were turned into impressive ships, George often felt he was no more than a tiny ant among thousands, working mindlessly for Pearson’s profit.
‘Well, ants can bloody well organise!’ George shouted down at the miles of factory sheds. ‘One day we’ll all have a say in our working conditions!’ He punched the air as he spoke. No one knew that most of his union speeches had been practised up here among the indifferent cows. ‘One day the nation will own the means of production, not just a handful of men like Pearson. And we’ll spend the profits on decent housing and education beyond fourteen and pensions for our old citizens. Never again will they have to fear the workhouse!’
A blackbird came screeching out of a hedge and George stopped to laugh at himself. He was reminded of himself as a young boy, springing out of ditches, brandishing a sword-stick and making battle speeches against the occupying Romans.
Suddenly another voice came stridently into his mind. I’m fighting for justice for all women … We want equality with men under the law and equal wages...
Maggie Beaton was mad, George declared to himself, and such notions might be a danger to working men whose jobs must be protected and enhanced. Yet he was troubled by Maggie’s startling words. Were the suffragettes not asking that women be given the very things that working men wanted - the vote, better pay and improved social conditions?
George mocked himself. What would Bob Stanners and the others think of him if they suspected he was going soft on women’s rights? If his friends thought of such things at all, it was with irritation that women dared to set sports pavilions on fire or throw hammers through picture-house windows. When a suffragette had smashed the window of Lloyd George’s car in Newcastle, Bob had said, ‘If it was my missus, I’d give her a hidin’ into next week. Shows lasses aren’t fit to vote, doesn’t it?’
George had grunted agreement but had been secretly admiring of the woman’s courage in confronting the ruling class so brazenly. He was disturbed by the thought that, while the suffragettes got on with their revolution, he and his mates just endlessly talked about it.
Time for a drink, George thought, trying to clear his mind of conflicting feelings. He pushed the poetry book back inside his jacket and strode back towards the town.
Chapter Six
Gas jets were flaring outside the pubs, and Maggie could glimpse smoky interiors behind the heavy brass-handled doors. She was tempted to stride in and shout her slogans over the general hubbub, but she knew she had to be careful. She must do nothing tonight to provoke arrest and miss her important meeting with Emily Davison and she knew the police would detain her on the slightest pretext. They knew all the local militants and watched them like hawks, so she maintained her unobtrusive position at the edge of the Bigg Market, silently holding up a copy of The Suffragette in the hope that some of the Saturday night revellers might buy one.
She was content to watch chattering couples and families walking around the open stalls, lit by a hissing phosphorous light. A father cradled a sleeping girl in his arms, while two boys beside him shared a tub of peas and his wife fingered a piece of red calico in indecision. Rejecting it, the mother moved away, ruffling the boys ’ hair in amusement at something they had said and Maggie felt a strange sense of aloneness.
She was set apart by what she chose to do, but she was meant to be alone. How else could she do this important work? If she had a husband and family, she would be too occupied with daily chores to have any energy left for the women’s cause. She realised that she was lucky to have Susan and Granny at home to take care of the mundane, wearisome tasks of daily life, so that, after her office job, she could concentrate on more important work. Although Granny might think of it like that, she knew her sister did not. Yet it
‘Well, ants can bloody well organise!’ George shouted down at the miles of factory sheds. ‘One day we’ll all have a say in our working conditions!’ He punched the air as he spoke. No one knew that most of his union speeches had been practised up here among the indifferent cows. ‘One day the nation will own the means of production, not just a handful of men like Pearson. And we’ll spend the profits on decent housing and education beyond fourteen and pensions for our old citizens. Never again will they have to fear the workhouse!’
A blackbird came screeching out of a hedge and George stopped to laugh at himself. He was reminded of himself as a young boy, springing out of ditches, brandishing a sword-stick and making battle speeches against the occupying Romans.
Suddenly another voice came stridently into his mind. I’m fighting for justice for all women … We want equality with men under the law and equal wages...
Maggie Beaton was mad, George declared to himself, and such notions might be a danger to working men whose jobs must be protected and enhanced. Yet he was troubled by Maggie’s startling words. Were the suffragettes not asking that women be given the very things that working men wanted - the vote, better pay and improved social conditions?
George mocked himself. What would Bob Stanners and the others think of him if they suspected he was going soft on women’s rights? If his friends thought of such things at all, it was with irritation that women dared to set sports pavilions on fire or throw hammers through picture-house windows. When a suffragette had smashed the window of Lloyd George’s car in Newcastle, Bob had said, ‘If it was my missus, I’d give her a hidin’ into next week. Shows lasses aren’t fit to vote, doesn’t it?’
George had grunted agreement but had been secretly admiring of the woman’s courage in confronting the ruling class so brazenly. He was disturbed by the thought that, while the suffragettes got on with their revolution, he and his mates just endlessly talked about it.
Time for a drink, George thought, trying to clear his mind of conflicting feelings. He pushed the poetry book back inside his jacket and strode back towards the town.
Chapter Six
Gas jets were flaring outside the pubs, and Maggie could glimpse smoky interiors behind the heavy brass-handled doors. She was tempted to stride in and shout her slogans over the general hubbub, but she knew she had to be careful. She must do nothing tonight to provoke arrest and miss her important meeting with Emily Davison and she knew the police would detain her on the slightest pretext. They knew all the local militants and watched them like hawks, so she maintained her unobtrusive position at the edge of the Bigg Market, silently holding up a copy of The Suffragette in the hope that some of the Saturday night revellers might buy one.
She was content to watch chattering couples and families walking around the open stalls, lit by a hissing phosphorous light. A father cradled a sleeping girl in his arms, while two boys beside him shared a tub of peas and his wife fingered a piece of red calico in indecision. Rejecting it, the mother moved away, ruffling the boys ’ hair in amusement at something they had said and Maggie felt a strange sense of aloneness.
She was set apart by what she chose to do, but she was meant to be alone. How else could she do this important work? If she had a husband and family, she would be too occupied with daily chores to have any energy left for the women’s cause. She realised that she was lucky to have Susan and Granny at home to take care of the mundane, wearisome tasks of daily life, so that, after her office job, she could concentrate on more important work. Although Granny might think of it like that, she knew her sister did not. Yet it
Similar Books
