Bunting draped along the side walls of the hall, a banner spread her name across the stage. Rows of wooden chairs held over two hundred women who had come out to hear her speak. These were disciples of Stella Browne who had read about Audrey in the local newspaper, how the two of them had met, how they were working on the abortion legislation together, how Audrey was the embodiment of Stella’s work and would speak for her until she recovered. Would they accept her? Audrey wondered. Did she want them to? She was not sure she wanted disciples.
An encounter at lunch had shaken her. She could do this, she knew, but only if she thought of it as a swim upriver. This was her territory, and it must be held despite resistance.
She stood in the wings, watching the room fill, she saw how hats and scarves were unfurled, a protective layer removed, identities concealed when they entered the building to be revealed once inside. Who are these women? Audrey wondered from the shadow of the stage. Were they seeking help for themselves, or were they driven by the urge to make changes? There was a look of pinched desperation on some.
“I couldn’t feed the last one,” she heard one woman say, one hand on her belly revealing that she was almost to term. Her look, so haunted, forced Audrey to think about the possibility the child had starved to death. But this was not the story that would invite change. Women’s health was tied to the economic health of the country. This was their angle when speaking to members of Parliament. This was an argument they understood. There was no way to reach these men of power if the conversation was about the well-being of women.
“Ladies,” she began. “War may be coming, but our own battles have been raging for some time.” For the next hour she assured the audience that someone was listening, action was being taken.
“Women have been driven to make their own concoctions, to experiment with procedures that left them infected, or worse. I hear stories of children as young as five or six pressed into work to help feed the family. We need to hear your stories. Write them down, or tell them to someone who will for you. This is not for you to endure alone. We will take your stories to Parliament.”
Then Audrey changed tack and asked them to imagine a freedom where they could choose to have a child or not, one where all women had control over their bodies, could determine whether they wished to get pregnant in the first place, and, if they did, could choose whether to follow through.
“This is not a utopian ideal,” she told them “There is a possibility of women enjoying the intimacy of a relationship without this great fear. It is within our reach.”
Her breathing had become a kind of pant as she reached her concluding remarks. “This is our battle. And it is a battle. For control over our bodies, for relief from economic despair. This is the language of men, the only language they understand, so we must use it as we push for change.”
Chairs screeched back, the women erupting in applause, the energy surging, and the room suddenly felt hot, electric. Audrey felt a flash of heat in her body, so that when she saw Miriam approaching the stage, she asked for a handkerchief, some fresh air.
“Your finest speech,” Miriam told her, as she led her to the side door.
“We’ll send that one to the MPs,” one of the organizers called out to her.
“Thank you,” said another.
Later, the champagne at the hotel restaurant was barely chilled, but they drank it like greedy children.
“A solid speech,” Frank told his aunt, but she remained unsteadied by the day’s events.
“Thank you. And you, tell me of your journey.”
“We hit rain in Norwich, but otherwise a perfect flight,” Frank said. “Wasn’t it, Miriam?”
Miriam had gone back to the hotel in the hour before Audrey’s speech and filled in the sketch she had made of the route they would take in eight weeks. It was an odd sort of map, a hopscotching across the country in a way that would only make sense to them in the race. Now at dinner she pulled it out, showing Audrey where they’d been, showing her the various perspectives, but all Audrey could see was the great talent in Miriam’s work, and that, too, was celebrated.
It was a day of exuberance, of achievement, and the celebration of any suitable thing. They drank too much champagne, ate dinner in a restaurant, the finest Miriam had been in by a long shot, and then each retreated to their room. A day they would not forget.