‘Anyone got any milk? Turn her into a cake!’ one of them yelled.
‘Votes for cakes!’ another called.
‘How utterly moronic and cowardly,’ Grace shouted. ‘With bovine men like you lot running this country, it’s little wonder we’re such a backward-looking nation. Our empire is built on the stupidity of idiots like you.’
The men sneered but appeared to have lost interest in her now; they were being galvanised, ready to march along North Road towards the Pavilion.
Pulling out a handkerchief, Grace wiped as much of the egg from her face as she could. The foul stench of decay, however, remained like a malodourous tattoo. Inside, she was trembling with anger, but the last thing that she was going to do was give up. She crossed the street just as the march began and stood directly in their path, holding her placard high. ‘Votes for women!’ she yelled, as the band guided the baying group towards her.
Another egg struck her on the chin.
‘Votes for women!’
The band were level with her, the pumping brass tones juddering in her ears.
Another bag of flour was emptied over her head, gluing to the foul egg trails that coursed down her face and dress.
‘Votes for women! Votes for all—even the working men!’ she chanted.
As the group surged past her, elbows were rammed into her side. Someone punched her in the stomach, sending her to the ground. Grace pulled herself into the foetal position, as the men stepped over her. She yelped out in pain when a heavy boot crushed down on the ankle of her bad leg. She looked up and saw the perpetrator, Mr Francis Wild standing over her with his arms folded, continuing to hold his boot on her ankle. He laughed, removed his foot and continued marching.
Within seconds, the crowd had passed: the jeering, the shouts and the noisy band were fading behind her. She sat herself up and glanced around. Her placard was destroyed but her walking cane had survived.
‘Do you want a hand, lady?’ a young lad asked from the pavement. ‘You’ll get hit by a carriage, if you ain’t careful.’
Fearful of where his allegiances lay, Grace shook her head.
The lad shrugged and walked away. ‘Suit yourself.’
Pulling herself up onto her cane, she hobbled to the side of the road and examined her ankle. It was red, swollen and painful. ‘Damn that bastard man,’ she seethed. He would get what was coming to him. She shook off as much of the egg and flour as she could before straightening herself out and standing tall again.
Slowly, Grace ambled down North Road, the distant sound of brass guiding her forwards. She walked as fast as her bad leg—and now bad ankle—would carry her. But it was slow progress. At this rate, the meeting would be all over and done with by the time she got there.
At last, the distinctive grand minarets of the Brighton Pavilion came into view. The building was in the Indo-Saracenic style and, with its pendentive decorations, balconies and arches, always appeared to Grace so incongruous with the rest of the town’s buildings. She would never have imagined such a building being constructed in Brighton, but rather plucked from some exotic Arabian land and dropped into the centre of the town.
Grace hobbled on towards the entrance. A short line of diversely attired men and women fed in through the open doors. She spotted Cecil standing outside, his eyes anxiously searching the crowds. He saw her.
‘What on earth’s happened to you?’ he begged, running over to her, his eyes running up and down the length of her body.
‘The latest fashion,’ Grace answered with a smile, as she ruffled her hair, sending a veil of flour down in front of her face. ‘Did you not get the telegram that you had to come covered in half the ingredients of a Victoria sponge?’
Cecil was unsmiling. ‘It’s not funny. Let me get you a taxi back home.’
Grace shook her head. ‘After the meeting—by all means—that would be much appreciated. But, right now, I’m going inside there,’ she said, raising her cane to the entrance.
Cecil sighed, threaded his arm through hers and together they joined the end of the line of people queueing to enter the building. The line moved quickly and they found themselves at the doors of the Banqueting Room, where a fat policeman extended his arm in front of them.
‘Not going to have any trouble, are we?’ he bellowed at Grace.
She smiled sweetly and touched her hair, dusting her shoulders sending up another cloud of white powder. ‘Heavens above, no.’
He nodded and they proceeded inside. The policeman shut the street doors behind them.
Grace gasped at the spectacle. The room was dramatic, elaborately decorated like a royal palace: rich colours, domes, canopies and canvases showing Chinese domestic scenes adorned every wall. Dominating the room, though, was the thirty-feet-high central chandelier which hung from the claws of a silver dragon.
‘Could they have chosen anywhere more ostentatious?’ Grace mumbled, glancing around the room at the assembled crowd, whose number she guessed to be more than one hundred. There was little room left in which to stand. ‘What have they all come to hear, for goodness’ sake?’
‘Damned if I know,’ Cecil answered. ‘But I’m guessing we’re about to find out.’
Appearing on a raised stage at one end of the room, was a well-dressed gentleman with a thick white moustache. The murmuring crowd fell into a still silence as he reached the centre of the stage. The man drew in a lengthy breath and took his time to survey the packed room.
‘Who’s he?’ Grace
