I rode back the way I had come. The procession had arrived, and the crowd had swelled. Women outnumbered men by three to one, but I was surprised by the men who were there: all sorts. Men with ties and men without. Men on the arms of women. Men standing alone. Men huddled in small groups, capped and collarless, their arms folded in front of them, their legs pegged wide.
I leaned my bicycle against the railing of the tiny cemetery beside St Mary Magdalen, then I stood on the edge of the crowd.
When I’d read about the procession, I’d hoped Tilda might return to Oxford for it. I’d written to her and included a leaflet: I’ll wait by the little church near the Martyrs’ Memorial.
She’d sent a postcard back.
We shall see. The WSPU has not been invited (Mrs Pankhurst’s methods are not embraced by many of the educated ladies of Oxford). But I’m glad you have joined the sisterhood and will be adding your voice to the cry – it’s about time.
A woman was speaking on a platform set up by the Martyrs’ Memorial, though from where I stood it was difficult to see whom, and I could barely hear what she said above the jeering. The leaflets had instructed us to PAY NO ATTENTION to those who wanted to disrupt, and for the most part the women and men who supported the speaker were doing just that. But the detractors were many, and they shouted from all corners of the crowd. Music began to blare from a gramophone placed in an open window of St John’s College. A cloud of pipe-smoke rose from a group of men beside the speakers’ platform. Another group began singing so loud that it was impossible to hear anything else. On the edge of the crowd, I felt strangely vulnerable.
The crowd around the Martyrs’ Memorial churned. I stood on my toes to see what was happening and saw the disturbance move out through the sea of people. It came towards me, but I only realised what it meant when two men emerged in front of me, their arms locked around each other, each throwing punches. The man wearing a collar and tie was larger, but his arms flailed and his fists kept missing their target. The other man was more accurate. He wasn’t wearing a jacket despite the cold, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up above his elbows. I moved back, but Magdalen Street was still congested and I was pushed up against the bicycles leaning against the railings of the church cemetery.
I saw police on horseback wade through the mass. The horses frightened the crowd, which split. People began to run, half the crowd towards Broad Street, half towards St Giles’. I took a step and was knocked from my feet. Women’s shoes and men’s; dress hems splashed with dirt. I was pulled up, knocked down again. Two women I didn’t know yanked me up and told me to go home, but I stood, paralysed.
‘Bitch!’
A rough red face, almost touching mine; the nose broken years before and never straightened. Then a gob of spit. I could barely breathe. I brought both arms up to protect myself, but the blow I expected never came.
‘Hey! Leave off.’
A woman’s voice. Loud. Ferocious … Then gentle. ‘They’re cowards,’ she said. The words and tone were familiar. I let my arms drop, opened my eyes. It was Tilda. She pulled me away and wiped the spit from my cheek. ‘Scared their wives will stop doing their bidding.’ She threw her handkerchief on the ground then took a step back.
‘Esme. More beautiful than ever.’ Tilda laughed at the look on my face.
Another scuffle started up beside us, and for a moment I was glad of the distraction. Then I saw who was involved.
‘Gareth?’
He turned and the other man took his chance. A rough fist caught Gareth’s lip, and a smirk spread over the stranger’s face. I recognised the assailant’s broken nose. Gareth managed to stay on his feet, but the man ran off before there was a chance to retaliate.
‘Your lip is bleeding,’ I said when Gareth was standing closer. He touched it and flinched, then smiled when he saw my concern, and flinched again.
‘I’ll live,’ he said. ‘What did you do to make that bloke so angry? He was making a beeline for the two of you.’
‘Bastard,’ said Tilda. Gareth’s head swung her way. ‘Oh, not you. You are our knight in shining armour,’ she curtsied theatrically, her smile mocking. Gareth saw it for what it was and looked awkward.
‘Tilda,’ I said, taking her arm. ‘This is Gareth. He works at the Press. He’s a friend of mine.’
‘A friend?’ she said, raising her eyebrows.
I ignored her but couldn’t look Gareth in the eye. ‘Gareth, this is Tilda. We met years ago, when her theatre troupe came to Oxford.’
‘Nice to meet you, Tilda,’ Gareth said. ‘Are you here for a play or for this?’ He surveyed the confusion.
‘Esme invited me, and Mrs Pankhurst thought it an opportunity to raise awareness, so here I am.’
There was so much shouting, and a siren. Women were being chased down Broad Street. ‘I think we should go,’ I said.
Tilda hugged me. ‘You go – I think you’re in good hands,’ she said. ‘But come to Old Tom on Friday evening. We have so much to catch up on.’ Then she turned to Gareth. ‘And you must come too. Promise me you will.’
Gareth looked to me for direction. Tilda watched on, waiting to see how I would respond. It was as if no time had passed since last I’d seen her. Daring and fear battled it out inside me. I did not want fear to win.
‘Of course,’ I said, looking back at Gareth. ‘Perhaps, we could go together?’
His grin split the fragile seal of his cut lip, which started bleeding
