The Violet Underground

Kathleen got ready the same as she did every morning.

She fastened the buttons on her grey suit, pulled on the mandated stockings and stepped into her sensible shoes. Breakfast was plain porridge tailored to her daily nutritional requirements. Indulgence was not encouraged.

Outside, the city churned with quiet, orderly motion. Women walked along the footpaths, all dressed in the same shades of grey, while Men drove by in their cars. Women were only permitted to drive if assigned to chauffeur a Man. Kathleen didn’t mind walking - it gave her time to breathe in the open air, to feel something unregulated and real.

She passed the looming concrete buildings and chain-link fences of the factory district. Walls were adorned with propaganda posters reminding the women of their duty to The Empire. Order brings strength. Strength builds prosperity. Your place is your purpose.

The Quill Mill stood at the end of the street, its heavy iron doors swallowing the women who entered. The building had existed for centuries, starting as a place where secretaries rewrote letters and transcriptions for government officials. Now, it served as the city’s central hub for dictated communication. Dictaphone cassettes from officers, bureaucrats and executives flowed through its pneumatic tube system, awaiting the hands of the women who would type them into official correspondence.

Kathleen reached her cubicle and pressed the button to receive her first cassette. The familiar clatter of the tube system echoed as the small cylinder arrived. She popped the cassette into the Dictaphone station, placed her fingers on the typewriter keys, and got to work. Once the cassette was transcribed, she addressed and stamped an envelope and sent it through the tubes to the mail department. Then, it was time for the next cassette.

She didn’t think about the words as she worked. Thinking would just slow her down.

The only person she saw during the day was the foreman, a Man who patrolled the aisles with practised disinterest, collecting the used cassettes for erasure and redistribution. Kathleen wouldn't speak to another woman even if she could see them from her cubicle. Talking wasn’t forbidden, but it wasn’t encouraged. All that mattered was the work.

At lunch, she ate a ham and cheese sandwich at her desk, which the foreman provided. But there was no friendly chitchat.

By the end of the day, Kathleen had processed dozens of letters. She left the same way she arrived - walking silently with the other women, past the grey buildings, past the posters of The Empire, past the Men in their cars.

She went home, ate her Empire-provided balanced meal, listened to the wireless and went to bed.

In some ways, Kathleen didn’t mind her role in The Empire. At least she was good at what she did. And it was out of the weather during the colder months.

This was her life.

Except on Thursdays.

Kathleen loved Thursdays.

She dressed for work as she always did, but when she braided her long, brown hair, she pulled a purple ribbon from her dresser and wove it into her plait.

On Thursdays, The Empire permitted women to wear one item of colour. They claimed it was a measure to keep spirits high and prevent restlessness. It was ridiculous for the Men to think that all the women needed was a chance to doll themselves up to keep them content.

As Kathleen walked to work, she noted the flashes of colour among the sea of grey. Some women wore red scarves, others blue brooches or green ribbons. As much as she hated to admit it, the flashes of colour and snippets of individuality afforded by the directive did boost her spirits. But not only for the reasons suggested by The Empire.

Because scattered among the colours, like tiny signals in the static, were others like her - women wearing violet. Purple earrings, mauve headbands, violet ribbons, lilac brooches, Kathleen noted them all and smiled to herself. She was not alone.

Kathleen was part of The Violet Underground.

No names. No meetings. No direct contact. For their safety, that was how it had to be. But on Thursdays, when she saw another woman wearing violet, she knew others were also trying to end the tyranny of Men.

Women were recruited from all departments of The Empire to help the cause. Kathleen played a vital role in The Quill, as it was known, helping to get messages to others in The Underground.

Every so often, a cassette would arrive with a small purple sticker affixed to it. That was the sign.

She retrieved a second sheet of paper, a purple stamp and a piece of purple carbon paper from the false bottom in her desk. As she typed, the words were transferred onto both pages. Once finished, she addressed the duplicate like any other letter, but she attached the purple stamp before sending it through the tube.

The mail department had its own Violet Underground members. They would know what to do.

At night, whenever the wireless played Purple Rain, Kathleen took out her notebook. That was the Underground’s signal - coded messages hidden within the broadcasts. The Empire controlled the radio, but women wrote the scripts.

She listened carefully, decoding the message embedded within the night’s programming.

‘That was Pink’s latest hit, reaching number 15 on the charts…’ (Pink, 15)

‘Did you hear about the Man who went to mauve the lawn but couldn’t cut through the six-foot-long grass’ (Mauve, 6)

‘There are clear blue skies forecasted for the next five days…’ (Blue, 5)

She wrote the code down and deciphered the message.

War is coming. Women may be at risk. Keep alert.

The next day, Kathleen was working as usual. A cassette with a purple sticker arrived. Kathleen inserted the tape and pressed play.

The voice was female.

Her hands froze over the typewriter.

Women were never allowed to dictate. Only Men.

She quickly rewound the tape and listened again.

‘If you can hear this, I need your help. I have learned something that could put women everywhere in danger. It is about the upcoming war. I can’t say anything more in case this is intercepted. Please send someone to find me, and I can share more.’

Kathleen’s heart pounded. She typed the note and sent it through the proper channels, but she slipped the cassette into her pocket instead of placing it for collection with the others. She felt she had to do more, and not just hope someone else would act on the message.

She finished her shift on autopilot, her mind racing. What should she do? She didn’t know how to contact anyone in the Violet Underground.

By the time she got home, she had made up her mind. She needed to find the woman on the cassette.

The next morning, Kathleen called in sick. Sick days were rarely afforded in The Empire, but she couldn’t wait. She dressed as usual but pinned her purple ribbon inside her coat. Just in case.

The address on the cassette led her to The Empire University’s science department. When questioned, she claimed she was the new assistant. The Man at the entrance barely glanced at her before directing her down the hall.

Kathleen entered an office where two Men were talking. A blonde woman in a grey suit sat at a console, her fingers moving quickly over the controls.

Kathleen approached her. ‘I’m here to begin training as the new assistant.’

The woman glanced up. ‘I didn’t order an assistant.’

It was her – the voice from the recording.

Kathleen shifted her coat slightly, revealing the purple ribbon pinned inside.

The woman’s eyes widened. ‘You’re from the Underground? That was fast!’

Kathleen stiffened. ‘Should you mention the Underground with the Men so close by?’ she whispered.

‘I could be dancing a conga and singing the blues for all the attention they pay me,’ the woman smirked, tapping at her console. ‘They only care that the work gets done.’

Kathleen relaxed a little. ‘I’m a member of the Underground, but no one sent me. I work at the Quill, and I received your message. After sending it through, I decided I had to try and help.’

‘You’re just a transcriptionist? You shouldn’t have come,’ the woman frowned.

‘It felt urgent. And with the wireless and your message mentioning an upcoming war, I couldn’t let it go.’

The woman’s frown deepened. ‘You’re not even in contact with the Underground. You’re just a typist. How exactly do you think you can help? What do you think the Men will do if another ‘assistant’ from the Underground arrives in a few days. It will look suspicious.’

Kathleen’s confidence wavered. ‘I…I want to help. Tell me what’s happening. Maybe there’s something I can do.’

The woman glanced towards the Men, who had continued talking as if they were alone. And, as far as they were concerned, they were the only people in the room.

‘You’ve heard the alerts. War is coming. For years, the Men have searched for a way to fight without sacrificing themselves. They’ve tried machines and weapons, but nothing worked. The easiest solution? Us. But they knew we’d never agree, even in service to The Empire.’

‘Now the university has developed a serum that will subdue us and make us compliant. They plan to select women from all departments, inject them with the serum, and send them to war. If they take us gradually, they think no one will notice. Life will continue as usual. For them.’

Kathleen’s hands curled into fists. ‘That’s monstrous. They can’t…’

‘They can,’ interrupted the woman. ‘You know they can. They make the rules. They are The Empire.’

‘Then we have to warn everyone. Every woman in every workplace. If we act before they start taking women, they can be prepared, maybe even stop themselves from being taken.’ Kathleen was determined.

The woman hesitated, then nodded. ‘We don’t have much time. If you can spread the word, I can continue to work with the Underground to stop the serum from entering production.’

While the Men worked on their serum, a few feet away the women worked on how to stop them.

That night, Kathleen walked home, her mind racing. Could she do this? Duplicating messages for The Underground was one thing. Could she actively thwart The Empire by sending out new messages?

On Monday, Kathleen returned to The Quill. Her heart raced, but she remained calm. She typed faster than ever, using the stolen minutes to write warning notes to other women, addressing them to offices, warehouses, factories, and anywhere women were employed.

Every night now, the wireless played Purple Rain. More messages were broadcast. Women were casting glances at each other, sharing a whispered word or two when they felt it was safe to do so.

Two weeks later, on a cold Thursday morning, Kathleen braided her purple ribbon into her hair as usual.

Stepping onto the street, she let herself smile.

Every woman wore a flash of violet.

The revolution had begun.