Butterfly's Shadow - Lee Langley [62]
She turned a few pages. ‘Ah: the outside world! To take my mind off my empty life?’
She was mocking him, but she accepted the gift, and the next time Henry saw her, the outside world had elbowed its way into her secluded existence.
She greeted him, eager with questions:
‘Have you heard of someone called Ichikawa Fusae?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why have you never told me about her, about what has been happening?’
‘My apologies. I didn’t realise you were interested in the Women’s Suffrage League.’
‘I am a woman.’ A sad shake of the head. ‘Do you know what that means? What it really means?’
Henry felt a sense of unease. ‘Those women are courageous, but possibly foolhardy.’ Unspoken: their actions could prove dangerous – for themselves and for anyone else involved. ‘An inexperienced swimmer should approach the ocean with care. Turbulent waves, strong currents—’
She broke in. ‘Do you recall that day you brought Pinkerton to the house? You were there to witness the transfer of an object, a commodity from one man to another. Women had no voice, we have no voice. Now, I am reading about a woman – about women – who are trying to do something about that.
‘I feel shame, that until Suzuki went into the factory I knew nothing about the horrible conditions, the hours they work, the crowded dormitories. Those women are prisoners.
‘If they are not workers, they are prisoners in their homes, as they always have been. Do you know why women are not allowed to vote? Because that is the way it has always been.’ Her voice was bitter. ‘Tradition!’
She picked up a newspaper and held it open like a precious scroll. ‘Thank you for sending me this.’ She read aloud: ‘. . . “We maltreat and insult our women to a graver extent than any other country on the globe.” At least here’s one man who has the courage to speak the truth.’
It was the beginning of Cho-Cho’s acquaintance with ‘those women’, as Henry continued to call the campaigners. When they won the right to attend political meetings, Cho-Cho hovered across the street, outside the lecture hall. The following week she slipped in timidly at the last minute. The next time she was bolder.
Henry, increasingly anxious, noted the change.
‘We have a voice!’ She was excited. ‘Women are being heard!’
Usually Henry responded humorously, with the reactions expected of him, grumbling about the rising power of ‘those women’, but today he was subdued. She noticed immediately.
‘What is it? Do you have bad news from America?’
She had been following events since the Wall Street crash, though when Mary sent him gloomy letters he had softened the family situation somewhat.
‘Yes.’
‘Is it about Sachio?’
‘No.’ He paused. ‘Well, in a way . . . No, no, it’s not about Joey.’ He sounded reassuring, though his expression remained grim. ‘It’s about Pinkerton.’
He had never been entirely certain how Cho-Cho now felt about Ben Pinkerton. She maintained a coolness, a distance, if his name entered the conversation, restricting herself to questions about the child. But, as he well knew, that was the Japanese way. Now her composure was to be tested.
‘He went on a march, with some war veterans – homeless ex-servicemen.’
She waited.
‘It was to make a protest. Like your women.’
She waited.
‘They gathered in Washington and the President brought in the army to clear them out.’ There was no easy way to say this.
‘He’s dead.’
So total was her lack of reaction that for a moment he thought she had not heard.
Then she asked, ‘How? How did he die?’
‘He drowned. In the river.’
‘But that’s impossible! He loved to swim, he used to go down to the sea and swim for hours, far out from shore, diving like a dolphin, he would float on his back and wave, his arms gleamed in the sun when he waved –’ She stopped, lips pressed together.
‘What happened?’
Henry said, ‘The soldiers were driving them off their campsite. I think he was struck on the head by a rifle. He fell into the river . . .’
She seemed to shrink, crumpling into herself. She said, ‘Please go now.’
He turned at once to leave. As he reached the