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To my surprise, it was harder facing Maude than Richard. Richard's response was predictable -- a rage he contained in front of the police but unleashed in the cab home. He shouted about the family name, about the disgrace to his mother, about the uselessness of the cause. All of this I had known to expect, from hearing of the reactions of other women's husbands. Indeed, I have been lucky to go this long without Richard complaining. He has thought my activities with the WSPU a harmless hobby, to be dabbled in between tea parties. It is only now he truly understands that I too am a suffragette. One thing he said in the cab did surprise me. 'What about your daughter?' he shouted. 'Now that she's firmly on the road to womanhood, she needs a better example than you are setting.' I frowned -- the phrase he used was so awkward it must be masking something. 'What do you mean?' Richard stared at me, both incredulous and embarrassed. She hasn't told you?' 'Told me what?' That she's begun her . . . her . . .' He waved his hand vaguely at my skirt. 'She has?' I cried. 'When?' 'Months ago.' 'How can you know when I don't?' 'I was with her at the time, that's why! And a humiliating moment it was, for both of us. She had to go to Jenny in the end - you weren't home. I should have guessed then how deeply you were into this ridiculous nonsense.' Richard could have said more, but must have sensed he didn't need to. I was remembering when my own courses began - how I had run to my mother, crying, and how she had comforted me. We were silent the rest of the way back. When we got home I took a candle from the hall table and went directly up to Maude's room. I sat on her bed and looked at her in the dim light, wondering what other secrets she was keeping from me, and how to tell her what I must tell her. She opened her eyes and sat up before I had said anything. 'What is it, Mummy?' she asked so clearly that I am not sure she had been asleep. It was best to be honest and direct. 'Do you know where I was today while you were at school?' 'At the WSPU headquarters?' 'I was at Caxton Hall for the Women's Parliament. But then I went to Parliament Square with some others to try to get in to the House of Commons.' 'And - did you?' 'No. I was arrested. I've just come back from Cannon Row Police Station with your father. Who is furious, of course. 'But why were you arrested? What did you do?' 'I didn't do anything. We were simply pushing through the crowd when policemen grabbed us and threw us to the ground. When we got up, they threw us down again and again. The bruises on my shoulders and ribs are quite spectacular. We've all got them.' I did not add that many of those bruises came from the ride in the Black Maria - how the driver took corners so sharply I was thrown about, or how the cubicles in the van were so small that I felt I had been shut in a coffin standing up, or how it smelled of urine, which I was sure the police had done themselves to punish us further. 'Was Caroline Black arrested too?' Maude asked. 'No. She had fallen back to speak to someone she knew, and by the time she caught up the police had already got us. She was terribly upset not to be taken. She even came down to Cannon Row on her own and sat with us.' Maude was silent. I wanted to ask her about what Richard had told me in the cab ride home, but found I couldn't. It was easier to talk about what had happened to me. 'I'll be in court early tomorrow,' I continued. 'They may send me straight to Holloway. I wanted to say goodbye now.' 'But - how long would you be in - in prison?' 'I don't know. Possibly up to three months.' Three months! What will we do?' 'You? You'll be fine. There is something I want you to do for me, though.' Maude gazed at me eagerly. Even before I pulled out the collecting card and began to tell her about self-denial week - a campaign drive the WSPU was initiating to raise money -- I knew I was doing the wrong thing. As her mother I should be comforting and reassuring her. Yet even as her face fell I continued to explain that she should ask all our neighbours as well as any visitors to place donations in the card, and that she should send it to the WSPU office at the end of the week. I don't know why I was so cruel. DOROTHY BAKER As a rule I don't involve myself in this family's comings and goings. I arrive at half-seven in the morning, I cook for them, I leave at seven at night -- six if the supper's a cold one. I stay out of the way, I don't have opinions. Or if I do I keep them to myself. I have my own little house, my grown children with their dramas -- I don't need more. Not like Jenny, who given half a chance pokes her nose into every story going. It's a miracle she's not had it cut right off. But I do feel sorry for Miss Maude. I was going home the other evening through a thick fog when I saw her walking just ahead of me. I'd never seen her in Tufnell Park before. She's got no reason to come over here -- her life goes in other directions, north and west towards Highgate and Hampstead, not east towards Tufnell Park and Holloway. That's to be expected of a family of that class. The streets here are not so rough, but all the same I didn't like to see her on her own, especially in that peasoup. A person could disappear for good in one. I felt I ought to follow to make sure she came to no harm. It was clear enough where she was headed. Can't say I blame her - I'd have done the same in her shoes, though living near it as I do, I don't feel much draw to see it. But then, I don't have family inside. My children act out their dramas within the bounds of the law. Miss Maude found her way there easy enough -- even with the fog and the strange streets she's got a level head on her. When she got there she stopped and stared. The look of the place when it loomed out of the fog must have thrown her. The Castle, they call it round here. True enough it resembles one, with a big arched entrance and stone towers with ramparts. Most peculiar for a prison. My children used to play knights and maidens in front of it, when they dared. There are also rows of little windows set in a brick wall far back from the road, where the prisoners must be. Then we both got a surprise -- blow me if that Black woman wasn't matching up and down in front of the entrance. She's a little thing, but she wore a long grey coat that flapped round her ankles and made her look taller. She was singing this: 'Sing a song of Christabel's clever little plan Four and twenty Suffragettes packed in a van When the van was opened they to the Commons ran Wasn't that a dainty dish for Campbell-Bannerman? Asquith was in the treasury, counting out the money Lloyd George among the Liberal women speaking words of honey And then there came a bright idea to all those little men "Let's give the women votes," they cried, "and all be friends again."' Then she turned to the little windows and shouted, 'Chin up, my dear -- you're halfway through now. Only three weeks to go! And we have so much to do when you come out!' Her voice hardly carried in the fog, though -- don't know how she thought anyone inside would hear her. Miss Maude had seen enough -- she turned and ran. I followed but my running days are long over and I lost sight of her. It was dusk now, and I began to worry. The shops were closed, and soon there wouldn't be any decent people out on the street for her to ask directions of. Then I turned a corner and she was rushing out of the fog towards me, looking very frightened. 'Miss Maude, what on earth are you doing out here?' I said, pretending not to know. 'Mrs Baker!' She was so relieved to see me that she clutched my arm. 'You should be at home,' I scolded, 'not wandering the streets.' 'I've been -- for a walk and got lost.' I looked at her. There was no point in being coy. 'Wanted to see where she is?' 'Yes.' Miss Maude hung her head. I shuddered. 'Grim place. I've never liked having it on my doorstep. Here, you!' I called to a passing figure. 'Hallo, Mrs Baker.' 'Miss Maude, this is Jimmy, my neighbour's son. See her to the Boston Arms, will you, Jimmy? She'll know her way from there.' 'Thank you, Mrs Baker,' Miss Maude whispered. I shrugged. 'It's not my business,' I said. 'Not a word of "is to anyone. Take care how you go in the fog.' I keep my word. In this way Mr. Brown learned a good deal about the religion of the clan and he came to the conclusion that a frontal attack on it would not succeed. And so he built a school and a little hospital in Umuofia. He went from family to family begging people to send their children to his school. But at first they only sent their slaves or sometimes their lazy children. Mr. Brown begged and argued and prophesied. He said that the leaders of the land in the future would be men and women who had learned to read and write. If Umuofia failed to send her children to the school, strangers would come from other places to rule them. They could already see that happening in the Native Court, where the D.C. was surrounded by strangers who spoke his tongue. Most of these strangers came from the distant town of Umuru on the bank of the Great River where the white man first went. In the end Mr. Brown's arguments began to have an effect. More people came to learn in his school, and he encouraged them with gifts of singlets and towels. They were not all young, these people who came to learn. Some of them were thirty years old or more. They worked on their farms in the morning and went to school in the afternoon. And it was not long before the people began to say that the white man's medicine was quick in working. Mr. Brown's school produced quick results. A few months in it were enough to make one a court messenger or even a court clerk. Those who stayed longer became teachers,- and from Umuofia laborers went forth into the Lord's vineyard. New churches were established in the surrounding villages and a few schools with them. From the very beginning religion and education went hand in hand. Mr. Brown's mission grew from strength to strength, and because of its link with the new administration it earned a new social prestige. But Mr. Brown himself was breaking down in health. At first he ignored the warning signs. But in the end he had to leave his flock, sad and broken. It was in the first rainy season after Okonkwo's return to Umuofia that Mr. Brown left for home. As soon as he had learned of Okonkwo's return five months earlier, the missionary had immediately paid him a visit. He had just sent Okonkwo's son, Nwoye, who was now called Isaac, to the new training college for teachers in Umuru. And he had hoped that Okonkwo would be happy to hear of it. But Okonkwo had driven him away with the threat that if he came into his compound again, he would be carried out of it. Okonkwo's return to his native land was not as memorable as he had wished. It was true his two beautiful daughters aroused great interest among suitors and marriage negotiations were soon in progress, but, beyond that, Umuofia did not appear to have taken any special notice of the warrior's return. The clan had undergone such profound change during his exile that it was barely recognizable. The new religion and government and the trading stores were very much in the people's eyes and minds. There were still many who saw these new institutions as evil, but even they talked and thought about little else, and certainly not about Okonkwo's return. And it was the wrong year too. If Okonkwo had immediately initiated his two sons into the ozo society as he had planned he would have caused a stir. But the initiation rite was performed once in three years in Umuofia, and he had to wait for nearly two years for the next round of ceremonies. Okonkwo was deeply grieved. And it was not just a personal grief. He mourned for the clan, which he saw breaking up and falling apart, and he mourned for the warlike men of Umuofia, who had so unaccountably become soft like women.
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