Imitating a confidence which she had observed in the other women, Grace opened her bedroom door and descended the stairs to the sitting room.
‘Well!’ Minnie cried, leaping up from her chair and clapping. ‘You really look quite the part, Grace.’
‘Very sophisticated,’ Olivia chimed in. She was herself dressed in her best clothes and her black hair was styled in a similar fashion to Grace’s, revealing her somewhat harsh facial features.
Their reaction, although inflated, drew a calmness to Grace’s breathing and a smile to her face.
‘Are you ready?’ Minnie asked, taking Grace’s left hand in hers. ‘My goodness, you’re shaking.’
‘I’m just a little chilly, that’s all. I need to get my cold bones out into that glorious sunshine,’ she replied brightly.
‘Let’s put these on, then we can leave,’ Minnie said, holding aloft three freshly pressed tri-coloured sashes bearing the words ‘VOTES FOR WOMEN’.
They placed the sashes over their heads and flattened them to their bodies. Olivia picked up a plain wooden box, Minnie collected a bag of leaflets and a small placard, then they made their way out of the house. In unison, the three women raised their parasols against the high heat of the summer sun, crossed the road and walked down Victoria Street, which ran perpendicular to the house. In the near distance, the sea sparkled hypnotically; there was little doubt that thousands would today be drawn to the town by its bewitching allure. The promenade would be packed.
The closer they got to the seafront, the more breathless Grace became. The sensation in her tummy had grown into a dull, uncomfortable ache. She wished that she had drunk some gripe water prior to leaving, but it was too late now.
Slowly and sedately they walked towards the seafront, as though they were on a leisurely Sunday afternoon stroll. The closer they drew to their destination, the more the crowds increased in number. Stares, glares, frowns, but also nods of approval, came from the men and women whom they passed. Some muttered their displeasure. Others vocalised their support. An elderly crone, being pushed along the pavement in a bath chair, barked her disgust at them.
‘Thank you, Madam, for sharing your troglodytic views,’ Minnie responded, with an extravagant wave of her hand.
The solemnity of Grace’s face cracked into a light chuckle. Minnie was an old hat at this and such altercations were easily batted off with a pithy comment and a smile; she had endured much worse.
They arrived at the promenade and Grace’s resolve curdled as they waited for a line of three horses and carriages to pass. Before them was the long, thin Palace Pier, jutting out almost two thousand feet over the cold English Channel. She raised her hand to her stomach and began to dig her fingers into the gripe.
Minnie reached for Grace’s hand and pulled it down. ‘You’ll be wonderful,’ she whispered, as they crossed the road. A warm smile spread across her soft round face.
When they had reached the other side, close to the entrance onto the pier, Grace looked about uncertainly and asked: ‘Whereabouts should I stand?’
‘Wherever you like—let the people come to you. You are in charge.’
‘Here,’ Olivia answered decisively, dropping the box down onto a random spot in the centre of the promenade. She stepped back and held her open hand aloft, waiting.
Grace drew in an extraordinarily long breath, placed her left hand in Olivia’s and stepped up onto the box. She cleared her throat and tried to remember the opening lines of her speech, but the thinking space in her mind was knotted up with intangible threads and by the faces of passing strangers. Scowling. Snarling. Smiling. Smirking.
‘Ladies, gentlemen—our good and kindly friends,’ Minnie shouted, hoisting her placard above her head. ‘The esteemed Brighton branch of the Women’s Social and Political Union is delighted to present—for her very first public oration—Miss Grace Emmerson.’
Olivia reached into the bag and pulled out a handful of leaflets, poised and ready to pass them out to members of the public.
Not a single, solitary person stopped.
‘Thank you,’ Grace murmured.
‘Louder,’ Olivia urged.
Grace coughed, trying to dislodge the gritty blockage in her throat. ‘Thank you,’ she repeated, indeed more loudly this time. ‘People of Brighton, I stand humbly here before you as one of your fellow citizens, entreating the charity of just a few moments of your time.’
Two ladies—charwomen, Grace judged by their outfits—stopped to listen.
‘Our town is not a fair town. Our country is not a fair country,’ Grace continued.
‘Life ain’t never fair, love—better get used to it,’ one of the charwomen jeered. ‘It ain’t fair that I ‘ave to work me ruddy fingers to the bone and the likes of you lot get to stand all ‘oity-toity on the promenade in ya Sunday best.’
‘Ours is not…’ Grace stumbled, the words of the charwoman jarring her thoughts back to the unspeakable years in the Brighton Union Workhouse. If only these women could have known of her upbringing…
A group of young lads and a well-to-do woman paused, curious.
‘Ours is not…’ Her words were stuck. The charwomen sneered. The young lads whispered and giggled.
‘…a fair government,’ Minnie hinted quietly.
‘Our government—Asquith—is not fair,’ Grace stammered. ‘It’s…it’s…’ More people began to gather.
‘It’s time you learnt to speak proper, miss,’ one of the lads taunted.
‘Leave her alone and she might be able to,’ someone said from the back of the crowd. A male voice, which Grace thought that she recognised.
‘It’s…’ she said, searching for the man who had decried her antagonist.
