Suffragette (5 page)

The change as we approached the poorer regions of London was obvious to anyone with half an eye. The buildings grew uglier. Even the sky seemed darker as blocks of flats, cheaply constructed and
over-populated, closed out the light. The pavements were a sea of concerned faces. We drove by an open market, where children and grown-ups alike were rooting hungrily through garbage piles,
salvaging vegetables and fruits and stuffing them directly into their mouths.

Once I stepped off the bus, I meandered for a while up and down the cobbled lanes, lost in the stream of shabby people. I was scared of going to my address, scared of what I would or would not
find there. I could not say if, during that walk, I more greatly desired to find my mother or not.

I remember my earlier life as a time of endless hardships. I have grown used to another standard of living and it has softened me. But the trick these past four years has played on my memory was
a greater deception than I had bargained for. Today I came face to face with much that I had wiped out. I had forgotten the day-to-day struggles of the thousands living and starving in such
nook-and-cranny quarters. Crowds everywhere. Sad, pinched faces with desperate or drunken eyes. All of them facing destitution. You cannot get away from folk in this part of London town. A heaving
mass of humanity struggling to make it through one day to the next.

I could not help but see the streets, the lodgings, the second-hand clothes shops, the people sleeping rough without so much as a blanket to keep them warm and dry – the world of East End
London in all its sordid detail – through Flora’s eyes, not my own, and I felt shame. Not for my kin, but for the fact that the entire locality is shockingly down-at-heel and smells so
foul you want to hold your breath. Squalid is the adjective that sprang to mind.

I passed a man swaying on his haunches, trying to mend his shoes. Shoes that weren’t fit for the dustbin.

A small grocery store, one of the few I spotted, had signs in the window stating the various prices of the goods on sale. I paused to look. Tea – 1d, Sugar – 1d, Bread – 3d and
Butter – 2d.

Usually it had been me who was sent out to buy a small something or other, because I was less likely to be refused the paltry morsels needed to keep our hunger at bay until Father received his
next inadequate pay packet.

“Give us tuppence worth of this or thruppence worth of the other,” I’d beg the storekeeper. “Mum says she’ll square it with you Friday when Dad brings home his
wages.”

I remembered how two ounces of boiled ham for “tea”, our evening meal, was a sumptuous banquet, shared out between the seven of us. A penny tin of condensed milk was also a huge
treat.

I walked on, passing by a narrow lane known as Milk Lane. Washing was hanging out to dry in the alleyways. There was not a flower or a plant in sight. The brick houses are built alongside one
another, packed tightly together. Unkempt children were playing in the passageways. These infants are not scruffy urchins because of neglect but because no one has enough resources or time to take
better care of them. They stared hard and mistrustfully at my passing silhouette or chased after me gazing in awe, holding out their filthy palms, eyes peering out of underfed faces, in the hope of
a coin.

It was my clothes that gave me away as a “foreigner”. An outsider from the West End. There might as well be a wall between the two London towns.

I passed a young woman with flushed cheeks whose hair was going grey even though she could not have been more than 30; she was stitching the seat of her son’s breeches right there in the
street. I bent to tighten my bootlaces, an excuse to observe her and to ask myself: Was that how my mother had looked to the Bonnington family that midsummer day in 1900 when she went knocking on
their door? She would also have been about 30 at that time.

Finally I turned a corner and came face to face with our cottage. How small it seemed to me today! The door was ajar. I hung back and took a deep breath. My hands were clammy as I lifted my fist
to rap on the wood.

“Who’zere?” was the response called from within. It was followed by an awful bout of coughing. Without a word I pushed the door and stepped inside, for I had recognized the
voice of my mother.

Her face was pastry-pale, lined and aged almost beyond recognition. Before me stood a stooped old lady. She gazed at me in blank amazement.

“Christ Almighty! Dollie? No, it can’t be you.”

I noticed bottles of stout, both full and empty, littering the floor. How can she afford such indulgences? I was smiling nervously to encourage the situation. Is she spending whatever food money
comes her way on stout? She was painfully thin.

“Yes, it is.” I heard the quaver in my speech.

She scrutinized me hard. “Well, take a bloomin’ look at yerself. All dressed up.”

“I hope you don’t mind… I know I promised not to return, but…”

“Quite the lady you’ve become, eh?”

I looked about me, lost for words. Her scullery-cum-parlour room – there is only the one living space – was hideously cramped and it smelt of old mushrooms. I felt a rush of shame.
Not for what I was witnessing but for the privileged existence I have been living. The private rooms with private toilet facilities that I have begun to take for granted. How could I have forgotten
so many details, and so quickly? The primitive and inadequate lavatory accommodation out back alongside the coalhole. Cockroaches running haywire up and down the walls.

Mother’s room contains a sink, dingy-brown from years of use, which serves for both cooking purposes and washing facilities. Along one wall is a broken-down dresser. On the table stands
the same big, enamelled teapot we used when I was a small child.

“I know I promised not to return –”

“So what are you doing here and what the bleedin’ ’ell are yer staring at?” she snapped, without the slightest glimmer of warmth.

I wanted to burst into tears. My desire was to run away, to be shot of this scene as soon as possible, but then I reminded myself:
This is your mother
.

I took a deep breath and the reeking odour all but burned my nostrils. “Lady Campbell has passed away,” I said.

“Well, there’s nothing for you ’ere. I can’t keep you. I can’t keep meself. It’s your brother John what’s lookin’ after me. I gave you yer chance.
If you’ve made a hash of it…” And as her fury rose, so her breathing grew more irregular and she doubled up with another fit of coughing. I forced her to sit, to be still and
silent for a moment. She raised a hand to her mouth. I took a step towards her but her gesture was brusque, warning me to keep my distance.

“I have not come here to be a burden to you,” I began firmly. “I only wanted you to know that I shan’t be returning to Gloucestershire. I intend to continue my education
in London. I intend to find lodgings close by and I thought that…” My sentence dried like wood chips in my mouth. Her hand was still clamped against her lips as she struggled for
breath. “Lady Campbell has left me some money. I am not entitled to touch it until I reach 21, but … I want help you. To find you somewhere else to live, to take you away
from…”

Her eyes rose to meet my gaze as her hands fell into her lap. I saw then how sick she was. Small and vulnerable like a bird caught in a trap, dying.

“The best thing you can do for me, Dollie, is to make your own way. Don’t, for the Lord’s sake, get yerself sucked back into any of this.”

“What about my brothers? Do they visit and care for you? What are you living on?” I persisted, but she waved her hand in a dismissive way.

“I don’t want to see yer here ever again,” she rasped, and rose unsteadily to shove me off back into the street. Of course, she had no strength but I went anyway. Perversely, I
did it to please her.

But what must I do? How can I help her?

27th May 1909

I woke feeling a heavy responsibility hanging over me. Forcing myself to be decisive, I bathed and dressed quickly. I was intending to discuss my mother’s situation with
Flora and ask her advice but she had left early for rehearsals of a new film she is involved in, so I skipped breakfast and set off for Clements Inn, to the offices of the WSPU, my thoughts still
troubled by my visit of yesterday.

“The abyss” is the phrase coined by certain writers and journalists to describe the conditions of the life of the poor in this country. “The people of the abyss” wrote
the best-selling author, HG Wells, when speaking of Britain’s working class. And how right he is!

I know for sure that
when
women are given the vote the living conditions of the poor will be one of the first problems to be addressed. And that is why I decided to call at the WSPU
today. If there is one thing that I can do for my mother it is to fight for women and our place in this society. And, once that fight has been won, then we will be well placed to look to our
society. A society that is sinking at its foundations.

I reached Clements Inn, opened the door and found myself in a large, immaculately tidy room, where girls at typewriters were clacking busily. There were posters on all the walls, stacks of
newspapers on the floor, neat piles of banners, legal books and social texts everywhere.

I enquired for Harriet Kerr, who welcomed me as though I were a friend and then introduced me to a middle-aged woman, Miss Baker. Astoundingly, I learned that she had been Flora’s
governess for many years. Now she is employed as a member of the staff for the movement, or “the Cause” as they all call it there.

“How old are you, Dollie?” asked Miss Baker.

“I have just turned fifteen,” I fibbed. In fact, I shall be fifteen in November.

“Why aren’t you at school?”

I considered her question. The quarter of London where I originally came from has no library. Why would it have? Most women in such districts are illiterate. A few of the men can read a
newspaper and write their names, even a letter if they are obliged to, but what time do they have for reading? Children leave school at eight or nine and go out to work because the families
desperately need the pittance of income their offspring earn. My brothers were all working by the age of ten. I would have been engaged in domestic work if Fate had not taken a hand. I wanted to
tell all this to Miss Baker, but I liked her and decided not to be cheeky. “I have recently moved back to London and hope to start at a new school in the autumn.”

Miss Baker screwed up her brow. “You should be attending school.”

“I believe Flora is looking for a temporary tutor for me,” I answered.

“I see. Well, while you have time to spare, just say the word and we’ll take you on as a volunteer.”

“What would it involve?”

“Can you type?”

I shook my head.

“Never mind, there are plenty of other duties to be carried out. But only in your free time. One of our goals is to encourage women’s education, not to hinder it, do you understand
me?”

I nodded.

“How about selling copies of our suffrage newspaper,
Votes for Women
? It means going out on the streets. Or if you are too timid for that we could put you to enrolling new members.
Or interviewing local MPs.”

“I can’t afford to get into any trouble…”

Miss Baker laughed loudly. “Not all of the ladies here are of a militant mind, Dollie. Harriet, who enrolled you at the Exhibition, left her secretarial agency in Aberdeen to come and work
here, but she has made it a condition of her employment that her work is exclusively administrative.”

“I would be honoured to help out in whatever way I can,” I replied.

“Excellent! Why don’t we start with something straightforward such as the door-to-door distribution of handbills, or…”

“My dream is to become a journalist, so why don’t I try my hand at selling the newspapers?”

“Splendid! Now what are you doing for the rest of the day?”

I shrugged.

“Then why don’t we begin immediately? This was going to be a free day for me and I was on my way to a new Monet exhibition at the National Gallery, but that can wait. I’ll go
later. Are you familiar with the work of the French Impressionists?”

I shook my head.

“Even better. I will accompany you on your newspaper expedition. Just this once, mind, so that you get the hang of it, and while we are out and about I can answer any questions you might
have about the Cause. Then later this afternoon, we’ll make an outing together to the National Gallery.” And, with that, Miss Baker flung a huge batch of papers at me, shoved a hat
carelessly on her head, wrapped a light shawl round her shoulders and we stepped out into the street.

We made our way by underground to the corner of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street. “This will be your pitch. Be warned, it’s a busy one. You’ll sell a good stack of papers
here and you will almost certainly get asked questions about our work. So you’d better have your facts straight. No, don’t stand there. It is important to position yourself in the
gutter. Never stand on the pavements.”

“Why ever not?” I asked, fearing the passage of hansoms and, worse, of motor cars.

“Because you run the risk of being charged by the police with obstruction.”

“Oh.” This news made me a little panicky. In my heart I want to be a true and brave suffragette, but in reality, I cannot afford to get myself into trouble.

“Don’t be anxious. There’s nothing to worry about. Here comes someone. Offer the paper.”

And before I knew what was happening I was selling my first copy to a smiling, elderly lady who donated not the requested one penny price but a full shilling and then complimented me on the
splendid work we are doing!

Later, over a mug of tea near Oxford Circus, I was introduced to another newish recruit, Mary Richardson, a Canadian, who has been in England since 1900. Mary is selling papers a little way up
the street from my pitch.

“The main thing is not to be shy and not to take any abuse hurled at you personally,” she advised me.

“What sort of abuse?”

“Now, don’t go scaring our Dollie away,” laughed Miss Baker. “Mary was bombarded with rotten fruit by some women working in the Crosse & Blackwell factory.”