Hore - Last Letter Home

To Sheila

and in memory of Ann

They call it a storm and after days of it she felt storm-tossed, clinging to the wreckage of her life, each new attack dashing against her with a force that left her bruised and gasping. She might have borne it if it had simply been words, painful, devastating words though they were, words that cruelly shredded her self-worth, her professional reputation, her trust in her own judgement, her identity as a woman, but it was more than that; her sense of safety was threatened.

It had been her first time in a television studio, Jolyon Gunns late night chat show, and shed been invited on at the last minute because one of his guests had been taken ill. Probably with fear. Narcissistic Jolyon was not known for his charm, though this seemed only to boost the ratings.

And we welcome historian Briony Wood, who is writing a book about World War Two, is that correct, love?

Yes, its to be called Women Who Marched Away . Its about the ATS, the womens infantry service during

Sounds smashing, he cut in. Jolyon did not have a long attention span. Brionys here to talk about the news that lady soldiers will now be fighting on the front line. Briony, I know this will be contentious but, really, war is a job for the lads, isnt it?

Not at all. There are plenty of examples of fighting women going right back to the Amazons. Or think of Boudicca or Joan of Arc. Briony tried not to sound strident, but the sight of so many men in the audience, some of whom had nodded in agreement at Jolyons words, meant she had to speak with confidence. Dazzled by the studio lights, she blinked at her host, who lounged lord-like in his leather directors chair with his short legs spread, suave in a designer suit, his fat Rolex watch glinting. He smirked back at her and rubbed his neat black beard.

Surely theyre exceptions, though, Briony, and we remember what those Amazon ladies had to do to use their bows, dont we? He made a slashing gesture to his chest and winked and there were shouts of male laughter. You see its not natural, women fighting, theyre not shaped for anything apart from pulling out each others hair.

More bayings of amusement.

Briony drew herself up and glared at him. That simply demonstrates their determination. Anyway, just because something is natural doesnt make it right. Warfare itself is natural, after all. But, Jolyon, surely our discussion should be about psychology and the social conditioning around gender...

The word gender made Jolyon straighten and his eyes filled with a mad light. Briony realized shed walked right into a trap. This was a populist show and outspoken Jolyon had a huge following among a certain sort of male, but it was too late to retract her words, shed look weak and stupid. She was suddenly acutely aware of how schoolmarmish she must appear, her light brown hair tied in a knot at her nape, her charcoal-coloured sheath dress smart and understated rather than fashionable, even with the soft blue scarf coiled about her shoulders.

The girls arent tough enough, Briony. Theyll cry, and fuss about their lipstick. The audience howled with laughter at this, though there were one or two hisses of disapproval as well.

Id like to see you on a battlefield, she snapped. Youd not hack it for a second compared to some of the brave women I interviewed for my book.

There were shouts from the floor and several men rose to their feet. One shook his fist at Briony. Jolyon himself stared at her with a pasted-on grin, for a moment lost for words. Only for a moment, though.

Thank you, Briony Wood, he pronounced with mock surprise. I think shes just called me a coward, guys! Isnt that smashing?

Escaping into the rainy night, Briony switched on her phone to be greeted by a tattoo of alerts as the messages flew in. She opened her Twitter app with trepidation. As she read the first notifications, her eyes widened with horror.

You ugly cow cum the war youll be first against the wall.

Our Jolyons tuffer than any wimmin.

The third was merely a string of obscenities that brought her hand to her mouth.

The phone then rang. A name she recognized. She swiped at the screen.

Aruna? She glanced about the lonely South London backstreet and began to walk briskly towards the main road.

Dont look at any messages. Especially not Twitter. Briony heard the panic in her friends voice.

Too late. Oh, Aruna. Why did I say it? How can I have been so stupid?

Its not your fault, he was awful, the pits. Im sorry I ever gave his people your name. Listen, where are you?

Clapham. Ive just left the studio. Briony turned onto the high street and startled at a trio of youths in leather jackets who swaggered, laughing, out of a brightly lit pub. They brushed past, not even seeing her. What did you say?

Dont faff about with public transport. Get a cab. Aruna sounded urgent. Go straight home, then ring to tell me youre safe.

Men from Jolyons audience were beginning to emerge from the studio front door. They hadnt spotted her yet, but their coarse gestures and rough laughter frightened her. Briony pulled her scarf up over her hair and began to hurry.

Aruna came to her flat in Kennington that night, and Briony was glad because the next morning the abusive messages were still pouring in. At first, despite Arunas protests, she read them, answered the more reasonable or supportive ones, deleted others, sobbed with rage, but on they came. Finally, Aruna made her suspend her Twitter and Facebook accounts and told her to avoid the internet altogether. She did read a blog piece Aruna found, from a female politician whod suffered similar attacks. Eventually the cyber trolls will tire and retreat to their lairs, the woman concluded. The advice was to stay strong.

Its all very well to say, Briony sighed. She wished her father and stepmother werent on holiday. She could have done with a bolthole.

The staying strong strategy might have worked had not the furore been stoked by Jolyon Gunn himself. When she sneaked back online that evening it was to find some stinging comments about her prudish appearance being the reason she was still single in her late thirties. His fans, thinking this hilarious, all joined in.

Prudish? When have I ever been prudish? Briony gasped. Never mind Arunas reassurances, this was unfair.

It had been a quiet Easter for news and the second morning after the ill-starred chat show she emerged, a bag of student essays in hand, to hear a man bellow, Briony! Over here! She turned and was blinded by a camera flash. Give us a quote about Jolyon, love, he said, with a cheerful grin. Panicking, she fumbled her way back indoors and watched him drive off. Shed leave going in to college till tomorrow.

Later that day Aruna rang to warn that someone had posted her home address on Twitter. They knew where she lived now, the trolls. On the third morning, an anonymous postcard with a picture of a clenched fist on it arrived in the post. She was now too frightened to go out and made Aruna, whod popped by with some shopping, tell a group of teenagers loitering on the pavement to clear off. Arunas dark bobbed hair flew in the wind as the youngsters stared back in innocent puzzlement at her earnest, pointed face. Briony realized with embarrassment that she was being paranoid. After Aruna had gone, an avuncular policeman showed up and settled his bulk on Brionys sofa, where he sipped tea and recited comforting platitudes about the online threats.