EMMELINE PANKHURST & MAE WEST HAVE AFTERNOON TEA
Afternoon Tea at Claridge’s
London. 3:15 in the afternoon.
There are afternoons that change history.
There are afternoons that make history.
Then there are afternoons when history puts on its best hat, orders a pot of Earl Grey, asks for extra sandwiches and quietly waits to see what happens.
This was one of those afternoons.
Claridge’s had survived kings.
Queens.
Prime ministers.
Presidents.
Movie stars.
Millionaires.
Aristocrats.
Scandals.
Divorces.
Affairs.
Americans.
People who insisted on ordering coffee with afternoon tea.
But nothing, absolutely nothing, had prepared Claridge’s for the reservation entered discreetly into the book that afternoon.
TABLE FOR TWO.
3:00 P.M.
MRS EMMELINE PANKHURST.
MISS MAE WEST.
No explanation.
None was necessary.
At precisely three o’clock, Emmeline Pankhurst had arrived.
Naturally.
A woman does not organise a political movement, challenge governments, endure imprisonment and help shake the British establishment to its foundations by wandering in fifteen minutes late because she couldn’t decide which earrings went with her handbag.
Emmeline was punctual.
She sat upright at the table.
Back straight.
Hands composed.
Hat immaculate.
Expression formidable.
The expression suggested that if the British government happened to walk past her table, it might immediately surrender something.
Possibly India.
A waiter approached.
“Would Madam care for tea while she waits?”
“No.”
The waiter froze.
“I shall wait.”
“Certainly, Madam.”
He retreated.
Claridge’s had highly trained staff.
They knew when a customer wanted Earl Grey.
They knew when a customer wanted Darjeeling.
They knew when a customer looked capable of organising a march through the lobby if disturbed unnecessarily.
Three fifteen.
The doors opened.
In walked Mae West.
Well…
“In walked” hardly describes it.
Mae West, never merely entered a room.
She happened to it.
Conversation stopped.
A spoon remained suspended halfway between saucer and mouth.
One gentleman forgot what he had been saying to his wife, which may have been the most useful thing he had accomplished during their marriage.
A waiter walked directly into a chair.
Somewhere near the piano, an elderly Duchess whispered:
“My God.”
Mae paused.
She was dressed magnificently.
Not tastefully.
Taste was far too timid a concept for Mae West.
She sparkled like the Eiffel Tower on New Year’s Eve after somebody had doubled the electricity supply.
Diamonds flashed.
Fabric shimmered.
Her hat appeared to have diplomatic immunity.
Then someone recognised her.
Applause began.
One table.
Then another.
Within seconds, almost the entire restaurant was clapping.
Mae smiled.
Naturally.
She gave the room a small wave.
The applause grew louder.
She turned slightly so that those at the back could appreciate the dress properly.
The applause became cheering.
Emmeline Pankhurst did not move.
Mae eventually reached the table.
She looked down at Emmeline.
Emmeline looked up at Mae.
History held its breath.
Mae smiled.
“Well, honey, I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”
“You have.”
Mae sat down.
“Then at least you had something to look forward to.”
Emmeline stared at her.
Mae stared back.
Three seconds passed.
Four.
Five.
Then, very slightly, the corner of Emmeline Pankhurst’s mouth moved.
Mae noticed.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t tell anybody you nearly smiled.”
“I did nothing of the sort.”
“That’s what they all say.”
So began the most extraordinary afternoon Claridge’s would ever witness.
TWO WOMEN, TWO REVOLUTIONS
Tea arrived.
The waiter had wisely decided not to ask too many questions.
There were cucumber sandwiches.
Smoked salmon.
Egg mayonnaise.
Scones.
Jam.
Clotted cream.
Pastries.
Cakes so delicate they appeared to have been constructed by jewellers.
Mae surveyed the table.
“All this food and not a decent steak in sight.”
“This is afternoon tea.”
“I noticed.”
Emmeline poured.
“Milk?”
Mae raised an eyebrow.
“Depends who’s asking.”
Emmeline stopped pouring.
Mae grinned.
“Relax, sweetheart. Tea’s fine.”
Emmeline handed her the cup.
“You are quite impossible.”
“I’ve worked very hard at it.”
There it was.
The first connection.
Because despite the hats, diamonds, corsets, prison cells, Hollywood lights, marches, jokes and scandals, these two women had spent their lives doing essentially the same dangerous thing.
They had refused to behave.
Not criminally.
Not foolishly.
But socially.
They had refused to accept the instructions handed to women at birth.
Be quiet.
Be pleasant.
Be modest.
Don’t argue.
Don’t demand.
Don’t frighten the men.
Don’t talk about sex.
Don’t talk about power.
Don’t talk about money.
Don’t talk too loudly.
Don’t want too much.
Don’t become too much.
And above all…
Know your place.
Emmeline had answered:
“No.”
Mae had answered:
“Make me.”
Different accents.
Same revolution.
HOW THINGS HAVE CHANGED
Mae picked up a cucumber sandwich and examined it suspiciously.
“So tell me, Emmeline. We did all that fighting. How’d they turn out?”
“Who?”
“Women.”
Emmeline considered this.
“They vote.”
Mae nodded.
“Good start.”
“They stand for Parliament.”
“Better.”
“They become doctors, lawyers, scientists, judges, business leaders.”
“About time.”
“They control property.”
Mae looked horrified.
“You mean women are allowed to have their own money?”
“Yes.”
“Well, now you’ve really frightened the men.”
Emmeline smiled.
This time unquestionably.
“They can attend universities in enormous numbers. They can pursue professions once considered unsuitable for them. Their legal position has transformed beyond anything women of my early life would have imagined.”
Mae leaned back.
“So we won?”
Emmeline became thoughtful.
“No.”
Mae’s expression changed.
“No?”
“We advanced.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Victory suggests completion.”
Emmeline placed her cup carefully on its saucer.
“Equality is not a railway station, Miss West. One does not arrive, collect one’s luggage and announce the journey finished.”
Mae nodded slowly.
“I like that.”
“Progress can be made. Progress can also be lost.”
Mae raised her cup.
“Now that I understand.”
Emmeline continued.
“Rights exist because people before us demanded them. Future generations must decide whether they value them enough to preserve them.”
Mae looked around the magnificent room.
“Funny thing about freedom.”
“What?”
“Everybody loves inheriting it. Not everybody likes paying the maintenance.”
Emmeline stared at her.
“That is remarkably perceptive.”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“I had been led to believe you were primarily an entertainer.”
“Honey, making people laugh requires knowing what they’re hiding.”
That silenced Emmeline.
Because that was true.
Comedy and politics have always been distant cousins.
Both study human weakness.
Politics usually disguises it.
Comedy points at it.
BETTER?
“So,” Mae asked, “Is life better for women?”
“In many measurable respects, unquestionably.”
“There’s a politician’s answer.”
“I was never a politician.”
“No, You frightened them instead.”
“A considerably, more productive occupation.”
Mae laughed loudly enough that three tables turned.
Emmeline continued.
“A woman today has freedoms unimaginable to millions of women in the nineteenth century. Education. Employment. Legal independence. Political participation. Greater control over the direction of her own life.”
“Sounds pretty good.”
“It is.”
“But?”
“There is always a but.”
Mae smiled wickedly.
“Now you’re speaking my language.”
Emmeline ignored this.
“Legal equality does not automatically eliminate prejudice, violence, exploitation or inequality.”
Mae sighed.
“So mankind discovered electricity, flight, antibiotics, television, computers, space travel and atomic power…”
“Yes.”
“…But, still hasn’t figured out how to treat everybody decently?”
“Apparently, not.”
Mae bit into another sandwich.
“Well, you can’t have everything.”
“No.”
“Where would you put it?”
Emmeline paused.
Then laughed.
Actually laughed.
Several diners turned around.
Someone whispered:
“Did Emmeline Pankhurst, just laugh at a Mae West joke?”
Yes.
History was deteriorating beautifully.
WORSE?
“What got worse?” Mae asked.
Emmeline looked toward the room.
“Speed.”
“Speed?”
“Everything appears faster.”
Mae nodded.
“Cars.”
“Information.”
“Airplanes.”
“News.”
“Romance.”
“Politics.”
“Divorce.”
“Outrage.”
Mae smiled.
“You’ve been studying.”
“Human beings once had time between hearing something and reacting to it.”
“And now?”
“They appear to react before understanding it.”
Mae grimaced.
“That doesn’t sound promising.”
“They possess machines allowing almost anyone to address thousands, sometimes millions, of people instantly.”
Mae’s eyes widened.
“Everybody?”
“Practically.”
“Good Lord.”
“Quite.”
“You mean every fool gets a broadcasting station?”
“Essentially.”
Mae slowly put down her cake.
“Emmeline, we may have made a terrible mistake.”
POLITICS THEN
Mae leaned forward.
“Tell me something. What were politicians like in your day?”
“Mostly men.”
“Some things take longer than others.”
“They were frequently pompous.”
“Still familiar.”
“They believed themselves terribly important.”
“Human, tradition.”
“They gave long speeches.”
“Still do.”
“They avoided answering direct questions.”
Mae raised her eyebrows.
“So nothing changed?”
“The microphones improved.”
Mae laughed.
Emmeline continued more seriously.
“The political establishment of my time could speak eloquently about liberty, while denying political representation to half the population.”
Mae nodded.
“That’s a pretty impressive trick.”
“Human beings possess an extraordinary ability to demand principles for themselves, while discovering exceptions when those principles become inconvenient.”
Mae raised her teacup.
“Now that deserves putting on a wall.”
Emmeline continued.
“Power rarely considers itself unreasonable.”
“No?”
“It considers opposition unreasonable.”
Mae’s smile faded slightly.
She understood that.
Hollywood had its own governments.
Studios.
Censors.
Contracts.
Men behind desks deciding what women could wear, say, earn and become.
Mae had fought them differently.
She had used wit.
Sexual confidence.
Double meanings.
Audacity.
She had discovered that sometimes the most effective way to challenge authority, was to make authority look ridiculous.
Emmeline used marches.
Mae used punchlines.
Both understood power.
POLITICS NOW
Mae looked thoughtful.
“So what would you tell politicians today?”
Emmeline didn’t hesitate.
“Remember whom you serve.”
Mae blinked.
“That’ll upset them.”
“It should not.”
“Which is exactly why it will .”
Emmeline continued.
“Public office should be service, not coronation.”
Mae raised her cup approvingly.
“I’d tell them something else, too.”
“What?”
“Stop falling in love with yourselves.”
Emmeline almost choked on her tea.
Mae continued.
“Every time somebody gets power, suddenly mirrors become dangerous.”
“Vanity is hardly new.”
“No. But give vanity a camera and an audience, you’ve created a monster.”
Emmeline nodded.
“Leadership should concern responsibility.”
“Not, celebrity.”
“Precisely.”
Mae smiled.
“Imagine that. We agree.”
“I am becoming increasingly concerned by how often that is happening.”
MEN
The waiter arrived with fresh tea.
He was young.
Handsome.
Polite.
Mae watched him leave.
Emmeline watched Mae watching him leave.
“Really?”
“What?”
“You stared at that young man.”
“I appreciate good service.”
“You were not examining the service.”
Mae smiled.
“Honey, I can multitask.”
Emmeline shook her head.
“What exactly do you think of men?”
Mae considered the question with unusual seriousness.
“I like them.”
“That much is apparent.”
“I just never thought liking them meant obeying them.”
Emmeline stopped.
Mae continued.
“That’s where people get confused. They think if a woman loves men, she must surrender power to them.”
“You disagree?”
“Completely.”
Mae leaned forward.
“A man can be wonderful company without being your commanding officer.”
Emmeline smiled.
“On that we agree entirely.”
“You?”
“What about me?”
“Did you like men?”
“I married one.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
Emmeline, gave Mae a look capable of freezing champagne.
Mae waited.
Eventually Emmeline said:
“Yes,I liked men.”
Mae grinned.
“I knew it.”
“But I objected to systems created by men which treated women as political dependents.”
“Exactly.”
“Men themselves were not the enemy.”
“Power was.”
“Unaccountable power.”
Mae lifted her cup.
“To decent men.”
Emmeline lifted hers.
“ Independent women.”
The cups touched.
MANNERS
Mae took a scone.
Jam first.
Emmeline watched.
“You have done that incorrectly.”
Mae looked down.
“Done what?”
“The cream and jam.”
“You’re starting a revolution over a scone?”
“There are standards.”
Mae stared at her.
“Emmeline Pankhurst, is lecturing me about social conformity?”
Silence.
Mae’s smile widened.
Emmeline stared at the scone.
“That” she admitted, “is an irritatingly good point.”
Mae laughed.
“Manners are funny things.”
“How so?”
“They’re supposed to make everybody comfortable.”
“Yes .”
“But half the time they’re used to make people feel inferior.”
Emmeline nodded.
“True manners involve consideration.”
“Exactly.”
“Not social superiority.”
“Exactly.”
“Courtesy costs nothing.”
“But, class costs a fortune.”
Emmeline smiled.
Mae continued.
“You can wear diamonds and have no class.”
“Yes.”
“You can be broke and have plenty.”
“Indeed.”
“You can know which fork to use and still be a complete bastard.”
Emmeline nearly dropped her teaspoon.
“Miss West!”
“What?”
“Language.”
Mae looked around.
“See? We’re back to manners again.”
SEX
Emmeline should have known it was coming.
Mae leaned forward.
“Now let’s talk about sex.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because we are having afternoon tea.”
“That’s when people should talk about sex. Nobody expects it.”
“Miss West.”
“Emmeline.”
“No.”
Mae waited.
Emmeline drank tea.
Mae waited longer.
Finally Emmeline sighed.
“What precisely do you wish to discuss?”
Mae smiled triumphantly.
“Why everybody is so frightened of women enjoying themselves.”
Emmeline blinked.
“That is rather a broad subject.”
“I’ve got all afternoon.”
Suddenly their differences became fascinating.
Emmeline came from Victorian Britain.
Mae came from twentieth-century America.
One challenged political restrictions.
The other challenged sexual restrictions.
Yet beneath both battles sat the same question:
Who owns a woman’s life?
The government?
Her husband?
Her father?
Her church?
Society?
A studio?
A censor?
Public opinion?
Or the woman herself?
Mae stirred her tea.
“I always figured adults should be allowed to run their own lives.”
“With, responsibility.”
“Sure.”
“With respect for others.”
“Absolutely.”
“With consent.”
“Obviously.”
Emmeline considered her.
“You are considerably more serious than your public image suggests.”
Mae smiled.
“You’re considerably naughtier than yours.”
“I am not.”
“You smashed windows.”
“For political purposes.”
“You see? Always an excuse.”
SOCIAL MATTERS
Outside Claridge’s, London moved.
Buses.
Taxis.
Pedestrians.
Phones.
Screens.
Millions of human beings rushing somewhere terribly important, mostly so they could arrive and immediately start rushing somewhere else.
Inside, two ghosts of rebellion continued their tea.
“What troubles society most?” Mae asked.
Emmeline thought.
“Disconnection.”
“Even with all those communication machines?”
“Perhaps, because of them.”
Mae raised an eyebrow.
“Explain.”
“Communication, is not necessarily connection.”
Mae nodded.
“You can talk without listening.”
“Precisely.”
“Be surrounded and still lonely.”
“Yes.”
“Be famous and still unknown.”
Emmeline looked at her.
“That sounds personal.”
Mae’s expression softened.
“Maybe.”
For a moment, the performance disappeared.
No jokes.
No sparkle.
Just two women who had both discovered the cost of becoming symbols.
Once society turns you into an icon, it can forget there is a human being underneath.
Emmeline became The Suffragette.
Mae became The Sex Symbol.
But neither woman could be contained by the label.
Symbols are convenient.
People are complicated.
Society has always preferred convenient.
THE FUTURE
Mae looked toward the windows.
“So where does humanity go next?”
Emmeline followed her gaze.
“That depends upon humanity.”
“Not, very reassuring.”
“It is the truth.”
“You don’t think everything automatically gets better?”
“NO !!! .”
“Neither do I.”
Emmeline looked surprised.
Mae shrugged.
“People confuse new with better.”
“Yes.”
“A new machine isn’t necessarily a better life.”
“Precisely.”
“A bigger house isn’t necessarily a happier family.”
“Yes.”
“More information doesn’t necessarily mean more wisdom.”
Emmeline nodded.
“Technological advancement does not guarantee moral advancement.”
Mae smiled.
“Now we’re cooking.”
Emmeline continued.
“The future will require humanity to decide what progress actually means.”
“More stuff?”
“No.”
“More money?”
“No.”
“More power?”
“No.”
“More followers?”
“Certainly not.”
Mae grinned.
“So what?”
Emmeline thought for a long moment.
“Greater Humanity.”
Mae became quiet.
“That simple?”
“That difficult.”
WHAT WOULD THEY THINK OF WOMEN TODAY?
Mae looked around.
“I think I’d like modern women.”
“I believe I would too.”
“They’re louder.”
“Some are.”
“More, independent.”
“Yes.”
“More willing to say no.”
“Thankfully.”
“More willing to say yes.”
Emmeline looked at her.
Mae smiled innocently.
“Progress comes in many forms.”
Emmeline sighed.
“But I would warn them.”
“About what?”
“Never assume rights cannot disappear.”
Mae’s face became serious.
“That’s important.”
“Every generation inherits freedoms purchased by previous generations.”
“Then?”
“They must decide whether those freedoms matter.”
Mae nodded.
“People don’t value doors until somebody locks one.”
Emmeline looked at her.
“That may be the wisest thing you have said today.”
“Don’t spread it around. It’ll ruin my reputation.”
THEIR DIFFERENCES
By five o’clock they had discovered dozens.
Emmeline believed in discipline.
Mae believed discipline was what happened to other people.
Emmeline valued restraint.
Mae considered restraint an unfortunate furniture arrangement.
Emmeline approached scandal strategically.
Mae regarded scandal as free publicity.
Emmeline dressed to command respect.
Mae dressed to cause traffic accidents.
Emmeline used speeches to challenge authority.
Mae used jokes.
Emmeline’s weapon was moral determination.
Mae’s was irreverence.
Yet…
Both refused silence.
Both understood performance.
Both understood publicity.
Both understood that society changes partly because somebody becomes willing to embarrass society into examining itself.
Both understood that women did not require permission to possess minds.
Or Ambition.
Or Opinions.
Or Power.
Or Desire.
They had simply attacked different walls of the same prison.
WHAT WOULD THEY CHANGE?
“One thing,” Mae said.
“If you could change one thing about humanity.”
“Only one?”
“Budget cuts.”
Emmeline smiled.
“Fear.”
Mae hadn’t expected that.
“Fear?”
“Fear of difference.
Fear of change.
Fear of losing status.
Fear of people who look differently, live differently, believe differently.”
Mae nodded slowly.
“Fear makes people cruel.”
“Often.”
“Stupid.”
“Frequently.”
“What would you change?” Emmeline asked.
Mae thought.
Then answered:
“Shame.”
Emmeline looked intrigued.
“Explain.”
“Human beings waste half their lives ashamed of things that aren’t hurting anybody.”
Mae counted on her fingers.
“Bodies. Age.
Desire.
Failure.
Poverty.
Being different.
Loving differently.
Looking different.
Not fitting somebody else’s idea of respectable.”
Emmeline listened carefully.
Mae continued.
“Meanwhile, the things people “SHOULD” be ashamed of…”
“Cruelty.”
“Greed.”
“Corruption.”
“Exploitation.”
“Violence.”
“Dishonesty.”
“…Somehow get dressed up in expensive suits.”
Emmeline raised her cup.
“To less fear.”
Mae raised hers.
“Less shame.”
THE GREAT HUMAN CONTRADICTION
By now Claridge’s had quietly given up pretending nobody was listening.
Everybody was listening.
Waiters moved more slowly past the table.
Guests ordered additional tea simply to remain longer.
One couple had missed their theatre reservation.
They didn’t care.
Mae leaned toward Emmeline.
“You know what’s funny about humans?”
“A great many things.”
“They want freedom for themselves and rules for everybody else.”
Emmeline smiled.
“They demand privacy, while investigating their neighbours.”
“They complain nobody listens while talking constantly.”
“They want honest politicians but don’t always enjoy hearing uncomfortable truths.”
“They worship youth.”
“Fear getting old.”
“They praise individuality.”
“Until somebody becomes genuinely individual.”
“They claim to admire strong women.”
Mae smiled.
“Until one walks into the room.”
They both laughed.
The restaurant laughed with them.
WHAT WOMEN FOUGHT FOR
Emmeline became serious.
“I sometimes wonder whether people misunderstand what we wanted.”
“The vote?”
“More than that.”
“What?”
“Personhood.”
Mae’s smile disappeared.
Emmeline continued.
“To be recognised as complete human beings.”
Not Ornaments.
Not Dependents.
Not Possessions.
Not Supporting Characters in somebody else’s story.
Human Beings.
With Minds.
Rights.
Responsibilities.
Contradictions.
Strengths.
Weaknesses.
Ambitions.
Choices.
Mae reached across the table.
For the first time that afternoon, she touched Emmeline’s hand.
“That’s what I wanted Too.”
Emmeline looked at her.
“I know.”
Suddenly the distance between Manchester drawing rooms, prison cells.
Broadway stages and Hollywood studios disappeared.
They had arrived at the same destination by different roads.
WHAT WOULD THEY TELL MEN?
Mae brightened.
“Now this should be fun.”
Emmeline sighed.
“What?”
“If we could give men One Piece of Advice.”
“ONE?”
“Another budget cut.”
Emmeline considered.
“Listen.”
Mae stared.
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
Mae nodded.
“Actually, that’s pretty good.”
“Yours?”
Mae smiled.
“Relax.”
Emmeline laughed.
“Seriously. Relax. A powerful woman isn’t automatically a powerless man.”
Emmeline nodded.
“Equality is not subtraction.”
“Exactly.”
“Another person’s freedom does not diminish yours.”
“Now you’ve got it.”
Mae lifted the champagne that had somehow appeared during the conversation.
Nobody remembered ordering it.
Perhaps Claridge’s simply understood history required champagne.
“To MEN.”
Emmeline lifted her glass.
“To good men.”
Mae winked.
“Especially the Handsome Ones.”
“Must you?”
“Yes.”
THE BILL
It was approaching six.
Three hours had vanished.
The restaurant remained unusually full.
Nobody wanted to leave.
Finally the Maître dD’ approached.
He carried a small silver tray.
Upon it rested the bill.
He placed it discreetly between them.
“Ladies.”
He retreated.
Emmeline reached for it.
At precisely the same moment, Mae reached for it.
Their hands met.
They stopped.
Emmeline looked at Mae.
Mae looked at Emmeline.
Neither moved.
“I shall pay,” said Emmeline.
Mae raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I invited you.”
“You waited fifteen minutes. Consider this compensation.”
“I am perfectly capable of paying for Afternoon Tea.”
“So am I.”
“I Insist.”
“So do I.”
“Miss West.”
“Mrs Pankhurst.”
They Stared.
Around the restaurant, silence spread.
Nobody dared breathe.
Two of the most formidable women ever to challenge male authority were now locked in mortal combat over a Claridge’s tea bill.
Emmeline pulled the tray slightly toward herself.
Mae pulled it back.
Emmeline tightened her grip.
Mae tightened hers.
Then something extraordinary happened.
Their eyes met.
A tiny smile appeared on Mae’s face.
A matching one appeared on Emmeline’s.
The smiles grew.
Then both women began to giggle.
Not Laugh.
“GIGGLE”.
Emmeline Pankhurst and Mae West sat beneath the chandeliers of Claridge’s giggling like two schoolgirls who had just discovered the headmaster’s trousers hanging from the school flagpole.
Mae leaned forward.
“I’ve got an idea.”
“So have I.”
They looked at one another.
Then at the bill.
Then directly toward the imaginary space where the person responsible for this entire ridiculous afternoon was presumably hiding.
Together they said:
“CHRISTIAN, CAN PAY FOR THIS.”
The restaurant erupted.
Laughter.
Applause.
Cheers.
A waiter dropped a teaspoon.
The Maître D’ looked toward the ceiling as though asking God whether this was covered by hotel policy.
Mae stood.
Emmeline stood.
Mae offered her arm.
Emmeline looked at it.
For half a second, Victorian respectability fought its final battle.
It lost.
Emmeline linked her arm through Mae’s.
And together they walked toward the doors.
The applause became thunderous.
People stood.
Women cheered.
Men cheered.
Waiters cheered.
The elderly Duchess near the piano cheered louder than anybody.
Mae waved.
Naturally.
Emmeline initially refused.
Then, just before reaching the door…
She turned.
Raised one gloved hand.
Then waved.
The room exploded.
Mae leaned toward her.
“You enjoyed that.”
“I did not.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I am being polite.”
“Sure you are.”
They reached the doors.
“Where are we going?” Emmeline asked.
Mae smiled.
“Somewhere, with cocktails.”
“At six o’clock?”
“Honey, revolutions don’t keep office hours.”
And out they went.
Arm in arm.
The suffragette and the movie star.
The Victorian revolutionary, and the Hollywood provocateur.
One fought for the right of women to place a cross on a ballot.
The other fought, in her own outrageous way,
for a woman’s right to define herself without apologising for existing.
Different Generations.
Different Weapons.
Different Battles.
But beneath everything…
The same refusal.
You do not get To Tell Me Who I Am.
Perhaps that was what the afternoon had really been about.
Not, men versus women.
Not, old versus young.
Not, Victorian versus Modern.
Not Respectable versus Scandalous.
It was about something much larger.
The ancient human struggle between those who say:
“This is how things have always been.”
Those magnificent nuisances who answer:
“Then perhaps it’s time they weren’t.”
History remembers the nuisances.
Eventually .
Usually after calling them …
Dangerous, Improper, Ridiculous, Immoral, Hysterical or Mad.
Then fifty years later somebody builds them a statue.
Humanity is wonderfully efficient like that.
Perhaps Emmeline and Mae would have understood one another better than anyone might expect.
Because revolutions do not always carry banners.
Sometimes they wear Diamonds.
Sometimes they wear sensible Hats.
Sometimes they March through Streets.
Sometimes they stand beneath Stage Lights.
Sometimes they deliver Furious Speeches.
Sometimes they deliver Devastating Jokes.
But every Genuine Revolution begins with somebody looking at the world they have inherited and asking one dangerous little question:
Why?
Why must it be this way?
Why may I not vote?
Why may I not speak?
Why may I not choose?
Why may I not own?
Why may I not lead?
Why may I not laugh?
Why may I not love?
Why may I not be exactly who I am?
Then Once enough people begin asking WHY?
Another word inevitably follows.
Why not?
That may be one of the most powerful questions humanity ever invented.
Governments dislike it.
Institutions fear it.
Dogma cannot stand it.
Hypocrisy positively breaks out in a rash around it.
But Civilisation desperately needs it.
Because the future has never belonged entirely to those who obediently accepted the present.
It belongs partly to the awkward ones.
The, Troublesome ones.
The, Loud ones.
The, Funny ones.
The, Brave ones.
The, Glamorous ones.
The Stubborn Northern Women who refuse to sit down.
Occasionally…
The Outrageous American Women who refuse to cover up.
At Claridge’s, the doors slowly closed behind them.
The applause faded.
People returned reluctantly to their tables.
The Maître D’ surveyed the wreckage.
Empty champagne glasses.
Abandoned scones.
A napkin on the floor.
Three hours of disrupted decorum.
One unpaid bill.
He picked it up.
Read it.
Looked toward the doors.
Then sighed.
“Christian! !!”
He handed it to the waiter.
“Find him.”
Somewhere, perhaps from the corridor outside,
came the unmistakable sound of Mae West laughing.
Never before had Claridge’s experienced an afternoon quite like it.
Mercifully for the management…
IT WOULD NEVER AGAIN !!!
THE END
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