‘Did she ever talk about her younger years?’
‘Not too often. I remember her talking about the war—the Second World War—she was retired by then but they called her back to the railways. There she was in her early sixties driving trains to and from London. She told me a few tales about being dive-bombed by Messerschmitts and the like—I’ll have to get my thinking cap on if you want exact details. Apparently, she was one of the first female train drivers in the country. Or county, I forget which. And she loved her baking and sewing—she was always knitting or making cushions, blankets.’
‘Anything about being a suffragette?’ he probed.
‘I know she definitely was one because the moment I reached eighteen she drummed it into me that I absolutely had to vote. She didn’t care who for—just that I went down and put an ‘X’ in one of the boxes.’ Margot laughed. ‘I remember replying that there wasn’t any point; the ones I wanted stood no chance of getting in and she actually got upset. For the first time that I could recall, she cried. Then she sat me down and talked about some of the things she and her friends had to do to get the vote.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, the usual: marches, speeches, posting leaflets through doors. That sort of thing. All pretty tame by today’s standards.’
Morton laughed. ‘Not pouring ink into letter boxes, hitting the Prime Minister, getting arrested and put into Holloway and force-fed, then?’
Margot looked at him strangely then laughed. ‘No, she wasn’t that type of a lady.’
She’s in for a shock once I’ve completed my research, Morton thought.
‘So, anyway, I’ve always remembered that and have voted in every election since. I’ve switched sides a few times, but always voted one way or the other. What’s with the sudden fascination with my gran, anyway?’
It was an interesting question. Given the amount of work which he had put into merely fleshing out Grace’s life, his grand plan of documenting the lives of all of Juliette’s recent ancestors now seemed a ridiculous prospect. ‘She enthrals me,’ he answered honestly.
‘Oh, right.’
He flicked through the entire album, planning on photographing it at a later point, then, setting the album to one side, Morton delved into the jute bag and retrieved something that put a smile on his face: Grace’s silk sash. Given its age, it was still in remarkable condition. The words VOTES FOR WOMEN were in bold black letters on a white background, bordered within two stripes, the inner one green and the outer purple. ‘Wow,’ Morton said again, holding it up. In one corner was sewn in small lettering, ‘Miss Emmerson’.
The image of Grace in his mind was now complete. He could see her right now, outside Downing Street wearing this sash, her face resolute and determined as she accosted Asquith.
Margot reached into the bag, pulled out a framed photograph and passed it to Morton. It was clearly Grace, although taken many years before her silver wedding anniversary. She was young, with short 1920s-style hair and a dark feather boa draped over her shoulders. At the neckline was a small brooch that looked like a grid with spikes on the bottom. Morton had some recollection of seeing this type somewhere before. ‘Do you know anything about that brooch?’ he asked.
‘Well, it’s in here, actually,’ Margot said. She withdrew a very old yellow tin from the bag.
‘Keen’s Genuine Imperial Mustard,’ Morton observed. ‘That must be a good hundred years old.’
‘Never mind the tin, it’s what’s inside,’ she said, prising off the lid. ‘Here we go.’ She handed Morton the exact same brooch that Grace was wearing in the photograph. It was silver; well made. Now that he had it in his hands, he could see that it was clearly a portcullis. In the centre was an upward-facing arrow comprised of three parts, each part one of the colours of the suffragette’s cause. He grabbed his mobile and quickly Googled the brooch.
‘Designed by Sylvia Pankhurst, the brooch was awarded to members of the WSPU who had been imprisoned. Described as ‘the Victoria Cross of the Union’ the design is of the Portcullis symbol of the House of Commons, the gate and hanging chains are in silver, and the superimposed broad arrow (the conflict symbol) is in purple, white and green enamel.’ Morton read.
‘Imprisoned?’ Margot questioned. ‘Surely not?’
‘I’ll tell you more later—Grace is who I’ve been researching today at The National Archives—but briefly, yes, she was arrested. Several times.’
Margot seemed genuinely shocked. ‘I just can’t believe it of Granny. She was so quiet and unassuming. Golly. Well, you’re the expert, so if you say so.’
Morton nodded. ‘I’ve got pages of documents that prove it. I’m going to present it all to Juliette once it’s finished.’
‘That’s a lovely idea,’ Margot said, taking a gold locket from the tin and passing it to Morton. ‘Grace’s parents are trapped inside, whom I know nothing about whatsoever, before you ask. They look quite well-to-do, though, wouldn’t you say?’
Morton took the locket and levered it open. In the left-hand oval was a painted miniature portrait of a lady gazing out to the left. She was well dressed with dark hair and dark eyes, bearing a stark resemblance to Grace. In the opposite oval was the painted portrait of a gentleman wearing a black jacket and high-necked white shirt. He was young, handsome and was looking straight out, his blue eyes meeting Morton’s. ‘Grace’s parents, you say?’
‘So my mum told me, yes,’ Margot confirmed.
Something didn’t quite fit with the portraits, but he couldn’t put his finger on the problem.
‘Last of all,’ Margot announced, ‘is this clipping.’ She slid a neatly cut, sepia newspaper cutting across the table.
Morton read it aloud: ‘Barwise-Emmerson. On 18th November 1911, Cecil Barwise, second son of Mr Walter
