Page 5
Story: Storm and Silence
The entire room went suddenly deadly quiet as everybody turned to stare at me. The voters, the officials, even a fellow in the corner who looked like he had just come in to warm himself up a bit - they all stared at me with open mouths.
What was the matter with them?
Then I realized. Oh, blast! I curtsied! I didn’t bow, I curtsied!
They needed to call a second police officer to ‘restrain the madwoman in the polling station’ as the government official put it to the messenger boy who was sent to the police. The boy was obviously impressed with my performance, because he returned not with one, but with three additional Bobbies, truncheons in hand.
Now don't get me wrong, I didn’t try to strangle anybody. Far from it. I simply had decided that since I was discovered anyway, I might as well use the opportunity and set up an impromptu demonstration for women’s rights in the polling station. The government officials in charge of the place didn’t seem to take kindly to the idea.
Thus it was that at 9:30 am on 22 August 1839 I was dragged out of an inconsequential polling station in the middle of London, with the firm assistance of four protectors of the people. Two of the officers held my arms, while another two marched ahead to warn any passers-by of the dangerous madwoman.
‘Chauvinists!’ I yelled. ‘Oppressors of womanhood!’
One of the Bobbies winced, covering his ears.
‘Can we gag her?’ he asked his sergeant.
‘No, lad, that’s against regulations,’ the older man grunted.
‘What about a straitjacket?’
‘We ain’t got one of those, more’s the pity.’
Digging my heels into the ground, I continued to express my opinion of the oppressors of womanhood in no uncertain terms. To my considerable satisfaction they had a great deal of trouble moving me five inches, let alone down the steps from the doors of the polling station.
We had just reached the last porch step when out of the bank on the opposite side of the misty street stepped a figure I remembered all too well: Rikkard Ambrose, his classical features as hard as ever, his black cloak wrapped tightly around him. When he caught sight of me being dragged away, he stopped in his tracks.
‘Officer!’ In three long strides he was in front of us. His face was just as unmoving as before, but there was a steely glint in his dark eyes. ‘Officer, what are you doing with this young man, may I ask?’
The sergeant turned, and paled as he saw the visage of the much younger man. He took one hand off my arm to salute. My, my. Mr Rikkard Ambrose had to be someone of importance to elicit that kind of reaction from one of London’s stoic defenders of the law.
I tried to use the opportunity to wrestle free, but immediately the sergeant stopped saluting and clapped his hand around my arm again.
‘Good morning, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’ he said, trying to stand at attention while not loosening his grip on yours truly. ‘Um… Sir, if I may ask, what young man are you speaking of?’
With a sharp jerk of his hand, Mr Ambrose pointed at me.
‘That one, of course. Are you blind? What are you doing with him?’
‘Not him, Sir.’ Reaching up, the sergeant gripped my top hat and pulled it off, so my chestnut bob cut was freed and tumbled downwards. ‘Her. That’s a girl, Mr Ambrose, Sir.’
The expression on the face of Mr Rikkard Ambrose at that moment was quite possibly the funniest thing I had ever seen in my life. His stone face slackened and he gaped at me like he hadn’t seen a single female before in his entire life.
‘Something wrong, Sir?’ the sergeant inquired, dutifully. When no answer was forthcoming from the stupefied Mr Ambrose, the sergeant shrugged, and made an awkward little bow. ‘Well, if you’d excuse us, Sir, we have to take this one,’ he nodded at me like he would at a rabid horse, ‘away to where she belongs. Maybe a night in the cells will teach her not to do what’s only for men.’
‘Aye,’ one of the constables chuckled. ‘Women voting? Who ever heard of something like that? Next thing we know they’ll want decent jobs!’
His colleagues laughed at his joke and started dragging me to a police coach standing not twenty yards away.
In that moment, I made a decision.
I turned my head around to look back. Mr Rikkard Ambrose still stood there, pale and unmoving as a block of ice. Even though he was already a dozen yards away, and the Bobbies dragged me further and further, I could see his stone face very clearly. I could see his dark eyes starting to burn with cold anger. A grin spreading across my face, I yelled:
‘Looking forward to seeing you at work on Monday, Sir!’
Ape Bobby
By the next morning I didn’t feel quite so cocky anymore. That might have had something to do with spending the night in a prison cell, or with the fact that I had made a total mess of my plan, or with the fact that I hadn’t been able to get myself calmed down enough to sleep until midnight.
And when I finally did fall asleep on the hard, uneven bunk bed in the prison cell, I dreamed of a dozen Bobbies, reinforced by a whole platoon of Ancient Greek statues, chasing me through the dark streets of London all night, shouting: ‘Stop her! Stop the feminist! She has to be at work on Monday! At nine sharp! Catch her!’ I’m not sure which was more disturbing, the horrifying chase or the fact that the stone statues on my tail looked suspiciously like Mr Rikkard Ambrose.
I awoke sometime around three am, my heart hammering so fast I knew I would never be able to go to sleep again.
Instead, I surveyed the luxurious hotel suite the nice policemen had put me in for the night: six square feet of the best of what London’s police stations had to offer. The walls of my temporary home were decorated in an intricate pattern of mould and graffiti. The panorama window - about two square feet covered with a beautiful set of iron bars - offered a spectacular view over the gutter of one of London’s finest dingy alleyways. The door, of course, was designed to fit the standards of the window and was similarly crafted from highly decorative iron bars. The bed, as my back could attest, was also made to fit the highest standards, and was able to reduce your back muscles to a tangle of aching knots within five minutes. All in all, it was a breath-taking place with a charming atmosphere. The previous tenant had even left me a little present in the form of a puddle of well-matured goo in the corner. It emitted the most delicious, stomach-turning odour and completed the whole ambience to misery in perfection. The pale light of the moon which filtered in through the small window didn’t make the scene any cheerier.
What was the matter with them?
Then I realized. Oh, blast! I curtsied! I didn’t bow, I curtsied!
They needed to call a second police officer to ‘restrain the madwoman in the polling station’ as the government official put it to the messenger boy who was sent to the police. The boy was obviously impressed with my performance, because he returned not with one, but with three additional Bobbies, truncheons in hand.
Now don't get me wrong, I didn’t try to strangle anybody. Far from it. I simply had decided that since I was discovered anyway, I might as well use the opportunity and set up an impromptu demonstration for women’s rights in the polling station. The government officials in charge of the place didn’t seem to take kindly to the idea.
Thus it was that at 9:30 am on 22 August 1839 I was dragged out of an inconsequential polling station in the middle of London, with the firm assistance of four protectors of the people. Two of the officers held my arms, while another two marched ahead to warn any passers-by of the dangerous madwoman.
‘Chauvinists!’ I yelled. ‘Oppressors of womanhood!’
One of the Bobbies winced, covering his ears.
‘Can we gag her?’ he asked his sergeant.
‘No, lad, that’s against regulations,’ the older man grunted.
‘What about a straitjacket?’
‘We ain’t got one of those, more’s the pity.’
Digging my heels into the ground, I continued to express my opinion of the oppressors of womanhood in no uncertain terms. To my considerable satisfaction they had a great deal of trouble moving me five inches, let alone down the steps from the doors of the polling station.
We had just reached the last porch step when out of the bank on the opposite side of the misty street stepped a figure I remembered all too well: Rikkard Ambrose, his classical features as hard as ever, his black cloak wrapped tightly around him. When he caught sight of me being dragged away, he stopped in his tracks.
‘Officer!’ In three long strides he was in front of us. His face was just as unmoving as before, but there was a steely glint in his dark eyes. ‘Officer, what are you doing with this young man, may I ask?’
The sergeant turned, and paled as he saw the visage of the much younger man. He took one hand off my arm to salute. My, my. Mr Rikkard Ambrose had to be someone of importance to elicit that kind of reaction from one of London’s stoic defenders of the law.
I tried to use the opportunity to wrestle free, but immediately the sergeant stopped saluting and clapped his hand around my arm again.
‘Good morning, Mr Ambrose, Sir!’ he said, trying to stand at attention while not loosening his grip on yours truly. ‘Um… Sir, if I may ask, what young man are you speaking of?’
With a sharp jerk of his hand, Mr Ambrose pointed at me.
‘That one, of course. Are you blind? What are you doing with him?’
‘Not him, Sir.’ Reaching up, the sergeant gripped my top hat and pulled it off, so my chestnut bob cut was freed and tumbled downwards. ‘Her. That’s a girl, Mr Ambrose, Sir.’
The expression on the face of Mr Rikkard Ambrose at that moment was quite possibly the funniest thing I had ever seen in my life. His stone face slackened and he gaped at me like he hadn’t seen a single female before in his entire life.
‘Something wrong, Sir?’ the sergeant inquired, dutifully. When no answer was forthcoming from the stupefied Mr Ambrose, the sergeant shrugged, and made an awkward little bow. ‘Well, if you’d excuse us, Sir, we have to take this one,’ he nodded at me like he would at a rabid horse, ‘away to where she belongs. Maybe a night in the cells will teach her not to do what’s only for men.’
‘Aye,’ one of the constables chuckled. ‘Women voting? Who ever heard of something like that? Next thing we know they’ll want decent jobs!’
His colleagues laughed at his joke and started dragging me to a police coach standing not twenty yards away.
In that moment, I made a decision.
I turned my head around to look back. Mr Rikkard Ambrose still stood there, pale and unmoving as a block of ice. Even though he was already a dozen yards away, and the Bobbies dragged me further and further, I could see his stone face very clearly. I could see his dark eyes starting to burn with cold anger. A grin spreading across my face, I yelled:
‘Looking forward to seeing you at work on Monday, Sir!’
Ape Bobby
By the next morning I didn’t feel quite so cocky anymore. That might have had something to do with spending the night in a prison cell, or with the fact that I had made a total mess of my plan, or with the fact that I hadn’t been able to get myself calmed down enough to sleep until midnight.
And when I finally did fall asleep on the hard, uneven bunk bed in the prison cell, I dreamed of a dozen Bobbies, reinforced by a whole platoon of Ancient Greek statues, chasing me through the dark streets of London all night, shouting: ‘Stop her! Stop the feminist! She has to be at work on Monday! At nine sharp! Catch her!’ I’m not sure which was more disturbing, the horrifying chase or the fact that the stone statues on my tail looked suspiciously like Mr Rikkard Ambrose.
I awoke sometime around three am, my heart hammering so fast I knew I would never be able to go to sleep again.
Instead, I surveyed the luxurious hotel suite the nice policemen had put me in for the night: six square feet of the best of what London’s police stations had to offer. The walls of my temporary home were decorated in an intricate pattern of mould and graffiti. The panorama window - about two square feet covered with a beautiful set of iron bars - offered a spectacular view over the gutter of one of London’s finest dingy alleyways. The door, of course, was designed to fit the standards of the window and was similarly crafted from highly decorative iron bars. The bed, as my back could attest, was also made to fit the highest standards, and was able to reduce your back muscles to a tangle of aching knots within five minutes. All in all, it was a breath-taking place with a charming atmosphere. The previous tenant had even left me a little present in the form of a puddle of well-matured goo in the corner. It emitted the most delicious, stomach-turning odour and completed the whole ambience to misery in perfection. The pale light of the moon which filtered in through the small window didn’t make the scene any cheerier.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41
- Page 42
- Page 43
- Page 44
- Page 45
- Page 46
- Page 47
- Page 48
- Page 49
- Page 50
- Page 51
- Page 52
- Page 53
- Page 54
- Page 55
- Page 56
- Page 57
- Page 58
- Page 59
- Page 60
- Page 61
- Page 62
- Page 63
- Page 64
- Page 65
- Page 66
- Page 67
- Page 68
- Page 69
- Page 70
- Page 71
- Page 72
- Page 73
- Page 74
- Page 75
- Page 76
- Page 77
- Page 78
- Page 79
- Page 80
- Page 81
- Page 82
- Page 83
- Page 84
- Page 85
- Page 86
- Page 87
- Page 88
- Page 89
- Page 90
- Page 91
- Page 92
- Page 93
- Page 94
- Page 95
- Page 96
- Page 97
- Page 98
- Page 99
- Page 100
- Page 101
- Page 102
- Page 103
- Page 104
- Page 105
- Page 106
- Page 107
- Page 108
- Page 109
- Page 110
- Page 111
- Page 112
- Page 113
- Page 114
- Page 115
- Page 116
- Page 117
- Page 118
- Page 119
- Page 120
- Page 121
- Page 122
- Page 123
- Page 124
- Page 125
- Page 126
- Page 127
- Page 128
- Page 129
- Page 130
- Page 131
- Page 132
- Page 133
- Page 134
- Page 135
- Page 136
- Page 137
- Page 138
- Page 139
- Page 140
- Page 141
- Page 142
- Page 143
- Page 144
- Page 145
- Page 146
- Page 147
- Page 148
- Page 149
- Page 150
- Page 151
- Page 152
- Page 153
- Page 154
- Page 155
- Page 156
- Page 157
- Page 158
- Page 159
- Page 160
- Page 161
- Page 162
- Page 163
- Page 164
- Page 165
- Page 166
- Page 167
- Page 168
- Page 169
- Page 170
- Page 171
- Page 172
- Page 173
- Page 174
- Page 175
- Page 176
- Page 177
- Page 178
- Page 179
- Page 180
- Page 181
- Page 182
- Page 183
- Page 184
- Page 185
- Page 186
- Page 187
- Page 188
- Page 189
- Page 190
- Page 191
- Page 192
- Page 193
- Page 194
- Page 195
- Page 196
- Page 197
- Page 198
- Page 199
- Page 200
- Page 201
- Page 202
- Page 203
- Page 204
- Page 205
- Page 206
- Page 207
- Page 208
- Page 209
- Page 210
- Page 211
- Page 212
- Page 213
- Page 214
- Page 215
- Page 216
- Page 217
- Page 218
- Page 219
- Page 220
- Page 221
- Page 222
- Page 223
- Page 224
- Page 225
- Page 226
- Page 227
- Page 228
- Page 229
- Page 230
- Page 231
- Page 232
- Page 233
- Page 234
- Page 235
- Page 236
- Page 237
- Page 238
- Page 239
- Page 240
- Page 241
- Page 242
- Page 243
- Page 244
- Page 245
- Page 246
- Page 247
- Page 248