The Dictionary of Lost Words(47)

‘Esme,’ Tilda called above the din. ‘Could you spread the map on the other table?’ She held a folded map above the heads of the women in front of her. I hesitated, not knowing what else I might be agreeing to. She seemed to understand and held the map, and my gaze, patiently. I nodded, and moved into the room with the other women.

I sat with my back to the window that faced the street, my hand on one corner of the map to stop it from sliding off the table under the women’s excited scrutiny. The chatter was exhilarating; women discussed tactics and swapped routes to suit their own addresses – some wanted to deliver leaflets where no one would know them, others wanted the convenience of their own street so they could make a hasty return if challenged.

Most of the women agreed that the leaflets should be delivered in the night. Others, fearful of the dark or of disapproving husbands, devised a plan to wrap each pamphlet in a temperance meeting notice. The idea was congratulated, but the work of putting the decoy together was for those women who chose it.

When the details were settled, Tilda gave each woman a small packet of leaflets, and they began to leave the Eagle and Child in excited pairs.

Three women hung back, and when the others were gone, Tilda ushered them over to the map. I moved to the other end of the tiny room while they made further plans. I took out a slip.





SISTERS


Women bonded by a shared political goal; comrades.

‘Sisters, thank you for joining the fight.’

Tilda Taylor, 1906

The women left with their leaflets and another, larger package. Bill came back as Tilda was folding the map.

‘Are you ready for that drink now?’ he said, proffering a whiskey and the shandy I had developed a taste for.

‘Perfect timing, Bill,’ said Tilda, taking her glass and looking at me. ‘It’s exciting, isn’t it?’

I didn’t know if it was or not. I felt flushed and curious, and my pulse raced, but it might have been anxiety. I wasn’t at all sure if this was an experience I should embrace or reject.

‘Drink up,’ Tilda said. ‘We still have work to do.’

We left the Eagle and Child and turned towards the Banbury Road. Tilda handed me my own packet of leaflets, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. It could have been a pile of proofs, newly arrived from the Press.

‘I’m not sure I should,’ I said, holding them uncomfortably.

‘Of course you should,’ she said. Bill walked just in front, deliberately keeping out of our conversation.

‘I’m not like you, Tilda. I’m not like any of those women back there.’

‘You have a womb, don’t you? A cunt? A brain capable of making a decision between bloody Balfour and Campbell-Bannerman? You’re exactly like those women back there.’

I held the package away from my body, as if it contained something corrosive.

‘Don’t be a coward,’ she said. ‘All we’re doing is putting pieces of paper in letterboxes. At worst they will be thrown in the fire; at best they will be read and a mind might change. Anyone would think I was asking you to plant a bomb.’

‘If Dr Murray found out …’

‘If you really think he’d care then make sure he doesn’t. Now, this is your route. There are enough for both sides of Banbury, between Bevington and St Margaret’s Road.’

The route included Sunnyside. I continued to hesitate.

‘You live in Jericho, don’t you?’

I nodded.

‘It’s not that far out of your way,’ she said. ‘Bill, go with her.’

‘What about you?’ I asked.

‘No one will be surprised to see me taking the night air without a chaperone, but you need a man on your arm. More’s the pity.’

There were few people to greet as we walked up St Giles’: one other couple and a band of drunken gowns, ostentatiously polite as they split to move around us. As St Giles’ turned into Banbury, the way ahead was deserted. My anxiety fell back, and regret about my reluctance rose to take its place.

‘Shall I do it?’ Bill asked as we approached the first letterbox beyond Bevington Road.

Bill knew what I knew – that I was different to those women. That I might agree with them but did not have the guts to stand in the midst of them. I shook my head as he reached for the package. He transferred his hand to the small of my back, and I was grateful for the strength of it. I pulled on the bow Tilda had tied and let the paper wrapping fall back from the leaflets. An image of an imprisoned woman accused me of apathy.

By the time we reached Sunnyside, my pile was much diminished. I’d set a fast pace, and Bill had granted me an ungrudging silence after I sniped that his banter might wake people and have them look out their windows. At the sight of the red pillar box, I slowed. When I was small, I’d thought Dr Murray must have been very important to have his own pillar box. I’d loved to think of it full of letters that talked of nothing but words. When I’d learned the alphabet, Da had let me write my own letters, with made-up words and made-up meanings and silly sentences that meant nothing to anyone except him and me. He would give me an envelope and a stamp, and I would address my letter to him at the Scriptorium, Banbury Road, Oxford. I would walk by myself through the garden and out of the gates, and post my letter in Dr Murray’s pillar box. For the next few days, I would watch Da’s face as he opened the post that was delivered to Sunnyside, sorting the slips into their piles and reviewing the letters. When he finally came to my letter, he’d regard it with the same seriousness with which he regarded all the others. He’d read it through, nod his head as if agreeing with an important argument then call me over to seek my opinion. Even when I giggled, he’d keep a straight face. I still felt a particular thrill posting Scriptorium letters in the pillar box.