with the director of The Playhouse. Heaven knows whether I’d get another crack at it—it’s a fickle world, the theatre.” From there on, he’d spoken about his play, the theatre, Mr. Shaw, and Dody’s mother. Dody had her reprieve, at least until the following weekend, when they would meet at her parents’ house.
Only a handful of Florence’s Bloomsbury Division were still in the drawing room when Dody returned from the teahouse. She recognised Jane Lithgow and Olivia Barndon-Brown, and Florence introduced her to others she did not know. Several responded to her with a distinct chill, which made her suspect that the events of the autopsy room had already been discussed.
“My sister has just returned from Edinburgh,” Florence announced to the group, “to where she was forced to flee after her application to study bone surgery was turned down because she was a woman.”
Flee to Edinburgh?
Lord, Florence
, Dody thought,
why do you have to make everything sound so dramatic?
“I won’t tell you what Dody specialised in at Edinburgh,” Florence went on, although she had clearly told them before Dody’s arrival. “It might put you off Cook’s delicious smoked salmon sandwiches.”
The laughter was soft and polite except for one of the factory women present. Molly Jenkins, legs splayed beneath her patched skirt, let forth a gusty roar that spread around the drawing room like a contagion, infecting even those who only moments before had acted so cool and disapproving towards Dody.
Dody immediately warmed to the woman with the ruddy cheeks and easy smile. The likes of Molly Jenkins were often missing in the nonmilitant groups. The WSPU understood that a group of differing social classes could foster an important sense of female solidarity. Dody heartily approved.
Dody remembered one of Florence’s lengthy telephone calls to Edinburgh in which she had spoken enthusiastically of Mrs. Jenkins’s innovations, such as the tying of string to stones and holding on to them when they were thrown as if they were yo-yos. Thrown in this way, the stones would maximise damage to property, but minimise injury to people. It was also economic on stones, which were sometimes in short supply on the London streets. At this, Dody had been forced to cover the receiver to prevent her laughter from escaping down the wire.
The other working-class woman in the room was Daisy Atkins. Dody had already heard her story. A waiflike creature with large blue eyes, Daisy had been orphaned at the age of thirteen and had been adopted by a group of wealthy WSPU women, who taught her to read, write, and type. She hadrecently been transferred to Bloomsbury, where she held the position of secretary. Her devotion to the movement was complete; this was the family she had always craved. “She doesn’t seem to think for herself, though, Dody,” Florence had confided. “It’s almost as if she’s been mesmerised.” The comment came as no surprise to Dody. Daisy had spent considerable time living with the Pankhursts; a more mesmerising family one could not imagine. But the women in the group were fond of Daisy and she brought out their maternal instincts.
Dody accepted a cup of tea from Annie and settled herself in a chair next to a handsome, regal-looking woman in her late thirties wearing a fox stole. Miss Jane Lithgow looked at Dody with a steady gaze. “I’d like to know where you stand, Dr. McCleland,” she said. “How far would
you
go to support the union, or are you allied more to the likes of Mrs. Fawcett?”
Everyone else in the room stopped talking. Dody knew she would have to choose her words carefully. “I am not in favour of extreme militancy,” she replied, “but the cause will always have my moral support. I believe that the emancipation of women is the most effective way of bringing about true social reform to man, woman, and child—”
“You
are
involved with Mrs. Fawcett’s group?”
“No, I am still trying to
Only a handful of Florence’s Bloomsbury Division were still in the drawing room when Dody returned from the teahouse. She recognised Jane Lithgow and Olivia Barndon-Brown, and Florence introduced her to others she did not know. Several responded to her with a distinct chill, which made her suspect that the events of the autopsy room had already been discussed.
“My sister has just returned from Edinburgh,” Florence announced to the group, “to where she was forced to flee after her application to study bone surgery was turned down because she was a woman.”
Flee to Edinburgh?
Lord, Florence
, Dody thought,
why do you have to make everything sound so dramatic?
“I won’t tell you what Dody specialised in at Edinburgh,” Florence went on, although she had clearly told them before Dody’s arrival. “It might put you off Cook’s delicious smoked salmon sandwiches.”
The laughter was soft and polite except for one of the factory women present. Molly Jenkins, legs splayed beneath her patched skirt, let forth a gusty roar that spread around the drawing room like a contagion, infecting even those who only moments before had acted so cool and disapproving towards Dody.
Dody immediately warmed to the woman with the ruddy cheeks and easy smile. The likes of Molly Jenkins were often missing in the nonmilitant groups. The WSPU understood that a group of differing social classes could foster an important sense of female solidarity. Dody heartily approved.
Dody remembered one of Florence’s lengthy telephone calls to Edinburgh in which she had spoken enthusiastically of Mrs. Jenkins’s innovations, such as the tying of string to stones and holding on to them when they were thrown as if they were yo-yos. Thrown in this way, the stones would maximise damage to property, but minimise injury to people. It was also economic on stones, which were sometimes in short supply on the London streets. At this, Dody had been forced to cover the receiver to prevent her laughter from escaping down the wire.
The other working-class woman in the room was Daisy Atkins. Dody had already heard her story. A waiflike creature with large blue eyes, Daisy had been orphaned at the age of thirteen and had been adopted by a group of wealthy WSPU women, who taught her to read, write, and type. She hadrecently been transferred to Bloomsbury, where she held the position of secretary. Her devotion to the movement was complete; this was the family she had always craved. “She doesn’t seem to think for herself, though, Dody,” Florence had confided. “It’s almost as if she’s been mesmerised.” The comment came as no surprise to Dody. Daisy had spent considerable time living with the Pankhursts; a more mesmerising family one could not imagine. But the women in the group were fond of Daisy and she brought out their maternal instincts.
Dody accepted a cup of tea from Annie and settled herself in a chair next to a handsome, regal-looking woman in her late thirties wearing a fox stole. Miss Jane Lithgow looked at Dody with a steady gaze. “I’d like to know where you stand, Dr. McCleland,” she said. “How far would
you
go to support the union, or are you allied more to the likes of Mrs. Fawcett?”
Everyone else in the room stopped talking. Dody knew she would have to choose her words carefully. “I am not in favour of extreme militancy,” she replied, “but the cause will always have my moral support. I believe that the emancipation of women is the most effective way of bringing about true social reform to man, woman, and child—”
“You
are
involved with Mrs. Fawcett’s group?”
“No, I am still trying to
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