A Woman's Place

by Maggie Ford

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Maggie Ford

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Eveline’s father believes a woman’s place is in the home ...

  But when she is accidentally caught up in a suffragette march, it changes her life forever.

  She finds friendships, and even the possibility of love too in the form of the gentlemanly Laurence Jones-Fairbrook. But will she be forced to choose between her family and friends ... between duty and love?

  (Note: previously published as Give Me Tomorrow by Elizabeth Lord)

  About the Author

  Maggie Ford was born in the East End of London but at the age of six she moved to Essex, where she has lived ever since. After the death of her first husband, when she was only twenty-six, she went to work as a legal secretary until she remarried in 1968. She has a son and two daughters, all married; her second husband died in 1984.

  She has been writing short stories since the early 1970s.

  Also by Maggie Ford:

  The Soldier’s Bride

  A Mother’s Love

  Call Nurse Jenny

  To my good friend Beryl Meadows with thanks for her

  valuable advice on the suffragette movement and women’s

  fight for their right to vote during the early 1900s. And to

  my two daughters who can now do so.

  Author’s Note

  This novel is set against the backdrop of what I’ve always considered a fascinating period in British History. Many readers will be familiar with the history of the suffragette movement in the UK and may realise I’ve taken certain liberties with the timing of events. Forgive me, but I wanted to tell Connie and Eveline’s story my way – two ordinary girls who find themselves in extraordinary times.

  Chapter One

  The buzz of Oxford Street’s Saturday-afternoon shoppers had begun to be disrupted by the regular beat of a drum. Eveline Fenton glanced in the direction of voices raised in song, one strident voice, hollowed and amplified by a megaphone, repeating a familiar, rhythmic doggerel:

  ‘Votes for women! Justice for women! Give women the right to vote!’

  Heads turned. Some faces creased into expectant grins, others into frowns. Despite these women keeping to the kerb, traffic could be disrupted, in which case the police would come down like a ton of bricks. A few truncheons would be raised, a few helmets knocked off, a few militants bundled kicking, flailing and screeching into a police wagon. One or two ladies’ large hats would be trampled underfoot, carefully piled hair coming loose to hang in unsightly strands; perhaps even a sleeve or two would get ripped in the fray, womanhood being shown up – a good reason for leers and frowns according to popular opinion.

  Once the wagon had driven off with its load to the lockup, the rest would disperse to lick their wounds and plan another march, sure of eventual success in persuading a Liberal government to grant women the vote. When that would be was anyone’s guess. Not this side of 1909, not for years, if ever. Even those massive rallies at the Albert Hall and in Hyde Park last year had made no impact whatsoever on politicians. Still, one had to admire their tenacity.

  Eveline certainly did, though until a moment ago her mind had been on a tea gown tastefully displayed in one of Selfridge’s huge windows – white mousseline with silver lace and ribbons. She had been imagining how it would show off her dark brown hair and her slim figure with its eighteen-inch waist – the same in inches as she had in years. The gown was of course well beyond her pocket, costing all of four weeks of her pay, but she could still dream.

  The American-style multiple store with its breathtaking displays, newly opened last Monday the fifteenth of March, was busy. So many ladies were pulling their menfolk to a halt to gape at the clothes that she’d had to squeeze sideways through them all for a better view, being jostled on all sides until, like everyone else, she was distracted by the drumbeat, the singing and the loud hailer.

  They came on, a dozen women, striding out in single file, hugging the kerb – using the pavement could mean being arrested for obstruction. Heads up, they walked with a confident step, skirts swinging heavily about their boots, muddy from the gutter, still wet from last night’s rain.

  All held placards, several with the wording WSPU HAMMERSMITH BRANCH, displaying purple irises, hammers and horseshoes, others with the inscription DEEDS NOT WORDS. The large, well-made hats and several coats with astrakhan collars and cuffs proclaimed the wearers to be middle class with time on their hands. Working-class women with husbands and children had little opportunity to go on marches or even to stand on street corners selling Women’s Social and Political Union news-sheets.

  Eveline didn’t consider herself exactly working class, and certainly not poverty-stricken despite living in the poorer East End of London. True, she worked, as did her brother Len Junior, but Dad had a shop in Three Golts Lane, a general grocer’s selling anything, from bootlaces, butter, tinned goods, dried goods like sugar, peas and rice, all loose in sacks, to candles, firelighters, gas mantles, and paraffin in kegs with taps for pouring it. Mum helped behind the counter while her other daughter May, who didn’t work, was happy to be Mum’s unpaid housekeeper. Making a modest living, two apart from Dad in a family of eight also bringing in wages, they didn’t do badly, though not so that she could fritter money away on some fine dress in Selfridge’s window.

  Eveline watched the marching women as they came abreast of her. Dad was dead against them. ‘Lot of blooming nonsensical females,’ he called them, his walrus moustache bristling. ‘Ain’t got nothing better ter do but stirring up a lot of blooming trouble.’

  He never swore at home, and respected female sensitivity, but still brooked no contradiction. He was the breadwinner working all hours God sent in his shop a few yards from Bethnal Green railway station and saw his family as having enough to do without bothering with politics and female dissension. A woman wouldn’t know what to do with a vote anyway, if she got one. That was what Eveline too had thought until last summer had helped to change her mind.

  Eveline and her workmate, Ada Williams, had wandered off on that Saturday in June to watch a huge procession of suffragettes from every part of the country make their way to the Albert Hall. On the Embankment beside the Thames the parade had taken over two hours to pass in a continuous river of colour and music. She’d been so awed that the following Sunday she persuaded Ada to go with her to Hyde Park to see a similar rally.

  In the bright warm sunshine it was a sight for sore eyes with seven separate processions marching into the park, carr
ying hundreds of coloured banners to the accompaniment of stirring music; nearly eight hundred women stood on twenty platforms and thousands of milling onlookers enjoyed it all, though Ada hadn’t been all that impressed, apart from relishing the spectacle.

  ‘All very well fer them what’s got time to mess about,’ she’d said, wrinkling her thin nose. ‘But the likes of us ’ave got ter work for a living.’

  ‘They are right though,’ Eveline argued. ‘Some women can’t stand up for themselves, they need people with a voice.’

  Ada had shrugged again. ‘You try taking time off work to go off ter meetings. And fluttering yer pretty eyes at that leering old Mr Prentice won’t ’elp.’ Ada, plain as a stick, was always on about her being pretty. ‘No boss is going ter give you ’alf a day off work just when you want. You’ll be out on your ear fast as love against a wall, even if old Prentice do fancy yer.’

  Her office manager would leer at her, if he got the chance would lean over her, hot hands on her shoulders, to see if her sums added up correctly. She’d tried pushing him away but it wasn’t easy. He was her boss. If ruffled he could find an excuse to sack her.

  ‘Where will yer votes fer women be then? And yer dad wouldn’t ’alf ’ave something to say.’

  Ada was right, but one speaker had made her think when she described women refused a say in their own destinies, downtrodden at home, poorly paid at work; they had no voice, nor, along with convicts and lunatics, were they allowed to vote – the first time she’d heard it stressed that way. Realising her own little worth, it had made her angry. It still made her angry whenever she thought of it but she’d put it aside in the flurry of becoming eighteen with lots of friends and things to do. Now, this afternoon, as this small column of women with their placards and their single drum drew abreast of her, the anger came flooding back.

  Though it was not a particularly impressive procession, Eveline’s spirits rose at the defiant clump of their feet striding out in step to their song, eyes unflinching before the derisive taunts of some male bystanders. As they passed something made her want to keep up with them, for a little while at least. But moments later, without quite realising why, she had stepped off the pavement to fall in alongside the last person in the procession. Hazel eyes glanced at her from below an enormous hat and a soft mouth smiled. ‘Thank you for joining us,’ she said, taking Eveline’s hand in such a friendly way that even if Eveline had intended to leave she couldn’t decently have done so now.

  Fortunately no police interfered. One constable was walking alongside just in case of trouble from bystanders, but there was none, just one or two catcalls or the odd remark, ‘Go back to your kitchen!’ Often Eveline could hear ragged clapping, no one showing any real belligerence. The owner of the megaphone was now announcing: ‘There is a meeting at Ambrose Hall – two thirty this afternoon! Come and listen to our brave and talented speaker, Mrs Annie Kenney! All ladies welcome – men too!’

  The marchers were dressed for March weather, not like at the huge June rallies with white dresses and red sashes, or the green, white and purple of the suffragette’s adopted colours. Warm coats and hats kept in place by veils were the order of the day for this little band.

  Despite her own warm, half-length coat over an equally warm skirt, Eveline couldn’t help feeling a little shabby beside her new companion’s fashionable tweed coat with embroidered collar and cuffs. Against that large-crowned hat with its satin bows and silk roses perched sedately on a mass of hair like an enormous mushroom, hers struck her as small and drab even with its wide brim and brave ring of flowers and leaves.

  The girl, just an inch taller than her own five foot five, had an arm now firmly linked through hers; it seemed that having secured a new recruit she had every intention of keeping her. Such familiarity should have put Eveline off, yet it didn’t. The drum’s steady beat and the singing brought a sense of exhilaration as the procession turned off Oxford Street into a side road.

  Converging on a stone building were streams of other women, some having marched there from different directions, others just coming along in small groups. There were even a few men. Surrounded on all sides as they reached the building, Eveline and her captor mounted the worn steps.

  ‘I do so enjoy these meetings,’ said the young woman, her arm still tucked through hers. ‘I’m sure you will too. They’re wonderfully interesting. I try not to miss any if possible.’

  Eveline couldn’t help but smile as she was led inside. This girl had never had to sit at a desk from eight in the morning until six at night, five days a week and half day on Saturday, adding up figures on a comptometer behind a glass partition above where the factory workers stood packing biscuits on a moving belt. They were allowed a half-hour midday break and five minutes mid-morning and mid-afternoon to visit the toilet. At least she as office staff could visit whenever she had to, though she still had to ask permission from Mr Prentice, the office manager. She could bet her Sunday best that this girl had no idea how the other half lived.

  Entering with the crowds, Eveline wondered how this girl filled her days other than by attending her precious Women’s Social and Political Union meetings and going on marches and rallies. It didn’t matter. What mattered was to stay close to her and not to lose her or she would really feel like a fish out of water, not having intended to come here in the first place.

  The meeting hall was large and windowless though it was well lit. It smelled of dust, musty books and mildew and the stage curtains had aged to a streaked, nondescript brown and hung limp and uneven. The backdrop meant to depict some sort of garden scene was so faded as to be hardly distinguishable as such. On the stage were three chairs and a table. Two ladies still with their large hats balanced on their piled-up coiffures were arranging carafes of water and sheets of paper, giving the impression of lengthy speeches to come – lengthy and boring, suspected Eveline. She chewed her lip. Why hadn’t she pulled away from the girl at the very first, made her excuses and hurried away? Too late now.

  The place, already three-quarters full, hummed with animated voices, news being swapped, recognition of acquaintances from other meetings. It made her feel isolated, her earlier enthusiasm dissipating. Her temporary companion was conducting her towards two vacant seats several rows from the front. She began exchanging greetings with a woman already seated next to them, whom she obviously knew. Feeling oddly neglected and forgotten, Eveline sat down, quietly preparing to keep herself to herself and suffer it until the blessed end gave her a chance of escape.

  Her fair-haired companion turned to her, her voice animated. ‘By the way, I’m Constance Mornington. I’m usually called Connie. Only my parents use my full name. They’re awfully strait-laced.’

  ‘My name’s Eveline Fenton,’ Eveline offered, relieved to be included in things again as Connie indicated the woman on her left.

  ‘This is Martha Strickland. We often come up against each other at meetings.’ So the woman, who looked to be in her thirties, wasn’t a close friend after all.

  Martha nodded politely, but no more than that, and it seemed to Eveline appropriate to at least help the introduction along in the hope of enticing a smile from those narrow, somewhat fierce features.

  ‘I’ve never been to one of these meetings before,’ she said in her best voice. ‘So I don’t know what to expect.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll enjoy it!’ Connie broke in. ‘Won’t she, Mrs Strickland? It’s so very uplifting and inspiring. When you hear what they have to say, you’ll want to listen again and again. You might even want to become a member.’

  That was probably why she’d befriended her, came the unbidden and vaguely uncharitable assumption as they stood up to let three more women move past them to several empty seats further along, before settling again.

  ‘Some of these people are so courageous,’ Connie went on, unpinning her hat, taking it off and reinserting the hatpins to lay it in her lap. Now that the fashion was for hats so huge as to obstruct the view of those behind, a
lady was expected to remove hers in places like this. Those who didn’t, especially in music halls, could bring a growl from any man behind her to ‘take orf yer blooming ’at, lady – I can’t see a blooming fing!’ Not here, of course, where everyone was polite and orderly.

  With others removing theirs Eveline followed suit even though hers wasn’t that big. There were quite a few plain hats, she was glad to notice, the owners what she would consider ordinary, like her. The knowledge instantly gave her a good feeling. Perhaps she would enjoy this after all.

  ‘How long will it go on for?’ she asked Connie. She didn’t want to be too late home and have them asking questions.

  ‘Oh, about an hour, perhaps just a little over,’ Connie said quickly, her pretty face showing deep concern that her guest might get up and leave if she thought it was any longer.

  ‘We have wonderful speakers,’ she hurried on. ‘And courageous. They have my greatest admiration. We are so lucky to have Mrs Kenney speaking to us today. Even the government has to admire women like her, despite condemning them, and despite what many politicians say about us – though there are some who are for us – and despite the way a lot of people sneer and call us sour spinsters and frustrated females.’

  Again Eveline had to smile. No one could call this girl a frustrated female. Eveline guessed her to be a year or two older than herself, twenty perhaps. The large hazel eyes, glowing with a zest for life, the softly rounded features framed by an abundance of beautifully dressed hair were hardly those of a soured woman. Used to genteel living, she had the confident look of money, but she seemed happy to do battle for her lesser sisters.

  There were other young people here, but the older women were no doubt those of means with husbands who indulged them to go off to their clubs and social meetings, including the suffragette movement. The older ones who didn’t look quite so well off were probably spinsters or widows – difficult, if not out of the question, for a married working-class woman to have any pastime outside the home except for the pub with her man, who saw it as his wife’s place to look after the home and him and his children.