Love and Fallout by Kathryn Simmonds Page A

the centre pages where a letter from a woman in prison had been reprinted. Dear Womyn, missing you all like mad , it began. ‘She’s incredibly up-beat,’ remarked Rori, ‘considering.’ It was impossible to imagine being that woman writing letters from a prison cell.
    My first day had passed enjoyably in Rori’s company. After helping Jean unpack the shopping, we’d peeled potatoes together – well, me and Jean had done most of the peeling while Rori told stories about the month she’d spent hitchhiking in Andalucia. Since cooking in the dark was hopeless, the women usually prepared the vegetables by daylight and left them in pots of water ready for the evening meal.
    My eye fell on another patch from the newsletter – Defending yourself in court? it asked. Confused by the rules? Come and join in skills-sharing workshop with other ♀ at Main Gate. It was interesting to see what they did with that gender symbol. I was in the middle of an article about Gore-Tex, a wonder fabric which could both repel rain and let moisture escape, wondering if I could fit my fat sleeping bag inside a Gore-Tex sack, as suggested, when Jean raised her voice above the general chatter.
    â€˜Shall we begin?’ The women hushed and Jean regarded the gathering over her half-moon specs. ‘Wonderful to see so many here.’
    It might have been the opening of a WI meeting, but despite the fact that many of the women were indeed drinking tea, there were no twin-sets or pearls on display. Instead the general look was one of utilitarianism – waterproofs, hiking socks, thick-soled boots, army surplus ensembles and the occasional flash of rainbow wool.
    â€˜Would any new women like to introduce themselves?’ said Jean, casting around. Rori gave me a playful nudge and Angela, sitting cross-legged on a roll of carpet, glanced over. I got up in a half-stand to give my name. A few heads nodded in my direction.
    â€˜First of all,’ said Jean, ‘housekeeping. We do need to keep on top of the chores I’m afraid because it seems we’re facing pressure from LAWE.’ Jeers all around.
    â€˜Newbury residents’ group,’ explained Rori. ‘Locals Against Women’s Encampment’
    â€˜Or League of Absolute Wankers,’ Sam added, pulling on her bootlaces.
    Jean continued. ‘I realise we’re all grown-ups, but we do need to be diligent about litter collection and attending to the shit pit.’ It was odd to hear the phrase on her lips. I thought fretfully of the peeing incident and Angela wheeling past with her barrow.
    â€˜In addition, let’s be mindful about gifts. I know we’ve had this discussion before, but this collective must be about sharing rather than collecting.’ I looked again to Rori.
    â€˜One of the women was stockpiling stuff we’d been given,’ she said. ‘Thermal socks, new sleeping bags. There was a scene.’
    Jean ran through a few other points concerning camp life before getting on to what she called ‘the meat of the meeting’: the upcoming blockade. Conversations began about which groups could be approached for support, and someone suggested the Reading University Women’s Society, when Sam, still tugging her bootlaces, spoke up.
    â€˜Blockading only gets us so far. The gravel trucks make it inside. They’re late, but they get in. We need to up the ante. Everyone’s used to seeing women sitting in the road, singing. Nothing’s changed,’ she said. ‘We need to make a statement.’
    â€˜How?’ came another voice.
    â€˜I’ve got an idea,’ said a woman in a red hat. She looked around the group meaningfully. ‘We should dress up as pigs.’
    â€˜Satire?’ asked a young woman behind me. ‘Like in Animal Farm ?’
    â€˜No, PIGS. Police.’
    A whoop of laughter. ‘Brilliant!’
    More voices broke in. ‘Where are we supposed