The Making of Mollie Page 12

  ‘Oh, you don’t need to do that,’ I said. ‘She always says the house is very quiet with George away at school. She likes having me around the place.’

  ‘I find that very hard to believe,’ said Harry, who was sitting next to me.

  ‘Stop that, Harry,’ said Father.

  ‘I bet the last thing the Cantwells want is another girl in the house squealing and shrieking,’ said Harry, but he said it to me in a sort of mutter so our parents couldn’t hear exactly what he’d said. Which of course allowed them to pretend he hadn’t said anything. He always gets away with things like that.

  Anyway, Mother and Father didn’t say anything else about writing to the Cantwells, and I managed to get myself and the chalk to school without incident. I showed the chalk to Nora and Stella at lunchtime. We were in the music corridor, and for once, hardly anyone was around.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Nora, taking a piece of chalk.

  ‘I got three sticks, so we have one each and then a spare in case one of us loses one,’ I said.

  ‘I do wish I could go with you,’ said Stella. ‘Not to do actual chalking. Just to keep sketch in case anyone came along who might want to stop you.’

  Poor Stella, it is hard lines on her being a boarder, no matter how many plays they put on and how much dressing up they do (though all of that does, as I’ve said before, look like jolly good fun).

  ‘Couldn’t you say you were going out to tea with one of us?’ said Nora.

  But Stella shook her head. ‘I’d need to give more notice,’ she said. ‘You know the nuns don’t just let us go off like that without checking exactly where we’re going. They are responsible for us, after all.’

  ‘I wish you could come,’ I said, and meant it. Though a part of me thought that Stella might funk it at the last minute. She can still be a bit white-mouse-ish at times. Maybe it was for the best that she was staying at home with her knitting.

  ‘What exactly are you making?’ asked Nora, peering into the embroidered bag full of wool and needles that Stella often carries around so she can knit a few rows between classes. I could see some rather nice soft moss green yarn and a bundle of something knitted in garter stitch.

  ‘Oh, just a scarf,’ said Stella. ‘Well, two scarves, actually. They’re going to be presents.’

  ‘Scarves?’ I was surprised to hear this. ‘I thought you’d be doing something more complicated.’

  Stella looked slightly affronted.

  ‘You know perfectly well that scarves can be complicated too,’ she said. ‘It just depends what stitches you use. And these ones are especially fancy.’

  I supposed we’d have to take her word for it. It didn’t sound very interesting for an expert knitter like Stella, though.

  ‘Well, have fun,’ said Nora.

  ‘I’d tell you to have fun too but it doesn’t sound right when you’re doing something so serious,’ said Stella. ‘You don’t think you’ll get arrested, do you?’

  ‘We can’t get arrested,’ I said. ‘Chalk washes away, so it’s not like paint. It’s not illegal.’ I glanced at Nora nervously. ‘Is it?’

  ‘I’m quite sure it’s not,’ said Nora, confidently. ‘We have nothing to fear.’ But when Grace, Gertie, and poor May Sullivan, who still hasn’t escaped their clutches, walked by, she quickly shoved the chalk into her pocket. Not before Grace noticed, of course.

  ‘What are you messing about with over there?’ said Grace. ‘There’s something white coming out of your pocket.’

  Nora had somehow crushed part of the chalk and released a lot of chalk dust.

  ‘None of your business,’ said Nora, brushing her skirt clean.

  ‘There’s no need to be so rude, Nora,’ said Grace, sounding hurt. ‘I didn’t want you to get your skirt all dusty.’

  ‘Well, it’s not,’ said Nora. ‘But thank you.’

  The trio walked on, and I turned to Nora.

  ‘You really must stop antagonising Grace,’ I said. ‘She’ll be looking out for an excuse to tell on you.’

  ‘I’m just hoping I’ll trick her into showing her true colours in front of May,’ said Nora sheepishly.

  ‘Well don’t,’ I said. ‘It’s not worth it, especially if she tells your mother about this and you’re not allowed to leave the house for months.’

  By the time lessons finished for the day, we were all feeling a little nervous. Especially Stella, even though she wasn’t going.

  ‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ she asked, as she walked us out to the school entrance.

  ‘Was it safe when Mrs. Pankhurst was clapped in irons?’ said Nora grandly. But I could tell she was being dramatic to cover up her fear. Besides, neither of us actually wanted to be clapped in irons.

  ‘Right-ho,’ I said, as briskly as I could. ‘Let’s go and do it, then.’

  We said goodbye to Stella, who trotted back into the school with her knitting, and set off towards town. It was only then that we realised that we hadn’t chosen the exact location of our first chalked message. Nora suggested Sackville Street, but I said there were too many flower sellers and other people hanging around and it would be hard to find a clear space to chalk. I thought Stephen’s Green would be better, but Nora said that was too far to go because we didn’t have any tram fare to get home and it would all take too long (I still think she was being ridiculous. It wasn’t that far and I’m sure we could have been home by six. Anyway, there was no reasoning with her).

  In the end, we decided we’d start a place in between those two locations: a corner of Westmoreland Street, near College Green. It was just across from the place where Mabel told us she always sold suffrage magazines, though when we eventually got there after a rather hot and dusty walk, there was no sign of her. Which was probably for the best. I wasn’t sure I was going to tell Phyllis about this.

  ‘This will do,’ I said when we reached the corner. The street was busy enough. Some clerks and bank workers were already making their way home, and the road was full of lorries, delivery vans, bicycles and quite a few motor cars.

  ‘All right,’ said Nora. ‘Who’ll go first?’

  I took a piece of chalk out of my pocket and unwrapped it from the now very dusty handkerchief.

  ‘Me,’ I said.

  We both knelt down on the ground and I wrote in large letters:

  VOTES FOR WOMEN!

  GRAND MEETING AT ANTIENT CONCERT ROOMS

  1ST JUNE, 8PM

  ADMISSION 1/6

  We looked at it for a minute and then scrambled to our feet. Passersby were already looking at us, curious to see what we were writing.

  ‘Come on,’ said Nora. ‘Let’s go and do the next one before anyone says anything to us.’

  And we scampered across the road to the front of Trinity College, dodging a laundry van as we went. We stopped before we reached Trinity’s gates. The pavement was more narrow than the one where we’d chalked the last message, but there weren’t too many people as we knelt down, facing the railings. Nora took out her chalk. As she wrote the same message that I’d chalked a few minutes earlier, I could hear a pedestrian pause behind us.

  ‘Look at those admirable young girls,’ he said in a very respectable voice. ‘Praying in the street! For the souls of those Trinity College heathens, I have no doubt.’

  That was when Nora and I got to our feet, dusted off our knees and turned to move on.

  ‘I must say how nice it is,’ began the man, who was an elderly gentleman in a very neat suit, accompanied by a well-dressed lady of similar age whom I presume was his wife, ‘to see such devout…’

  But he didn’t finish his sentence because now he had seen exactly what we’d been doing down on our knees.

  ‘Lord bless us and save us!’ he cried. ‘Those shameless hussies have got children out now, have they? You should be ashamed of yourselves!’

  ‘I’m afraid we’re not,’ said Nora. ‘Come on, Mollie.’

  ‘You seemed like such good little girls,’ said the woman. She a
lmost looked like she was about to cry, she was so horrified.

  ‘We’re not very little, but we are good,’ I said. ‘So are the women speaking at the meeting. You should come along and see.’

  The man and his wife were lost for words.

  ‘Let’s go, Mollie!’ said Nora, and we walked as fast as we could past Trinity’s front gate. As we went off, the woman regained the power of speech and cried, ‘I never thought I’d see this day! Irish girls behaving like little hooligans!’

  As soon as we were out of sight, we both started to laugh.

  ‘Praying!’ said Nora.

  ‘Well in a way we are,’ I said, daringly. ‘Praying that people will turn up at this meeting.’

  ‘I’m not sure anyone at school would see it like that,’ said Nora. ‘Or our parents, come to think of it. They’re more likely to agree with those two.’

  ‘Will we do one more?’ I said, glancing up Grafton Street, which was full of people and horses and vehicles both motor- and horse-powered. The pavements were far too narrow and it looked far too crowded to attempt a chalking, unless we did it on the wall of one of the shops, and I was quite sure that would get us into trouble.

  ‘Let’s just do a general Votes for Women one,’ said Nora. ‘It’s quicker.’

  So we did. I knelt down on the pavement and wrote VOTES FOR IRISH WOMEN in big letters. And when I’d dusted down my frock (avoiding the curious and, I must admit, amused glances of the passersby), even I had to admit that the time really was getting on, so we set off for home.

  Mother and Father would be very angry if they knew I was roaming around town like this, but it’s quite safe really. They always say the city is dangerous, but I’m not sure what they think might happen to us. Nobody would bother robbing us because we never have any money. I said this to Nora and she said, ‘What about Florence Dombey in Dombey and Son? She gets lured away to a side street by a horrible old lady who steals all her good clothes to sell them.’

  I had read the book but I couldn’t think this was very likely to happen to us.

  ‘Florence was only about six,’ I said. ‘I’m sure Dickens didn’t think fourteen-year-olds would be lured away by thieving old ladies.’

  Nobody tried to lure us anywhere, but some rather frightening-looking men did call things at us that we couldn’t understand but which they clearly thought were very amusing. After we turned on to Dorset Street, some ragged children started to follow us asking for pennies.

  ‘Go on, missus,’ said one girl with flaming hair the colour of Nora’s. ‘Give us a ha’penny.’

  ‘We don’t even have a farthing,’ said Nora.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, as politely as I could. But I still felt bad.

  They were very thin and dirty. I remembered Maggie’s sister once telling me that there are tenements near that part of town where dozens of people live in houses not much bigger than ours, with only one lavatory shared between hundreds of people. I wished I had some pennies to give them, even though a few pennies wouldn’t really make much of a difference. But I didn’t know how to say that I wished I could give them something without sounding like I was taunting them, or looking down on them. And, although I was ashamed of feeling like this, I was also a little bit afraid of them because they were so loud and dirty. Which I know was very snobbish and foolish of me. I would be dirty, and probably loud too, if I was cramped into a tiny space with lots of other people.

  It didn’t take long before they realised we really didn’t have any money. The red-haired girl said, ‘We should do a collection ourselves and give you a few bob if you’re that hard up.’ And with a laugh, they turned and went back towards the streets where they lived. Maybe if women had the vote, things would get better for children like that, I thought. But then I thought of Aunt Josephine, who was fond of saying that poor people were just lazy and that she couldn’t understand why they didn’t make more of an effort to wash their clothes. She would never vote to improve things for them.

  I wondered how Aunt Josephine would manage washing her clothes if she lived in a cramped house with no indoor water and no money. Of course, she’s never washed an item of clothing in her life; she sends everything to the same laundry we use. And she gets her housemaid to wash all her lace by hand. So it’s a bit rich of her to criticise anyone for their own washing skills.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ said Nora, as we approached the turn for her road.

  ‘I was just thinking of Aunt Josephine,’ I said absently.

  ‘Well, don’t,’ said Nora. ‘Think of how we’re going to get away to the big meeting.’

  ‘I already have,’ I said. ‘I’m going to get Phyllis to take us.’

  Nora didn’t seem very impressed by my excellent scheme.

  ‘What makes you think she will?” she said. ‘She’s already said no. And I know she thinks we’re getting too interested. It’s obvious she thinks that if we get involved your parents will find out. So why should she take us?’

  ‘Blackmail,’ I said smugly.

  Yes, it’s an ugly word, but it works.

  That evening, after Father had read us the latest extremely exciting installment of Peter Fitzgerald’s adventures (he has escaped the gang by climbing up a chimney and hiding there, but now the housemaid, unaware of Peter’s hiding place, is starting to lay a fire beneath him), I cornered Phyllis in the hall.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ I said.

  ‘Do you really?’ said Phyllis wearily.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I want you to take me and Nora to the meeting on Saturday.’

  ‘No,’ said Phyllis. ‘How many times do I need to tell you this? I am not taking either of you anywhere again. It’s too risky.’

  ‘But why?’ I said indignantly. ‘We’re supporters of the cause.’

  ‘You’re fourteen,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘So?’ I said. ‘We’re still supporters. And after all, if we win, we’ll be able to vote in seven years.’

  ‘What a hideous thought,’ said Phyllis. ‘The prospect of you voting is enough to turn me off the cause altogether. Anyway, you may well be right …’

  ‘I am,’ I said.

  ‘But I don’t want the responsibility of looking after the pair of you,’ said Phyllis. ‘There might be trouble at the meeting. Those awful Hibernians might turn up.’

  I hadn’t really thought of that. But even if they did, I still wanted to be there.

  ‘You won’t have to look after us,’ I said. ‘We’re quite capable of looking after ourselves.’

  ‘I’ll be the one our parents will blame if you get taken off to hospital in an ambulance,’ said Phyllis, who was surely exaggerating. No suffragette had ever needed an ambulance after the protests (as far as I knew). ‘It’s bad enough that I took you to that park meeting, and to the Farm Produce restaurant,’ Phyllis went on, ‘but if they find out about all this, they might even stop me going to College in October.’

  I had had a feeling she would say something like this. So I took a deep breath and drew myself up to my full height (which is still three inches shorter than Phyllis).

  ‘Then you leave me no choice,’ I said dramatically. ‘If you don’t take me and Nora, I will tell our aged parents everything.’

  Phyllis looked horrified.

  ‘You wouldn’t,’ she said.

  ‘I definitely would,’ I said. Even though actually, I wouldn’t. It would be far too low and sneakish and cruel. I just had to hope Phyllis would believe my threat and wouldn’t call my bluff. ‘Oh go on, Phyllis. We won’t get you into trouble. Honour bright, we won’t.’

  ‘You’re an absolute monster,’ said Phyllis.

  ‘Please, Phyllis,’ I said. ‘It’s just one meeting. And if there’s even a hint of trouble, we’ll sneak out and run home. You know those awful old Hibernians wouldn’t hit a girl my age, anyway.’ At least, I hoped that was true.

  ‘I’ll think about it,’ said Phyllis. ‘You sneaky little beasts.’

  But I am pretty sur
e she will take us. I’m going to bed now and I do feel a bit bad about this blackmailing business, but surely it is worth it for such a good cause? I will ask God about it when I say my prayers.

  Later

  I woke up at four o’clock in the morning (I know because I could see the clock on the mantelpiece in the light shining in from the street), and I couldn’t get back to sleep again because I felt so guilty about blackmailing Phyllis. I know ‘thou shalt not blackmail’ is not one of the ten commandments, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything about it in the Catechism, but maybe that’s because it’s so bad God didn’t think He had to tell you not to do it (although I suppose you could say the same about killing people, which is definitely worse than blackmail). Anyway, whether it’s in the Bible and the Catechism or not (and it might be in the Bible somewhere. I haven’t read all of it), I do know God wouldn’t approve of what I said to Phyllis last night. I know in my heart of hearts that it is a terrible sin.

  I wouldn’t feel right going to such a good and important meeting through such nefarious means, so at breakfast this morning, around the time everyone had finished their toast and Mother was reminding us that she was going to Mrs. Sheffield’s this afternoon to talk about church fundraising things, I made my best Significant Face at Phyllis to indicate that I wanted to talk to her. So she waited for me in the hall when everyone was leaving the breakfast table.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said. ‘More blackmail?’

  I took a deep breath. No one likes admitting that they’re wrong, even when you know that it is absolutely the right thing to do.

  ‘The opposite,’ I said. ‘I feel awful about saying that I’d tell on you. You must know I wouldn’t ever really do that.’

  Phyllis raised an eyebrow. Just one. I don’t know how she does it. I’ve tried it myself because it does look so wonderfully supercilious, and I’d love to be able to do it at Grace, but every time I make an attempt both my eyebrows go up and I just look surprised. Though Phyllis definitely couldn’t do it a year ago, so maybe by the time I’m her age I’ll be able to do it too.