‘Hmm,’ Olivia mumbled.
‘Are you still working for the Smiths?’ Grace asked.
Cecil shook his head. ‘No, I left the winter after you. I’m Head Groom over at Linden Grove now. I’m actually…’
Grace cut him short. ‘Linden Grove?’
Cecil nodded.
‘That place needs fire-bombing if anywhere does,’ Grace said. Hearing the name again brought cruel flashes of the past into her mind.
‘Never heard of it,’ Olivia chipped in. ‘Can we go now, Grace? We ought rather to be going to the police station to find out what charges have been brought against Minnie.’
‘Yes, we ought,’ Grace agreed, more than happy to shift the conversation on.
‘Oh,’ Cecil said. ‘I was rather hoping that we might get to go to the Lyons tearoom together.’
‘No time for that,’ Olivia declared. ‘Come along, Grace. We’ve got planning to do. Deeds not words. Or, in your case, action not cake.’
‘Another time, Cecil,’ Grace said. ‘Good day.’
Cecil nodded his head. ‘Good day.’
Grace and Olivia gathered up their things and moved off.
‘Presumptuous fellow,’ Olivia mumbled, as they crossed the road. ‘Who does he think he is?’
‘He’s harmless enough,’ Grace replied with a smile. ‘Now, I don’t think turning up at the police station with all this’, she indicated the box and placard, ‘will do us many favours. Let’s return it all home first. Minnie might even have been discharged; it wouldn’t be the first time the police have done that just to break up our meetings.’
‘Well, she didn’t actually do anything, did she?’ Olivia said.
‘No, but it’s high time we did. We’re preaching to the public about deeds not words, yet we’re not doing anything ourselves.’
‘What are you thinking of?’ Olivia asked.
‘Something that actually warrants getting arrested.’
Chapter Four
1st August 1910, Brighton Magistrate’s Court, Brighton, East Sussex
Grace Emmerson marched haughtily towards the exit of the Magistrate’s Court. Her fourth speech in as many weeks on Brighton promenade had seen her get arrested by an oafish bobby for incitement. Her speeches had become more confident and she had quickly learned how to handle hecklers and jeerers. As the crowds had grown, so too had the violent rhetoric of her words.
She opened the doors and stepped out into a cold and cloudy morning.
‘You’re out!’ Olivia said, flinging her arms around Grace, as she exited the doors of the court.
‘I know, but did you hear what I had to agree to in order to get out?’ Grace asked, unsure if she had done the right thing. She was riddled with an acute feeling of shame at what had just happened.
‘Yes, I was in the public gallery,’ Olivia confirmed. ‘You did right—you’re more use to us out here than inside prison.
‘Yes, but I’ve had to agree to making no further inflammatory speeches.’
‘There are plenty more of us waiting in the wings, don’t you worry.’
They walked in silence for a short way, Grace replaying over and over her first court appearance. She felt as though she had failed yet again. Should she have refused to agree to silence and taken a custodial sentence? Women around the country were enduring much greater suffering than that. Hunger strikes for suffragettes serving prison sentences was actively encouraged in order to highlight the fact that the women’s crimes were not being treated as political acts.
‘Where are we going?’ Grace asked, suddenly realising that she had no clue where they were headed.
‘Home,’ Olivia replied with a smile. ‘Some Sea View relaxation is what you need.’
Grace stopped and looked at Olivia. ‘It most certainly is not what I need. We’re going…at least, I’m going to the headquarters.’
‘Whatever for?’
‘To plan what I’m going to do next.’
Olivia laughed. ‘You know what, Grace. I used to wonder if you were actually up to all this.’
‘Really?’
Olivia nodded. ‘But look at you, now: Mrs Pankhurst herself would be proud.’
‘Mrs Pankhurst wouldn’t have ducked out of a prison sentence,’ Grace countered.
‘She would have, were it for the greater good of the cause; she’s different—she’s famous—her actions make the national papers because of who she is.’
‘I’ll make the national papers, just you wait and see,’ Grace promised with a chuckle.
A few minutes later, they arrived at the Brighton branch of the WSPU. Their office was above the Singer Sewing Machine shop, on the busy junction of North Street and West Street in the town centre.
As usual, the door was locked. Grace knocked firmly and waited.
Moments later, the door crept open before being snagged back by a metal chain. Through the narrow gap appeared Minnie Turner’s distrustful face.
‘Ah! Grace, Olivia!’ she beamed, briefly closing the door to release the chain before pulling it wide and bidding them to enter. ‘How wonderful to have you back. You’re just in time for a planning meeting.’
A planning meeting was the nebulous description of what upcoming actions the branch would be orchestrating.
Grace closed the door, ready to voice her desired actions.
Hours of fervent, passionate discussion had followed at the headquarters, with more than two dozen women proposing and arguing the merits of a variety of local and national militant actions. For three days, the heated debates had continued, stalking Grace from the office to her lodgings at Sea View, where they had continued unabated.
On the next day, Grace left the office prepared for her forthcoming duties. She closed the door and stepped out into the cool caress of the breeze blowing up from the sea.
‘In consequence of inflammatory speeches made by Miss Grace Emmerson a vast amount of damage to property had been done within the last two months in and around
