The Anatomy of Death (12 page)

Miss Lithgow raised an elegant, if sardonic, brow.

Florence frowned. Miss Lithgow turned her attention to breakfast. Florence had sworn not to tell a soul about her activities with Dody in the mortuary, but she had come close to it on several occasions, especially when people like Jane Lithgow all but accused her sister of being a traitor to the cause.

Molly Jenkins joined them with kisses all around. “Sorry I’m late, ladies. I wanted to come early to ’elp, but me old man stirred up one ’ell of a fuss, tried to stop me from coming. Look at what he did to me arm.” Molly pushed up her sleeve and proudly exposed a mass of purple and red skin. There was a collective gasp from the ladies at the table: her bruises were
deemed as much a symbol of heroism as the hunger strike medals many of them wore.

“Pig of a man,” Daisy spat.

Olivia raised a cautionary hand. “Quiet, Daisy,” she whispered. “Miss Christabel Pankhurst is making her way over here.”

Daisy blushed, lowering her eyes, and Olivia gave her hand a reassuring pat.

Florence looked up with admiration as Christabel approached. Like her mother, Christabel was a beauty. They had the same shade of glossy dark hair and the same velvety bloom to their skin, though Christabel’s rounder face showed no evidence yet of Emmeline’s spectacular cheekbones.

“How are you, Daisy? Are the Bloomsbury ladies looking after you well?” Christabel put her arm around Daisy’s childlike shoulders.

Daisy giggled. “Yes, thank you ever so much, miss, everyone is very kind to me.”

Christabel greeted each woman at the table by name, taking a moment to add something touching or personal in each case. “Did you make the necessary telephone calls?” she asked when she reached Florence, a mischievous smile adding a cheeky lilt to her voice.

Florence smiled back. “Yes, and I think we’ll get the response we’re looking for. The secretary of the men’s antisuffrage league was incensed that we should be using the premises of a workingmen’s club—I’m sure there will be a protest at the very least.”

“Splendid.”

“I just picked up Lord Curzon’s latest pamphlet, ‘Against Female Suffrage—The Unsexing of Women,’” Miss Lithgow said to the table at large. “He declares that those who join us
will become thinner, dark-featured, lank, and dry.” There was a burst of laughter and Florence’s gaze strayed to the thin and dark-featured Miss Treylen, who was sitting next to Molly. She wasn’t laughing, hadn’t managed a smile for anyone except Christabel since her arrival. Working in an office would make anyone crusty and dry, Florence thought, then immediately felt ashamed. She was well aware of how Miss Treylen struggled to make ends meet, often forfeiting a day’s wages to sell their newspaper. She had sold more copies of
Votes for Women
than the rest of them put together.

Florence’s uncharitable thoughts transferred from Miss Treylen to Miss Lithgow. The woman always had to have her say, didn’t she? She couldn’t help feeling that Miss Lithgow deliberately set out to upstage her. Lord Curzon’s pamphlet was old news; it had been discussed weeks ago when Catherine sent a brilliant retaliatory letter to
The Times.
Catherine. Florence allowed her gaze to stray to the place setting laid in honour of Catherine and felt a visceral wrench of grief. “I’ll make it up to you, somehow,” she whispered to herself.

Christabel and Florence resumed their conversation. “I telephoned several newspapers, too,” Florence said. “I told them we would be starting an hour later than we actually are, so we can at least have our breakfast and attend to business before any trouble starts.”

“You are a wonderful lieutenant, Florence. I don’t know what the union would ever do without you. Perhaps you would like to say a few words outside the hall after breakfast?”

Florence felt the heat rise in her face and hoped her blush wasn’t as obvious as Daisy’s had been. While her respect for Christabel was boundless, she liked to think she wasn’t quite as enslaved as Daisy Atkins. “Certainly, if you want me to,
Christabel.” She crossed the fingers of one hand and hoped the trouble would start before the terrifying opportunity of speaking in public arose.

“Calling the newspapers was a splendid idea, Christabel,” Olivia said. “There can never be enough martyrs for the cause.” Then her eyes, too, fell on the empty place setting as a momentary hush settled on the table.

Christabel broke the silence and asked Florence, “How are your other plans progressing?”

“Perfectly, we have set a date for next week.”

“Splendid.” Christabel paused. “I don’t want to throw cold water on you, dear Florence, but I hope you remember my instructions.”

Florence glanced at the faces around the table and lowered her head. “Yes: I am not allowed to let myself be arrested.”

“My lieutenants are far too important. I need every one of you on the outside of the bars for the time being.”

At that moment a tremendous cry of welcome arose from the gathered suffragettes. Led by the visibly ailing Lady Constance Lytton, a group of seven women was being escorted to the stage. All seven wore dresses in the suffragette colours: white for purity in public and private life, purple for dignity, and green for hope. Christabel excused herself and rushed to take Constance’s arm.

“Don’t look so gloomy, Flo,” Olivia said beside her. “You’ve been arrested enough; it’s time the rest of us did our bit.” Olivia must have taken her look of shameful relief at Christabel’s instructions to be one of disappointment, and Florence did nothing to right her friend’s misapprehension.

On the stage, Christabel introduced the women individually, giving a short account of their exploits and imprisonment,
before they had their hunger strike medals presented by Mrs. Pankhurst. When the ceremony was completed and the medal recipients settled at their table of honour, Christabel lifted her hands for the members to stand and observe a minute’s silence for Lady Catherine Cartwright and the two other women who had made the ultimate sacrifice for the cause. There followed eulogies to the three women, during which most of the audience audibly wept.

When the tears were dried, Mrs. Pankhurst began to speak. Her oratory gripped each woman like a fist, and her face shone with a radiance that seemed to light the stage. Everyone leaned towards the stage as if pulled by invisible strings, hoping to catch their share of her light.

“As the government is refusing to yield on female suffrage,” Mrs. Pankhurst concluded her speech, “we have no choice but to adopt more aggressive forms of militancy!”

Florence’s heart skipped a beat, and the women roared. Mrs. Pankhurst allowed the noise to continue for a full minute before raising her arms for silence. “But there must not be a cat or a canary killed. Our own lives and our own lives alone will be sacrificed for the cause!” More applause.
She plays the audience like a magician
, Florence thought.
We are all mesmerised by her.

Now she introduced Lady Constance Lytton. Of aristocratic birth, Mrs. Pankhurst explained, Constance had joined the WSPU the previous year and been jailed for her part in a violent demonstration outside the House of Commons. Because of her high social status, she was classed as a Division One prisoner, which meant she was kept in comparative luxury, well fed, and allowed to wear her own clothes. The next time she was arrested, she had dressed herself as a working-class woman and gave a false name to the police. Sentenced this
time as a Division Three prisoner, no more than a common criminal, she was kept in a cell resembling an animal’s den and dressed in prison clothes. Upon refusing her ration of cabbage soup and stale bread, she was force-fed eight times. When her identity was finally discovered, she was released, but as a result of her brutal treatment on top of an existing heart condition, she had suffered ill health ever since.

Mrs. Pankhurst turned to the other women on the stage. “Lady Lytton has suffered what you have suffered. If she is feeling strong enough, I hope she will say a few words to our gathering.”

Constance Lytton inclined her head in assent and the women roared their appreciation. “I commend your bravery, all of you,” she said, not getting up from her chair. “It is a terrible thing you have been through.”

Florence knew what was coming, what Lady Lytton was about to say next. She wanted to block her ears or leave the room, but that would draw attention to herself. She tried to focus on other things, the colourful spray of flowers on the table, the odour of freshly brewed tea, the exciting plans for next week.

“The reality surpassed all that I had anticipated.” For all her efforts, Florence could not block out Lady Lytton’s words. “It was a living nightmare of pain, horror, and revolting degradation. The sense of being strangled, suffocated by the thrust of the large rubber tube, which arouses great irritation in the throat and nausea in the stomach. The anguish and effort of retching whilst the tube is forcibly pressed back into the stomach, and the natural resistance of the body restrained, defy description …”

Florence could feel the tube in her own throat and in her
nose, the writhing of her body. The nausea began to rise. Her eardrums felt as if they were bursting. A sharp pain pierced her breast. Her eyes flickered around the room to her companions, knowing that several had endured similar experiences. But their expressions remained beatific, like the martyred saints of the Roman Catholic Church.
Does no one else feel it as I do?
she wondered.

O
utside the workingmen’s club, a small crowd was gathering. The sharp bite of the air, coupled with several cups of strong tea, had revived Florence’s spirits. So far everything had gone to plan. The public meeting was about to begin, and the press would be arriving within minutes. They’d chosen this location—a common yard bordered on three sides by the hall, the boundaries of a pickle factory, and a brewery—deliberately, knowing that most of the workers in those establishments were against the cause.

Men and women congregated outside the factory gates ready for the change in shift, stamping their feet to keep warm, speaking wryly to one another as Florence’s colleagues hoisted the banner. One man guffawed as he read the black-lettered legend:
WE DEMAND VOTES FOR WOMEN
.

Florence made her way through the chaffing, jostling horde, handing out pamphlets. “Leaflets! ‘Citizenship of Women,’ by Mr. Kier Hardie, ‘The Prison Experience of Miss—’”

“Oi,” a beery-looking artisan interrupted, pointing to Christabel as she mounted a vegetable crate next to the banner. “Is that the woman the papers are full of?”

Florence favoured the man with her most charming smile.
“Miss Christabel Pankhurst, yes indeed!” at which the man spat on the ground, barely missing her shoes.

Undeterred, Florence continued to hand out pamphlets while Christabel addressed the crowd amidst volleys of interruption and abuse.

“Friends,” Christabel began. The crowd hooted. She went on as if she had received sincere applause, telling the crowd several things they would not have known, that, among other matters, the meeting had been called to pass a censure on the government.

The crowd laughed and booed.

“And to express our sympathy for the brave women …”

The staccato cries from the audience dissolved into a general hoot.

“… sympathy for the brave women who are still in prison.”

“Serves ’em right!”

Most of Christabel’s speech was drowned out in the catcalling before it reached Florence’s ears. And then Christabel was beckoning her to step upon the wobbling fruit crate. Florence hesitated, her heart pounding.
Courage, mon brave
, she said to herself.
You
can
do this.

Someone nudged her in the back. It was Olivia. “Go on, Flo.” She pushed a path for Florence through the crowd and then helped her onto the crate beside Christabel.

Florence clutched the bundle of leaflets to her chest and gazed upon the hostile mob. “What shall I say?” she whispered to Christabel. “I have nothing prepared.”

“Say whatever you like.” Christabel squeezed Florence’s arm. “They’re not listening anyway. Consider this practice.”

“Oh, Lord. All right then.” Florence frantically tried to gather her thoughts while Christabel introduced her.

“From a fine family of social campaigners, she has more than enough credentials to address you. I give you Miss Florence McCleland.”

Above the noise of the crowd, Florence heard Olivia’s distinctive whoop.

Florence took a breath and raised her voice. “Men and women of England—”

“Get a husband!” someone yelled.

Christabel nudged her in the ribs. “Louder.”

“Men and women of England! We live in a man-made and a man-ruled world. Its laws are men’s standards and formed by men. Since women, because of their sex, are barred from voting, we are denied all power in shaping or moulding our own environment, or that of our children. Men regard women as a servant class, and we are going to remain as such until we get the vote and lift ourselves out of it.”

“The vote is the reward for defending the country,” called a scathing voice.

Ah, good, she knew the answer to that. “No it’s not,” Florence said triumphantly. “Soldiers and sailors don’t vote.”

“Then it means fitness for military service.”

“There is no law of nature that says women aren’t fit for military service. Look at the Boer women—and the Russians. A woman can pull a trigger as well as a man, even though she is not so brutishly strong.”

“Why, a woman can’t never ’it nuffin!”

“Well, we jolly well throw our stones straight, don’t we? When a women sees everything she loves threatened, you will be surprised how quickly she can learn the art of war.”

The suffragettes in the crowd cheered louder than their antagonists. Florence had found her wings and was enjoying
every minute of the flight. Moving her gaze around the crowd, she responded to their objections, addressing her words to particular individuals as she caught their eyes. She noticed two men in suits setting up a camera in a corner of the yard. Excellent. Then she glimpsed a woman pickle worker pass a crate of tomatoes over the factory railings. Good. The fruit would soon be flying, which meant the photographs would be even better than she had hoped.