The Hourglass Factory by Lucy Ribchester Page B

Reynolds,’ the man said loudly. ‘Suffragette.’
    There was a snigger, then a timid round of applause, as if the gentleman had just played a fine hit in a tennis match. Some of the policemen coughed uncomfortably.
    ‘What on earth are you doing in the dock?’ the magistrate asked.
    The gallery responded, hooting and hissing.
    The man straightened his black wool jacket and stood up to his full short height. He had a confident note in his voice with a hint of an accent Frankie couldn’t quite place. North perhaps,
or Bristol. There was a roguish look in his eye; he was enjoying himself. ‘If it weren’t for women you wouldn’t have a home to go to at the end of a day’s work. None of us
would. In fact, you’d probably be sitting there naked as the day you were born. I’m willing to wager a woman wove the cotton for your gown. Your worship.’
    ‘I’ll have you held in contempt of court.’
    ‘Just let the lady finish.’
    Frankie craned forward. Chattering from the galleries and scratching from the press pencils had stopped.
    The magistrate cleared his throat and scanned his notes. ‘You’ve been arrested before, haven’t you? Attacking a Cabinet Minister with a horse whip.’ He replaced his
pince-nez to get a better look at the man, as if his face would reveal his character or provide an explanation for why on earth he had chosen to fight for such a cause.
    ‘That’s right, sir. And I’d do it again.’
    ‘You’re a member of the Men’s League for Women’s Rights or something?’
    Someone cut in from the gallery, ‘The only woman’s right is a man’s left.’ Some of the policemen sniggered.
    The magistrate chewed his tongue. Then he said three words: ‘Pentonville. Six weeks.’
    There was a woman’s gasp from further back in the gallery.
    William Reynolds raised his hand and bowed his head gently. ‘I would expect no less.’
    As he was bundled away with the rest of his group down to the cells, the clerk announced ‘Mrs Rosemary Muskett,’ and the wardresses led in a woman in brown sackcloth printed with
black arrows, the Holloway Gaol uniform. A pile of thick grey hair was heaped on her head like straw, which she scratched with thin fingers every now and then.
    ‘Ah, we’ve seen you before,’ said the magistrate.
    ‘That’s right, sir, I’ve been here six times and I’m ready to come another sixty. What is the point of a country like ours if—’
    ‘You’ll get to make your point. Swear the arresting officer in.’
    Constable Tipple 675A was brought to the witness box and testified that he had arrested the woman on Oxford Street after she had broken three windows with a hammer concealed in a black stocking.
According to the young man she had hit him and left him with a bruise. Finally the magistrate turned to Mrs Muskett. ‘Your turn now, my dear. Have you anything to say?’
    She stiffened, swallowed a couple of times, looked as proud as she could in her sack cloth and made sure the room was silent. ‘I stand here before you as a mother of four children, two
boys, two girls, who will be raised as equals. Our tax-paying women are working in worse conditions than the miners. You only have one point of view and that’s the man’s, but this
country is made up of men and women. We have been driven to this, and we’ll be driven further, mark my words. That’s all I have to say on the matter.’
    The magistrate leaned forward on the bar, his eyes tiny under huge hoods of skin. ‘Are you threatening me, Mrs Muskett? Driven further? There is no question of doubt that you recognise the
law, you recognise you are doing wilful damage and each of you tells me you intend to go on with it. But you have brought London into a state which cannot continue. A seventh offence, Mrs Muskett?
I have no choice but to sentence you to two months’ hard labour in third division.’
    She wasn’t quick enough to stifle the cry that escaped. Second division was one thing, but hard labour in