful scarves I’ve ever seen.’

Stella blushed again.

‘There’s more,’ she said. And she held up the scarf so we could look more closely. It took a moment before I could see it, but when I did I said, ‘Oh, Stella!’ I almost felt tearful.

The main part of each scarf was knitted in plain garter stitch. But towards the end Stella had used purl stitches to create letters that looked as if they had been stamped into the surface of the scarf. And those letters made the words VOTES FOR WOMEN. You could only see it if you looked very carefully, but the message was there.

‘How did you do it?’ breathed Nora in wonder.

‘I worked out the letters on a grid,’ said Stella. ‘There was some squared paper in the library. It was quite easy really.’

‘You’re a genius,’ I said, and I meant it. I wrapped my scarf around my neck, and Nora did the same. ‘I will wear it always,’ I said.

‘Well, it’s a bit hot to wear it now,’ said Stella, ‘but the message will still be there in autumn. And if you’ve won votes for women by then, it can be a celebration slogan.’

Just then an imposing figure turned onto the corridor. It was Mother Antoninas and she looked very surprised to see us.

‘What are you day girls still doing here?’ she said. ‘The last bell rang ten minutes ago.’

‘Sorry, Mother Antoninas,’ we said humbly.

‘And why are you wearing those scarves?’ she said. ‘The temperature’s well into the seventies.’

‘I made them,’ said Stella quickly. ‘They’re presents.’

Mother Antoninas’s stern features softened, just a tiny bit.

‘I see,’ she said. ‘Well, that’s very nice of you, Miss Donovan, but your friends will get heat stroke if they bundle themselves up in scarves now. Even pretty ones like that.’ She reached out and held up the lacy end of Nora’s scarf. ‘Very good lacework,’ she said. ‘Sister Therese has certainly taught you well.’ And then something seemed to catch her eye. She leaned over and looked at the scarf very closely, and my stomach tied itself in a knot. Mother Antoninas may not have had Professor Shields’s terrifying eagle eye but she was very observant in her own way. And when she stood up straight again, she didn’t look at any of us but said, ‘You know, girls, that at this school we hope that we are educating you to be of service – to God, to your parents, to your husbands and families when you have them.’

‘Yes, Mother Antoninas,’ we murmured.

‘And we also encourage you to be independent, and to think for yourselves, and to serve the wider community,’ Mother Antoninas went on. ‘And some people would say that part of serving the community is having a say in how the country is run.’

She looked at us for a moment but didn’t say anything.

‘Now run along,’ she said briskly. ‘Your mothers will be wondering where you are.’

‘Mine won’t. I’m usually a bit late home,’ I said, without thinking.

Mother Antoninas raised an eyebrow (Is this something all grown-ups can do? I hope I learn how to do it soon).

‘I don’t think you should say any more, Miss Carberry,’ she said. ‘Now off you go. And you,’ she looked at Stella, ‘should be getting ready for the boarders’ afternoon walk. Come on.’

And she walked back towards the main body of the school, with Stella trotting at her heels. Nora and I walked as fast as we could down the corridor, into the entrance hall and out the door. Only then did we dare talk.

‘Well!’ said Nora.

‘She did mean …’ I said. ‘Didn’t she?’

‘I think so,’ said Nora. ‘Heavens, I feel quite dizzy.’

‘You’d better not faint or anything,’ I said. ‘We’ve got to make plans. I mean, we’ve definitely got to do the painting after all that.’

As we walked down Drumcondra Road, we decided just what we would do. Nora would be in charge of providing the paint, as previously discussed. I would have to ensure that we got up early by stealing Harry’s clock, waking Nora by throwing stones at her window. I had serious doubts about the last part.

‘I’m not very good at throwing stones,’ I said. ‘Not in a specific direction, I mean. I’m not even good at throwing balls, and they’re actually meant to be thrown.’

‘Well, it’s not as though you’ll have to hit a tiny target,’ said Nora. ‘My window’s quite large.’

‘Yes, and so’s your parents’ window, right next to it,’ I said. ‘What if I hit that instead?’

‘You won’t,’ said Nora confidently.

‘What if I hit your window and it doesn’t wake you up?’ I said. ‘Or if I hit it too hard and it breaks?’

‘It won’t,’ said Nora. She stopped walking and turned to me. ‘You do want to do this, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do,’ I said. ‘I’m the one who introduced you to the cause, remember?’

‘Well then,’ said Nora. ‘We know we’re taking a frightful risk, but we have to be brave. And we have to believe it will work.’

‘I suppose we do,’ I said.

Nora said she would get the paint that afternoon, while I would wait until Wednesday evening to swipe Harry’s alarm clock. We decided that the clock, being inside the house, would be more likely to be missed, so we thought I should take it at the last minute. If by any chance Harry had returned home by then and we had no alarm, we would just have to stay awake all night (I was privately rather worried about my ability to do this).

‘What if someone catches us while we’re doing all these preparations?’ I said nervously.

‘What if they do?’ said Nora. ‘There’s nothing wrong with having some paint or alarm clocks. We could be using them for perfectly innocent reasons. We can just make excuses.’

And as it turned out, we didn’t have to. That afternoon, Nora waited until her mother was out visiting a friend and Agnes was busy collecting the laundry so that nobody would notice her going into the shed. Then she sneaked the pot of paint out of the shed (it was at the back of the top shelf, so we thought the chances of Mr. O’Shaughnessy noticing that it had been used were pretty small). She ran back into the house and hid the pot under her winter jumpers in her chest of drawers, where nobody was likely to look at this time of year.

Meanwhile, there was news about Harry. Uncle Piers, who is clearly much more extravagant than his sister ever is (all those telegrams must have cost a pretty penny), sent another wire that read:

 

HARRY MUCH IMPROVED. NO FEVER BUT STILL BILIOUS. STAYING UNTIL SUNDAY TO RECOVER. PIERS

 

‘Well, that is a relief, isn’t it, Julia?’ said Mother after she’d read it aloud to both of us.

‘See?’ I said to Julia. ‘I told you he wasn’t dying.’ But I was happy to see her small face look less miserable. And a little bit pleased to have confirmation that Harry was going to be all right.

About half an hour later, another telegram arrived, this time a completely unnecessary one from Harry himself, who obviously had persuaded extravagant Uncle Piers to pay for it seeing as he certainly doesn’t get enough pocket money to pay for all this wiring.

 

DO NOT WORRY MOTHER. HAVE UNCLE’S AENEID AND JIM’S OLD GEOMETRY BOOKS. AM WORKING HARD FOR EXAMS ON SICKBED. HARRY.

 

I’m not sure I’d have bothered getting someone to dig out my cousin’s old schoolbooks if I was in bed with bilious flu. For a moment, I actually felt sorry for Harry, having to study in between getting sick, though a part of me thought he deserved it for all those times he threw socks at me and said rude things.

Anyway, I had to do some studying myself. As predicted, because it was officially a school week both my mother and Nora’s made it clear as soon as they heard about the pipes that we weren’t to think of this as a holiday. We would have to stay home and work on our studies or, as my mother put it, ‘make yourself useful’. So I spent most of Wednesday doing my Latin translation and trying to remember history dates. But Nora and I did manage to meet up for a short walk ‘to get some fresh air’ on Wednesday afternoon, and I told her that Harry was still safely out of the way for a few days.

‘Fate really is in our favour,’ said Nora. ‘What time should we set the clock for?’

I had already been thinking about that.

‘Half past four,’ I said. ‘So we can get back long before the servants wake up.’

‘That’ll be lots of time,’ said Nora.

Neither of us said anything for a moment. I thought of what it would be like to creep through the deserted streets, and what might happen if a policeman caught us, and a shiver ran down my spine.

‘You do really want to do this, don’t you?’ I said.

‘Of course I do,’ said Nora. ‘We can’t keep going around in circles like this. I was asking you this the other day.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘But it’s just that I started all of this. And I don’t want you to feel that I’ve, you know, dragged you along into something.’

Nora looked affronted.

‘You’ve done nothing of the kind,’ she said. ‘I’ll admit that if it weren’t for you, I might never have thought much about the cause. But once I started thinking about it, I made my own mind up. And my mind says we should paint that postbox tomorrow.’

I felt much braver and more enthusiastic on my way home. But not everything went smoothly. I had been taking it for granted that I’d be able to swipe the alarm clock from Harry’s bedside table without any problems, so it was a shock when I went into his room that evening and couldn’t see it anywhere. For a terrible moment I wondered if he could have taken it with him to Dundalk (but why would he have done that? Especially when he thought he was going for the day). Then I looked closer and saw that it had fallen off the table and got wedged between the table and the headboard. It must have got knocked back there while he was packing his sports kit. That was quite reassuring, because it showed me that Maggie or Mother wouldn’t notice it was missing if, by any strange chance, they should decide to enter the room over the next twenty-four hours.

I grabbed the clock and quietly slipped out of the room. My heart was beating like mad. Sneaking things out of rooms is terribly nerve-racking, I don’t know how burglars and people like that do it. I knocked on the door of my room just to make sure Julia wasn’t in there praying or something (I wouldn’t put it past her, even though it was two in the afternoon), but luckily the room was empty, so I was able to quickly set the alarm for half past four and wrap it up in two woolly cardigans. Then I shoved the alarm clock bundle under my pillow next to my nightie. I hoped that the cardigans and the pillow would muffle the sound of the alarm enough so that Julia wouldn’t wake up too.

The rest of the evening wasn’t much easier on my poor nerves. It was another Peter Fitzgerald night (Father has promised he’ll let Harry read the bits he’s missed when he returns home), and Peter found himself sharing a train carriage with one of the dangerous jewel thief gang. The jewel thief person didn’t recognise Peter because Peter has grown an enormous beard, but Peter was still, understandably, quite worried about being found out and was convinced that his fear was visible on his features, despite the beard. I couldn’t help wondering if the same was true for me – and I don’t even have a beard to hide behind. And I think I must have been right to worry about my anxiety showing on my face, because halfway through the chapter, at a particularly exciting moment, Father stopped reading and said, ‘Mollie, are you quite all right? You look very pale.’

‘I hope you’re not coming down with Harry’s ailment,’ said Mother.

‘I’m fine,’ I said, and tried very hard to look normal. I don’t think it worked, though, because both Father and Mother kept looking over at me in a concerned way all the way through the chapter. When Father finished reading (The member of the gang had seen through Peter Fitzgerald’s bearded disguise and he – Peter F, I mean, not the jewel thief person – had been forced to escape the carriage and crawl along the roof of the moving train. It was almost thrilling enough to distract me from my nerves, but not quite), he turned to me and said, ‘I think Mollie needs to go to bed early. She looks worn out.’

‘I don’t know why,’ said Julia. ‘It’s not like she’s done anything strenuous today.’

‘I do actually feel a bit tired,’ I said. ‘Maybe I will go to bed.’

Everyone looked surprised to hear this, because usually I try to avoid going to bed for as long as possible, but of course tonight was different. Going to bed before Julia meant that I was able to put on my nightdress over my clothes (which would save dressing time the next day). I had read about people doing this in books, but it is surprisingly uncomfortable in real life. For one thing, my clothes seem to have lots of layers, and so are terribly bulky when worn under a nightie. For another, it was extremely hot, too hot to actually get under the covers straight away after I’d said my prayers. When I was saying them I added a special extra bit asking Him to look after me and Nora during our painting, though I did wonder if this was all right. I mean, should one ask God to help you break the law, even if it’s for a good cause? Especially after I’d been thinking about stealing a clock during that rosary the other night. I can’t imagine God was very pleased with me at the moment.

When I’d finally finished my prayers, I just sat on the bed and tried to read the end of Jane Eyre until I heard Julia at the door. Then I leapt under the sheets and blankets and hoped she wouldn’t be able to tell how much I was wearing under there. Of course, she guessed something was up.

‘Are you sure you’re not coming down with something?’ she said. ‘You look very red in the face.’

‘I’m fine,’ I said, although I wasn’t.

‘I’ll pray for you if you like,’ she said, in her most saintly voice. ‘You don’t look very well.’

‘Thank you very much,’ I said sincerely, which was so unlike me that Julia gave me a very suspicious look. But she was obviously quite tired herself, because a few minutes later she had said all her prayers and got into bed, the light was turned out and she was snoring in a very loud and unsaintly manner.

Of course, as luck would have it, when I eventually closed my eyes I couldn’t get to sleep, and not just because I was boiling hot and Julia was making the sort of snuffling noises that I can only describe as ungodly. I kept worrying about the alarm not going off, and then I started worrying about it going off too loudly and waking up Julia. And then I worried that I wouldn’t be able to wake up Nora, or that I’d throw a stone through her parents’ bedroom window.

It felt as though I were lying awake all night, but I must have dropped off at some stage because I started having a very odd dream about wearing a false beard while travelling on a train with Mrs. Sheehy-Skeffington and Peter Fitzgerald. Peter Fitzgerald had just accused me of stealing a Votes for Women posterboard when I was woken up by something rumbling and shaking under my pillow. The cardigans and the pillow had done a pretty good job of muffling the sound, but it was only now that I realised how difficult it was going to be to turn the alarm off without removing all the muffling materials. And if I removed them now, Julia would definitely wake up.

There was no time to think too much about it. I shoved my hand desperately into the bundle and fumbled around with the knobs and switches. And somehow, to my great relief, I hit the right thingamabob. The alarm stopped vibrating just as Julia rolled over and made a worryingly awake-sounding snort. I held my breath for what felt like a very long time, and then Julia let out a proper snore and I knew the danger had passed – for now. I hid the bundle under my pillow, pulled off my nightie and slipped out of the room. Then I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face in the hope that it would wake me up a bit. Which it sort of did.

My shoes were in the hall, so I tip toed down the stairs in my stocking feet and put them on. The next challenge was getting out of the house. What if Father’s keys weren’t on the hall stand? Climbing out a window would be easy, but it was going to be a lot harder to get back in. But fortune was smiling on me once again, because there on the stand were the keys on their ring with the leather fob. I checked the clock in the hall. It was twenty to five. I had an hour and a half to meet Nora, go to our target, do the deed and get back to the house before Maggie got up. It was absolutely loads of time, as long as everything went well. But there were, I knew, so many things that could go wrong.

I turned the key in the front door’s lock, unhooked the heavy chain and pulled it open as gently as I could. Please, I thought, PLEASE don’t squeak today. But it did. Very loudly. I froze, expecting to hear the sound of Father or Maggie leaping out of bed and coming down to investigate. But nothing happened, and after a minute or so I went out and closed the door behind me. It only made a little squeak that time, thank heaven.

The sky was starting to get light, and there wasn’t a person to be seen as I ran down the road to Nora’s house. It felt quite odd and a little bit frightening being out at that early, lonely hour. It was only when I got to the Cantwells’ redbrick villa that I wondered if I should have gathered some stones in advance. I couldn’t see any lying about the place, and I was wondering if I could throw my shoe at the window without either breaking the window or the shoe when I noticed that one of Nora’s neighbours had a sort of gravelly patch between the bay window and the railings. I grabbed some of the gravel and threw it up at Nora’s window as accurately as I could.

It rattled against the glass so loudly that I was sure it would crack, but a moment later the curtains parted and Nora peered down at me through the crack and waved. She was wearing her nightie, but she must have had her clothes on underneath, because just a minute later she slipped out of the front door holding a little bag.

‘Did you have any trouble getting out?’ I asked.

‘I told you my parents are very sound sleepers,’ said Nora. ‘What about you?’

I told her about the alarm and the noisy door, but we agreed it could have been worse.

‘Imagine if Julia had woken up,’ said Nora.

I shuddered at the thought. Actually, I shuddered a bit from the cold too.

‘I should have brought one of the cardigans I used to wrap the clock,’ I said. ‘Or Stella’s scarf. I didn’t realise it was so cold at this time of the morning.’

‘The walk will warm us up,’ said Nora. ‘And so will running,’ she added, ‘if we get spotted by a policeman.’

I looked around nervously, but there wasn’t a policeman in sight. Or anyone else, for that matter. It was so quiet that every time we spoke, even in a whisper, it seemed to boom through the streets, so we didn’t say much. But when we reached the main road, we started to see delivery lorries and carts. Just before we reached the North Circular Road a lorry full of coal passed us. The driver gave us an amused look and called out, ‘Are you right there, girls?’ as he drove by.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s hurry up.’

We quickened our pace and it wasn’t long before we were at the postbox at the corner of Nelson Street and Eccles Street.

‘Right,’ said Nora. ‘Here we are.’

But neither of us moved.

‘Do you have the paint?’ I whispered.

Nora nodded and held up the small pot. I looked around. The street was deserted.

‘Come on, then,’ I said.

Nora unscrewed the lid and dipped in the brush.

‘Do you want to go first?’ she said. ‘After all, it was your idea to get involved in all this in the first place.’

I shook my head.

‘We’re both in it as much as each other,’ I said. ‘You write the first bit and I’ll write the last few words.’

Nora gave one nervous look behind us, and then she wrote VOTES FOR on the pillar box in big letters.

‘There,’ she said. ‘Now it’s your turn. Quickly, in case anyone comes.’

She passed me the brush. I took a deep breath. All our playing around with songs, even the chalking, were nothing in comparison to this. Now we were breaking the law. Now we were – what had Frank said? – defacing public property. Now we were really standing up for the cause.

Good.

I dipped the brush in the pot and wrote IRISH WOMEN! in even bigger letters.

We both stared at the postbox for a moment, then at each other.

‘Come on,’ I whispered. ‘Let’s go.’

And, after throwing the paint pot and the brush behind some railings, we shot off down the road as fast as our legs could carry us. Which, as I have pointed out, is quite fast indeed, at least for short distances. But it wasn’t long before we got out of breath.

‘Stop, stop,’ I wheezed, drawing to a halt. ‘I can’t go on.’

‘Neither can I,’ said Nora. She was panting too.

We leaned against the wall. Then Nora looked at me, and I looked at her, and we both started laughing (though not too loudly, in case we woke anyone up).

‘We did it!’ I said. ‘We really, truly did it!’

‘We’re militants,’ said Nora. ‘Like Mrs. Pankhurst. Except nobody has carried us off to prison.’

‘Yet,’ I said. And that sobered us up a bit, but only for a moment. Now that the immediate danger of discovery had passed, we felt giddy and bubbly, like soda water. We started laughing again.

‘Oh, it hurts,’ said Nora. ‘I still can’t breathe properly.’

And we tried to pull ourselves together. It had got much brighter and more people were starting to appear: servants and delivery men and even a few rather ragged-looking children. A Boland’s bread van went past, the driver glancing at us with mild curiosity. He – and everyone else – was probably wondering what two girls dressed like us were doing out at this hour of the morning.

‘We’d better get home,’ I said.

And off we went. We decided it was safe to start walking normally again. After all, we were far enough away from the postbox that even if someone noticed us and asked us what we were doing roaming around in the wee hours, no one would connect us with the vandalism. But just in case anyone had spotted our daring deed and was following us, we took a sort of roundabout route home.

When we reached the corner where Nora turns off, and were quite sure no one had followed us there, I asked, ‘Do you think it will get in the papers?’

‘It might,’ said Nora. ‘I mean, it’s not just chalk, it’s actual paint.’

Just then, the church bells started to ring out.

‘Six o’clock!’ I cried. ‘Maggie will be up soon.’

And, after agreeing to meet up later, we each ran home. Luckily, the door decided to behave itself and opened silently when I let myself in. I knew it was much more likely that a noise would wake someone now, at a time that was much closer to their normal waking up time, than when I left the house. I tiptoed down the hall and went into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, but of course the range and the fire weren’t properly lit, and I didn’t want to risk making a mess with either of them by trying to stoke them up, so I couldn’t boil a kettle. I cut a slice of bread and got some butter and milk from the cold press, and was sitting at the table eating the bread and butter and drinking the milk when Maggie came in, yawning and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

‘Good morning, Maggie,’ I said.

Poor Maggie nearly jumped out of her skin.

‘What are you doing here?’ she said.

‘I woke up early and couldn’t get back to sleep,’ I said. ‘The sun always wakes me up early at this time of year.’ Both of which statements were perfectly true.

Soon Maggie had laid the fire and stoked the range. I asked if I could help, but she just looked at me and said I’d be less trouble sitting at the table. I was still feeling fizzy with excitement about what we’d done, so fizzy that I almost told Maggie about it. But I knew it wouldn’t be fair to burden her with the knowledge of what me and Nora had done, even though she might approve of it (and I had a feeling she would).

I ate more bread and butter and tried not to think of the poor suffragette hunger strikers in England, and soon Maggie had made the tea. She gave me another shrewd look over the pot.

‘What have you been up to?’ she said. And then she sighed and said, ‘Actually, don’t tell me. I’m better off not knowing.’ Then she leaned over and lifted the end of one of my plaits.

‘Is that paint in your hair?’ she asked.

It was as if the earth had stopped turning. I stared at her for what seemed like ages and didn’t say anything, but she didn’t ask any more questions. She just said, ‘Honestly, I don’t know how a nice girl like you ends up covered in muck’, got a clean dish cloth and wiped my plait with it.

‘There you go,’ she said. ‘Now, off you go and do something useful. I’ve got shoes to clean and breakfast to make.’

So I went. I sat in the sitting room and tried to read the last few pages of Jane Eyre, but I couldn’t concentrate. I can’t imagine ever being able to concentrate on anything properly again; I’ve felt so jangled over the last few days. It was quite a relief when the rest of the family all started to come down for breakfast, even though they were all so surprised to see me there before them that I felt quite insulted.

‘I just woke up early because of the sunlight,’ I said. ‘It is the middle of summer, you know.’

‘I just wish it had been so easy to get you out of bed during term time,’ said Mother.

And then Julia said she was going to start getting up at six and going to Mass every day, and Mother said that was very nice but who would take her, and that drew everyone’s attention away from me. Which was a good thing, as the fizzy feeling had entirely evaporated by now, and instead I was gripped by a terrible fear. What if someone had seen us? What if they’d tracked us down? If I had managed to get paint in my hair without either me or Nora noticing, what other clues might we have left behind? I became completely terrified that I’d dropped a hanky or something (even though my hankies are all plain white with some flowers embroidered on them, rather than my initials or any other features that would identify the owner, so even if I had dropped one no one would figure out that it was mine). I was so worried about it I had to go out and check the pockets of my coat to make sure that my hanky was still there (which it was. It was also still plain white with a pansy embroidered in one corner).

I felt all nervous and fidgety for the rest of the morning. At around eleven Mother told me to walk Julia to Christina’s house, so I did, but that wasn’t very distracting. As soon as we left the house, Julia turned to me and asked, ‘What’s wrong with you?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Now shut up and keep walking.’

Julia gave me her most annoyingly pious look, the sort of look that says, ‘you are being very rude but because I am such a good and saintly person I am not going to say anything about it.’

‘I know there’s something,’ she said. ‘If there’s anything troubling your conscience, you really should go to confession, or at least talk to one of the nuns about it.’

I took a deep breath and tried to stay calm.

‘My conscience is perfectly clear,’ I said, honestly. ‘I haven’t done anything wrong.’

‘Are you sure?’ said Julia.

I clenched my fists. I knew that if I lost my temper I was perfectly capable of letting the truth slip out in the heat of rage.

‘Quite sure,’ I said. ‘Now come on, stop dawdling.’

Luckily, we had reached Christina’s house so Julia went in (probably to do some praying for my guilty soul), and I walked slowly home, running through the morning’s events for a millionth time. By the time I got home I had reassured myself that we hadn’t left any clues behind. I still felt a bit fidgety, but I didn’t feel scared.

And then, at about two o’clock, when Phyllis and I were both sitting in the drawing room – her reading a novel in a half-hearted sort of way, me trying to read my French textbook – and Mother was playing some not-very-relaxing Beethoven on the piano, it happened. There was a loud knocking on the door and when Maggie answered it, Mabel ran in, looking very flushed and excited, and announced, ‘Phyllis, I need to talk to you.’

‘Well, really, Mabel,’ said Mother. ‘What’s all this about?’

Mabel went even more red and said, ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Carberry, but I do need to speak to Phyllis urgently.’

‘Come on,’ said Phyllis. ‘Sorry, Mother.’

They went up to Phyllis’s room.

‘The sooner that girl is married the better,’ said Mother. ‘She seems a very flighty young lady.’

But I barely heard her because I was absolutely burning to know what Mabel was telling Phyllis. I knew she wouldn’t have rushed around here in such a state if something important hadn’t happened. I even considered sneaking up and listening outside the door, but I know that is the sort of behaviour that is unworthy of a suffragette. And a suffragette is what I officially am. Besides, I knew if it was general I.W.F.L. news Phyllis would tell me sooner or later. And I was right. After about half an hour Mabel and Phyllis came back into the drawing room. Phyllis’s eyes were bright and she looked as if she could barely suppress her excitement.

‘I’m very sorry about bursting in like that,’ said Mabel. ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘Well, it’s all right, Mabel,’ said Mother. ‘But I do think you should try to calm yourself. It can’t be good for your digestion, all this rushing about the place.’

‘No, Mrs. Carberry,’ said Mabel humbly. ‘Goodbye.’

When she was gone Mother said, ‘Is Mabel’s engagement still on?’

‘What?’ said Phyllis. ‘Oh yes. It’s quite all right. She just wanted to tell me that, um, that they’re going to Paris for a honeymoon.’

‘Paris!’ said Mother. ‘Good Lord, how grand. Your father and I went to Killarney, and very lucky we thought ourselves too.’

And before she could go into a reverie about the good old days of the nineteenth century, I gave Phyllis a meaningful look and said, ‘Phyllis, will you help me find that ribbon I was looking for? I can’t find it anywhere.’

‘What?’ said Phyllis. I stared at her even more meaningfully and raised my eyebrows (both of them, sadly, although I tried to just raise one) until she said, ‘Oh, all right.’

We went up to Phyllis’s room and closed the door.

‘What did Mabel want?’ I asked.

‘Ssh, not so loud,’ said Phyllis. She took a deep breath. ‘It’s happened. Militant action has begun.’

An extraordinary feeling washed over me. I felt hot and cold at the same time, and my stomach seemed to tie itself in knots.

‘What sort of action?’ I said, or rather croaked. Because suddenly my mouth had become very dry. Somehow I hadn’t expected the news of what we’d done to the postbox to get around so quickly. Now that it had, it all felt a bit overwhelming.

‘Mrs. Sheehy-Skeffington and Mrs. Palmer and some of the other ladies have broken lots of windows,’ said Phyllis. ‘In the GPO, and Government Buildings, and lots of other places.’

For a moment I wasn’t sure if I was hearing things correctly.

‘What?’ I said.

‘They’ve all been arrested,’ said Phyllis. She was almost trembling with excitement. ‘I didn’t know they were planning it. Well, of course, none of us did.’

‘I don’t believe it,’ I said. I was stunned. How could we have predicted that we would commit our daring deed on the very morning that our movement’s leaders would spring into militant action? It wasn’t as if they were basing their activities on Harry’s absence and Eccles Street’s burst water pipes (At least, it would be very odd if they were).

‘Isn’t it wonderful?’ said Phyllis. ‘They’re such heroines. Everyone will know how serious the movement is now.’

‘Did they do anything else?’ I asked. ‘Besides smash windows I mean.’

‘Isn’t that enough?’ said Phyllis. ‘It’s more than any of the rest of us have done.’

‘Of course it’s enough,’ I said quickly. ‘I was just wondering.’

‘Well, as far as I know, that was it,’ said Phyllis. ‘I only wish I could have done something too, but obviously they couldn’t have told just anyone that they were planning it – not mere rank-and-file members like me and Kathleen and Mabel.’

‘Yes, of course,’ I said.

‘I must go and tell Kathleen,’ said Phyllis. ‘Mabel hasn’t had a chance to call on her, although of course her aunt might have heard and told her already. In fact, everyone will know soon, it’ll be in the evening papers.’

A few minutes later, she was gone, practically skipping up the road on her way to Kathleen’s house. She looked so happy, but I didn’t really know what I felt, apart from slightly stunned. I wanted to rush off to tell Nora the news, but Mother still wanted me to make myself useful. By which she now apparently meant helping her trim my last summer’s hat to ‘make it look presentable’ (I think it looked perfectly presentable as it was, but Mother says it looked like an old rag, which is a bit harsh if you ask me).

Unsurprisingly, measuring bits of ribbon wasn’t enough to stop my thoughts whirring around like a top. I was comparing the length of the new ribbon to the old one when a horrible thought struck me. What if Mrs. Sheehy-Skeffington and the other window-breakers got blamed for what we had done? What if our postbox painting meant extra time was added to their prison sentences? I felt sick at the thought, and must have looked it too because Mother suddenly said, ‘Are you all right, Mollie? You’ve gone very pale. I really think you must have Harry’s flu.’

‘I’m all right,’ I said, untruthfully. ‘Mother, may I go to see Nora later? I want to ask her something about school.’

‘Out again?’ said Mother. ‘You spend far too much time gallivanting.’

‘Oh, Mother, you sound like Aunt Josephine,’ I said.

Mother looked horrified. I suppose it was quite a terrible insult. She took a deep breath and then said, ‘Well, I suppose you can call over to her for an hour, as long as it’s all right with Mrs. Cantwell.’

‘It always is,’ I said. I started to get up from my seat, but Mother reached over and gently pushed me back down again.

‘When you’ve finished helping with this hat,’ she said. Which was fair enough, I suppose. Fifteen minutes later, I was knocking on Nora’s front door. Agnes went off to fetch her and she came bouncing down the stairs.

‘Is that a new hat?’ she asked.

‘It’s last summer’s,’ I said. ‘I just helped Mother trim it.’ And I glanced around to make sure nobody was within earshot. Agnes had gone back to the kitchen, but I didn’t want to risk Mrs. Cantwell overhearing.

‘I have news,’ I whispered. ‘Important news about … you know what. Let’s go to your room.’

Nora looked a bit like I must have looked this morning. When we were in her room she said, ‘Did someone see us?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s bigger than that.’ And I told her what I’d learned, and how worried I was that the ladies would get blamed for our slogan-painting.

‘Well, if that happens,’ said Nora bravely, ‘we’ll just have to own up.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘We can’t let them be punished for what we did. Besides, some people would argue that we should own up to painting it anyway. I mean, that we should have the courage of our convictions.’

‘Well, I’m not sure about that,’ said Nora.

‘Neither am I, really,’ I agreed. ‘But I am sure about the other part. We can’t let them be blamed for something they didn’t do, even if they approve of us doing it. If you see what I mean.’

Nora nodded to show that she did.

‘When will we know?’ said Nora. ‘What exactly they’re being blamed for, I mean.’

‘It might be in the newspaper,’ I said. ‘Tonight or tomorrow.’

We looked at each other nervously.

‘You’re not regretting doing it, are you?’ I asked.

Nora seemed to pull herself together.

‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘Never. It’s the best thing we ever did.’

And when she said that, I knew that it was true. All our lives we’ve just done ordinary things. We’ve gone to school and read books and climbed trees and played games and had enemies (Grace) and friends (Stella) and annoying big brothers (you know who). But nothing we’d done before had been like this. None of it had been bigger than ourselves, bigger than everyone we knew. Standing up for women – standing up not just for what we want our lives to be like when we grow up, but for everyone else too – was bigger than ourselves. And even though we’d only painted something on a postbox, which doesn’t seem like much in the greater scheme of things, other people would see that postbox and know that there were people out there who thought votes for women was important. What we’d done wasn’t nearly as meaningful or brave as what Mrs. Sheehy-Skeffington and the others had done. But it was a big step for us. I was very glad we’d done it. And if I had to, I would go to the police and tell them so.

I couldn’t stay at Nora’s for too long – we hoped her father might come home early with an evening paper, but he was working late. When I left, we arranged to meet first thing tomorrow.

‘We’ll definitely know what’s happened by then,’ I said. ‘Even if I have to run out and buy a newspaper with my own money.’

‘Do you actually have any money of your own at the moment?’ asked Nora. ‘You’re not terribly good at saving.’

‘I have two and six left in my money box,’ I said indignantly.

Nora apologised for doubting me and said she would try and buy a paper too.

I was so nervy and fidgety when I got home that Mother asked again if I was all right.

‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I’ve just been studying too hard.’

Mother let out a very undignified snort of laughter at this.

‘Really?’ she said. ‘Well, I hope we see the results of this in your summer exams.’

When Mother left the room, I asked Phyllis if she’d had any more news about the prisoners but she hadn’t. None of her friends had called around and Father hadn’t brought home an evening newspaper.

‘And I don’t think I’ll hear anything more until tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I told Mother I wanted to call around to Kathleen later and she said she needed me to stay at home and help her sort out old sheets. And I didn’t want to kick up too much of a fuss now because I know there might be a lot to do over the next week.’

So there was nothing we could do but wait until the next day. Even the latest installment of Peter Fitzgerald’s adventures couldn’t distract me, although they were frightfully dramatic (He is now being pursued across an Arabian desert by the leader of the gang of jewel thieves). When I went to bed, I couldn’t sleep for ages, and when I finally did fall asleep, I had terrible dreams about being chased by policemen while covered in paint.

I felt exhausted the next morning, as if I really had been chased all night. When I came down to breakfast Phyllis didn’t look as if she’d got much sleep either. But when the meal was over, she gave me a meaningful look as she left the dining room. I followed her up to her room. There was a copy of today’s newspaper lying on her bed.

‘Page six,’ she said.

I grabbed it and hurriedly turned the pages. And there it was, halfway down the page, under a piece about the inquiry into the sinking of the Titanic. I read it aloud: ‘“In North Dublin Police Court yesterday Hilda Webb, Maud Lloyd, Marjorie Hasler, and Kathleen Houston were charged with having, in furtherance of the suffragette movement, smashed the windows of the Custom House, Post Office and Local Marine Board Office between five and six o’clock that morning.” I thought you said Mrs. Sheehy-Skeffington was arrested too?’

‘Different police court,’ said Phyllis. ‘Keep reading.’

I looked further down the report and there it was. ‘“In the Southern Court Margaret Palmer, Jane Murphy, Hanna Sheehy-Skeffington and Margaret Murphy were charged with having, with a like object, broken the windows of the Land Commission and Ship Street Military Barracks.’” I kept reading. ‘They’ve all been admitted to bail,’ I said. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means they’re free, for now,’ said Phyllis. ‘They’ve been let out until the trial.’

I looked at the report again. ‘It just says they’re being charged with breaking windows,’ I said.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Phyllis. ‘They didn’t do anything else. Anything else illegal, that is. ’

I felt relief rush through me. So they weren’t being accused of painting the postboxes, and me and Nora hadn’t got them into more trouble.

‘Now, I really must go and see Kathleen,’ said Phyllis. ‘Mother can’t possibly want me to help her around the house now.’

And off she went. I sighed and went down to the dining room to work on my Latin, but I’d only got one verse into Ovid’s ‘Last Night in Rome’ when there was a knock on the door, and a moment later Nora hurried into the room.

‘Maggie told me you were in here,’ she said. ‘Did you see? They haven’t been charged.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’m so relieved.’

‘Me too,’ said Nora. ‘And I met Kathleen and Phyllis on my way over, and they were so excited they deigned to talk to me. Apparently, they – the arrested ladies, I mean – are going to talk at a Phoenix Park meeting tomorrow.’

We looked at each other.

‘We must go,’ I said.

‘Of course we must,’ said Nora. ‘I mean, we’re fellow militants.’

And we looked at each other and felt very proud.

‘I sort of feel we should sing the song,’ I said.

‘Better not,’ said Nora. ‘Someone might hear. But I will hum it on my way home.’

Just then, there was a very loud knock on the front door. Nora and I looked at each other.

‘It couldn’t be …’ My voice trailed off.

‘The police? Of course not. How could it be?’ said Nora. But she didn’t sound as confident as I hoped.

And then I heard the door open and Harry’s voice booming, ‘I’m home!’

Nora and I both sagged with relief.

‘I’ve never been so glad to hear that horrible voice,’ I said.

‘Me too,’ said Nora. ‘I thought you said he wasn’t back until Sunday?’

‘He’s not meant to be,’ I said. ‘Maybe Uncle Piers has sent him back because he’s so awful.’

Sadly, this was not the case, as I found out when Nora and I went downstairs. Harry had returned because just as he recovered my cousin Margaret had arrived home from France and promptly come down with scarlet fever. Which is of course very serious, not that Harry seemed to care about that.

‘I’m sure she’ll be perfectly fine,’ he said. ‘And besides, I did have to get away from all those germs, especially after being sick myself.’

‘But, Harry, why didn’t you send a telegram?’ asked Mother, once she’d made sure Harry hadn’t had any direct contact with Margaret and so wasn’t riddled with scarlet fever germs. ‘It’s not like Piers to just pack you off without a word.’

Harry looked slightly shame-faced, which is extremely unusual for him.

‘Well, actually, Uncle Piers did give me the money to send one yesterday afternoon, but I thought it was an awful waste when I was going to see you so soon,’ he said. ‘So, um, I spent it on things to eat on the train.’

Mother was very annoyed and told him he would have to pay back Uncle Piers with his own money. I can’t pretend I didn’t enjoy seeing him get into trouble. It happens so rarely, after all.

‘Can I go over to Frank’s house?’ asked Harry, after he’d solemnly promised to send Uncle Piers the money he’d essentially stolen. ‘I haven’t seen him since I got sick on his feet.’

Poor Frank. Anyone getting sick on your feet would be bad enough, but Harry! You’d have to burn your shoes afterwards.

‘Harry, don’t say such disgusting things,’ said Mother. ‘All right, you can go, but you must be back here for supper.’

And, just like that, things were back to normal. If I’d just admitted to spending telegram money on sweets I would definitely not have been allowed go round to Nora’s house straight afterwards.

 

 

Sunday

 

This letter is getting longer and longer, but I must tell you about the meeting yesterday. First of all, it was surprisingly easy to get away because Mother suddenly decided that I looked ‘peaky’ and needed some fresh air. I almost pointed out that the reason I looked peaky (I’m not sure I did, anyway – I think I looked pale and interesting) was because I’d been stuck indoors for most of the last few days, but I didn’t want to antagonise her in case she changed her mind. Anyway, I asked if I could go for a walk in the park with Nora and she said I could.

‘Maybe you can take Julia too,’ she added.

My heart sank.

‘Oh Mother, please don’t make us,’ I said. ‘She’ll just keep telling me I need to join that sodality in school and that I don’t concentrate enough on my prayers at Mass.’

From the expression on Mother’s face I wondered, not for the first time, whether she wanted me to take Julia out for a walk so that Mother herself didn’t have to put up with her going on about how the rest of us weren’t praying enough (when really we all say lots of prayers every single day. Even Harry says his prayers every night, not that it seems to do him much good). She took a deep breath.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Phyllis was talking about going for a walk in the park too. Maybe you can go with her.’

‘Thanks, Mother,’ I said, and ran out before she could change her mind. I wanted to tell Nora straight away. I do wish we could have a telephone. Imagine if I could just ring up and talk to Nora whenever I wanted. I suppose I could send her a telegram, but even if I could afford it (and I can’t), her house is on the way to the post office so it would defeat the purpose to walk past it in order to send her a message. Grace says her family have a telephone at home but I don’t believe her.

For once, Phyllis and Kathleen didn’t mind me and Nora tagging along, if only because they still felt guilty about the fact that we had had to sit in a hall the other week while they were enjoying the meeting.

‘Phyll told me I had your ticket,’ said Kathleen. ‘Sorry about that. I must say I was impressed you wanted to come at all.’

‘Thanks very much,’ I said, and tried very hard to stop myself staring at her new hat, which had what looked like an enormous cotton cabbage leaf and a felt carrot attached to the band. I obviously wasn’t trying hard enough because Kathleen said, ‘Do you like my new hat? It’s a commemoration of the time we were attacked by those dreadful Ancient Order chaps.’

‘It’s very impressive,’ I said, and for once I wasn’t lying. I mean, it’s not every day you see a girl with a felt carrot on her hat. That said, Nora and I did make sure we kept a bit of a distance between us when we got off the tram at the park, especially when small boys started shouting things like, ‘Miss, you’ve left your dinner on your head!’

‘Ignore them, Kathleen,’ said Phyllis. ‘They’re just jealous.’ Which was a blatant lie, but Kathleen didn’t seem to mind. I suppose she’s used to people saying rude things about her hats. It actually makes me admire her for continuing to wear them in the face of ridicule. I’d have probably started wearing ordinary hats by now.

It was a very hot afternoon and by the time we reached the park I was utterly parched. Phyllis and Kathleen had promised to take us for tea and buns afterwards ‘to reward you for being so stoical about missing the Antient meeting’ but the tearooms seemed a very long way away as we made our way to the place where the ladies would be speaking. When we were almost at the spot, we saw a couple of policemen.

‘Maybe they think there’s going to be more stone throwing,’ said Nora.

‘Well it wouldn’t do much good throwing stones here,’ said Kathleen. ‘There aren’t any windows to smash in this part of the park.’

We had almost reached the lorry from which the women would be making their speeches. A very large crowd had gathered, some of whom looked a bit rowdy. Two more policemen stood nearby, observing the scene. We could see Mr. Sheehy-Skeffington and some of the I.W.F.L. ladies looking slightly uncomfortable at the front of the crowd. Phyllis turned to me and Nora.

‘I think you girls should stand back,’ she said. ‘This might get a bit … raucous. I have a horrible feeling the Hibernians are here.’

‘We’re not afraid of that,’ said Nora indignantly.

‘Well, I’m afraid of having to explain to my mother – and Mrs. Cantwell – why the pair of you are covered in cabbage leaves or worse, bruises,’ said Phyllis. ‘So go on.’

And she looked so stern that we did what she said, though we grumbled as we moved towards the back of the crowd. The ground was a little higher there so we had a decent view down towards the lorry. We did get a few odd looks from the men.

‘Here to see the fun, girls?’ said one man with a very red face. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll protect you if they start throwing any more of those stones.’

But we didn’t have to answer him because there was a sort of commotion at the front of the crowd.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked Nora. This was one of those times when her being taller than me made a difference.

‘They’re after Mr. Sheehy-Skeffington,’ she said. ‘I think Phyllis was right, it is those Ancient Order people.’

Most of the crowd were quiet and well behaved, but quite a few people at the front were shouting now, and it seemed like Mr. Sheehy-Skeffington was their target.

‘Cut his whiskers off,’ shouted one lout. ‘He’s no man!’

‘Oh dear,’ I said. I felt very sorry for Mr. Sheehy-Skeffington. The crowd were rude fools. Imagine telling someone he wasn’t a man just because he supported women’s rights!

‘Put some breeches on him!’ shouted another man in the crowd.

‘No!’ bellowed another. ‘We should take off his breeches and give him a skirt!’

There was more jostling and pushing at the front of the crowd. The men around us started to move forward to try and see what was happening. One of them looked at us.

‘You kiddies should get out of here,’ he said. But we ignored him.

‘Where are those policemen?’ I said to Nora. ‘They were here a few minutes ago.’

Nora looked back. ‘They’re over there,’ she said. ‘But they’re not doing anything.’

Nora and I made our way further up the slope where we could both get a better view of the terrible scene. It looked like the rowdy troublemakers were trying to stop the ladies getting to the lorry, and Mr. Sheehy-Skeffington and the ladies were trying to push them back, with little success. Finally, Mrs. Sheehy-Skeffington made her way through and mounted the make-shift stage. She looked scornfully at the crowd.

‘What kind of law have we,’ she cried, ‘that allows women to be mobbed while the police are looking on?’

This seemed to strike some sort of chord with the policemen, as well it might. A few minutes later, four of them, three constables and an inspector, were at the front of the crowd, pushing back the louts who had been attacking the suffragettes.

‘Be quiet, boys,’ said the Inspector.

But the rowdies just laughed and made rude remarks. They stopped pushing and shoving, though. For a while, at least.

That was when the orange sellers arrived. There are always fruit sellers in the park at the weekends, but these ones had discovered a new way of selling their wares.

‘Suffra-gate oranges!’ cried one woman. ‘Two suffra-gate oranges a penny!’

‘They’re not saying the right word,’ said Nora. ‘People might get confused.’

So we went over to one of the orange sellers.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Nora, ‘but you’re calling the name wrong.’

The orange-selling woman stared at us.

‘What in the name of goodness is it then?’ she asked.

‘Suffragette,’ I said. ‘Can we have two oranges, please?’

I handed over a penny. The woman gave us the oranges, and we thanked her and went back to our vantage point. We hadn’t even reached it when she started calling out, ‘Two more suffra-gate oranges a penny!’

‘Well!’ I said. ‘She’s not even trying. And we bought oranges and everything.’

They were nice fresh oranges, though. We started to peel them as Mrs. Cousins, another of the window smashers, got up on the lorry and started addressing the crowd. She read a long statement about how women had a definite right to the vote, but the goons at the front kept shouting.

‘Go home and mind the baby!’ shouted a man standing near us. Some people – or rather men – laughed and cheered, but quite a lot of others told him to shush. Nora and I glared at him (and you know how good Nora is at glaring), but he just laughed at us.

‘This is no place for little girls like you,’ he said, but we ignored him. We have become very good at ignoring rude and ignorant men.

Then Mrs. Cousins introduced Mrs. Palmer, who got up on the lorry. The rowdies jeered even louder and some even booed when they realised this was another one of the women that had been arrested on Thursday.

‘Have you any bricks with you?’ shouted one ‘wit’.

‘No, I used them all up,’ cried Mrs. Palmer, and the crowd laughed again, though it was a different sort of laughter this time. They were laughing with Mrs. Palmer, not at her.

Mrs. Palmer went on to tell us that we were fortunate enough to be addressed by two criminals that day – herself and Mrs. Sheehy-Skeffington. Some men in front of us started talking very loudly then so we couldn’t hear exactly what she said next, but we heard the words Mountjoy Jail. Which is where the brave window-smashers will doubtless soon be languishing.

‘The proper place to have you for life!’ shouted another man at the front of the crowd, and some of his pals cheered, but Mrs. Palmer was undaunted by their rudeness. It was inspiring, but it was also horrible. She had been so brave, and these awful men were just laughing at her and spoiling the meeting for all the well-behaved people who wanted to listen. Luckily, most of the crowd wanted to listen, and she ignored the louts and kept talking, all about why they had broken the windows (‘to assert our rights to vote and to bring our claims prominently under the notice of Government’) and how she believes that the Irish people will not want Home Rule if it excludes women.

This just made the rowdies at the front laugh even more. Their laughter made me feel a bit sick. I had thought what we did on Thursday was very brave, but I realised those awful men would just laugh at us for doing it if they knew.

‘You won’t get a vote for smashing glass!’ shouted one man.

It was very discouraging. At least, I would have thought so, but Mrs. Palmer didn’t seem to be bothered by their rudeness. She just introduced Mrs. Sheehy-Skeffington, who climbed back on the lorry.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she cried. ‘And police notetakers,’ she added, glancing at the policemen that were still standing near the front. The whole crowd laughed, even some of the rowdies.

‘Well,’ Mrs. Sheehy-Skeffington went on, ‘as far as quantity goes, this is the biggest meeting we’ve ever held in the park.’

The rowdies booed and some people cheered. In fact, from now on you can just take it for granted that this happened almost every time the women spoke.

‘You all know the way we did it,’ said Mrs. S.-S. (I can’t keep writing out her name, it’s just too long). ‘And now people want to know why we did it.’

‘Why did you do it in the dark hours of the morning?’ shouted one man.

‘Yeah,’ yelled another. ‘You should have been out in broad daylight.’

‘I don’t consider half past five on a June morning dark,’ said Mrs. S.-S.

‘You thought there’d be no policemen about,’ yelled another man.

‘This is a very serious matter,’ said Mrs. S.-S., trying to ignore them. ‘Before this day week, a good many of the women who are here now will be in prison.’

‘Hear, hear!’ shouted the rowdies.

I hated every one of them.

Mrs. S.-S. told them that if she didn’t believe that militancy was the only way to change things ‘when all constitutional means have failed’, she wouldn’t have bothered. But, as she pointed out, ‘Home Rule – which will be granted one of these days – was the result of militancy. If my father hadn’t gone to jail in his time for the cause of Home Rule, I might not be imbued with a militant spirit. I’m very glad it is hereditary in the female line as well as the male. And I’m ready to go jail for my cause – namely, Parliamentary votes for women.’

Nora and I cheered and clapped as loudly as we could, though our cheers were almost drowned out by the Ancient Order of Hibernians and their chums, yelling things like, ‘All right then, twelve months hard labour’ and ‘Go home and mind the baby!’

Mrs. S.-S. went on to talk about Wolfe Tone and Robert Emmet and other Irish heroes, and said ‘I wonder do the Irish Party realise that if they had the women of Ireland with them, they could make a very good thing of Home Rule. But if they don’t have the women of Ireland with them, the Home Rule bill might go through, but it will be a terrible fiasco.’

After that, the rowdies started booing so loudly we couldn’t hear anything Mrs. S.-S. was saying for a while.

But after a while it subsided long enough for us to hear her say, ‘A cause that can produce women who are ready to face imprisonment for the sake of their rights is not likely to die. You must remember that militants do not hurt people. Window-breaking is a historic method of protest against the Government. And we did not break shop windows; we only broke the Government windows.’ She was trying to explain that they made sure to act at a time when there were no clerks inside who might be injured when an absolutely extraordinary noise was heard coming from the front of the crowd, drowning out all of her words. It was a sort of squeaking instrument, playing a very unpleasant tune.

‘What on earth is that?’ said Nora.

It was difficult to make it out, even from the raised ground. We jumped up and down until finally a man took pity on us and said, ‘It’s a melodeon.’

I don’t know whether melodeons always sound like that but this one was hideous. And it went on for ages and ages. We were wondering if the women would have to give up the meeting altogether because no one could hear a word Mrs. S.-S. was saying, but eventually the melodeon-player gave up and she was able to continue her speech. She talked about how Mr. Asquith, the Prime Minister, was coming to Dublin soon and how the suffragettes were determined to let him know that they thought.

‘He wouldn’t dare address a meeting of the Irish people at the Phoenix Park!’ she cried. Then she talked about how soon she would be going to jail, ‘a place where I won’t be able to tell if the sky is blue or grey’, but that the cause of the suffragettes ‘will prosper as a result of our militancy!’

Some people laughed, but quite a few cheered too. Then there were questions from the crowd. Some of the questions were actually quite polite. One man asked whether it wasn’t irresponsible to smash things, and Mrs. S.-S. pointed out that if the law held women to be the same as lunatics, it wasn’t surprising if they adopted irresponsible methods. And, she said, more and more women were joining the fight.

‘A few years ago we had only three hundred suffragettes in Dublin,’ she cried. ‘And now we have a thousand!’

And she sounded so brave and optimistic that even if I hadn’t already been devoted to the cause, I really do think it would have won me over. Quite a lot of the men clapped. And then some more started asking questions (most of which we couldn’t hear because we were too far back), and the ladies answered them, and that was the end of the meeting.

We made our way through the crowd to Phyllis and Kathleen, who were part of a number of women sort of guarding the speakers as they made their way towards the park gates, with the policemen taking the lead. Phyllis spotted us as we approached.

‘Go and wait for us in the tearooms,’ she cried. I suppose she was afraid we might be caught up in more roughness – which looked likely as some of the rowdies jostled around them. She kept going towards the gates and I was wondering whether we should join them anyway – surely the men would be less likely to attack the speakers if there were young girls there too – when a familiar voice said, ‘I thought that was you. Were you there for the speeches?’

I turned around and there was Frank. He was even taller than I remembered him being. His fair hair was, as usual, falling over one eye and he looked as though he’d been running around (which it turned out he had).

‘Haven’t I met you before?’ he said to Nora. He held out his hand. ‘I’m Frank Nugent, Harry’s friend. You’re Nora, aren’t you?’

‘How do you do?’ said Nora, very politely – for her.

‘What are you doing here?’ I said. I felt quite flustered, especially as this was the first time Frank and Nora had met since she discovered I had told him about our suffrage activities.

‘I was playing football on the playing fields,’ said Frank. ‘I came over to listen to the speeches on my way out. I must say, the suffragettes were fine, weren’t they?’

‘What we could hear of them,’ said Nora.

‘It wasn’t the most receptive crowd,’ said Frank dryly. He looked over at the men that were still jeering the suffragettes and their guards. Then he took a deep breath and shouted, ‘Votes for women!’

Some of the men looked over him and made rude gestures.

‘Charming,’ he said. ‘Are you going home now?’

‘We’re going to the tearooms,’ I said. ‘We’re meeting my sister there.’ I pointed towards the crowd escorting the speakers. ‘She’s over there.’

‘Ah,’ said Frank. ‘May I walk you there?’

‘You should come in and have tea with us,’ said Nora, extremely boldly.

Frank himself looked a bit taken aback, though not in a bad way.

‘I wish I could,’ he said, ‘but I told my parents I’d be home at the usual post-footer time. Another day, perhaps?’

And now Nora looked as if she was starting to blush.

Anyway, we walked to the tearooms. Frank asked how Harry was.

‘He looked a bit feeble when he called over to my house,’ he said.

‘There’s nothing wrong with him,’ I said. ‘I think it was all a ruse to get out of school.’

But Frank said no, Harry really had been very sick and there was no way he could have gone home on the train with the rest of the team.

‘Well, there’s definitely nothing wrong with him now,’ I said.

‘He really isn’t that bad, you know,’ said Frank, laughing. ‘Though I will admit that as a brother he leaves something to be desired.’

‘He definitely wouldn’t approve of that meeting,’ I said, gesturing back towards the site of all the drama.

‘You’re probably right,’ said Frank. ‘Oh well, maybe you’ll convert him in the end.’

‘I doubt it,’ I said. We were nearly at the tearooms. ‘What did you think of, you know, the window smashing?’

And he said he was impressed by the suffragette leaders’ deeds.

‘Really?’ asked Nora, surprised.

‘Well, I’m not sure I always approve of breaking windows and that sort of thing,’ he said. ‘But it was very brave. And it’s certainly getting people’s attention.’

‘Not always in a good way,’ I said, thinking of the rude men in the crowd.

‘True,’ said Frank. He smiled at me. ‘I half expected to hear you had been smashing windows yourself, after all your chalking.’

Now both Nora and I definitely went bright red. For a moment I wondered if we could ever tell Frank the truth, but I knew that probably wasn’t a good idea. The fewer people that knew about it, the better. So I laughed (I don’t think it was very convincing) and said, ‘Oh, we’re not going to do anything like that.’

‘No,’ said Nora. ‘Chalking is enough for us.’

We had reached the tearooms.

‘Well, Mollie, I suppose I’ll see you soon,’ said Frank. ‘You can tell me more about your crusading.’

‘Yes,’ I said. Even if I couldn’t tell him about the postbox painting, I could tell him about missing the meeting, I thought. In fact, I was sure there were lots of things we could talk about.

‘Goodbye, Nora,’ said Frank. ‘It was very nice to meet you.’

‘Goodbye,’ said Nora, smiling back at him.

‘Goodbye Mollie,’ he said. ‘If you need me to catch any more terrible dogs for you, do let me know.’

And with a cheery wave, he strode away towards the North Circular Road gate. I do hope I see him again soon. Though hopefully without Barnaby having anything to do with it.

‘Well!’ said Nora.

‘Oh Nora,’ I said. ‘Don’t go on about Romeo and Juliet again, it’s quite ridiculous.’

‘All right, I won’t,’ said Nora. ‘But,’ she added in her grandest voice, ‘I give you my blessing.’

I thumped her arm but I couldn’t help laughing because she is very funny when she talks like a duchess. And then Kathleen and Phyllis returned, looking very hot and out of breath.

‘Well, they’ve gone off on a tram,’ said Kathleen. ‘And those louts seem to have given up quickly, for once. For a minute I thought they were going to break the windows.’

‘Now, let’s have some tea,’ said Phyllis. ‘And then I’d better get you two home. Don’t you have exams this week?’

And so when we had finished some decent buns, we got two trams home. After all the excitement of this week, I ended it studying French verbs and Latin poetry, and of course writing this letter to you. And there I suppose I should end the letter, because this coming week will be devoted to exams and I really don’t think I can write anything interesting about them.

I do hope you have found everything else interesting – I always worry that my letters are too long, even though you always say you prefer long letters to short ones. Anyway, I will put this in the post on my way to school tomorrow. I hope all is well with you and that your own exams haven’t been too awful. And just think, soon it will be the holidays, and who knows what will happen then?

 

Best love,

Mollie.

 

 

P.S.

 

 

Monday

 

I know this letter is even longer than usual (which is saying something), but I’m glad I forgot to post it this morning because something has happened that makes me realise how much things have changed in the last few months. And not just for me, or for Nora. Things are changing in general.

But I’ll start at the beginning. It seemed very strange to be back at school today, when so much had happened since we were last there. I wish they could have just let us go on holidays early. I mean, our summer exams aren’t that important, surely? Though I suppose they can’t just abandon the Inter. Cert. and Matric. girls (Their exams don’t start for another week or so).

Anyway, there was nothing we could do about it. Just as there seems to be nothing we can do about Grace (unfortunately).

‘I saw those suffragettes of yours were making trouble last week,’ she said snootily, when me and Nora were hanging up our hats in the cloak room. She’s more or less given up on her pretend niceness now. ‘I think it’s disgraceful, ladies throwing stones like little boys.’

‘We wouldn’t expect you to understand,’ said Nora haughtily.

‘I’m quite glad I don’t,’ said Grace. ‘A lot of grubby nonsense.’

And then the bell rang for our first lesson – which was historical geography, one of my very least favourite subjects. It was very hot, and the classrooms seemed even stuffier and smellier than ever. In fact, as the morning went on, I found myself feeling strangely flat and depressed. Just a few days ago, we’d been brave suffragettes – or at least we’d felt like them. But now we were back in school with exams starting tomorrow, while our leaders were probably going to prison in a few days. And what difference had it made, really? None to those rude men in the crowd. And certainly none to Grace.

What were we doing at all? That was what I thought as a bluebottle buzzed relentlessly against the glaring classroom window. What was the point of it? Did it really make a difference if two girls tried to go to meetings and annoyed their classmates and chalked slogans and even painted something on a postbox? Did anyone notice? And if they did notice us, would they just laugh and jeer like those awful men on Sunday? I mean, if people could laugh at such brave ladies (and Mr. Sheehy-Skeffington), would anything ever change? We hadn’t even managed to change people we know. After all, Grace was still being Grace, only worse. Harry was still being Harry.

And me and Nora didn’t even have the courage of our convictions. If we were real suffragettes, I thought, we wouldn’t have got rid of the paint and run home. We would have proudly stayed at the scene of the crime and got arrested. They’d have dragged us off to prison shouting ‘Votes for Women!’ And maybe we’d have got to talk at the meeting on Saturday instead of just standing there eating ‘suffra-gate oranges’ like good little girls. I sighed.

‘Are you quite all right, Miss Carberry?” asked Professor Costello.

I sat bolt upright.

‘Yes, Professor Costello,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’

Professor Costello gave me a stern look and then went on talking about the Boyne valley or some such nonsense. I slumped back down in my seat and tried to ignore Grace, whom I could see looking smugly at me from the next desk. And so the morning wore slowly and hotly on.

And then, at break time, it happened. Nora was telling Stella about everything that happened last week, and I left them to go to the lavatory. It was blessedly cool in there, and after I’d washed my hands I leaned my head against the looking glass over the sink for a moment. And in the reflection, out of the corner of my eye, I saw some pink lettering. I turned around and there it was. Someone had written VOTES FOR WOMEN NOW! in large letters of pink chalk on the door of the lavatory cubicle.

Nora must have done it, I thought, or maybe even Stella. Though it’s strange neither of them told me they were planning to chalk something at school. I made my way back to the refectory and when I was pushing open the big door at the end of the corridor I saw that someone had scratched VOTES FOR WOMEN into the corner of one of the panes of glass in the door. I was very impressed – scratching into glass is a lot more difficult to get rid of than chalk, or even paint – but again, it did seem strange that Nora and Stella hadn’t mentioned it. Still, seeing it cheered me up a bit. When I got back to the refectory the two of them were sitting in a corner drinking their milk and eating buns.

‘Nora’s been telling me about how you managed the postbox,’ said Stella eagerly. ‘You are brave. Well done.’

‘I told her we should have worn our scarves,’ said Nora. ‘I never knew it was so cold at that hour of the morning.’

‘Which one of you did it?’ I said.

‘Did what?’ asked Stella.

‘One of you must have,’ I said. ‘Was it you, Nora?’

‘My dear Mollie,’ said Nora, ‘I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.’

‘Have you had a touch of the sun?’ said Stella in a worried voice. ‘Maybe Mother Antoninas was right about the scarf giving you sun stroke last week.’

‘In the loo!’ I said. ‘The pink chalk. And on the window of the door.’

Nora looked a bit worried now.

‘I think she has had a touch of the sun,’ she said.

‘No I haven’t,’ I said, crossly. And I told them what I’d seen in the lavatory and on the door.

‘It wasn’t me. I don’t think I have the nerve,’ said Stella. ‘Yet,’ she added quickly.

‘It wasn’t me either,’ said Nora. ‘I wouldn’t have done it without telling you.’

The three of us looked at each other, our eyes wide.

‘You know what that means,’ said Nora. ‘It was someone else. Or two someone elses.’

‘Someone we don’t know,’ I said. ‘I mean, we must know at least one of the people who did it, because the chalk was in the Middles lav, but we don’t know who exactly it was.’

‘But who could it be?’ said Stella.

We looked around the classroom, at Maisie and May and Johanna and Daisy and all the others. Inside at least one of those girls – maybe even two, or three, or five, or ten of them – beat the heart of a suffragette. Me and Nora and Stella – we weren’t alone. And maybe everything we’d been doing really had made a difference here. Maybe our ideas were spreading out. Like the bilious ’flu or a cold. Only good, of course. Maybe someone had heard us going on about suffragettes and started thinking for the first time about why it was important for women to get the vote, like I had done after I heard the speaker at the Custom House. And just like Frank, I remembered suddenly, had only started thinking about it after I talked to him. Maybe someone had always felt it was important but had thought she was alone until she heard us. And maybe it was nothing to do with us, maybe someone in our class just happened to believe that women should have a say in how the world was run. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that there were lots of us who cared and were also willing to do something about it. Well, at least four of us: me, Nora, Stella and the mystery chalker/glass-scratcher. But that is four more girls than there were last year, or even a few months ago. And that has to be a good thing.

Anyway, I didn’t feel as glum after that. And of course I don’t know what’s going to happen next. But I’m glad that Stella made us suffragette scarves, and I’m glad that those brave ladies broke those windows, and I’m glad we painted that postbox, and I’m glad that mysterious suffragette schoolgirl wrote Votes for Women in the lav and on the window. I do think that what happened this week brought us one step closer to getting the vote. It might take months, or even years, but we’re going to win this fight. I know we are.

And won’t Grace and Aunt Josephine and Harry be absolutely sick as pigs when we do?

 

Best love, and votes for women!

Mollie