People would say that Lynne had fallen in with the wrong crowd. That excuse worked for adolescents, but Lynne was 65 and a retired headmistress. Her appearance reflected her past profession: practical heels, a skirt with the hem below the knee and her ashen hair pulled into a severe bun. Both of her children were grown up and her husband was a retired dentist. Yet, Lynne was led astray by the thrill of rule-breaking for the first time in her stringent life.
“You all right, Love?” John’s voice penetrated Lynne’s thoughts as she stirred bolognaise sauce in the pan.
“Hmm? Oh yes, fine.” She smiled.
“You’ve been quiet ever since that W.I. meeting,” said her husband. “It’s good you’re finally making friends with local women. After all, we’ve been here for half a year now.”
“Mmm hmm.”
Lynne cast her mind back to two days earlier, when Pankhurst village held the Women’s Institute meeting. Ladies a decade older than Lynne made up most of the assembly. Nonetheless, she sat through lectures on the best practice of button organisation and how to pipe the perfect rose. Most of the women knew each other, and Lynne felt like an outsider.
She left the meeting having resolved that the local chapter of the W.I. was not for her. Lynne had spent too many years on committees and was determined to avoid such commitments in retirement. This was her and John’s time to enjoy themselves.
***
It was November and already dark by 5pm when the meeting for the W.I. finished. Lynne was in the entranceway to the village hall. Almost everyone else had gone.
“Pssst.”
Lynne searched for the source of the noise.
“Over here.”
Lynne squinted down the side of the pebbledash building. There was a tiny blue light and the smell of cherries wafted through the air.
“Hello?” said Lynne.
Aggie, the 97-year-old head of Pankhurst’s W.I. chapter, exited the village hall. Her giant set of keys jingled as she locked the door. She was small, round and vole-like.
“Ah, Lynne, I trust you’ll be attending the next meeting in a few weeks?” Aggie said. “It’ll be nice to have a respectable woman as part of our organization.”
Tittering emanated from the vicinity of the mysterious voice and the tiny blue light.
Aggie sniffed the air and scowled. “Don’t fall in with the ne’er-do-wells of this village,” she said before departing, leaving Lynne confused.
“Hey,” someone whispered, hidden by the gloom alongside the building. “Mrs Prim, come over here.”
During her years of headmistressing, students and parents had thrown many such names in Lynne’s direction. She was aware that she came across as strait-laced. However, she was certain this was a teenager goading her.
A concrete path led around the side of the village hall. Lynne followed it, heading towards the tiny blue light. “Hello?” she said. “Who’s there?”
The bright white light of a mobile phone flicked on and illuminated four crinkled faces.
“Did you enjoy Angry Aggie’s meeting for the W.I.?” said a small woman, roughly Lynne’s age, with cropped blue hair.
Lynne sensed the question was charged and that the little woman with blue hair was the quartet’s ringleader.
“It was fine,” said Lynne, refusing to be coerced or intimidated.
A tall woman, built like a wilting French bean, let out a giggle. Thick fog poured from her nose and smelled like cherries. Lynne realised this woman smoked a vaporizer cigarette, the source of the blue light and the pleasant smell.
“They call me Dragon,” said the tall woman. “Because I vape—it makes me look like I could breathe fire.”
“She gets it,” snapped the blue-haired woman. “And they call me Dom.”
Lynne frowned. “As in Dominatrix?”
Dragon stifled a smoky giggle.
“As in Domestos,” said the third woman. She was non-descript except for her Barry Manilow schnozzle. “Domestos on account of her hair being the same shade as the toilet bleach.”
They all laughed.
Dom looked peeved. “It’s short for Dominator.”
“And they call me The—”
“Let me guess,” Lynne interrupted, “they call you... The Nose?”
The women stopped smiling and glared at Lynne frostily.
“Sorry,” blurted Lynne. “It’s just you all had self-deprecating nicknames, but affectionate, and I thought—. I’m so sorry.”
The four women burst out laughing again.
“That’s exactly what they call me, The Nose,” said the woman with the nose.
Lynne cast her eyes to the last lady of the bunch, the youngest and quietest, who had milk-chocolate skin contrasting her pearly teeth and braided black hair.
“They call me Cleo,” said the fourth woman with a hint of a Caribbean accent. “It’s short for Cleopatra.”
“Our nicknames make us feel empowered. Dom, Dragon, Cleo and The Nose,” explained Dom.
“The night we came up with the names we drank a little too much prosecco,” added The Nose with a grin.
“I like it,” said Lynne. “But what are you doing hiding around here?”
“We’re not hiding,'“ said Dragon. “This is reconnaissance and recruitment.” She looked offended as she took a pull on her vaporizer.
“Reconnaissance and recruitment for what?” Lynne was confused.
The quartet of misfits nodded to each other.
“If you want to know more, meet us in the dining room of The Dick Turpin Inn. Be there in an hour,” said Dom.
The four women departed, leaving Lynne alone and bemused.
***
In hindsight, Lynne thought she should have stayed clear of the four odd ladies. Curiosity had gotten the better of her.
“Would you like more wine?” John asked, again cutting into Lynne’s reverie.
She nodded.
“You’re quiet this evening,” he commented a second time.
“I know,” Lynne answered. “Sorry. Tell me about your day.”
John smiled and talked about the golf game he had won that afternoon. Lynne loved John. They had been married for 40 years, but his newfound interest in golf — and talking about it at length — was, in teenage parlance, a yawnfest. Again, while nodding and smiling in the right places at her husband’s heroic golf tale, Lynne thought back to the meeting at the Dick Turpin Inn.
***
The Dick Turpin Inn was one of Pankhurst’s two pubs. It was also the seedier of the two. Lynne entered the old place with its creaky wooden seats and a bar sticky with spilled IPA. The walls and low ceilings were off-white, sliced through with the occasional ancient black beam.
Lynne had told John she was meeting some friends at the pub after the W.I. meeting; he was delighted. Lynne suspected his delight was derived from being able to watch Gogglebox alone without her snide interruptions. She could not understand watching television to watch people watching television; John had told her she was a snob.
Lynne ordered a shandy and found the eccentric quartet of ladies in a shady alcove of the empty dining room. The fireplace was lit and the floorboards creaked beneath threadbare mats.
“Welcome,” said Dom. The other three women nodded. They were huddled around a small circular table in conspiratorial fashion. A single tea light made their wrinkles into deep crevices. Lynne sat in the empty chair. It groaned.
“You have to swear that you will revoke any affiliation to the Pankhurst W.I.,” said Dom.
The chorus nodded.
“Why do you think I’ll do that?” asked Lynne.
Because you fell asleep during the talk about icing roses,” said Dragon. “I was spying through the back window.”
Lynne blushed. '“Fair enough,” she said. “I revoke any affiliation with the Pankhurst W.I.” She hadn’t been intending to go to the next meeting anyway.
“Good,” it was The Nose speaking. “You have to promise that nothing said here is repeated elsewhere. The second rule is no one talks about our group.”
“Isn’t that from the movie Fight Club?” Lynne asked, a little surprised by the reference. She had taught teenagers the year Fight Club came out and had been popular with them. It wasn’t a film she would have expected a bunch of village pensioners to know.
“I love that film,” said Cleo.
“We all love that movie,” repeated The Nose.
“OK,” said Lynne. “What are you doing here? Are you a club?”
The women laughed.
Dom’s face went deadpan. “We are anarchists.”
It was Lynne’s turn to laugh. She stopped when she saw they were serious. “Excuse me?”
“You haven’t lived here long, so we’ll fill in a bit of history for you,” began Dom. “Pankhurst has a proud tradition of female anarchists. They marched against child labour in factories during the Industrial Revolution. Decades later, they marched on the capital to get the vote for women. And in 1999, we brought down the W.I. here—”
“We injected salt into every packet of dried yeast in the village,” Dragon interrupted.
“Yes,” Dom continued, “thereby ruining their chances in the county bread baking competition. All the loaves from Pankhurst looked like pancakes.”
The anarchists laughed.
“Until now it was such a sore spot that no W.I. chapter dared open in this village. Angry Aggie kept harping on about it though and that’s why the meetings have restarted,” said The Nose.
“In 2005 the local council wanted suggestions on naming the small new estate they built here,” said Dom.
“We rigged the vote,” said The Nose.
“Didn’t you ever wonder why an entire section of the village is named after melons?” asked Dragon with a grin.
Lynne thought about it. There was a Cantaloupe Close, a Honeydew Avenue, a Watermelon Drive and a Sugar Street.
“Back in 2010 we petitioned to have the name of this pub changed,” Dom was on a roll.
“What was it before?” asked Lynne.
“Black Bess Inn, which was Dick Turpin’s horse,” said The Nose.
“It was racist,” said Cleo.
“And on those grounds we argued that Dick Turpin was far more appropriate,” Dom said.
“Plus,” whispered Dragon, “it has a rude word in it.” She giggled as she pulled her vaporizer from her handbag.
“So what do you want from me?” asked Lynne, but she was interrupted by the entrance of the burly landlord.
“Betsy, how many times have I told you not to smoke that thing in here?” he thundered.
“It’s Dragon to you. And it isn’t a cigarette, it’s a vaporizer, so sod off or I’ll take my business elsewhere.”
The landlord frowned at the five women and didn’t argue further. “It’s not worth it,” he muttered, harrumphed, snatched the empty glasses from the table and waddled back towards the bar in the other room.
“We’ve devised our most audacious act of anarchy yet,” said Dom. “But, we need another member in our crew to succeed. Are you in?”
Lynne should have said no and left. Perhaps it was the beer talking, but she agreed. A zing of excitement ran through her as she was led to the headquarters of the Pankhurst Anarchists’ at number 22 Honeydew Avenue — Dom’s house.
The white bungalow stood near the mouth of the avenue. Wild shrubs filled the garden. The front door was jarring red, and the decor inside was as extrovert as Dom. Framed posters of The Sex Pistols, Poison Girls and The Slits adorned the living room’s bubblegum-pink walls.
“What’s that?” said Lynne, pointing to what looked like an ancient printing press. It took up the entire coffee table, which wasn’t small.
“That’s the heart of our next plan,” said Dom. She swelled with pride, like a puffed-up blue tit.
“We’re going to print counterfeit coupons,” said Dragon through a haze of cherry-scented vapor.
Dom explained that the planned act of anti-globalization would cause trouble for a branch of a worldwide corporation—namely the local supermarket.
“So, why do you need me?” asked Lynne.
“Me and Cleo used to work there. They know our faces,” said The Nose.
“And I’ve got a couple of ASBOs. I’m not allowed in the area past the cricket pitch,” admitted Dom.
“What about you?” Lynne asked Dragon.
“My husband is branch manager.”
Lynne was shocked. “You’re going to help perpetrate an act of chaos in the place where your husband’s employed?”
“He spends too much time there,” answered Dragon.
“He was bonking the pharmacist,” clarified Dom.
“Besides,” said The Nose, “this is an act against the commercial establishment, not a personal attack on Dragon’s husband.”
“Yeah, we’re anarchists, not nihilists,” Cleo finished.
“Besides,” Dom continued, “you have a trustworthy face. No one will suspect a thing.”
The next day, Lynne found herself walking the clinical aisles of the small supermarket. A wodge of counterfeit coupons burned a hole in her side, tucked into her jacket pocket. She felt nervous and exhilarated, naughty and delighted.
Dom had provided Lynne with a shopping list, ranging from upmarket cold cuts to fish gut cat food. Lynne loaded her trolley, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, knowing her fellow anarchists were tucked behind the wall in the car park at the edge of Dom’s ASBO zone. They had looked as nervous as Lynne when she had set off towards the temple of commerce.
The manager, Dragon’s husband, was flirting with the female pharmacist as Lynne ticked off the last item on her list. His behaviour and completing the list culminated in a feeling of empowerment within Lynne; she felt like the warrior queen, Boudica, about to strike at the Roman army. She marched to the till.
It took all of Lynne’s focus not to fiddle, maintain eye contact and not to appear jumpy as she prepared to pay. However, the elderly gentleman on the till didn’t seem communicative or particularly awake. Each item was meticulously scanned, and often he paused to search for barcodes.
“That’s 92 pounds and 23 pence,” he said.
“Oh,” said Lynne, “I have some coupons, too.” She handed him the wodge of counterfeit coupons.
The old man sighed as he passed each over the beeping scanner. Lynne stuffed her hands in her pockets, all her fingers crossed. Her heart thrummed like a drum skin.
The pensioner’s hooded eyes were almost open as he finished. “You have nothing to pay,” he said with surprise. “Your coupons discounted everything.”
Lynne thanked him and half-expected the alarms to go off as she passed through the doors. They didn’t. The security guard even waved her goodbye. Lynne felt guilty and thrilled. Just as her pulse resumed a more normal beat and her palms sweated a little less, she approached her hidden anarchist pals. They jumped for joy and hugged her. That was when things went wrong.
The security guard came bounding out of the automatic doors.
“Leg it!” cried Dom.
The women scattered.
Cleo grabbed the trolley and headed for her Kia Picanto. The others sprinted away.
***
John washed the dishes, and Lynne thumbed the stem of her wineglass. She remained at the dining room table, mulling over the events of that day. She hadn’t spoken to the other women since they had done a runner from the supermarket that afternoon. Part of her was disgusted by her own behavior, another part wanted to drink champagne and dance to songs by The Ramones.
There was a knock at the door. Lynne’s blood turned cold. She went rigid and nearly snapped the stem of the wineglass between finger and thumb.
“I’ll get it,” called John, already heading for the door.
The front door opened and there was a stern male voice in the entrance hall. John invited the man in. Several other footfalls followed; the man wasn’t alone. Fright jolted through Lynne when a policeman entered the dining room. Behind him were her anarchist companions.
John made everyone comfortable, fetched tea and put a plate of Hobnobs out.
The policeman introduced himself as Officer Woolcroft. “You know why I’m here, Lynne. The girls have confessed and although I agree with political freedom, I—”
Lynne’s tense outer shell cracked. The anarchist inside her flew free and she shot to her feet to gasps from John, Dom, Dragon, Cleo and The Nose. “Shut up, pig!” she yelled. “I’ll never talk. I’m an anarchist and your establishments mean nothing to me or my comrades.”
“Yeah!” shouted the quartet in unison.
John, who stood in the doorway, went slack-jawed.
The policeman looked shocked, but then he unexpectedly smiled. Everyone was confused.
Officer Woolcroft got to his feet, undid his belt, pulled down his regulation trousers along with his white boxers and revealed a tattoo of the anarchy symbol across his hirsute left buttock. Gasps filled the room, followed by gales of laughter.
As Officer Woolcroft dressed himself again, he explained that he had been an anarchist in the 80s before he joined the police force. “I miss it sometimes,” he confided. “Anyway, ladies, I can’t charge you with anything. The supermarket branch manager hasn’t pressed charges either, for some reason.”
Everyone looked at Dragon who exhaled a swirl of cherry-scented mist with a smile.
Officer Woolcroft didn’t stay long and once he had gone the women were elated; their audacious act of chaos had succeeded, and they had been let off by an anarchist sympathizer — probably the only anarchist policeman in the county.
“What’s next?” said Lynne.
Dom answered: “You get a nickname.”
“And we’re not even tipsy this time,” added Dragon.
“How about Coup?” Cleo suggested.
“As in a pigeon short of?” The Nose said with a frown.
“As in Coupon,” said Dom with a grin.
John cleared his throat and the five anarchists looked at him. “There’s just one thing I want to know,” he said. “What happened to the loot?”
Everyone looked at Cleo, who grinned.
***
Aggie put the heating on with reluctance; money had been tight since her dear Harold passed away. She returned to the boxes delivered by the parcel service, armed with a blunt knife, and cut through the tape. Amongst the packing peanuts were nestled all kinds of foods.
Aggie smiled and blinked away a tear as she picked out a tin of baked beans and canned frankfurters for her supper.
About the author: Darcy L. Wood's short fiction most recently featured in the Thirteen Podcast, After Dinner Conversation, and Land Beyond the World Magazine. In 2019, Darcy was long-listed for the annual flash fiction competition held by Shoreline of Infinity. Apart from writing, Darcy works in a pet shop and lives with a Swedish beau and their menagerie in deepest darkest Oxfordshire. Darcy is a weird mix of British-Ukrainian-Russian.