Being here, in the noise and the fury and the overwhelming goodwill from sister to sister, is something like being young, and very likely to be the last time she experiences this. Oh, what they could have done, in the 1970s, with mobile phones and a media shaped and called out by any woman with a hashtag and a sense of outraged self: Leonie would have loved it. (Once she had vented her outrage at media still owned, governed and run by men.) The sisterhood of the 1970s would have won, properly, thoroughly, if they had only had what women today have, and think nothing of. Surely.

Leonie would have loved to see Erica here, too. (There’s something about Erica’s name that bugs Vee, at the edges of what she has forgotten.) And been horrified that it was her first demo. Although, of course, if Leonie was here Erica would have been to plenty of protests, whether Ursula liked it or not. Vee lets the camera search for Erica again, finds her further forward now, her small green back standing out. She’s talking to the woman next to her, pointing at the stage, earnest. The sight of her makes Vee lower her camera and close her eyes, let the pain be in her head, instead of outside it, joined to and drowned by this noisy, fierce crowd, whooping their support for the actor who is calling for more action, for persistence and resistance and never giving up. Erica looks around, in the lull, looking for Vee, who raises a hand. Erica looks brighter than Vee has yet seen her. ‘Thank you’, she mouths, and then she is pushing a fist into the air with everyone else, as the actor leaves the stage, her own fist raised.

Vee doesn’t recognise the next speaker, but from the shape of her, the poise, she must be an athlete.