Storm and Silence(2)

3. If women got involved in politics, they would be on an equal footing with men, thus creating the appalling condition of equality of the sexes and putting an end to all need for male chivalry and gentlemanly behaviour, which would be even worse.

4. All government ultimately rested on brute force. Since the gentle nature of women made them incapable of that, they were simply not suited for politics.[1]

Would it surprise you to hear that all the politicians who put forward the reasons on that little list were men? I had taken the time to think very long and sincerely about their arguments, finally coming to the conclusion that said arguments were complete and utter poop. I really wished I could have a private meeting with the fellow who suggested that women were incapable of brute force. Just five minutes alone with him in a sound-proof room would do.

Not looking right or left, I marched down the street towards the polling station, trying to keep my heart from jumping out of my chest. Every minute, I expected someone to raise an accusing finger and start shouting, ‘A female! A female in men’s clothes! Grab the vile abomination!’

Nothing happened. Nobody even gave me a second glance.

That might, however, have had something to do with the thick fog that let one see clearly for only a few yards. Everything beyond that was just a hazy outline. As I walked on, the fog thickened even more, and for a moment, even the polling station at the other end of the street was consumed by it.

Yet even without the fog, there didn’t seem to be a great chance of my being recognized by passers-by. Only a few people were out on the streets, and they rushed past quickly. I hoped it would be the same inside the station. The only exception to the rule here, outside, was a large group standing half-way down the street. Although they were visible to me only as hazy silhouettes, I could tell that two of the men were in intense conversation.

‘… tell you, it is in perfect condition,’ the older of the two said. His double chin wobbled as he spoke and he made energetic gestures with his pudgy hands to underline his speech. ‘The best of all the houses I have.’

‘Indeed?’ The other man sounded curt and cool. I didn’t see his face since he stood with his back to me. All I could see was his lean black figure, erect as a rod of iron. ‘Interesting that you are willing to part with such a treasure.’

‘It is out of the goodness of my heart, Sir, out of the goodness of my heart!’ the fat man assured him. ‘Wilding Park is a treasure, and I hate to part with it, but I know that with you it will be in good hands.’

I hadn’t really paid attention to their conversation before, but the name caught my ear. Wilding Park? Surely not the Wilding Park?

‘Bah.’ The young man waved his hand depreciatively. ‘I have no time for this. Karim, pay the man and let’s be done with it.’ He raised a hand, pointing at the fat man. ‘However, you should remember: If you haven’t told the truth, I shall be very… displeased.’

Even through the fog I could see the double-chin of the fat fellow tremble.

‘Karim? The money.’ The young man snapped his fingers.

A gigantic fellow, one of the people surrounding the two, started forward but stopped and turned his head abruptly when I took a few steps in the direction of the group and cleared my throat.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! What was I doing? What was it to me if some rich chauvinist fellow got swindled and lost a few thousand quid? Nothing. But then, this might be a brilliant opportunity to test my disguise.

It was also a brilliant opportunity to procrastinate and put off my attack on the fortress of male political power for just a few moments more.

‘Excuse me, Sir?’ I wanted to tap the lean man on the shoulder, but the giant called Karim grabbed my arm before it even got near him and pulled me back, towering over me.

‘On your way, you lout!’ he growled in some thick, uneven accent I couldn’t identify. I looked up at him, eyes wide. Now that he was so close, with no mist obscuring his form, I could see he was a mountain of a man, with a face as dark as his long black beard, and a turban, yes, an actual turban on his head. What freak show had I wandered into? A turban? In the middle of London?

‘On your way, I said!’ he growled, twisting my arm painfully. ‘The Sahib has no time for beggars!’

Beggars? I was more than a little peeved, I had to say. I was dressed in my uncle’s Sunday best, after all. And all right, the clothes were three sizes too big for me and hadn’t been used or washed in years, but still.

At least he hadn’t said ‘The Sahib has no time for girls who dress up as men.’

‘I don't want any money from him,’ I retorted. ‘In fact, I want to help him save some!’