Opal Plumstead Read online

  I wondered if Father felt the same incarcerated in prison, unable to build up any rapport with his fellow prisoners, maybe having to make do with a few words here and there from a kind warder.

  I was at a loss on Saturdays too, because Mother minded two babies for shop girls and it was therefore impossible to get any peace at home. I’d tried to barricade myself into my bedroom, but little hands would scrabble at the doorknob, little feet would kick at the paint, little voices would wail until I let them in. Then they’d rampage around, pulling my beautiful books off the shelf and crumpling the pages, even prising my precious paintbox open and stabbing their little fingers into each palette. I’d try to be gentle with them, but I found them so irritating that eventually I’d snap and shout at them, and then they’d go sobbing to Mother.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Opal, can’t you play nicely with them for ten minutes while I set the house to rights?’ she complained.

  ‘I’m trying to study. You’re the babyminder, not me,’ I said.

  ‘You’re the most intolerably selfish girl. What sort of a daughter are you? If only Cassie could stay home on Saturday.’

  ‘Well, she doesn’t make much effort to be here on Sundays, either, does she,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, because she’s out with her young man. I dare say that’s why you’re being so sulky, because your young man didn’t come to anything.’

  I was so infuriated by this statement that I grabbed my coat and stormed out of the house altogether. I was determined not to return until dark, when the babies were reclaimed. I had nowhere to go, though, and no spare money to take myself up to London to see the grand shops and galleries. So I decided to go to a suffrage meeting.

  IT WAS HELD at ten thirty in the St Joan of Arc church hall in Ledbury Street, across town. It would take me forty minutes to walk there so I’d be late for the start, but I thought I’d be able to slip in at the back. It felt good to walk at first, though I couldn’t stride out in Cassie’s narrow skirts. At least I was out of the gloomy little house. The only exercise I got nowadays was walking to and from Fairy Glen. I loved my new job in design, but it was taxing sitting cramped in one position all day long. I’d been suffering from all sorts of aches in my neck and shoulders and back, but now I found myself stretching comfortably.

  I started to get nervous as I turned into Ledbury Street. I wasn’t sure what I was letting myself in for. I didn’t know what happened at these meetings. I didn’t really know what suffragettes were like. Mother said they were a disgrace, shrill and unwomanly, and couldn’t see why they made such a fuss about a silly thing like a vote. Cassie said they were man-haters and looked a sight. I had quite naturally taken the opposite point of view. I found their ideas liberating, but I tended to think of these women as warriors, almost mythical, like Boadicea and Joan of Arc herself.

  Mrs Roberts wasn’t shrill – she looked quite beautiful, and I couldn’t imagine her battling with police and politicians. If the Joan of Arc hall was full of ladies like Mrs Roberts, I would feel very shy, but find the assembly inspirational.

  I reached the hall at last, hot from my brisk walk, though it was a chilly day and I had mittens, and a muffler wound round my neck. I fumbled with these, taking them off and stuffing them in my pockets. Then I took a deep breath and crept in through the front door.

  I stood in the vestibule for a few seconds, hearing someone giving an impassioned speech, though I couldn’t distinguish the words. Then I pushed the inner doors open and edged inside.

  The hall was crowded, everyone straining forward to listen to the lady on the platform. Several women craned round to stare at the intruder. One put her fingers to her lips, another shook her head at me, and a third gestured to an empty chair at the end of her row. I tiptoed as silently as I could, though I was painfully aware of the creaking of my old boots. I sat down, feeling hot all over now, peering around at everyone in the audience.

  I couldn’t see Mrs Roberts herself, but there were many women who looked similar to her, quietly dignified and ultra-respectable. Some at the front were even grander than Mrs Roberts, judging by their elaborate, fancy hats. I wondered if Cassie had made any of them! But there were many other kinds of women there too – some in clothes far shabbier than mine, some in old borrowed men’s coats, some with just a shawl over a thin dress. Some were quite young, almost as young as me, and some were surprisingly old, wrinkled and white haired. Some were fine-looking women with beautiful profiles. Some were alarmingly fierce. One had a nose just like a hawk’s beak. Oh my Lord – it was Miss Mountbank!

  I shrank back in my seat, my heart thudding. I certainly didn’t want an encounter with old Mounty, of all people. For a moment I wondered if I’d better creep out again, but I didn’t dare make another disturbance, so I sat still. After a while I actually started to listen. The lady on the platform was elegantly dressed in furs and a very fine hat. She was small and delicate, but her voice was clearly audible even at the back of the hall. She spoke very fluently, though she had no notes at all, and stood in one spot all the time, gesturing gracefully with her arms. She was addressing hundreds, yet she seemed to be talking just to me.

  She spoke of the injustice of a world where we were all born equal in the sight of God, yet it was always the lot of women to come second. She addressed the argument that women should not have the vote because they were uninformed and could not make coherent decisions. She said that it should be every girl’s right to be properly educated, that further education should be available to everyone, that women should be granted a proper degree if they fought their way through a university course. She said that women should be able to pursue proper careers if that was their wish.

  Of course it was a woman’s right to marry and have a family, but she needed liberation within the marital home too. As the law stood, even the most inadequate father had the final say in the upbringing of his children. He could remove them from the care of a loving mother, and quite legally cast her out into the streets and deny her access to them. The law needed to be changed. The only way this could be achieved was to give the vote to all adult Englishwomen. Then they could vote for decent, right-thinking men to represent them in Parliament. Indeed, they could vote for women to become Members of Parliament. One day there might even be a woman prime minister leading the country.

  ‘We will work shoulder to shoulder, ladies, and achieve votes for women in our lifetime,’ she said. ‘But I’ve been speaking long enough. Remember our slogan, my friends: Deeds, not words.’

  There was a great burst of applause. I clapped too. I felt like standing up on my chair and cheering. I’d never heard such stirring words in all my life.

  Another woman got up to speak, and then another. I dare say they all made their points perfectly well, but they seemed weak and disappointing compared to the first woman. Their speeches were dull and prosaic, whereas she had spoken like an inspired leader, her voice soaring, her eyes flashing.

  I found myself yawning and fidgeting. It was an enormous relief when the last of the women finished. Then everyone sang a very stirring song, rather like a hymn. The woman next to me gave me a sheet of paper with the words written down. By the time they reached the last verse I knew the tune and could sing out with the others.

  ‘Life, strife, these two are one,

  Naught can ye win but by faith and daring;

  On, on, that ye have done

  But for the work of today preparing.

  Firm in reliance, laugh a defiance,

  (Laugh in hope, for sure is the end).

  March, march, many as one,

  Shoulder to shoulder and friend to friend.’

  We were told that light refreshments were now available. I nudged the woman next to me.

  ‘Excuse me, but could you tell me who that lady was – the first one, with the furs?’

  She looked at me as if I were simple. ‘That was Mrs Pankhurst,’ she said. ‘Have you never heard her talk before? She’s wonderful, isn’t she?’