Page 9

‘Marvellous,’ said Miss Decima. ‘We have just enough time to join the throng before the meeting begins. Head for that “Prisoners’ Pageant” section, please.’

She was pointing to the women in white who’d led the train. They were hovering at the entrance to the Hall, wearing medals alongside their green and white and purple ribbons. I frowned. ‘They’re suffragettes, Miss Decima.’

‘I am aware of that.’

‘You said we were joining the NUWSS section.’

‘I say a lot of things.’

I turned to face her, and my heart sank. She had pinned a suffragette ribbon to her dress. ‘Miss Decima –’

‘We’re going undercover,’ she snapped. ‘I knew you’d say no if I told you. Mrs Pankhurst can talk about halting militant action all she wants: I trust her as far as I can throw her, and I only wish I could throw her. We shall stick to the WSPU like shit to a shovel, and ensure that they behave themselves.’

I had to stop her. ‘Miss Decima, the police have the matter perfectly in hand –’

‘Do they bollocks. It has taken decades of work to reach the point at which we now stand; I will not allow the most important political matter of my lifetime to be railroaded by sensationalists hellbent on a deluge of suffrage anarchy.’

I fumed. ‘I reckon you’d quite like a deluge.’

‘Organized violence is the very negation of democracy, Stephen. Now stop whinging and wheel me over to the Prisoners’ Pageant, please.’

What could I do? Miss Decima was my employer: she paid my wages, put a roof over my head, and I knew from bitter experience that there was no point in arguing with her. You might as well argue with an oil fire. I shot one last panicked glance at the undercover officers half hidden in the bushes, already locating women in the crowd and snapping away. We’d be in full view of them; of the officers on the streets, too, armed with truncheons. They had the crowd surrounded. Was I really about to join a mob of ex-prisoners?

Of course I was. I gritted my teeth, kicked the brakes, and pushed the bath chair into the crowd like the Light Brigade into the valley of death.

I thought that being in the middle of all these people would at least help me feel hidden. I was wrong. I was the only young man there, and I was a full head taller than any of the women around me. I couldn’t have stood out more if I’d tried. I glanced up at the windows lining the street, filled with peering faces, and again felt eyes needling into me. I jumped at every noise; I was sweating through my shirtsleeves. You could have used my hands as nutcrackers.

But, the further I made my way into the throng, the more I realized that the feeling that I’d taken for tension was actually excitement. There was none of the anger or violence I’d feared. Instead, there was a cheerfulness, a harmony, to the crowd. It was charming, truth be told. I even saw one of the policemen tapping his truncheon along to the music of the fife band.

‘You see, Stephen?’ said Miss Decima. ‘We stand astride the cusp of change. The bitter rifts between the societies have been all but eradicated, and public favour for our cause has never been better. All the more reason for us to follow those women and make sure they don’t get up to any funny business.’

The women in the Prisoners’ Pageant had started moving towards the Hall entrance. ‘They’re going into the meeting, Miss Decima.’

‘So are we,’ she said, producing two tickets from her bag. ‘Chop, chop.’

Of course she had tickets. I sighed and wheeled her towards the Hall. It was slow work: the road was packed, with more people arriving every second, and the mass became a crush the closer you got to the doors. We lost sight of the Prisoners’ Pageant for a moment while a milk-cart struggled to make its way past us, the driver cursing under his breath.

Perhaps that was why I didn’t notice the other group lining the pavement until the last moment. I’d assumed they were part of the march because they had placards, too, but when I read what was written on them I saw that the words couldn’t have been more different. THE NATIONAL LEAGUE FOR OPPOSING WOMEN’S SUFFRAGE said one; WOMEN DO NOT WANT VOTES said another. A woman on a soapbox was giving an impassioned speech; around her, men and women were handing out flyers to passers-by who mostly ignored them. A man tried to give a flyer to a suffragette, who snapped something back at him and then carried on walking. I saw the man’s face darken, just before he leant forwards and spat down the back of her dress.

‘Excuse me, my dear,’ said Miss Decima, turning to address the woman marching beside us. ‘Might I borrow your placard?’

The woman handed it over, baffled. Miss Decima tested its weight, then swung it at the man’s crotch just as we passed him. He hit the ground like a rack of shirts.

‘Miss Decima!’ I hissed.

‘Don’t lecture me, Stephen,’ said Miss Decima, handing back the placard. ‘I am finally beginning to enjoy myself.’

I glanced back over my shoulder. The man was being sick in the gutter. ‘I thought you said violence was the very negation of democracy.’

‘That was organized violence,’ she replied wisely. ‘A touch of the disorganized variety every now and then is perfectly acceptable.’

8

Saturday, 17 June, 8.26 p.m.

By the time I had Miss Decima settled in a ground-floor box, it was gone eight o’clock. The Hall was packed, and more were arriving every second. Collection plates were already being passed along the rows; I could see women taking off their jewellery and putting it straight inside.

‘Quite the money-making enterprise,’ said Miss Decima drily. ‘The assembly will take the stage at any moment, Stephen – you may wait outside until the meeting is concluded.’