Tuesday, 9th July, 1912.
Dear Frances,
I am looking at my itinerary and I realise you must definitely be in Boston now. I hope you manage to get to a bookshop in the city so you can investigate all the American (and Canadian) books. Imagine if you are reading Anne of Green Gables too! I have nearly finished it and I will be so sad when it’s over. I do hope Mabel meant it when she said she would lend me the sequel.
But I have plenty of other things to think about, for today was an excellent day for many reasons. Number one, of course, was the fact that we were rid of Grace, so the question of being friendly with her or not didn’t arise. And the second reason was that, for once, I myself was totally free. Not only had my mother not devised any terrible plans to keep me busy doing household chores, but she wasn’t even at home to watch over me. In fact, I had the whole house to myself! Mother and Julia went out shortly after breakfast to visit Aunt Josephine, who has a bad cold and has taken to her bed. Everyone seems to be getting sick this summer. I hope I’m not stricken down by any fiendish germs before Mr. Asquith’s visit (or after it, for that matter, seeing as we’re meant to be going on holiday then).
I knew that Mother didn’t particularly want to visit Aunt Josephine. (I’m pretty sure she doesn’t like her any more than I do.) But Aunt Josephine had sent her a plaintive note asking if she could return a book of religious essays that Aunt Josephine had lent (unasked for) to Mother a few weeks ago and which, unbeknownst to Aunt Josephine, has been sitting untouched on top of the piano ever since. Apparently Aunt Josephine is now in need of divine solace and wants the book back straight away.
And Mother clearly felt so guilty about not reading the book (which looked very boring; I don’t blame her for not going near it), and also about the idea of Aunt Josephine languishing on her sickbed looking for help from Our Lord, that she couldn’t say no. She decided to take Julia with her because Aunt Josephine loves Julia and perhaps seeing her would cheer her up.
‘And seeing the rest of us wouldn’t?’ I said, when Mother announced her plans over breakfast. I don’t even know why I was saying it really, it’s not as if I wanted to go. Quite the opposite in fact. But it’s rather insulting to know someone doesn’t want to see you, even if you don’t want to see them.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Mother. She turned to Julia, who was looking particularly angelic this morning, even with a mouthful of toast and poached egg. ‘You don’t mind, do you, dear?’
Julia swallowed her egg and said, ‘Of course not.’ She is the only one of us who can stomach Aunt Josephine, and that’s only because Aunt Josephine fusses over her and buys her lots of holy pictures and cards and things for her vast collection. Aunt Josephine has clearly given up the rest of us as a lost cause, but she thinks there’s still hope for Julia.
Anyway, that took care of two members of the household. And then Phyllis was on an outing to Howth with Kathleen and Mabel, probably plotting secret suffragette business. (I didn’t get a chance to ask her for details because she announced her plan shortly before breakfast and then left before I could talk to her on her own.) Harry was off in the Phoenix Park with Frank, playing cricket with some boys from school – apparently this cricket-playing has become a regular thing.
And Father was at work, of course, where I hoped he would find some time to write more of Peter Fitzgerald’s adventures. Things have been very busy in the Department recently, so he hasn’t had the leisure hours to devote himself to his fictional pursuits. In fact, we haven’t had a new installment for a few days now, but he assures me there will be more of the story when things calm down at work. Last night I asked him what he is going to do when Peter’s adventures finally come to an end.
‘You know, Mollie, I haven’t really thought of that.’ He looked quite surprised.
‘You could always send the story to a publisher,’ I suggested. I don’t tell Father this very often, but really Peter Fitzgerald’s adventures are terribly exciting and I bet other people would be as entertained by them as we all are. Father smiled.
‘That’s what I thought I’d do when I started writing it,’ he said. ‘But the story’s rather run away from me, don’t you think? I mean, if it were a book it would be hundreds and hundreds of pages long at this stage. I don’t think anyone would be able to pick it up in order to read it.’
I suppose he really has been writing it for a long time.
‘You could divide it into two separate books,’ I said. ‘Or three, even.’
I didn’t think Father would take my suggestion seriously (he never usually does), but he actually looked quite thoughtful for a moment. Then he said briskly, ‘Maybe I will. But I don’t know when I’ll have time to do any editing, not with all the work I have to do at the office.’
Anyway, sorry as I am that Father can’t devote himself entirely to his literary endeavours, I knew that I would be alone in the house all morning, apart from Maggie and Mrs. Carr who had come in, as she does regularly, to scrub down the range and other heavy work. And I knew they wouldn’t interfere with me as long as I didn’t do anything dangerous or startlingly noisy. So it was with a light heart that I ran (well, walked quickly) round to Nora’s house. I was going to tell Nora about my free house as soon as she came to the door, but I didn’t get a chance straight away.
‘She’s gone!’ Nora hissed in a noisy whisper, and without another word she grabbed my arm and whisked me up to her room. It turned out that Grace had set off for the tennis club straight after breakfast. Mrs. Cantwell seemed to have got over her disappointment that Nora had no desire to go there with her.
‘I think she knew that expecting me and Grace to spend all our time together without killing each other was rather a stupid idea,’ Nora said. ‘I nearly burst with the effort of not fighting with her on the trip to Bray yesterday.’
‘Was it really that bad?’ I was impressed that Nora had managed to restrain herself.
‘Just her usual self,’ said Nora. ‘But I think mother noticed the strain I was under. So for the moment she thinks anything that keeps Grace busy and away from me is A Good Thing.’
‘Is she at the tennis club all day today?’ I asked.
Nora nodded. ‘And I jolly well hope she likes it because if she doesn’t we’ll be back where we started.’
‘Well, even if she does hate it,’ I said, ‘we’re free for today.’ And I told her about my free house. She agreed that we should make our way there without delay, in case her mother had a change of heart and tried to force us to join Grace on the tennis court. As it turned out, Mrs. Cantwell seemed quite happy to see us go, though she did ask if we were sure we didn’t want to go to the club. She really does want Nora and Grace to be friends.
‘I’m sure you’d enjoy it,’ she said (rather plaintively, I thought).
‘We don’t want to get in Grace’s way.’ Nora’s expression was utterly innocent. ‘We want to give her a chance to shine among her new club-mates.’
Which was very clever of her, I thought, and clearly impressed Mrs. Cantwell, who said, ‘Well, it’s nice of you to think of that.’
Ten minutes later we were back in my house, which is much nicer when my family aren’t in it. We didn’t even have to hide away in my room or in a corner of the garden, as we usually do when I have visitors. We could loll around in the drawing room without anyone coming in and telling me to do some boring chore (Mother) or demanding that we give up the good seats (Harry) or making us listen to their piano practice (Julia). It was very restful. And it meant that we could make suffragette plans without worrying about anyone overhearing.
‘So,’ I said, when we were both ensconsed in the most comfortable chairs in the drawing room, the ones usually baggsed by Father, Mother and Phyllis. ‘What are we going to do for Mr. Asquith’s visit, now that Mabel has nixed the boat plan? He’ll be here for a few days, after all.’
I have to admit that I’m very relieved Mabel advised us against taking out a boat. And it’s not because I’m worried about my seasickness, which is a mere trifle. It’s more that I don’t actually know how to row. And neither does Nora. I’m not sure how we could manage to get out into the bay AND hold up a banner. We’d be more likely to be swept out to sea, and though I am willing to do a lot for the cause (like put myself through the horrors of seasickness and then spend a day wobbling about on land because my legs have gone funny), I am not exactly willing to meet a watery grave. And Nora feels much the same way. We both trust Mabel’s wisdom so we don’t feel too guilty for abandoning the idea.
I have also abandoned my plan of sneaking onto the stage at the Theatre Royal. I read something about Asquith’s visit in the paper and it turns out that he is not going to a show in the Theatre Royal, he is just having some sort of meeting there. And women can only go if they are vouched for by a man, and even then they can only sit in the dress circle, so we certainly won’t get in. But of course we are resourceful girls, and we came up with some other ideas. After all, he will be parading through the streets after he arrives at Kingstown so we’ll have a chance to attract his attention.
‘We should make our own unique posters,’ suggested Nora. ‘Not just the usual VOTES FOR IRISH WOMEN business. Something that shows Mr. Asquith that the young people of Ireland are pro-suffrage. You know, so he knows the problem isn’t going to go away once all the older ladies get too feeble to protest.’
I thought this was an excellent idea.
‘Votes for Irish Girls!’ I cried.
‘That’s not bad, but we should also write “When We Grow Up”,’ said Nora. ‘We don’t expect the vote right now. It’s not as if Irish boys have the vote either.’
‘True,’ I said. ‘But maybe people would assume the “when we grow up” part. I mean, they couldn’t think we believe we should have the vote straight away.’
‘Those horrible Ancient Hooligans would believe anything of us,’ said Nora. ‘And they’d use it to make us look stupid.’ Which was a very good point.
‘Anyway, we can do more than wave posters,’ I said. ‘We could march along behind his carriage and sing our song.’ In case you’ve forgotten, this is the song we wrote to the tune of the Kerry Dances. It’s jolly good even if I say so myself. I’d rather hoped it would become a suffrage anthem, but we haven’t really had a chance to share it with the rest of the movement yet. Apart from Phyllis, of course, and she seemed amused by it rather than impressed. But that’s just because she thinks of me as her little sister and doesn’t take my work seriously.
‘Maybe we should write some new lyrics,’ suggested Nora. ‘You know, aimed directly at the Prime Minister.’
Well, I thought that this was a wonderful idea so I got a notebook and pencil and we set to work. But it turned out to be even more difficult than the last time. Of course, it would help if the Prime Minister had a surname that rhymed with more things. Nothing really rhymes with Asquith. Apart from ‘ask with’ of course, but Nora said that isn’t really a rhyme because it’s essentially the exact same sound.
I had suggested:
Come and listen Mr Asquith
To the cries of the Irish young
There is not much we can ask without
going on too long.
But even I had to admit it didn’t sound very catchy. Or even make much sense. Or scan very well. Anyway, we’ve got over a week to think about it. In the meantime, we have decided to leave his name out of it altogether.
When you promise Home Rule to us
Some will scream and shout with joy
But we want it for the ladies
And not just for the men and boys.
‘But you just pointed out that boys won’t get it any more than we will,’ I said.
‘So I did.’ Nora sighed and rubbed her eyes. ‘I think my brain is getting addled from all this song writing. Will we see if Maggie has any lemonade?’
Unfortunately, Maggie didn’t. She was too busy chopping up green things for a large salad that was going to be part of lunch.
‘But you can have an apple each,’ she said, pointing with her knife at the bowl on the dresser.
‘Maggie,’ I said, through a mouthful of apple. ‘If we put “Votes for Irish Girls” on our posters for Mr. Asquith’s visit, do you think people would know we meant we wanted the vote when we grow up and not now?’
Maggie put down the knife and turned to look at me and Nora. Her expression was so serious I swallowed quite a large chunk of apple in one go.
‘Mollie.’ Her voice was heavy. ‘How many times do I need to tell you? Don’t talk to me about any suffrage business. If your parents found out I was talking about these things with you, they’d think I was filling your head with notions, and that would be the end of me here.’
I felt ashamed of myself. She had pointed this out to me before, and I’d forgotten all about it. I do wonder sometimes if I’m a terribly selfish person.
‘Sorry, Maggie,’ I said humbly. ‘I won’t do it again.’
Maggie started chopping lettuce again. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, without looking up at me. ‘Now, off you go, the pair of you. I want to get this salad ready nice and early before your ma gets home.’
We went. I was just closing the door behind me when Maggie said quietly, almost as if she didn’t want me to hear her, ‘I don’t think everyone would know you meant when you grow up. Try and think of something else.’
I didn’t say anything. I just closed the door very gently and followed Nora into the drawing room. We were both unusually quiet for a moment. Then I told Nora what Maggie had said.
Nora sighed. ‘Writing things for a cause is jolly difficult,’ she said. Then I think she must have remembered our brave leaders in their prison cells, because she said, ‘But I suppose it’s nothing in comparison to what some people do.’
By the way, I now imagine the prison being like the Bastille in A Tale of Two Cities, which was absolutely ghastly and where you could languish for years while everyone forgot about you and you went mad with loneliness and misery. Phyllis told me that it’s not quite that bad in Mountjoy. Apparently the suffragette prisoners are allowed to have meals sent in from the Farm Produce Restaurant – which I’m sure you remember is the place Phyllis and Mabel took us for buns last month – and people have been sending them books and flowers so they are in no danger of being neglected or forgotten. And they can wear their own clothes, not horrible grubby prison garb. But it must be pretty rotten all the same. For ages they were only allowed one visitor per fortnight and one letter per fortnight, which is hardly anything at all. And they weren’t allowed to talk to each other when they were taking their daily exercise, which is so unfair.
They wanted the same rights as other political prisoners, which would allow them two visitors a day and an unlimited number of letters. Even the papers who are anti-suff said it wasn’t fair that they weren’t treated the same way as other political prisoners, so eventually the Lord Lieutenant agreed that they could have the same rights to visitors and letters. But they still aren’t allowed to talk to each other in the prison yard. I keep imagining what it would have been like if Nora and I had both been sent to jail and then weren’t allowed to exchange a single word. Nora says that we should come up with a way of sending messages through blinking or making shapes with our hands in case we ever do end up in Mountjoy, but I hope that won’t come to pass. We should probably bear it in mind though.
Right now we were trying to come up with a poster, not a secret language. So I suggested that we just stick with something simple, rather than trying to do something clever.
‘After all, we just painted “Votes for Irish Women” on the postbox, and that got into the police reports,’ I pointed out.
‘True,’ said Nora. ‘But this time we really need to catch Mr. Asquith’s eye. After all, there are going to be crowds there.’
‘Maybe we could do something different,’ I said. ‘Not a poster, I mean.’ A thought struck me. ‘Gosh, Nora, we could actually chain ourselves to some railings like the London suffragettes!’
But Nora didn’t think this was practical.
‘The only railings I can think of on his route through town are the Trinity College ones,’ she said. ‘And most of them are on top of a big wall. We’d never be able to chain ourselves up there.’ This was true. And even if it weren’t – or if we managed to fasten ourselves to the lower railings – there would definitely be plenty of crowds in front of us so the Prime Minister probably wouldn’t see us. We needed to do something that allowed us to move around.
‘I suppose posters will have to do instead,’ I said. But by the time Nora went home we still hadn’t thought of the perfect slogan. I suppose we still have some time to do that.
I have some other news: Frank is arriving in our house on Friday. Nora of course is very amused by this prospect, but I just ignore her foolish remarks.
‘You must admit it will be nice having him in the house,’ she said.
‘Only because he’s generally a good influence on Harry,’ I replied. ‘Otherwise I really couldn’t care less.’
Nora made a noise that sounded like a snort, but she refrained from making any more unamusing jests. Anyway, I was telling the truth. Well, I was telling the truth about Frank being a civilising influence on Harry. I suppose that’s not the only reason it will be nice having him here. It’ll be good to have someone in the house who doesn’t talk down to me (Phyllis), insult me (Harry) or pray at me (Julia).
And that is the only reason I am looking forward to his visit.
Best love and votes for women,
Mollie