“The papers, Lizzie. You’d be shocked to know what is going on.”

“No need to read the papers; the market serves just as well.” She shovelled coal onto the rising flames and shut the heavy cast-iron door with a bang. She looked stiff as she pulled herself up to standing.

“And are they talking about what’s happening to the suffragettes in Birmingham?” I said.

“Yes. They’re talking about it.”

“Are they angry? About the hunger strikes and the forced feeding?”

“Some are,” she said as she began slicing vegetables and putting them in a large pot. “Others think they’re going about things all wrong. That you catch more flies with honey.”

“But do they think they deserve what’s happening to them? It’s torture.”

“Some think they can’t be left to starve to death.”

“And what do you think, Lizzie?”

She looked up, her eyes rimmed red and watering from the onions. “I wouldn’t be that brave,” she said.

It wasn’t an answer, but I might have said the same thing if I’d been honest with myself.