The Dictionary of Lost Words(84)

I saw police on horseback wade through the mass. The horses frightened the crowd, which split. People began to run, half the crowd towards Broad Street, half towards St Giles’. I took a step and was knocked from my feet. Women’s shoes and men’s; dress hems splashed with dirt. I was pulled up, knocked down again. Two women I didn’t know yanked me up and told me to go home, but I stood, paralysed.

‘Bitch!’

A rough red face, almost touching mine; the nose broken years before and never straightened. Then a gob of spit. I could barely breathe. I brought both arms up to protect myself, but the blow I expected never came.

‘Hey! Leave off.’

A woman’s voice. Loud. Ferocious … Then gentle. ‘They’re cowards,’ she said. The words and tone were familiar. I let my arms drop, opened my eyes. It was Tilda. She pulled me away and wiped the spit from my cheek. ‘Scared their wives will stop doing their bidding.’ She threw her handkerchief on the ground then took a step back.

‘Esme. More beautiful than ever.’ Tilda laughed at the look on my face.

Another scuffle started up beside us, and for a moment I was glad of the distraction. Then I saw who was involved.

‘Gareth?’

He turned and the other man took his chance. A rough fist caught Gareth’s lip, and a smirk spread over the stranger’s face. I recognised the assailant’s broken nose. Gareth managed to stay on his feet, but the man ran off before there was a chance to retaliate.

‘Your lip is bleeding,’ I said when Gareth was standing closer. He touched it and flinched, then smiled when he saw my concern, and flinched again.

‘I’ll live,’ he said. ‘What did you do to make that bloke so angry? He was making a beeline for the two of you.’

‘Bastard,’ said Tilda. Gareth’s head swung her way. ‘Oh, not you. You are our knight in shining armour,’ she curtsied theatrically, her smile mocking. Gareth saw it for what it was and looked awkward.

‘Tilda,’ I said, taking her arm. ‘This is Gareth. He works at the Press. He’s a friend of mine.’

‘A friend?’ she said, raising her eyebrows.

I ignored her but couldn’t look Gareth in the eye. ‘Gareth, this is Tilda. We met years ago, when her theatre troupe came to Oxford.’

‘Nice to meet you, Tilda,’ Gareth said. ‘Are you here for a play or for this?’ He surveyed the confusion.

‘Esme invited me, and Mrs Pankhurst thought it an opportunity to raise awareness, so here I am.’

There was so much shouting, and a siren. Women were being chased down Broad Street. ‘I think we should go,’ I said.

Tilda hugged me. ‘You go – I think you’re in good hands,’ she said. ‘But come to Old Tom on Friday evening. We have so much to catch up on.’ Then she turned to Gareth. ‘And you must come too. Promise me you will.’

Gareth looked to me for direction. Tilda watched on, waiting to see how I would respond. It was as if no time had passed since last I’d seen her. Daring and fear battled it out inside me. I did not want fear to win.

‘Of course,’ I said, looking back at Gareth. ‘Perhaps, we could go together?’

His grin split the fragile seal of his cut lip, which started bleeding again. I reached into the pocket of my dress but found I had no handkerchief.

‘A bit of paper would do the trick,’ he said, trying to keep the smile in his eyes from spreading to his lips. ‘It’s little worse than a shaving cut.’

I extracted a blank slip and tore the corner off it. He dabbed at his lip with the sleeve of his shirt, then I placed the bit of paper on the cut. It stained red immediately, but held.

‘I’ll see you both on Friday,’ Tilda said, winking at me. Then she turned toward Broad Street, where the fray seemed to be concentrating.

Gareth and I turned in the opposite direction.



‘Esme! Good Lord, what happened?’ Rosfrith saw us as we walked in through the gates of Sunnyside. She looked to Gareth for an explanation.

‘The procession to the Martyrs’ Memorial got out of hand,’ he said.

Gareth and I had barely spoken on our walk up the Banbury Road. Tilda had unsettled us and rendered us both shy.

‘This happened at the procession?’ said Rosfrith. She looked me up and down. My skirt was torn and soiled, my hair had come loose, my cheek smarted from where I’d continued to rub it to remove the filth of that man’s hatred. ‘Oh dear,’ she continued. ‘Mamma was there with Hilda and Gwyneth. It was wise of you to go together, though it doesn’t seem to have helped you,’ she said.

I found my tongue. ‘Oh, no, we met quite by accident. I don’t know how Gareth came to be there.’

She looked from Gareth to me, sceptical.

I was unable to hold her gaze and turned to Gareth. ‘Why were you there?’

‘Same reason you were,’ he said.

‘I’m not sure why I was there,’ I said, as much to myself as to him.

Just then, Mrs Murray walked in through the gates with her eldest and youngest daughters. All three were unscathed and excited. Rosfrith ran to them.

Gareth walked with me to the kitchen and I introduced him to Lizzie. He helped explain what had happened.

‘Let me give you something for that lip.’ Lizzie dampened a clean cloth and passed it to him.