A Woman's Place

by Maggie Ford

  As Eveline’s group reached the Royal Albert Hall’s impressive main entrance, her pride began to be overtaken by the hope of seeing Laurence standing waiting for her to appear. But there was no sign as each of the five divisions paused at each of the Hall’s entrances before filing in.

  Inside, the vast, domed auditorium rang with voices all talking at once. From where her group had been stationed, Eveline looked over the moving sea of female humanity, trying hard to pick out two familiar faces, Connie’s and that of the young man who had said he would meet her here. It was an impossible task.

  ‘Isn’t it just wonderful,’ sighed one of the girls she’d been walking beside all the way here. ‘It’s so impressive. I’ve never been inside this place in all my life, and here I am!’

  The girl had said she worked in an office in a bank, and Eveline had told her in return that she worked in the office of a factory for the company manager – a small lie but she might never see the girl again, so it didn’t really matter.

  Now she merely nodded, her eyes intent on surveying the lavish interior with its encircling balconies and its arena hung with bright banners. This was how it had probably looked last June as The Times had reported it. Then she had merely stood with Ada watching the spectacular procession go by along the Embankment on its way here too. Now she was part of it. But where was Connie? More to the point, where was Laurence Jones-Fairbrook?

  A small army of working women was filing down the arena to the deep, thunderous music of the organ and cheers from the assembly to be received by the President of the International Suffrage Alliance. Mrs Carrie Chapman Catt’s significant greeting, ‘You are an Argument!’ rang clear across the vast, glass-roofed amphitheatre, prompting a tide of cheers that completely drowned out Eveline’s own voice.

  There was more singing, and speeches emphasising the fact that the vote wasn’t limited to any class but all wage-earning women including the housewife equally interested in securing the franchise. She discovered how women farmers paid heavy rates and taxes – she hadn’t realised that women owned farms in their own right – and for the first time knew how belittling it must be, denied the vote yet seeing it given to men in your employ. With every voice raised against the indignity of women running their own businesses yet seeing themselves excluded, Eveline finally came away fired up to do her bit for the women of her country.

  As the assembly slowly dispersed, she found Connie outside, the girl hurrying towards her through knots of women chatting together in the faint glow cast by street lamps over the evening’s events.

  ‘I saw you from a distance,’ she gasped. ‘But I couldn’t get to you. Were you all right on your own?’

  ‘Fine,’ Eveline said, gazing about. There was still no sign of the young man who’d promised so faithfully to meet her. She had thought it faithfully at the time. ‘I made some friends among the people I was with.’

  Returning her gaze to Connie, she felt the girl’s eyes had chilled a little, and hurried on, ‘Nothing permanent, just talking and things.’

  Why was she excusing herself? She hoped the girl wasn’t turning out to be the jealous sort, claiming her attention the whole time. Surely she had friends in her well-to-do circles, just as she had in her ordinary ones, Ada, Daisy, lots of others and, she supposed, Bert Adams. They had chatted a couple of times since that first meeting at the library, so she could more or less count him a friend too. Though he wasn’t a patch on Laurence Jones-Fairbrook. Where was Laurence Jones-Fairbrook?

  People were still streaming out of the building. Then she saw him hurrying towards her. He was waving, almost frantically she would have said, his well-bred features animated, his lips parted in a wide grin beneath the trim moustache.

  She felt Connie move back a little at his approach and was again conscious of a tinge of jealousy emanating from her. But she didn’t care. With her heart having begun to pound like a drum, she didn’t care.

  ‘I was looking everywhere for you,’ were his first words. ‘I was a bit late getting here and managed to squeeze in as the first delegation made its way across the arena.’

  ‘I’m glad you could make it,’ she managed to gasp out. ‘I even lost my friend in the squash.’ She took Connie’s arm and drew her forward. ‘This is Connie Mornington. We met through the organisation. We’ve become really good friends.’

  Connie was smiling, but for all Eveline’s efforts he hardly glanced at her except to acknowledge the introduction, his eyes switching straight back to herself.

  ‘So, where can I take you? Somewhere for coffee, you and me?’

  It was a blatant indication that her friend wasn’t included and she felt herself blush for Connie. But Connie was ready with her reply.

  ‘I have to be getting along, Eveline. It’s half past nine and I promised not to be too late home and I have a train journey ahead of me. Will I see you at the meeting next Saturday?’

  ‘What meeting?’ Laurence cut in.

  ‘George Street,’ said Eveline, embarrassed on her friend’s behalf.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, losing interest.

  She turned to Connie. ‘Wouldn’t you like a cup of coffee before you leave?’ The beverage sounded strange on her lips, she who only knew tea at home apart from that awful bottled Camp coffee.

  Connie shook her head. ‘My father will not be pleased if I get home too late. He thinks I have been to a recital with a friend.’

  ‘Then it’s just you and me,’ Laurence said jauntily.

  Something made Eveline leap. ‘I don’t think so, thank you very much. I must go with my friend to her station or she’ll be walking all on her own.’

  She saw him blink. In the pit of her stomach a weight settled, any chance she had with him fast receding. But no young woman should be walking on her own through the dark London streets. It hadn’t occurred to her that once she left Connie, she herself would be the one on her own. But it was done now.

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ Connie was saying. ‘I’ll take a taxi. There is a line of them waiting over there for fares. I shall be quite safe.’

  Eveline hadn’t thought of taxis. She always went by public transport, or else walked. She and Connie trod different paths.

  ‘I’ll see you next Saturday, Eveline,’ Connie said abruptly and was off before she could stop her, feet tripping lightly beneath her skirt, one hand holding on to her huge hat that threatened to take off in the stiff, damp breeze despite its several long pins, the brightly coloured sash she’d been wearing fluttering from her other hand.

  Eveline turned back to Laurence as her friend disappeared inside a taxi, and it began to move off. She expected to see him shrug, to hear his nonchalant, ‘Another time then.’ But he was grinning at her, his narrow, clipped moustache twitching almost roguishly.

  ‘So, how about that coffee?’

  Eveline hesitated for a split second only. This was important. She’d never get another chance like this. If she did end up getting home later than promised, then so be it. At least he’d not suggested a stronger drink.

  ‘That would be nice,’ she said in an accent she hoped sounded as refined as his. The next minute she felt her hand being threaded through the crook of his elbow, and he was already hailing a taxi.

  It was a wonderful end to a wonderful evening. In a small restaurant they drank real coffee she found quite palatable, poured from an elegant bone china coffee pot with milk from a matching jug, and sugar cubes in a bowl complete with silver sugar tongs. But she had refused supper, feeling too tensed up to eat. Trying to be on her best behaviour never went with eating. She might have made a mess of it, and that would be unthinkable.

  She watched as he smoked a fragrant cigarette taken from a gold case. She declined the one offered her, never having smoked, but sat lapping up his words as he told her about himself.

  ‘My folk are horsy people. My father breeds ’em – thoroughbreds, hunters. They enjoy point to point. Flat racing finds them well to the fore, and of course steeplechas
e. My father is a great betting man. He knows form like the back of his hand – makes a pile, I believe.’

  Eveline decided to say nothing about her grandfather as a betting man and continued to listen as Laurence went on. ‘They enjoy socialising. My mother’s quite a beauty, and a wonderful hostess. They’ve a large circle of friends, mostly horse people like themselves. I don’t care much for the brutes myself, I much prefer town life.’

  He had such a breezy and carefree air, and was so well-mannered. After the boys she knew, rough-tongued and cocksure, he was a breath of fresh air. Even the elegance of this small restaurant with its comforting tinkle of china and low hum of conversation was different to what she was used to.

  Her heart going pit-a-pat, she prayed he’d ask to see her again. But as he saw her to a taxi, giving its driver money in advance plus a sizeable tip, he said, ‘I shan’t see you home but you’ll be safe enough in a taxi.’

  Then as she made to get in, he grasped her waist and drew her to him, kissing her full on the mouth. Nothing tender about it, a hungry kiss and it frightened her. Taken by surprise she pulled away.

  ‘I’m not that sort of girl!’ she gasped, instantly feeling that she might have misinterpreted his actions. What she should have said was that she’d known him for too short a while for them to kiss but it was too late. His lips had grown tight as he leaned forward and jerked open the taxi door for her. The taxi driver was looking straight ahead. He’d seen this all before, and that alone made Eveline feel she was being taken by him to be that sort of girl.

  For a moment or two Laurence stood looking at her, his hand on the open door. Perhaps he had been anticipating something more once inside the taxi but she would never know.

  ‘I won’t be at your meetings for a while,’ he said, making her heart sink despite the fright he’d given her. ‘My cousin will not be in London for quite some time and won’t need me as a chaperone. I’m staying with my people for a week or two then off to Nice seeing a few friends there.’

  A sudden grin took her off guard. It was as if those few moments before had never taken place. ‘When I’m back in London I could take you to the south coast one Sunday. Have you been to Brighton?’

  ‘No,’ she said, awed but happy again, and deeply relieved. Despite all, her heart told her she did want to see him again. ‘I’ve never even been to the seaside, ever.’

  He was smiling. ‘Then that’s where we’ll go.’ This time his hand was gentle as he helped her into the taxi, standing back and closing the door.

  It didn’t matter if she was a bit late home. With all that had happened to her this evening she was ready to meet a scolding from her mother but it was her dad who was waiting up for her.

  ‘What bloomin’s time d’yer call this?’ he bellowed, following her into the living room. She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf, not daring to face him. She hated it when Dad got his dander up.

  ‘I’m only a quarter of an hour late.’

  ‘Quarter of an hour? Three-quarters of an hour!’

  This time she felt justified in facing him. ‘Mum said I could stay out until ten thirty.’

  ‘I never ’eard ’er. Far as I know she said ten, and that’s that!’

  ‘At the door she said ten thirty,’ Eveline insisted. She saw her father’s moustache bristle as his mouth went tight. His pale amber eyes bulged.

  ‘Don’t talk back ter me, gell And don’t lie ter me neither.’

  ‘I’m not lying, Dad. Ask Mum.’

  ‘Yer mum’s in bed. Where all decent people should be.’

  ‘But she did say—’

  Her words were cut off by his raised hand. A slap to the back of the head could easily follow. It wasn’t the hurt but the indignity; her hat would probably go flying off. But the hand yielded, though not his roar.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned it was ten o’clock, so don’t try coming it with me, yer saucy little minx! You ain’t too old ter feel the weight of me ’and.’

  A voice from the doorway broke in. ‘Hi, what’s all the bellowing about? Yer woke me up.’

  Her mum stood there in flannel nightie and woollen dressing gown, faded brown hair hanging down almost to her waist. Somehow the loose hair made her look older rather than younger.

  ‘What’s all the blessed commotion?’

  ‘This one thinks she can come in all hours then tell me lies,’ blasted Leonard. ‘Said you told ’er she could be ’ome ’alf past ten, not ten.’

  ‘So I did,’ came the reply and he wilted a little, then blustered on.

  ‘Well, it would’ve been nice ter’ve been told! But I’m only the man around ’ere. When I said ten I meant ten. I won’t ’ave me authority cocked a snook at.’ He looked about ready to swear, something he rarely did in front of his womenfolk, but fell silent instead as Mum turned and went off back to bed.

  Let off, Eveline went to bed too, ignoring her sister’s enquiries as to how she’d enjoyed her suffragette rally, and pretended she had fallen asleep the moment her head hit the pillow.

  In reality she lay awake for ages too excited to sleep for thinking of Laurence Jones-Fairbrook, his fine upbringing, his wealthy parents, his jaunty manner. She could even forgive him that moment of weakness that had alarmed her so.

  Chapter Seven

  It was well into summer and she had seen no sign of Larry, the name by which he’d said he preferred to be known. Well, what had she expected? Anyway, she had more or less got over the gloomy period of waiting.

  Even so, still hoping, she had refused Bert Adams’s guarded invite to go with him to see a picture show at the Hoxton. He’d not asked her again but she’d often notice him looking at her from across the bookshelves at the library, or in Bethnal Green Road some evenings with his mates, his eyes following as she passed by with her friends. He was good-looking but he could never match the refined Laurence Jones-Fairbrook even if that bit of her life looked to be over.

  She did force herself to think of it as over and instead sank herself into her suffragette activities. Surprising how a thing starting out as a mere passing interest had taken hold. Listening to so many brave exploits, she began to feel that until she did something brave she would never truly be a suffragette. Her only fear was that the more she became involved, the greater the risk of her parents discovering what she was up to. Then the fat would truly be in the fire.

  ‘One day we’re going to get arrested and sent to prison,’ she said to Connie as they came away from one of several demonstrations, this one comparatively mild, not causing enough disruption for the police to turn up. ‘We’ve been lucky so far,’ she went on darkly. ‘But if it happens then our parents will find out.’

  Connie’s shrug looked almost complacent, as if it didn’t matter to her any more. ‘We knew it could happen when we joined,’ she murmured.

  The gesture irked slightly. Eveline wished she could feel as easy in her mind as wealthy Connie. Knowing she must soon do more than just join the odd rally or attend a few meetings had made her see that this was no game. If called upon she mustn’t fail her friends and what they stood for, fought for, often suffered for. It was the prospect of her dad finding out that made a coward of her.

  ‘Don’t it worry you at all?’ she snapped, grammar blown to the wind.

  ‘So far we’ve been lucky not to have got into trouble.’ Connie’s change of tone took her by surprise. ‘But one day it’ll happen, and then …’

  The sentence was left unfinished; she saw Connie was in fact far from complacent, as much in fear of her family’s reaction as Eveline of hers once her secret was out. It was inevitable. Having money didn’t buy security and peace of mind. One look at Connie’s face told her that and she felt momentarily humbled.

  They had narrowly missed arrest on a previous demonstration on June the nineteenth. They’d gone with a sizeable body of the WSPU to the House of Commons to distribute leaflets quoting part of the 1689 Bill of Rights on the right of any subject to petition the king’s represent
ative and render any attempt by the police to obstruct their passage illegal. It had all ended unsuccessfully and in confusion with a hundred and twenty-two women arrested.

  At their first militant foray, she and Connie had only just avoided being caught, scurrying off as the police arrived. She’d felt a coward, a traitor. It plagued her for days after. At the next George Street meeting she was hardly able to look others in the eye even though no one blamed her. Connie said she felt exactly the same, but arrest would mean complications regarding her family. Although the cause was beginning to take precedence over fear of family reaction, they still dreaded that day even above the possibility of arrest.

  After the skirmish, they had parted company, neither of them caring to join in an evening’s spate of window breaking at the Treasury and Home Offices, later to hear that thirteen more women had been arrested.

  Convicted, the thirteen were taken to Holloway where they had gone on hunger strike. After six days they were released. Eveline had to admire them. Six days voluntarily starving themselves!

  She who enjoyed every meal Mum put before her wondered where they found their courage, many being women of good breeding who usually ate far better than she ever did. She was aware that one day she too could expect to stand in court alongside those brave souls for a cause that mattered more to them than anything and on whose actions hung the right of women to be included with the voting masses.

  ‘Perhaps going on hunger strike might not be as bad as it sounds,’ she said to Connie, thinking of the artist Marion Wallace Dunlop who had stencilled the extract from the 1689 Bill of Rights on the wall of St Stephen’s Hall in the House of Commons and been given one month’s imprisonment for refusing to pay her fine. Her demand that she be placed in the First Division as a political prisoner denied, she went on hunger strike.