The Strike at Putney Page #2

"The Strike at Putney" is a novel by Lucy Maud Montgomery that delves into themes of social justice, community resilience, and the struggle for workers' rights. Set in the early 20th century, the story unfolds in the fictional town of Putney, where a labor strike leads to tensions between the working class and the authorities. Through well-drawn characters and poignant storytelling, Montgomery explores the complexities of human relationships against the backdrop of a significant social movement, highlighting the power of solidarity and the pursuit of fair treatment for all.

• Short story

								

she had reflected sagely. But she thought the time had now come to
speak.

"You know," she went on, "we can talk and rage against the men all day
if we like. They are not trying to prevent us. But that will do no
good. Here's Mrs. Cotterell invited, and all the neighbouring
auxiliaries notified--and the men won't let us have the church. The
point is, how are we going to get out of the scrape?"

A helpless silence descended upon the classroom. The eyes of every
woman present turned to Myra Wilson. Everyone could talk, but when it
came to action they had a fashion of turning to Myra.

She had a reputation for cleverness and originality. She never talked
much. So far today she had not said a word. She was sitting on the
sill of the window across from Lucy Knox. She swung her hat on her
knee, and loose, moist rings of dark hair curled around her dark,
alert face. There was a sparkle in her grey eyes that boded ill to the
men who were peaceably pursuing their avocations, rashly indifferent
to what the women might be saying in the maple-shaded classroom.

"Have you any suggestion to make, Miss Wilson?" said Mrs. Robbins,
with a return to her official voice and manner.

Myra put her long, slender index finger to her chin.

"I think," she said decidedly, "that we must strike."

       *       *       *       *       *

When Elder Knox went in to tea that evening he glanced somewhat
apprehensively at his wife. They had had an altercation before she
went to the meeting, and he supposed she had talked herself into
another rage while there. But Mrs. Knox was placid and smiling. She
had made his favourite soda biscuits for him and inquired amiably
after his progress in hoeing turnips in the southeast meadow.

She made, however, no reference to the Auxiliary meeting, and when the
biscuits and the maple syrup and two cups of matchless tea had nerved
the elder up, his curiosity got the better of his prudence--for even
elders are human and curiosity knows no gender--and he asked what they
had done at the meeting.

"We poor men have been shaking in our shoes," he said facetiously.

"Were you?" Mrs. Knox's voice was calm and faintly amused. "Well, you
didn't need to. We talked the matter over very quietly and came to the
conclusion that the session knew best and that women hadn't any right
to interfere in church business at all."

Lucy Knox turned her head away to hide a smile. The elder beamed. He
was a peace-loving man and disliked "ructions" of any sort and
domestic ones in particular. Since the decision of the session Mrs.
Knox had made his life a burden to him. He did not understand her
sudden change of base, but he accepted it very thankfully.

"That's right--that's right," he said heartily. "I'm glad to hear you
coming out so sensible, Maria. I was afraid you'd work yourselves up
at that meeting and let Myra Wilson or Alethea Craig put you up to
some foolishness or other. Well, I guess I'll jog down to the Corner
this evening and order that barrel of pastry flour you want."

"Oh, you needn't," said Mrs. Knox indifferently. "We won't be needing
it now."

"Not needing it! But I thought you said you had to have some to bake
for the social week after next."

"There isn't going to be any social."

"Not any social?"

Elder Knox stared perplexedly at his wife. A month previously the
Putney church had been recarpeted, and they still owed fifty dollars
for it. This, the women declared, they would speedily pay off by a big
cake and ice-cream social in the hall. Mrs. Knox had been one of the
foremost promoters of the enterprise.

"Not any social?" repeated the elder again. "Then how is the money for
the carpet to be got? And why isn't there going to be a social?"

"The men can get the money somehow, I suppose," said Mrs. Knox. "As
for the social, why, of course, if women aren't good enough to speak
in church they are not good enough to work for it either. Lucy, dear,
will you pass me the cookies?"

"Lucy dear" passed the cookies and then rose abruptly and left the
table. Her father's face was too much for her.

"What confounded nonsense is this?" demanded the elder explosively.

Mrs. Knox opened her mellow brown eyes widely, as if in amazement at
her husband's tone.

"I don't understand you," she said. "Our position is perfectly
logical."

She had borrowed that phrase from Myra Wilson, and it floored the
elder. He got up, seized his hat, and strode from the room.

That night, at Jacob Wherrison's store at the Corner, the Putney men
talked over the new development. The social was certainly off--for a
time, anyway.

"Best let 'em alone, I say," said Wherrison. "They're mad at us now
and doing this to pay us out. But they'll cool down later on and we'll
have the social all right."

"But if they don't," said Andrew McKittrick gloomily, "who is going to
pay for that carpet?"

This was an unpleasant question. The others shirked it.

"I was always opposed to this action of the session," said Alec Craig.
"It wouldn't have hurt to have let the woman speak. 'Tisn't as if it
was a regular sermon."

"The session knew best," said Andrew sharply. "And the
minister--you're not going to set your opinion up against his, are
you, Craig?"

"Didn't know they taught such reverence for ministers in Danbridge,"
retorted Craig with a laugh.

"Best let 'em alone, as Wherrison says," said Abner Keech.

"Don't see what else we can do," said John Wilson shortly.

       *       *       *       *       *

On Sunday morning the men were conscious of a bare, deserted
appearance in the church. Mr. Sinclair perceived it himself. After
some inward wondering he concluded that it was because there were no
flowers anywhere. The table before the pulpit was bare. On the organ a
vase held a sorry, faded bouquet left over from the previous week. The
floor was' unswept. Dust lay thickly on the pulpit Bible, the choir
chairs, and the pew backs.

"This church looks disgraceful," said John Robbins in an angry
undertone to his daughter Polly, who was president of the Flower
Band. "What in the name of common sense is the good of your Flower
Banders if you can't keep the place looking decent?"

"There is no Flower Band now, Father," whispered Polly in turn. "We've
disbanded. Women haven't any business to meddle in church matters. You
know the session said so."

It was well for Polly that she was too big to have her ears boxed.
Even so, it might not have saved her if they had been anywhere else
than in church.

Meanwhile the men who were sitting in the choir--three basses and two
tenors--were beginning to dimly suspect that there was something amiss
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