‘Which are you?’
He smiled. ‘The first, of course.’ Then his expression sobered. ‘My ma had a hard life, Ess. Too hard. And no say over any of it. I go to these meetings for her.’
It was after midnight when the meeting ended. We walked in a tired and comfortable silence back to Observatory Street.
I tried to hush the gate as I opened it, but it still let out a sweet note, disturbing a figure that I hadn’t noticed hiding in the dark.
‘Tilda, what on earth?’
Gareth took the key from me and opened the door. We ushered Tilda into the kitchen and turned on the light. She was a mess.
‘What’s happened?’ Gareth said.
‘You don’t want to know, and I’m not going to tell you. But I need your help. I’m so sorry, Esme. I wouldn’t have come, but I’m hurt.’
The sleeve of her dress was filthy – no, not just filthy, burned. It hung in charred shreds. One hand was cradled in the other.
‘Show me,’ I said.
The skin of her hand was mottled, red and black – dirt or burned skin, I couldn’t tell. My funny fingers prickled with some kind of memory.
‘Why didn’t you go straight to a doctor?’ said Gareth.
‘I couldn’t risk it.’
I searched the cupboards for ointments and bandages, but all I found were plasters and cough medicine. Lily would have stocked the cupboards better, I thought. And she would have known what to do.
‘Gareth, you have to get Lizzie. Tell her to bring her medicine pouch – something for burns.’
‘It’s long after midnight, Es. She’ll be asleep.’
‘Maybe. The kitchen door is always open. Call up the stairs; don’t frighten her. She’ll come.’
When Gareth had gone, I filled a bowl with cold water and put it on the kitchen table in front of Tilda. ‘Will you tell me what happened?’
‘No.’
‘Why? Do you think I’d disapprove?’
‘I know you’d disapprove.’
I asked the question I barely wanted the answer to. ‘Was anyone else hurt, Till?’
Tilda looked at me. A shadow of doubt, of fear, crossed her face. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
Pity rose in my chest, but anger overtook it. I turned away and pulled open a drawer, took out a clean tea towel and slammed the drawer shut. ‘Whatever it is you’ve done, what do you think it will achieve?’ When I turned back to Tilda, the doubt and fear had left her.
‘The government isn’t listening to all the eloquent, sensible words of your suffragists. But they can’t ignore what we do.’
I took a deep breath and tried to focus on her hand. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘A bit.’
‘Mine didn’t, so that’s probably good.’ I lifted her arm so her hand hovered over the bowl of water. When she resisted. I pushed it under. She didn’t complain. Giant blisters had deformed her fingers. Her whole hand had started to swell. Below the water, the charred and angry skin was magnified and shocking against the pale slenderness of her wrist.
‘I want the same things as you, Till, but this isn’t the right way. It can’t be.’
‘There is no right way, Esme. If there was, we’d have voted in the last election.’
‘Are you sure it’s the vote you have your eye on, and not the attention?’
She smiled weakly. ‘You’re not wrong. But if it makes people take notice it might make them think.’
‘They might just think you’re mad and dangerous. They won’t negotiate with that.’
Tilda looked up at me. ‘Well, perhaps that’s when the sensible words of your suffragists come in.’
The gate sang. I jumped up to open the door. Lizzie stood on the threshold, bewildered. She looked past me into the hall, and I realised it was the first time she had ever been in my home.
‘Oh, Lizzie, thank goodness.’ I closed the door behind them and ushered them towards the kitchen.
Lizzie barely acknowledged Tilda, but she took her arm gently and lifted her hand from the bowl of water. She laid it on the tea towel and blew the burned skin dry.
‘It might look worse than it is,’ she finally said. ‘Blisters usually mean there’s good skin beneath. Try not to pop them too soon.’ She took a small bottle of ointment from her leather pouch and removed the stopper. Gareth held the bottle while Lizzie spread the ointment over Tilda’s peeling skin, careful to avoid the blisters. Only once did Tilda draw a sharp breath. Lizzie looked to her then, their eyes meeting for the first time. Lizzie’s face was full of a concern I recognised.
She wrapped Tilda’s hand in gauze. ‘I can’t promise it won’t scar.’
‘If it does, I’ll be in good company,’ Tilda said, looking to me.
‘And you should see a doctor.’
Tilda nodded.
‘Well, then,’ Lizzie said, ‘if that’s all I’m needed for, I’ll be off back to my bed.’
Tilda put her good hand on Lizzie’s arm. ‘I know you don’t approve of me, Lizzie, and I understand why you wouldn’t. But I am so very grateful.’
‘You’re a friend of Esme’s.’
‘You could have said no,’ Tilda said.
‘No, I couldn’t.’ With that, Lizzie stood and let Gareth guide her back to the front door. When I tried to catch her eye, she looked away.
It was three in the morning when Gareth returned from walking Lizzie home.
‘Will she forgive me?’ I asked.
‘Funny, she asked me the same thing about you.’ Then he turned to Tilda. ‘There’s a train to London at six am. Do you think you should be on it?’
‘Yes. I think I should.’
Gareth turned to me. ‘Would your father mind if Tilda stayed here until then?
‘Da won’t know. He’s not likely to wake before seven.’
‘Do you have much that needs to be collected from the narrowboat?’ he asked Tilda.
‘Nothing that can’t be sent on, if Esme doesn’t mind lending me some clean clothes.’
Gareth put on his jacket. ‘I’ll be back in a couple of hours to walk you to the station.’
‘I don’t need a chaperone.’
‘Yes, you do.’
Gareth left. I tip-toed upstairs and
