Page 120 of The Secrets of Ashmore Castle

‘Churchill mostly. He has a distinctive face, better for caricatures than Chamberlain’s, though I shall need both for next week.’

Nina was looking forward to seeing Winston Churchill, whom she had heard described as a ‘rum cove’. She remembered Richard Tallant speaking about him once, telling how he had been a newspaper correspondent in the war and, having been captured by the Boers, had managed to escape out of a window, then had written the Boer leaders an impudent letter thanking them for their hospitality. He had recently been elected to Parliament, and was making a name for himself as a speaker.

The hall in Holborn was packed, and they could only get seats near the back, which was not ideal for Mawes. There weren’t a great many women present, Nina noticed, looking around – just two near the front, and another two further along their own row. There were some rough-looking men standing at the back, presumably not having been able to secure a seat. ‘Free trade is a popular subject, it seems,’ Nina said to Mawes.

He stared round at the men. ‘I don’t think they’re here for the debate. There’s a certain sort of man who just enjoys heckling. Politics is a rough sport.’

‘What’s “heckling”?’

‘You’ll see,’ he said, settling his pad comfortably on his knee, and rapidly sketching some of the faces around him.

The speeches were serious and impassioned, and Nina found herself swayed one way, then the other. Both sides seemed to have perfect, logical arguments, and she wondered how anyone could decide between them. Then the chairman opened the meeting to questions. A man stood up and asked a question, and those on the platform attempted to answer it, while the rough men behind shouted the occasional comment, and others in the seats turned and shouted back at them. It was certainly more lively, though perhaps less enlightening than the speeches. The questions seemed to have petered out when one of the women further along their row stood up, and a sudden hush fell on the hall.

The woman’s voice rang out clearly, her accent pure, her tone the decided one of a person used to public speaking, though she was plainly dressed with a very unemphatic hat. ‘Will Mr Chamberlain tell us whether the government will give the vote to women?’

Someone near the front groaned, someone else said something Nina didn’t catch, and several people around him laughed. The chairman scanned the room. ‘Are there any more questions?’ he said.

‘I have asked a question,’ the woman said.

Someone in the back row shouted, ‘Sit down!’ and the man in the seat immediately behind the woman grabbed her arm and pulled her roughly down.

‘If there are no more questions, I propose we go to the closing speeches,’ the chairman announced.

The woman rose again, and said, ‘Why don’t you answer my question? Will the government give the vote to women?’

Now there were shouts. ‘Sit down!’

‘Be quiet!’

‘Rubbish!’

‘Go home, woman!’

The men at the back were even more frank. ‘Get off, you baggage!’

‘Get back to the kitchen, you trollop!’ And other suggestions less repeatable.

Mawes was sketching as though his life depended on it.

‘Why won’t they answer her question?’ Nina asked him urgently.

‘Women aren’t allowed to speak at political meetings,’ he told her, his eyes flashing up and then down, his fingers busy. Nina saw he was drawing Mr Churchill, whose chin was sunk in his hand, a grim, bulldog-ish look on his face.

The whole room was alive with shouts, harsh laughter and catcalls. A second woman tried to stand up but was pulled down. Someone at the back threw something at her – it looked like a balled-up pamphlet – and managed to knock her hat askew. The first woman rose again, but her voice was drowned out, though Nina, watching her lips, assumed she was asking the same question.

‘It’s so unfair!’ Nina said. ‘Why can’t women speak?’

‘Because we don’t have the vote,’ Isabel said.

‘But they’re asking for the vote,’ Nina said. ‘How can they get it if they’re not allowed to ask?’

Isabel shrugged. ‘Politics is men’s business. You see how rough it is – too rough for women.’

Something was happening: a large man had advanced down the side aisle and was addressing the two women. Word came passing along the line. Mawes said, ‘Apparently the chairman has said they must submit their question in written form.’

The hall was awash with loud conversation and the occasional burst of laughter. Nina watched as the steward accepted a piece of folded paper from the women and walked back down to the platform, where he delivered it to the chairman. The chairman unfolded it, read it, then screwed it up and threw it onto the floor behind him. The talk roared up in cheers and laughter.

‘That’ll teach ’em!’