‘It’s just a lot of rich ladies wanting even more than they already have,’ she said.
‘They want more for all of us.’ My voice was rising. ‘If you’re not going to stand up for yourself then you should be glad someone else will.’
‘I will be glad if you stay out of the papers,’ she said, as calm as ever.
‘It’s apathy that keeps the vote from women.’
‘Apathy.’ Lizzie scoffed. ‘I reckon it’s more than that.’
I stormed out then, forgetting my coat.
When I returned to the kitchen just before lunch, Mrs Ballard was sat at the table, a cup of tea steaming in front of her.
‘Only three for sandwiches today, Mrs B,’ I said, looking around for Lizzie.
‘Too late for that.’ She nodded towards the plate on the bench, piled with sandwiches, just as Lizzie appeared at the bottom of the stairs that led to her room.
I looked over and smiled, but Lizzie only nodded.
‘Dr Murray has a meeting with the Press Delegates, and Da and Mr Balk have gone off to see Mr Hart,’ I continued, wanting to pretend we were not in a quarrel. ‘Spelling errors, apparently. Da said they’d be gone for hours.’
‘It will be sandwiches for our tea then, Lizzie,’ said Mrs Ballard.
‘No good wasting them,’ Lizzie replied as she crossed to the bench and began removing some of the sandwiches to a smaller plate.
‘I can do that,’ I said.
‘Will you be going to the theatre tonight, Esme?’ Lizzie was not so keen to pretend.
‘I suppose I will.’
‘You must know the lines by heart.’
It was a rebuke I had no answer for. It was true, and Bill liked to tease when he caught me mouthing Tilda’s words. ‘You could be her understudy,’ he’d said.
‘Would you like to come?’ I asked Lizzie.
‘No. I was obliged the first time, Esme, but once is enough.’
She might have stopped there if my relief hadn’t been so transparent. She sighed and lowered her voice. ‘You’re not so worldly as them, Essymay.’
‘I’m hardly a child.’
Mrs Ballard scraped back her chair and took the herb basket out to the garden.
‘Maybe it’s about time I became “more worldly”, as you put it. Things are changing. Women don’t have to live lives determined by others. They have choices, and I choose not to live the rest of my days doing as I’m told and worrying about what people will think. That’s no life at all.’
Lizzie took a clean cloth from the drawer and spread it over the plate of sandwiches she and Mrs Ballard would eat later that day. She straightened and took a deep breath, her hand finding the crucifix around her neck.
‘Oh, Lizzie. I didn’t mean —’
‘Choice would be a fine thing, but from where I stand things look much the same as they always have. If you’ve got choices, Esme, choose well.’
The final performance was sold out. They had three encores and a standing ovation, and the performers were drunk on it before they’d even raised a glass. Tilda led them from New Theatre to Old Tom, each arm entwined with that of an actor, both of whom leaned in with an intimacy that turned the heads of the evening crowd.
I walked behind with Bill. It was our usual position in this weekly procession, and as usual he found my hand and encouraged me to rest it on his forearm, bringing us close. But the mood was different. His own hand rested on mine, his fingers tracing an intricate pattern on my bare skin. He spoke very little and was less intent on keeping up.
‘They’re jubilant,’ I said.
‘It’s always like this on the last night.’
‘What will happen?’ I leaned in closer, as if conspiring.
‘There will be at least one arrest, one dunking in the Cherwell, and …’ He looked at me.
‘And?’
‘Tilda will find her way into the bed of one of those two – whichever is able to sneak her into their rooms.’
‘How can you know that?’
‘It’s her habit,’ he said, clearly trying to gauge my reaction. ‘She denies them all season – fucking is bad for the play, she says – then she lets them have her.’
I knew it already; Tilda had said as much. At the time I’d blushed, and Tilda had said, ‘If the gander can do it, why not the goose?’ She’d refused my arguments, and I’d begun to hear them as borrowed and not truly my own.
‘You know, Esme,’ she’d said, ‘women are designed to like it.’
Then she’d told me how.
‘What is it called?’ I’d asked the next day, the memory of my fumbling and the exquisite pleasure of it still fresh.
Tilda laughed. ‘You managed to find it, then?’
‘Find what?’
‘Your nub. Your clitoris. I’ll spell it for you, if you want to write it down.’ I took a slip and a stub of pencil from my pocket. Tilda spelled it out. ‘A medical student told me what it was called, though he had little understanding of it.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked.
‘Well, he described it as a remnant cock – proof we were of Adam, he said. But, like you, he had no idea what it could do. Or if he did, he thought it irrelevant.’ She smiled. ‘It brings a woman pleasure, Esme. That’s its only function. Knowing that changes everything, don’t you think?’
I shook my head, not understanding.
‘We’re designed to enjoy it,’ Tilda had said. ‘Not avoid it or endure it. Enjoy it, just like them.’
As we followed Tilda and her entourage, Bill seemed shy for the first time since I’d met him.
‘She won’t come home tonight,’ he said.
An appropriate response rested on my tongue, but I said nothing.
‘She made sure I knew that.’
His words travelled through me, to the place I now had a word for. I knew what would happen if I went with him. I longed
