A Mad, Wicked Folly (26 page)

She set her pliers down. “Hi Queenie. I was hoping you
were going to come.”
I sat down in the chair next to her. “I’ve been busy.
What are you working on?”
“Oh, some things to sell. I’m glad you’re here because
I’ve been thinking of asking if you’d like to design something. Figural work is very popular, and I’m not much of
an artist when it comes to that. Why don’t you draw something, and I’ll make the wax mold and cast it at school this
week. If the Selfridge’s buyer likes it, I can cast more. We
just have to make it in suffragette colors.”
I thought about when Sylvia mentioned studying William
Morris’s textiles at school. Maybe I could impress the examiners with some decorative work. I turned my sketchbook to
a new page. “What are the suffragette colors again?”
“Purple for dignity, white for purity, and green for
hope, just like on the mural.”
I sat sketching ideas. I tried a sailing ship, a horse, and
a chalice, but none of them held the symbolism I wanted
to capture, as Sylvia had with the mural. Finally I thought
about
A Mermaid
. She had always been my inspiration, so
maybe other women would feel the same. I thought maybe
she would make a beautiful brooch. But instead of showing
her combing her hair, as in the painting, I made her holding
an umbrella of seaweed and sea lavender over her head. I
showed the sketch to Lucy.
“I like that.”
“I think a mermaid would make a wonderful suffragette, don’t you? Mermaids sing and distract sailors at sea;
so as a suffragette, she could sing and distract all the politicians in Parliament into giving women the vote!”
Lucy laughed. “And then lead the daft men straight to
the bottom of the Thames. We need to find a school of mermaids right away. What’s the umbrella for?”
I thought for a moment. “I suppose she’s made her own
shelter from the storm.”
“Even better.”
Lucy started to flip through my book. I was just about
to take it back when her finger landed on a page. “That’s PC
Fletcher. What’s he doing in your book?”
I tried to pull the sketchbook away, but she took hold
of it and slid it closer to her. I watched as she leaned over
the pages and studied the sketches of Will. I squeezed my
fingers into fists, wanting desperately to snatch the book
from her hands. “It’s nothing—”
She shook her head. “This is not
nothing
. These sketches
are really good.” And then she turned the page, and there
was my nude drawing of Will.
There was a sharp intake of breath from Lucy. She stared
at the sketch, unmoving, and then she slowly looked at me,
her dark eyes shining. “Oh, did I ever have you pegged in
the wrong hole!” Her voice was marked with laughter. “Not
only did you draw a copper, but in the buff as well! You’re
really something!” She burst into giggles. “I have to say,”
she said, after collecting herself, “I always thought that
copper was a pretty nice guy, stepping in to help us any
way he could. I never thought he was
that
nice.” She lifted
the sketchbook and turned it sideways, leaning in to take a
closer look. “Hmmm.” She raised an eyebrow. “
Very
nice.”
Just then, the atelier’s co-organizer, Clemence
Housman, came over. She was middle-aged, with her hair
bundled into a net at the base of her neck. Although she
was dressed in black, she was anything but dowdy. She’d
accessorized her bodice with a striking ornate circular
brooch encrusted with freshwater pearls and mother-ofpearl. After Lucy introduced us, she said, “You’re the Vicky
who does the illustrations! Sylvia said you might be willing
to do some for us. Would you be able to draw the deputation to Parliament on the twenty-ninth of June? Our usual
illustrator can’t make it.”
“A deputation?” I asked. “What’s that?”
“Emmeline Pankhurst and a bunch of us are going to
Parliament to see the prime minister,” Lucy chimed in.
“That doesn’t sound very interesting,” I said, wondering what on earth I would draw.
“Oh, it might be,” Lucy replied. “The prime minister
hasn’t allowed the WSPU to speak with him for ages, so a
crowd of us are going to march right up to the door of the
Commons and demand to see him. We won’t take no for
an answer, so it’s likely we’ll get arrested. The papers will
carry the story and put suffrage back in people’s minds
again.”
An artist came over and asked Miss Housman for help.
“Let me know as soon as you can, Vicky,” Miss Housman
said, and then went off with the artist.
“Are you going to do it?” Lucy asked me.
“I don’t know. I can’t risk getting arrested.”
“Why would you get arrested? You’re just drawing. If
you stand in the gutter, you won’t be done for blocking the
pavement. You’ll be safe as houses. The only reason you
got arrested before is because you wouldn’t scarper when
I told you to scarper.” She grinned. “Just don’t let anyone
shove you onto any police constables. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t want to talk about Will.
“All right. What’s going on? There’s something more
to this story.” Her eyes widened. “You kissed him, didn’t
you?”
“Shhh!” I glanced around. “Keep your voice down.”
“That’s romantic as all get-out. An artist falling in love
with her muse.” She gestured with a wide, theatrical sweep
of her arm. “Did he have his clothes on when you kissed
him?”
“Lucy!”
“So what’s the problem? He doesn’t feel the same way
about you?”
“No. I believe he feels the same. At least the way he
kissed me felt like it. It was really passionate.”
Lucy leaned forward, rapt, listening to my every word.
“Sounds good to me. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is I’m engaged already!”
“What? I didn’t know that! Well, if you love PC Fletcher,
then you’d better break the engagement before it goes any
farther. You can’t marry someone when you’re in love with
someone else. How’s that going to work?”
I gaped at her. “Have you lost your mind, Lucy? I have
to get married.”
“Why?” She went back to work, sliding a silver bail into
a pendant and pinching it closed with her little pliers.
“Because if I don’t, my father will cut me off and send
me to live with my great-aunt in Norfolk. No art school.
And art school is what I’m about. Not love. Not some fancy
I have for a working-class boy.”
I put my head in my hands.
Working-class boy.
Just saying those words out loud made me feel like a toffee-nosed
idiot. But that was what he was, and the way my parents
would always treat him. There was a reason why Will
had come to the servant’s entrance that day to bring my
sketchbook back. Will knew that was the door he had to
use. Of course he did. What was more, I didn’t think I’d
ever walked through that door once in my life.
Lucy reached for her cigarette case. “You English are
so strange about class. Listen to you.” She drew out a cigarette, lit it, and exhaled, regarding me through a plume of
smoke. “‘Working-class boy’! Heavens to Betsy, Queenie.”
“It’s not I who care, Lucy. It’s my father. And my mother.
They would never accept Will. It’s not the done thing to
marry outside one’s class,” I said.
“If you ask me, the heart knows the way, and if you
deny it, then it’s hell to pay for you.” She pointed her cigarette at me. “If money is what you’re looking for, then you’ll
have a life of misery. Remember what happened to Midas,
when he wanted the gold? Sure it was all lollipops and
rainbows at first, but then it all ended in tears.”
“So you’re telling me that I should break my engagement?” I was so frustrated, I was close to crying. “And then
do what after my father gets over his fit of apoplexy? Live
how and where? He cut my brother, Freddy, off because he
didn’t want to go into the family business. When he came
crawling back begging for forgiveness, my father gave
him an allowance. My brother can’t even manage without
Papa’s money.”
Lucy shrugged. “So when you come crawling back, he’ll
probably forgive you, too.”
I shook my head. “Oh, no. Stepping out with a boy
below my class would be the ultimate betrayal. My father
would never, ever forgive me. My fiancé is joining the family business, too. There’s no way around it, Lucy. Anyway,
it’s over with. I don’t see Will anymore.”
Lucy watched me thoughtfully, turning the cigarette
around in her fingers. “I’m not one to say it’s easy to break
away from your family. Lord knows my pa didn’t want me
to come here, but I was willing to take the chance. The way
I see it, you’ve figured out how to draw PC Fletcher, be a
suffragette, and get yourself into art school on your own.
You’re a smart cookie. You’ll figure it out.”
I was more confused than ever now. I was sorry I had
told her.

IN THE END,
I told Miss Housman I would help illustrate
the deputation. Using my church charity as an excuse, I
told Mamma I’d be helping at St. Martin-in-the-Fields in
Trafalgar Square. The day of the deputation was scorching hot, and the sun blazed down. The black tarmacadam
roads reflected the heat in shimmering waves. It was the
kind of day that turned the gloomy, misty days of spring
into a fond memory.

The deputation had made the papers, and a crowd had
come to gape. There was a big police presence, on foot as
well as on horses, lining the street. I scanned the constables for Will, but it was like trying to find a ship in the
middle of the sea.

I had taken up a position near the Members’ Entrance,
but I stood in the gutter, as Lucy had suggested, so I would
not be arrested for obstruction of the pathway. I had
already made sketches of the entrance. I would sketch in
Emmeline Pankhurst as she arrived. I shifted from foot to
foot. The sun was hot on my head; my little straw summer
cloche was no defense against its rays.

Several police constables passing by looked at me
askance, but didn’t say anything to me. All the same, I
didn’t like them taking notice of me. When would Mrs.
Pankhurst get here?

And then finally I heard some people shouting. I
stood on tiptoes and looked toward Whitehall to see Mrs.
Pankhurst coming down the pavement. A group of women,
Lucy among them, trailed her like a wake behind a sailing
vessel.

As they drew near, I began to draw, making basic figure
sketches that I could finish with more detail later. I focused
only on the women’s essential features and actions. Mrs.
Pankhurst didn’t look anything like Christabel or Sylvia.
Where her daughters were possessed of delicate beauty,
their mother was what Mamma would call a “handsome”
woman, with sturdy yet feminine features. She was
dressed in a high-necked shirtwaist and a striped poplin
skirt. And she walked with purposeful, quick strides, her
gaze locked on Parliament.

I drew Clara tripping along behind, her hand clasped
on top of her straw boater, her expression earnest. And
Lucy, next to her, ignoring the jeers from the crowd and
walking steadily, face calm, attention focused on Mrs.
Pankhurst, like a bridesmaid behind her bride. I drew the
angry faces of the crowd and the staid faces of the constables. My fingers began to cramp because I was drawing so
quickly, trying hard to get down every detail that I could.
The scene was too important to rely on my memory alone.

As the women drew nearer, some men shouted and
shook their fists. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but Mrs. Pankhurst’s contingent didn’t like it. Some of
the women yelled back at them. The men could do little in
response, but they pushed against the police line all the
same. The constables shoved back, holding the line. There
was a snap and a sizzle in the air and a feeling of tension
and sheer fury held in check.

One of the men cocked his arm back and threw an egg,
which struck a woman in the side of her face. She staggered
sideways and put her hand up to her cheek. She paused for
a moment and then turned to stare down the crowd, wiping her face with the back of her arm. Lucy said something
to her, and she shook her head and walked on.

Mrs. Pankhurst marched up to the Members’ Entrance,
the door that admitted the members of Parliament, and
spoke to a red-faced constable guarding the door. He
handed her an envelope and watched while she read it.
Then she threw the letter to the ground.

“I will not accept the prime minister’s refusal,” Mrs.
Pankhurst said, her voice stately. “I stand upon my right
as a subject of the king to petition the prime minister. I am
firmly resolved to stand here until I am received.”

But the constable just shook his head.
“What’s happening?” someone near me shouted. “I
can’t see!” Like a teakettle rising to the boil, the people
were growing restless.

“Asquith denied the Pankhurst woman leave to see
him,” a man with a broad Yorkshire accent answered. “I
don’t think that will find favor with her.”

Several politicians came out to watch the proceedings. They hung on the railing like little boys on a climbing
frame, laughing as though the scene was the funniest thing
they had ever witnessed in their lives. Not a one of them
seemed inclined to understand why Mrs. Pankhurst was
there. It made me angry that none of them gave her the
dignity that she deserved as a citizen.

I knew then how I would portray them. I would draw a
cartoon of them as little boys dressed in suits and bowler
hats. If they acted like children, then I would draw them
as children.

There was a brief, heated exchange between Mrs.
Pankhurst and the constable. Several constables came out
to escort her away, but when one put his hand on her arm
and tried to march her from the door, she dug her toes in.
So he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her
along with him toward the gate. They drew closer to me,
so I could see clearly when she spun out of his grip and
tapped him lightly on the face with her fingertips.

“I know what you’re about,” the constable said in an
even tone. “You’re striking me so I will arrest you, but I will
not be perturbed.”

“She’s slapped a constable in the face! She’s being
arrested!” someone shouted.
The crowd exploded, shouting and pushing against
the police line. The women who had been following Mrs.
Pankhurst glanced around, fear marked on their faces,
and shuffled up against the iron railings. An arrest was
one thing, but reprisals from an aggressive crowd were not
part of the plan.
The crowd shoved the line once more, and I didn’t know
if they did it with malicious intent, but several constables
stepped away, allowing a space to open up. The constables
on the other side tried vainly to stop the gap, but it was too
late. Several men ran forward and rushed the women huddled near the gate, grabbing at them and throwing things
at them. It was a rugby scrum of hostile spectators, suffragettes, and police constables.
Afraid of being caught in the riot, I stepped out of the
gutter and struggled through the press to find a place farther back away from the crowd.
In the middle of this melee, I saw Lucy fall to the
ground. The men surrounded her, and I didn’t see her get
up. I shoved my book into my satchel and pushed through
the people toward her. A man in a flat cap grabbed hold of
my arm, pulling me against him. I stamped on his foot hard
with the heel of my boot and he let go, cursing. I finally
reached Lucy. She sat on the ground, her arms over her
head; people were churning and falling all around her.
“Lucy!”
She looked up. Her hat was gone, her dark hair in
disarray. There was a long, bloody scratch on her cheek.
When she saw me, the fear on her face turned to relief. She
grabbed my hand and I helped her up, and we ran.