Mrs Margaret Stewart, known in polite Dunedin society as Mrs Walter Stewart, and her boarder Miss Isobel Tanner, seamstress, step out into the lightness of late evening. Behind them, the hall is alive with the hubbub of women’s voices.
The summer shower, which caused them to hasten down Melville St earlier in the evening, has passed leaving the air heady with a steamy warmth. They quicken their pace to cross in front of a carriage, Mrs Stewart too preoccupied to heed the fresh mud splashed up the back of her skirt.
“Mrs Morison is an inspiration,” Mrs Stewart declares. “I feel quite renewed in my determination.”
Isobel skips to keep up with the older woman’s pace, casting nervous glances at a group of men watching them from the corner ahead.
“Mrs Sheppard has the Union committed to a new petition. We must devote ourselves to this, Isobel, for nothing is more…”
“Get ba’ home t’ yer husbands.” A wild-eyed fellow lurches towards them, his slurred words punctuated by a stabbing finger.
Mrs Stewart links arms with her companion and, chin lifted, marches onwards.
“Poor sods. Home t’ a cold hearth and no dinner on table. I’ll allow no wife o’ mine t’ be part of yer shriekin’ sisterhood. In’t natural!” He staggers, blocking their passage.
Mrs Stewart stops suddenly, taking in his flushed cheeks and twisted, spittle-flecked mouth.
“I know you, Tommy Fitzgerald. You should be ashamed to be out in this state, while your wife is at home with two young bairns and another on the way.” Mrs Stewart glares at the others assembled. “I demand that you let us pass.”
Isobel trembles as they hurry past the mutters and scowls, and dash up Melville St, slowing only as they round a corner.
“That Tommy’s young wife has been left black and blue from his drunken beatings. I’ve a mind to report him to the constable.” Mrs Stewart grips Isobel’s arm tighter. “I swear, Henry Fish has got a lot to answer for. He stirs up his disciples from one end of the country to the other, accusing us of vituperation and condemning us to domestic servitude. We simply can’t stop the fight now."
“But what good will it do, Mrs Stewart?” Isobel puffs. “Mr Fish and his kind will find another way to block us, even if the House allows it.”
Mrs Stewart turns to Isobel, her eyes ablaze. “Is that a reason not to try, Isobel? Must we stand by while these fellows drink and gamble their money away, and not a penny left for their wives and children? Yet we are the ones lumped with the lunatics and criminals, declared to be incapable or unqualified. A man fresh out of gaol is able to vote, while the woman who has raised his children, cannot.”
Mrs Stewart turns back to the uphill path before her.
“Oh no, Isobel, we must prevail.”
Rosemary McBryde
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