“We are indebted to the Alderman T.H.W. Idris, MP, and late mayor, for his successful endeavor in getting Mr. Andrew Carnegie, of Pittsburgh of the United States, to give forty thousand pounds for the purpose of the adoption of the Acts-”
Just then I felt an elbow in my ribs. “Look!” Lavinia hissed, pointing. A funeral procession was coming along Chester Road. The chairman on the platform stopped speaking when he saw the carriages, and the men in the crowd removed their hats while the women bowed their heads. I bowed mine as well but looked up through my lashes, counting five carriages behind the one carrying the coffin.
Then a great gust of wind made the women all grab at their hats. Lavinia and Ivy May and I were wearing our green school berets, which usually stay snug on our heads, but Lavinia pulled hers off as if the wind had loosened it, and tossed her hair and shrugged. I’m sure she did it just to show off her curls.
The undertaker’s men walking alongside the front carriage clamped their hands on their top hats; one blew off anyway and the man had to run after it in his long black coat. The horses’ black plumes were swaying and one horse whinnied and bucked as the wind got up its nose, so that the driver had to crack his whip, making some ladies scream, and halting the procession. Mummy trembled and clutched my arm.
The wind had loosened the bunting on the library so much that the next gust caught a length of it and blew it up in the air. The long white cloth sailed over our heads and did a kind of dance over the funeral procession, until suddenly the wind dropped and the bunting fell, landing across the carriage that carried the coffin. The crowd gasped-Lavinia of course screamed-and the nervous horse bucked again.
It was all terribly confusing. But above the shouts, the wind, and the whinnying horse, I heard a woman laugh. I looked around and saw her standing on the edge of the crowd, dressed entirely in white, with a great deal of lace trim which fluttered so that she looked like a bird. Her laugh was not loud exactly, but it penetrated through everything, like the rag-and-bone man’s voice as he walked along our street calling out, “Any old iron!”
Mr. Jackson came out from the cemetery gate and ran up to pull the cloth off the carriage. “Drive on!” he called. “Quickly before the horses bolt!” He ran back to the gate and swung it open, beckoning to the lead carriage. After the last carriage had passed inside the cemetery, he swung the gate shut, then picked up the bunting. As he began folding it he gazed at the crowd in front of the library, saw Mummy, and stopped folding the cloth. Mummy jerked as if someone had tapped her on the shoulder, and dropped my arm.
Then the chairman stepped down from the platform and crossed the road to retrieve the bunting. Mr. Jackson was forced to turn to him and Mummy suddenly drooped. Another gust of wind blew through the crowd and she looked as if she might topple. In a moment the laughing woman was at her side, casually taking my mother’s arm and holding her steady.
“Quite a show here, isn’t it?” she said with another laugh. “And the speeches have barely begun!”
She was a small woman, shorter than Mummy but with her shoulders thrown back in a way that made her look as confident as a taller woman. She had big brown eyes that seemed to sit right on the surface of her face so that you could not avoid their stare. When she smiled a tooth showed at the side of her mouth, reminding me of a horse baring its teeth.
I knew immediately that I would not like her.
“I am Caroline Black,” she said, holding out her hand.
Mummy stared at it. After a moment she took it. “Kitty Coleman,” she said.
I was horrified to recognize the name, though Mummy clearly didn’t. Caroline Black was a suffragette who conducted a long-running battle with various skeptical gentlemen about the subject of votes for women on the letters page of the local paper.
Daddy has been very scathing of the suffragettes. He says the word sounds like the term for a sort of bandaging technique developed in the Crimean War. The suffragettes have been chalking signs for their meetings on the pavements near us, and Daddy has occasionally threatened them-possibly even Caroline Black herself-with buckets of water.
The chairman had begun speaking again. “… The council has provided an open door through which every inhabitant of St. Pan-eras can enter without fee or without challenge to enjoy the treasures of literature enshrined and stored in this building.”
The crowd began to applaud. Caroline Black did not clap, though, and neither did Mummy. I looked around for Lavinia, but couldn’t see her. Mrs. Waterhouse and Ivy May were still close by, and I followed Ivy May’s gaze across the road. Lavinia was standing by the cemetery gate. She saw me and beckoned, pulling at the gate to show me that it was not locked. I hesitated-t did not want to leave Mummy alone with Caroline Black. On the other hand, the speeches were dull, as I had known they would be, and the cemetery would be much more interesting. I took a step toward Lavinia.
“That is all well and good, Mr. Ashby,” Caroline Black called out suddenly. I froze. “I do applaud the idea of free access to literature and education. But can we honestly celebrate such an occasion when half the population cannot apply its newly available knowledge to that part of life so important to us all? If women do not have the vote, why bother to read the treasures of literature?”
As she spoke, people around her took a few steps back so that she was alone in a circle of spectators, apart from Mummy and me standing awkwardly beside her.
Mr. Ashby tried to interject, but Caroline Black continued in a smooth voice that carried a long way and would not be interrupted. “I’m sure if our MP, Mr. Dickinson, were here he would agree with me that the subject of votes for women goes hand in hand with issues like public libraries and education for all. He is even now hoping to present a bill to Parliament about woman’s suffrage. I appeal to you”-she gestured at the circle around her-“as concerned, educated members of the public: each time you enter this building, consider the fact that you yourselves-or, if you are a man, your wives or sisters or daughters-are being denied the chance to be responsible citizens by casting your vote for those who would represent you. But you can do something about this. Come to the meetings of the local WSPU, every Tuesday afternoon at four o‘clock, at Birch Cottage, West Hill, in Highgate. Votes for women!” She bowed slightly, as if acknowledging applause only she could hear, and took a step back, leaving Mummy and me alone in the circle.
The faces surrounding us stared curiously, probably wondering if we were suffragettes too. Mrs. Waterhouse at least gave me a look of horrified sympathy. Next to her Ivy May was staring at my mother. Mummy herself was gazing at Caroline Black, and for the first time in months she was smiling.
I looked across to the cemetery gate, but Lavinia was no longer there. Then I caught a glimpse of her inside the cemetery just before she disappeared between two graves.
Kitty Coleman
Her laughter rang out like a clarion call, sending a jolt up my spine that made me open my eyes wide. I had thought it was another foggy, muffled day, but when I looked around for the source of the laughter, I discovered it was one of those crisp, windy autumn days I love, when as a girl I wanted to eat apples and kick at dead leaves.
Then I saw John Jackson across by the gate, and I had to stand very still so that he wouldn’t see me. He did nonetheless. I had tried to walk up the hill a number of times to see him, and to explain. But I had never managed it. I suspected he understood-he understands most things.