 Stories from Parliament. Votes for Women. Part 1 Deeds, not words. That was our cry. That day in 1909, we suffragettes were marching to Parliament to demand the vote for women. But women, as well as men, should be allowed to vote in electing our government. Our Prime Minister, Mr Asquith, had promised it should be so. But now he'd had second thoughts. He feared that too many women might vote against his party and bring his government down. So he did precisely nothing. That cry of ours meant two things. Instead of mere promises that the vote would be given to women, we wanted the government to do as they'd said. And if they wouldn't, then we were willing to act as well as speak in protest. We'd come from our meeting in a nearby hall, and the words we'd heard from our movement's leader, Mrs Pankhurst, were still ringing in my ears. We shall be marching to Parliament, not as law breakers, but because women should be lawmakers. My name is Constance Lytton. My full name is Lady Constance Bulwa Lytton. Some people thought it strange that I, from a family of the ruling class, should ever have been a part of such a crowd. But Mrs Pankhurst was a well-born lady too, and listened to what she said next. A society that allows women no part in decision-making cannot flourish. Beyond the home, what lives are we permitted? Important posts are barred to us in all professions. Posts in government are just for men, yet all their decisions affect women. They must either do us justice by giving us the vote, or do us violence. When we reached the Houses of Parliament, lines of policemen barred our march. Some women broke through and chained themselves to the railings by the entrance. Meanwhile, I was still outside, wedged by the crowd behind me, nose to nose with a policeman. Back! Back! Keep back! I'm only doing my duty. Yes, and we are doing ours. You should be ashamed of yourselves. Go home, the lot of you, and behave like women. Like women? Yeah! Get home and do the washing! I must see Mr Asgrith. I mean to see the Prime Minister. I don't think so. You're coming with me! And I was marched to the nearest police station, and from there to court, where I was sentenced to a month's imprisonment. And it was there, in Holloway Prison, that I truly realised why our cause was so important, why women had to be allowed to vote to change things. For now, I was mixing with women whose lives we could improve, women without money for their children's food, and even if they found work, their pay was half that of a man's. I remember on my very first night, the prison chaplain came to my cell. I'm surprised that a lady of your class feels the need to interfere in politics. I am a woman. What women face in life is not understood by men, yet men are the only law makers. So they are. So women's concerns are always put to one side, forgotten. I didn't come here to discuss your views here. I'm told you may have these. What? Letters from my family? Indeed. But prisoners are not allowed to have them. Oh, I think we can make an exception in your case, my lady. I want no privilege. You prefer to stay in all this stink? Stink. Yes, that is the right word. There's no air in here. Indeed, there isn't. How will you bear it, my lady? I'm not sure I will. And we're condemned to this merely for demanding the vote. Votes for women! Votes for women! But I have a confession. Because I have a heart condition, I gave in. I finally accepted the offer and spent most of my month out of the stink and in the prison hospital. I was ashamed of myself. I decided that as soon as I was released I'd be marching with the suffragettes again. And if it landed me in prison a second time, I'd make sure I was offered no special treatment. I would suffer whatever the others suffered. For I would go not as Lady Lytton, but as an ordinary working woman. My treatment so far had been bad enough. But worse, much worse, was to come.