I pushed the leaflets at passersby. Men and some women shouted insults and dropped the leaflets on the ground. When we came to the factory where we had stopped earlier, the workers watched us in silence before disappearing inside. It was then that my anger flared. Those women deserved somebody to stand up for them. I began to thrust the leaflets at people with new energy. I picked up the ones they threw on the ground and shoved them back in their faces. I matched them insult for insult. I laughed to myself—my vulgar tongue had come in handy. Pleased with myself, I turned to the girl beside me, who was staring at me with her mouth open.

“That’s the way you do it,” I said. “You’ve got to give them as good as you get.”

On the way home in the car with Mrs. Shaw, I leaned back in the seat and closed my eyes. I was wrecked from the long march, but a new feeling had crept into me. It was pride. Not the sort of pride you might get from being admired, but the feeling you’d get from doing something that mattered to somebody else. I knew I had never felt this before. I reached over and touched Mrs. Shaw’s arm.

“Thank you,” I said.

When we got back to the house, I was too tired to eat dinner and went straight up to bed.

* * *

That night I dreamed of girls jumping out of windows, a massive fire raging behind them. Their screams grew loud and I sat straight up in bed. It was then I realized the screams were coming from me. Mrs. Shaw rushed into my room, Beatrice right behind her, and turned up the lamp.

“Are you all right, my dear? Were you having a bad dream?”

I nodded my head.

“That’s what happens when you don’t eat your supper,” scolded Beatrice. “I always done say an empty stomach bring on all sorts of trouble.”

“I expect she’s had a memory come back to her,” said Mrs. Shaw. “Is that right, dear?”

It was then I realized she was right. “I was dreaming about the girls we saw today; they were jumping out of the factory windows and the fire was raging behind them. But then the fire turned into water and . . .”

“Go on, dear girl,” Mrs. Shaw urged.

“And I saw people jumping into the water from a big ship. They were screaming too, just like the factory women.”

Mrs. Shaw and Beatrice exchanged looks. Beatrice folded her hands on her breast. “Thank the Lord,” she said. “The child’s memory is come back.”

“Not yet,” Mrs. Shaw said, “but it’s a good start.”