Free Women of Courage by Tim Vicary

wife, no less! Perhaps that was why she was rude and abrupt; it was a sign of nervousness. She looked as though she might have a pleasant face, if she did not scowl.
    Sarah smiled and said: ‘You know I am a suffragette, don’t you? I am only here because of a protest to get votes for all women. You should support me in that, you know. If you oppress me, you only oppress yourself.’
    The wardress glanced at her, briefly, and something like fear or fury flickered behind her eyes. Then she reached down to her belt, raised a whistle to her lips, and blew The sound in the small echoing room was piercing, an assault on the ears. Before it was over the door was flung open and a second wardress appeared. She was slightly older and shorter than the first, with iron-grey hair and the forearms of a washerwoman.
    ‘Yes?’ She glanced at the younger wardress.
    ‘Suffragette. Won’t bath.’
    Without another word, or looking her in the eyes, the second woman strode straight up to Sarah and began to undo the buttons of her blouse. Sarah was appalled. It was like the behaviour of her maid but utterly, horribly different. Did this monstrous woman think she was a doll, perhaps, or a baby? Feebly, Sarah stepped back and raised her arms to push the woman away, but there was a wall behind her and the women were used to this, knew what to do.
    Each of them gripped one of her arms with one hand, and continued unbuttoning with the other. Then the blouse was pulled down, off, thrown on the floor.
    ‘Skirt next.’
    One woman pinioned her arms, the other unfastened her skirt, flung it down. And so on with her petticoat, camisole, corset, undervest, stockings, drawers. The two women were grimly efficient, relentless, swift. They undressed her with hardly a word between the two of them, and never a glance in her face. Just a slight grunt of effort as they pulled and tugged at the fastenings. As though she was just a huge doll being undressed in nursery by — what? Monster children, without words or souls?
    As the clothes came off Sarah felt a sudden enormous urge to laugh. It was so ridiculous — it was not even humiliating, it was absurd! Here she was now, a grown woman of thirty-three, the wife of a Member of Parliament, being stripped quite naked in this grubby little cubicle by two . . . underservants, they might be, if they did not work here. Factory girls, coalheavers! Women whose husbands Jonathan was elected to help. Women she wanted to get the vote. It had the unreality of a dream.
    Her body was limp in their hands, without will, stunned. She lifted her foot like an obedient mare as they nudged her leg and pulled off her shoes, stockings, drawers. It dazed her. Nothing in her social training had taught her how to deal with this.
    The laughter which welled up inside her came out more like a sob. The older woman slapped her smartly across the face, as one might treat a hysteric. Then they both dragged her by the wrists to the edge of the bath.
    ‘You do what you’re told here, first time. Get used to it.’
    Sarah lifted a foot and stepped into the grey, tepid water. They let her go then and she sat down. The grime spread up over her waist to her breasts and she felt grit scratch her bottom and thighs.
    ‘Every time I’ve bathed here I’ve come out more filthy than when I went in . . .’ The mocking, superior tone returned to her voice, despite herself. It was the only way she knew to deal with such a situation. But even to herself it sounded feeble, false.
    ‘Head up!’ The younger woman lifted a large white enamel jug from the floor, filled it with bath water, and raised it above Sarah’s head.
    ‘Oh no!’
    Fingernails dug into her shoulders as she tried to get up. The water did not fall and Sarah stopped struggling. She spoke in the words of a child.
    ‘Please! I don’t . . .’
    ‘Regulations.’
    As the fingers let go the water sluiced down, drenching her hair, getting into her eyes. Then, while she sat shuddering,