Chapter Fourteen

It was the end of May when Emma opened her bedroom door and almost tripped over a copy of the Irish Independent that had been left on the carpet. She recognised Thomas’s writing above the headline. I thought page five would be of interest.

Emma took it down to read in the garden behind the hotel. She poured herself a cup of coffee from the dining room on her way through, then settled herself on an old bench, the sounds of the harbour muffled by the hotel garden’s high walls. Two fruit trees had made the best of a sunny patch next to the brickwork, their gnarled trunks and forgotten branches providing a stage for chattering songbirds.

The sun felt warm on Emma’s face and she lay the newspaper out on the rickety table. She rolled up the sleeves of her blouse to give her wrists another opportunity in the open air, something she would never do in company. She was touched that Thomas had guessed she’d want to read about the New York march. She had shared more than once how sorry she was to have missed it, how special it would have been to march in Martina’s honour.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.’ The voice was Aoife’s.

‘You didn’t, not really. I’m reading about the big march back home earlier this month, look…’ Immediately Emma realised her error. ‘Sorry, I’ll read it to you if you like. Do you have time?’

‘I’ve come out to collect logs, but Thomas won’t mind if I’m a few minutes. He always says, as long as the jobs are done he doesn’t mind how I manage my day.’

‘So, it’s Alice who’s tougher on you?’

‘She’s kind in her own way. She’s been good to me.’ Aoife sat on another chair. ‘I’d love to hear the piece in the paper.’

The article appeared in the middle pages, reproduced from the Harper’s Weekly report, and Emma cleared her throat before beginning, ‘“Marching on to Suffrage”, there’s a photograph showing the front rows of the congregation. And the report says, “The women marched against the wishes of so many while banners hung from buildings along the five-mile route. There was a musical accompaniment, including Scottish bagpipes, which turned the event into a vibrant festival as the slow-moving crowd walked from 57th Street to Union Square. Even the Men’s League had two hundred members marching at the rear of the procession who received huge applause and cheers when they arrived in Union Square. The youngest attendee was just a year old in a perambulator, and the eldest, a great-grandmother of ninety-one.”’

‘That’s so many people in one place.’ Aoife stood, her eyes wide.

Emma smiled and closed the paper. ‘And there were some men who supported them. I find that even more surprising.’

‘In a good way, though.’

‘Completely good. More than good.’ Emma smiled. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if not all men are as barbaric as those I’ve met in my short life.’

Aoife giggled and moved towards the woodpile. ‘John the butcher. He’s alright, always laughing and giving out extra bits if he can. And then, of course, there’s Thomas here. I don’t think he’s barbaric.’

The sun moved a little in the sky and Emma’s coffee cooled.

‘My friend, Martina, would have been right near the front.’ Emma concluded and watched a millipede pause its progress across the table’s cliff edge. ‘She’s the reason I became involved with the Women’s League. I know my parents think that while I’m here, I’ll forget about it, but I can’t. I won’t.’

‘Will you find a group to join?’

‘I don’t know, I’m thinking of creating one of my own, here in the town.’ She gave the millipede a helping hand and flicked it onto the grass. ‘Why don’t you join up with me?’

‘What would we do?’

‘We’d count.’

‘Count?’

‘They need numbers, Aoife. The more women join, the louder the message and the more effective the effort will become,’ she said, and pointed to another report from Liverpool, England, where suffragettes had put small explosive devices into post boxes on street corners. ‘The English suffragettes are doing things differently while in New York we are still only marching and holding a few speeches.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘The difference is no-one responds to words alone. Women have been speaking up about wanting to vote for a very long time, but governments in lots of countries don’t want to change the old ways.’

Aoife leaned in to look more closely. ‘Is that a prison cell?’

‘Yes, she’s been arrested.’ The grainy black and white photo showed a woman gripping bars with both hands, sneering defiantly at the photographer. ‘I think she broke some windows of a government building and has been issued now with a public disorder offence.’

‘She doesn’t look like she’s worried,’ Aoife said.

‘She’s not. It’s probably what she set out to achieve that day, because the publicity in the papers reaches more people because the papers get sent all over the world. So, you see, the message is spreading. I mean, look what this says: this woman was arrested last Thursday and we already know about it, only four days later!’

Aoife sighed, walked over to the woodpile and started to fill a basket. As she bent down, folded paper fell from her pocket. Emma watched as Aoife hurriedly pushed it back into the folds of her skirt. After a beat, Aoife continued, ‘What would the benefits actually be, though? If we won the vote, I mean?’

‘You’d have a say in things, your working life, for a start.’

‘Are we trying to take over from men?’

‘Not so much take over. Most women I’ve spoken to simply want to work alongside men – good men – and be respected and treated like equals. Many want to be mothers, too, and have the chance to work a day here and there after they’ve had their children.’

Aoife thought for a moment. ‘Or perhaps if they want to work longer hours, or get better jobs?’

‘Exactly! It’s so exciting, Aoife, I feel we are living on the cusp of a revolution.’

Aoife lifted the basket onto her hip. ‘You make it sound like war.’

‘It is war. Women against old-fashioned rules written by men.’ Emma turned her face up to the sun. ‘I want my time here to mean something. Something other than just getting better. So I’m thinking a group here in Queenstown is perfect. Will you help me recruit members?’

Aoife’s eyes widened. ‘I don’t want to get arrested, but I’d like to help you.’

Emma shielded her eyes from the sun. ‘Don’t worry, you don’t have to do anything you don’t feel comfortable doing. I’m going to start looking for somewhere we can hold meetings. All I’m asking is for your help to try and change the views of the women you know around the town. Show them there’s a different way to the only one they think they know.’

‘Imagine the women of Queenstown, marching and speaking up in public.’ Aoife giggled. ‘Actually, maybe this could be fun.’

Emma nodded. ‘The town’s very name reflects a woman who had to survive in a man’s world. She reigned for over sixty years, Aoife. Her son, Edward, did ten and this year, George will be crowned at the age of forty-six, so he won’t beat his grandma. I tell you, Victoria set a record that will never be broken. What better icon do we have?’

Aoife went inside leaving Emma to read through the rest of the paper. There was a double-page spread about the Royal visit to Dublin planned for July. The people of Ireland were separating into those who no longer wanted to be under English rule and those loyalists who still stood for the Monarchy and being part of a United Kingdom. Emma hoped the divide would not affect the female population’s desire to win the vote, irrespective of their political standing.

 

Later that afternoon, Emma arrived at the Soldiers’ Home, where she had started to spend a couple of afternoons a week with the soldiers, some of whom seemed so quiet she couldn’t actually believe they had it in them to fight. She took off her hat and placed the pin in the felt for safety. Michael, who she had seen the previous week, was sitting by the window.

‘Shall I read to you?’

Emma selected an armful of books from the shelf in what Mary called the reading room. She laid them out across the table for the young seaman to choose. He’d said nothing since his arrival a few minutes earlier and looked young enough to still be in school.

‘Michael, isn’t it?’ Emma ventured gently.

He stared at the books for a moment.

Emma waited.

His finger pressed down on a blue hardback cover which he pushed slowly away to the other side of the table. Then he placed the same finger on the next book and did the same. He continued until all of the books she’d offered lined the opposite edge of the table.

Mary had told her what to expect with this one so Emma pulled the botanical guide back towards them and sat down next to him.

‘I thought it would be nice to look through the illustrations in this and you can tell me if you recognise any from your home in England.’

She turned the pages and wished there were English names printed alongside those in Latin.

Michael was not looking anyway. ‘No good.’

Emma was shocked momentarily to hear him speak. ‘What’s no good, Michael?’

‘No good.’

‘Oh, look, here’s some roses. Did you have roses in your garden at home?’

‘No good!’ he shouted, and banged the table with his fists, making Emma jump.

Emma closed the book, her heart racing. The door was open and she could hear Mary in the next room.

‘What’s this one?’ she said, and pulled a different book back from the edge. ‘Oh, look. It’s poetry.’

She moved to the window and sat on a large box – placed there to deter anyone from leaning out – and began to read aloud.

Michael stayed silent and the whites of his knuckles turned pink as he released his fists and the tension drained away. The chinking of crockery in the next room provided homely background noises to Emma’s reading.

Neither of them had heard of the poet, an Australian called Henry Kendall, but his lines transported them to the outback, a place neither of them were ever likely to go.

When the poem came to an end, Emma ran her fingers across the words written nearly a hundred years before and marvelled at the visions they evoked. She almost forgot Michael was in the room as she turned the pages and read on.

‘My mother had yellow roses.’

Emma looked up from the pages. ‘She did?’

Michael nodded. ‘In a big round flowerbed in the middle of the grass.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘I helped my father dig that bed. I was nine.’

Emma smiled and willed him to continue.

‘I was fourteen when he died, and sixteen when Mother died.’

‘Oh, Michael. I’m so sorry.’ She put the book of poems down quietly on the table and poured them each a cup of tea from a pot on the sideboard. She made sure it was cooled with enough milk, in case he spilt it.

‘The day after she was buried, my uncle took me to enlist in the army.’

No wonder the boy didn’t know whether he was coming or going. He’d had no time to grieve. She’d spent four years grieving for her brother and she still didn’t feel she was over the loss of him. Perhaps that feeling would never come.

‘There now.’ Mary arrived in the doorway, bringing with her an abundance of energy and smiles. ‘How’re we doing?’

‘I’m learning all about his mother’s rose-bed back home in England.’

‘Oh, I do love a rose.’

Michael yawned. ‘Sorry.’

‘When did you last sleep, young man?’ Mary bustled about him without making eye contact. ‘I’ve prepared the bed in room number seven for you. Go and take yourself off for an hour and put your head down.’

Michael stood and looked at Emma. ‘May I take the poetry book with me?’

‘Of course,’ Emma replied.

She gave it to him and he thanked her. ‘My mother was Australian. Father had met her while he’d been in the navy. He brought her back to England and she said she’d never known roses at home, so we gave her the flowerbed.’

‘That’s a lovely memory, Michael.’ Mary touched his arm.

‘It’s been okay.’ He nodded, looking at the floor. ‘To remember them today. Thank you.’

Emma leant against the window and listened to their voices as they retreated down the corridor. Some of the men slept like logs when they visited the Home, unable to sleep undisturbed in the shared dormitories at the barracks.

Mary came back. ‘You’ve done well with him, today, Emma. I’ve not seen him that relaxed for weeks.’

‘I can’t begin to imagine what he’s gone through, being made to join the army so quickly after the death of his surviving parent.’

‘I know. It’s tough, but what we can do is give him hope. For a brighter future. He’s a good sailor. The nightmares stop him sleeping regular and the deprivation leads to exhaustion. Then he can’t see the woods for the trees. We have lots like that, come in once a week for an afternoon and they often sleep for much of it.’

Emma sighed. ‘Is reading to them really any help at all?’

‘A huge help.’ Mary assured her and tidied away the teacups. ‘Being here is like a home from home. Just a few hours with a change of scene. Back on barracks, there’s no-one to talk to if they’re feeling low. Just the expectation they’ll deliver and go on delivering.’

‘I hate the army,’ Emma said flatly.

‘No, you don’t,’ Mary said. ‘What you hate is what’s missing from it.’

Emma looked up at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The scope for men to talk openly about their feelings. They should have someone, alongside them at all times. I don’t know, a comrade in uniform, who trains with them, fights alongside them but whose main job it is to be there for them. My wish is for every regiment to have someone like that.’

‘Specially trained to understand the mind, you mean?’

‘Yes. Exactly that,’ Mary agreed. ‘Of course, it’ll never happen.’

‘What they need is someone like you, Mary.’ Emma smiled and added her cup to the tray.

‘Women in the army? That’ll be the day!’ Mary giggled. ‘Come on, let’s see if Frank and Bennie are here yet. They always arrive together. I think they only come for my biscuits.’