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could I have forgotten
so many details, and so quickly? The primitive and inadequate lavatory accommodation out back alongside the coalhole. Cockroaches running haywire up and down the walls.
    Mother’s room contains a sink, dingy-brown from years of use, which serves for both cooking purposes and washing facilities. Along one wall is a broken-down dresser. On the table stands
the same big, enamelled teapot we used when I was a small child.
    “I know I promised not to return –”
    “So what are you doing here and what the bleedin’ ’ell are yer staring at?” she snapped, without the slightest glimmer of warmth.
    I wanted to burst into tears. My desire was to run away, to be shot of this scene as soon as possible, but then I reminded myself:
This is your mother
.
    I took a deep breath and the reeking odour all but burned my nostrils. “Lady Campbell has passed away,” I said.
    “Well, there’s nothing for you ’ere. I can’t keep you. I can’t keep meself. It’s your brother John what’s lookin’ after me. I gave you yer chance.
If you’ve made a hash of it…” And as her fury rose, so her breathing grew more irregular and she doubled up with another fit of coughing. I forced her to sit, to be still and
silent for a moment. She raised a hand to her mouth. I took a step towards her but her gesture was brusque, warning me to keep my distance.
    “I have not come here to be a burden to you,” I began firmly. “I only wanted you to know that I shan’t be returning to Gloucestershire. I intend to continue my education
in London. I intend to find lodgings close by and I thought that…” My sentence dried like wood chips in my mouth. Her hand was still clamped against her lips as she struggled for
breath. “Lady Campbell has left me some money. I am not entitled to touch it until I reach 21, but … I want help you. To find you somewhere else to live, to take you away
from…”
    Her eyes rose to meet my gaze as her hands fell into her lap. I saw then how sick she was. Small and vulnerable like a bird caught in a trap, dying.
    “The best thing you can do for me, Dollie, is to make your own way. Don’t, for the Lord’s sake, get yerself sucked back into any of this.”
    “What about my brothers? Do they visit and care for you? What are you living on?” I persisted, but she waved her hand in a dismissive way.
    “I don’t want to see yer here ever again,” she rasped, and rose unsteadily to shove me off back into the street. Of course, she had no strength but I went anyway. Perversely, I
did it to please her.
    But what must I do? How can I help her?
    27th May 1909
    I woke feeling a heavy responsibility hanging over me. Forcing myself to be decisive, I bathed and dressed quickly. I was intending to discuss my mother’s situation with
Flora and ask her advice but she had left early for rehearsals of a new film she is involved in, so I skipped breakfast and set off for Clements Inn, to the offices of the WSPU, my thoughts still
troubled by my visit of yesterday.
    “The abyss” is the phrase coined by certain writers and journalists to describe the conditions of the life of the poor in this country. “The people of the abyss” wrote
the best-selling author, HG Wells, when speaking of Britain’s working class. And how right he is!
    I know for sure that
when
women are given the vote the living conditions of the poor will be one of the first problems to be addressed. And that is why I decided to call at the WSPU
today. If there is one thing that I can do for my mother it is to fight for women and our place in this society. And, once that fight has been won, then we will be well placed to look to our
society. A society that is sinking at its foundations.
    I reached Clements Inn, opened the door and found myself in a large, immaculately tidy room, where girls at typewriters were clacking busily. There were posters on all the walls, stacks of
newspapers on the floor, neat piles of banners,