and I attended a concert organized by the WSPU at the Queen’s Hall (where the
Exhibition was held two years ago). Afterwards, about 1,000 of us walked around Trafalgar Square in a circular procession for ages. It was magnificent. Everyone was so united. And then we went to
the Scala Theatre, where there was entertainment until three in the morning. I have never been up so late before. Flora performed a pro-suffrage poem. What a splendid actress she is! After that,
many of the supporters went on to the Aldwych Skating Rink for all-night skating, but we returned home. We walked all the way to Bloomsbury in the cold air, arms linked. Passers-by, who were
nothing to do with us, waved and shouted their support. Even a few bobbies called out, “Good on yer!”
We stopped at an all-night café for mugs of scalding-hot tea and sticky buns.
“Your performance tonight was great, Flora. I would have loved my mother to have heard you,” I said as we walked on.
“Thank you. Yes, I was surprised when you said she wasn’t coming.”
“She’s been sick again. It’s nothing serious but she does have to take care. I wish she’d leave that cottage. The damp gets in to her bones. But she seems happy and John
is kind to her, even if he thinks I have become a ‘stuck-up missie’. Lord, Flora, I hope I haven’t.”
Flora roared with laughter and hugged me tight. We were shivering with cold. “Is that why you are so passionate about all this?” she asked softly. “Is it all for your
mother?”
“Maybe,” I answered, but I wasn’t able to explain more. It’s funny; even after all this time I have never been able to open up to Flora about what drives me to this work.
The only person to whom I ever confided the terrors of my childhood was Lady Violet.
The fact is that everything I am fighting for, the women’s battle I am committed to, is fuelled by memories that will always haunt me. Those nights when Father came home drunk or deadbeat
or out of work and took his moods and frustrations out on my mother. Sometimes he would hit her and those nights were the worst. I would lie in my bed, wanting to die. Sometimes I would get up and
rush at him and beg him to stop, tears streaming down my face, but then he would turn on me, too.
I would lie awake listening to her sobbing and it devastated me that there was nothing I could do for her. Nothing that she could do for herself. Yet, even today, I do not believe that Father
was a cruel man. My parents were caught up in a situation that they could not get free of.
My mother has sacrificed her life for him and the family. But I ask myself how it would have been if she had been educated and could have found independence, if she had not been financially
dependent on him. Or how might it have been for him if she could have carried the financial load with him? What shame did he suffer knowing he could not feed his family?
4th April 1911
The news is that all across the country supporters held the all-night vigil to boycott the Census. A large midnight feast took place on Wimbledon Common where they tucked into
roasted fowl, boiled ham, coffee and lashings of hot tea. What a fun way to protest!
Emily Wilding Davison hid herself in the Houses of Parliament. It had been her intention to rush into the House first thing on Monday when the Prime Minister appeared and shout, “Mr
Asquith, withdraw your veto from the Women’s Bill and women will withdraw their veto from the Census.” Unfortunately, she was found by a cleaner in the crypt of St Stephen’s
Chapel. The police were called but she was not charged, though her name has been added to the Census numbers.
How daring, to stay there alone in the dark. I would have been absolutely petrified.
23rd April 1911
There was a meeting at the Queen’s Hall this evening, which I missed because I had a mass of homework to catch up on. I heard later that Mrs Pankhurst gave a rip-roaring
speech which finished with: “We believe
Exhibition was held two years ago). Afterwards, about 1,000 of us walked around Trafalgar Square in a circular procession for ages. It was magnificent. Everyone was so united. And then we went to
the Scala Theatre, where there was entertainment until three in the morning. I have never been up so late before. Flora performed a pro-suffrage poem. What a splendid actress she is! After that,
many of the supporters went on to the Aldwych Skating Rink for all-night skating, but we returned home. We walked all the way to Bloomsbury in the cold air, arms linked. Passers-by, who were
nothing to do with us, waved and shouted their support. Even a few bobbies called out, “Good on yer!”
We stopped at an all-night café for mugs of scalding-hot tea and sticky buns.
“Your performance tonight was great, Flora. I would have loved my mother to have heard you,” I said as we walked on.
“Thank you. Yes, I was surprised when you said she wasn’t coming.”
“She’s been sick again. It’s nothing serious but she does have to take care. I wish she’d leave that cottage. The damp gets in to her bones. But she seems happy and John
is kind to her, even if he thinks I have become a ‘stuck-up missie’. Lord, Flora, I hope I haven’t.”
Flora roared with laughter and hugged me tight. We were shivering with cold. “Is that why you are so passionate about all this?” she asked softly. “Is it all for your
mother?”
“Maybe,” I answered, but I wasn’t able to explain more. It’s funny; even after all this time I have never been able to open up to Flora about what drives me to this work.
The only person to whom I ever confided the terrors of my childhood was Lady Violet.
The fact is that everything I am fighting for, the women’s battle I am committed to, is fuelled by memories that will always haunt me. Those nights when Father came home drunk or deadbeat
or out of work and took his moods and frustrations out on my mother. Sometimes he would hit her and those nights were the worst. I would lie in my bed, wanting to die. Sometimes I would get up and
rush at him and beg him to stop, tears streaming down my face, but then he would turn on me, too.
I would lie awake listening to her sobbing and it devastated me that there was nothing I could do for her. Nothing that she could do for herself. Yet, even today, I do not believe that Father
was a cruel man. My parents were caught up in a situation that they could not get free of.
My mother has sacrificed her life for him and the family. But I ask myself how it would have been if she had been educated and could have found independence, if she had not been financially
dependent on him. Or how might it have been for him if she could have carried the financial load with him? What shame did he suffer knowing he could not feed his family?
4th April 1911
The news is that all across the country supporters held the all-night vigil to boycott the Census. A large midnight feast took place on Wimbledon Common where they tucked into
roasted fowl, boiled ham, coffee and lashings of hot tea. What a fun way to protest!
Emily Wilding Davison hid herself in the Houses of Parliament. It had been her intention to rush into the House first thing on Monday when the Prime Minister appeared and shout, “Mr
Asquith, withdraw your veto from the Women’s Bill and women will withdraw their veto from the Census.” Unfortunately, she was found by a cleaner in the crypt of St Stephen’s
Chapel. The police were called but she was not charged, though her name has been added to the Census numbers.
How daring, to stay there alone in the dark. I would have been absolutely petrified.
23rd April 1911
There was a meeting at the Queen’s Hall this evening, which I missed because I had a mass of homework to catch up on. I heard later that Mrs Pankhurst gave a rip-roaring
speech which finished with: “We believe
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