| |
Ethel Stewart had taken a day off work to attend the rally and if her da found out, he’d likely kill her. She shivered. The memories of her da’s fists in her ribs were as painful as the blows he dished out. But she didn’t regret tempting his wrath, because Martha Fairweather had acknowledged her and trusted her to hand out the WFL news-sheets.
‘A copy of our news-sheet, sir.’ Ethel thrust a newspaper into the hand of the nearest man.
He snorted and thrust it back at her.
‘You should find something better to do with your time than hand out this propaganda.’
‘Don’t worry, lass. I’ll have one of your news-sheets.’ The man standing next to him grinned at her. ‘It might come in handy for hanging in the lavatory.’
Ethel shook her head. She’d had worse responses from men who delighted in goading suffragettes. Not that Ethel counted herself a proper suffragette, but she had hopes of becoming one. She carried on moving through the crowd of people, handing out news-sheets to anyone who would take them. The babble of voices quietened, and Ethel stopped what she was doing to push to the front of the spectators where she would be nearer the stage.
Christabel exuded confidence. As she clambered on to the cart, the crowd roared their approval, drowning out the disparaging remarks of a group of men nearby. Removing her hat, she threw it to a woman standing beside the cart.
Martha Fairweather sidled up to Ethel.
‘I’m pleased you’re here today,’ she said in an undertone. ‘I’ll be nominating you for full membership at our next meeting.’
Ethel’s cheeks tingled with warmth. She hadn’t been sure of her acceptance within the group because she was working class. Everyone else appeared to be her betters – posh women who wore fancy dresses and feather-covered hats which swayed in the breeze. Feathers cost a lot of money and Ethel could only dream that someday she might wear them. Women like that rarely welcomed a mill girl to their circles. But Ethel had made a point of working hard over the past few weeks and sought out tasks, no matter how onerous, to prove her worth.
‘Ta,’ she murmured, hoping her face wasn’t flushed.
Miss Fairweather smiled at her.
‘No need to thank me. You’re a hard worker and I’ve noticed how committed you are.’
Ethel sneaked a glance at Miss Fairweather who, despite being a toff, didn’t seem to have any airs and graces. She must know that Ethel was of a lower order, but it made no apparent difference to her. She had been kind and encouraging towards Ethel.
Christabel’s voice rang out, demanding the crowd’s attention. They stirred and looked towards the speaker. Ethel found herself caught up in the enthusiasm and she, too, turned to listen. The suffragette’s eyes glowed with fervour and her voice had a hypnotic effect as she spoke about women’s suffrage and why they should be allowed to vote when men stood for election as members of parliament. Several suffragettes, in their purple, white and green sashes, clustered around the cart, looking at their leader with adoration in their eyes. But the one standing nearest to her looked different. Her dress was not so ornate, nor did she wear a fancy hat. She aroused Ethel’s curiosity.
She turned to Martha.
‘Who’s the woman holding Christabel’s hat?’
Martha smiled before she answered. It was as if she found the question amusing.
‘That’s Annie Kenney. She comes from Manchester and she’s a mill girl, the same as you.’
Ethel gasped. It had never crossed her mind that a mill girl could aspire to anything other than a lowly position in the suffrage societies. But Annie Kenney had arrived with Christabel Pankhurst, so she must have some standing in the organisation.
Perhaps, she thought, with Miss Fairweather’s help, she could emulate Annie Kenney’s success.
* * *
IN A HOUSE OVERLOOKING Albert Square, Kirsty Campbell, drawn by the noise, pressed her forehead to the window glass and watched the crowds congregating. It wasn’t the first time she had watched rallies and public meetings from her aunt’s window, but this one appeared different because pockets of women were gathering as well as the usual men. Unable to see faces from her viewpoint above them, Kirsty studied the hats of the people gathered in the square. Ladies’ bonnets of all shapes and sizes mingled with the headscarves of mill girls. Homburg hats, like the ones her father wore, prevailed among the men, although she spotted a few panama hats and a lot of bowlers. Men wearing flat caps – or bunnets, as they called them in Dundee – congregated closer to the cart. These would be the working men, interspersed with some layabouts whose main sport was to heckle the speaker.
The High School of Dundee, with its impressive pillars, formed a backdrop to the gathering crowds, while the grandeur of the Albert Institute, off to the right, made the people congregating appear insignificant. At the centre of the square, positioned between these two imposing buildings, a cart had been rolled into place to act as a stage.
Suddenly, the noise abated, and a hush descended. The crowd surged and parted to form a path for a group of women approaching the cart. The tallest one, assisted by the others, clambered on to the makeshift stage and held out her hands to the crowd. She was greeted with a roar of approval. She waved her hands to quieten them and started to speak.
Kirsty fidgeted, trying in vain to hear the speech.
‘Come away from the window, Kirsty.’ Her mother’s voice broke her concentration.
Kirsty frowned. She wanted to ask if she could join the rally in the square but knew her mother would never agree. Frustration overwhelmed her. She gritted her teeth and clenched her fists – why should she have to ask permission? She was eighteen, soon to be nineteen; that was old enough to decide for herself. Her shoulders slumped. As long as she depended on her parents, she could never be free to lead her own life.
Kirsty’s aunt, Bea Hunter, ignored the noise drifting up from the square below and concentrated on pouring tea from the silver teapot into the three cups on the table in front of her.
‘Sit down, Kirsty. Your tea is poured.’
It sounded like a reprimand. Something an adult might say to a child. But Kirsty wasn’t a child. Heat surged through her body, up through her neck, flooding her face.
‘I’m going out,’ she said, clattering quickly out of the door and down the stairs before she could change her mind.
Three women stood on the doorstep outside, craning their necks to get a better view of Christabel Pankhurst. They didn’t move when Kirsty left the building and she had to push past them. One woman muttered and glared at her, but Kirsty didn’t care. She was outside! She was free, even if it was only for a short time.
Kirsty squeezed and wriggled through the crowd to get as near to the makeshift stage as she could. Her mother would have been horrified, but she pushed thoughts of her mother and Aunt Bea to the back of her mind. Being part of the crowd was exhilarating.
The voice of the young woman standing on the cart soared above the city noises. It was filled with energy and vitality, enthusing the women around her and the audience she was addressing. These women were alive. So different from her own sterile existence. Their enthusiasm for the cause they promoted affected Kirsty, and she felt her spirits rising in a way they hadn’t done for several years.
Enthralled by the speaker’s voice, Kirsty edged nearer the cart and craned her neck for a closer look.
‘Do you think we’ll ever get the vote?’ The question came from the girl standing beside her.
‘It’s something I’ve never thought about.’
‘But you’re here.’
‘Yes, I was watching from the window.’ Kirsty pointed to where her aunt’s house bordered the square. ‘I felt compelled to come outside to listen.’
The girl thrust a leaflet into Kirsty’s hand.
‘This’ll give you information on why women need to be able to vote.’
Kirsty frowned. Members of parliament were a mystery to her and being able to vote for them seemed pointless. As if sensing her doubts, the girl continued to speak.
‘The vote’s important for us if we ever want to be independent and make our own decisions. If we continue the way we are, men will continue to decide how we live our lives and we’ll never gain freedom from their restrictions.’
Impressed by the passion in the girl’s voice, Kirsty folded the leaflet and placed it in her pocket.
‘I’ll take it home and read it,’ she promised.