A Woman's Place

by Maggie Ford

  Victoria looked from one girl to the other and sadness wrenched at her heart for the both of them. Connie had written to her parents, but must have known it would be futile to invite them to the wedding of their eldest daughter.

  The weeks passed. No reply came. She’d become quiet and withdrawn. She’d finally pulled herself together, saying she had made up her mind to cut them out of her life as they had cut her out of theirs. Even so, some of that dejection lingered, even though in two hours’ time she would be wed to the man she adored enough to give up her family and her sheltered life, with its comfort and privileges for, to become the wife of a modest bank clerk.

  She did have money in her bank account that hadn’t been touched. Now that George had had a small promotion, they shouldn’t have too many financial worries. In time she’d recover her spirits – indeed she would have to if she wanted her marriage to be happy. But as the years passed with no word from her family ever again, how would it tell on her?

  Victoria took a deep breath and glanced across at her granddaughter.

  Eveline was gazing out of the parlour window at the dwellings across the road as though the preparations for a bride’s marriage going on here had no interest for her. Hers had been a particularly awful trauma, yet she had taken it with a fortitude Victoria always knew was in her.

  She felt for the humiliation and fear Eveline must be going through, deserted by that despicable swine, Laurence Jones-Fairbrook – an apt name for an arrogant upper-class loafer who saw no wrong in destroying a young girl’s future and happiness. There were no words to describe him. All along she’d felt that something like this might happen, but Eveline wouldn’t have listened, being silly enough to expect decency from a man of that sort.

  Eveline had cried in her arms later that day. ‘He didn’t even want to know,’ she sobbed. ‘You should’ve seen the way he looked at me, like I’d done it deliberately, like I was something he’d just picked up out of the dirt.’

  As she listened, Victoria learned that he had told her, without any compunction, that when he married it would be to someone of his own class; that he hadn’t expected her to come back at him with this sort of blackmail and when she’d protested that it wasn’t blackmail, he’d even said the baby wasn’t his.

  Eveline had repeated this to her as if her heart was breaking. ‘How could he say such a thing? I thought he loved me.’

  Victoria had stroked the thick brown hair and had tried to give words of comfort that wouldn’t make it sound as if she thought Eveline a fool to think that sort of man would be in love with a girl like her, that all he’d been after was a bit of excitement, slumming, so to speak.

  She had tried to warn her that it was getting almost too late to do something about it, but when Eveline had continued to shy from the notion, all she could say when she spoke of having to resign herself to the pointing fingers she knew she’d have to face, was, ‘Not from me. I’ll stand by you no matter what.’

  Surprisingly the words seemed to strengthen her. She hadn’t wept from that day to this. Only once had she referred to him again, to say he’d looked scared when she’d told him. Victoria had given a contemptuous ‘Pah!’ and said that he was scared for his own skin that it might get back to his family, that she might cite him as the father and cause trouble for him.

  ‘I wouldn’t lower myself,’ was all Eveline had said with a dignity that pulled at Victoria’s heartstrings.

  From then on she hadn’t mentioned him again. Instead, she threw herself into her suffragette work as if her sanity depended upon it. Almost every evening after work, and every weekend, she was out doing something, no longer as militant with a baby inside her now, not daring to risk arrest. Opting for less confrontational duties, she’d stand at street corners selling copies of The Suffragette, oblivious to the cold November fogs despite Victoria’s warnings that in her condition she could do harm to herself.

  Victoria wondered sometimes if Eveline might even be glad if she did lose the child as she stoically paraded with a sandwich board, waving aside concerns that it could be too heavy, although her knees often got bruised from being banged against the boards. It was as though she was bent on punishing herself for allowing that despicable young swine to take such advantage of her as she smiled placidly at the insults from some male passers-by, the very same smile she gave to encouragement from wives and mothers.

  She helped at the local WSPU committee rooms, went fly-posting with her companions, and would get up on a platform, cart or soapbox, speaking to any who might stop to listen, taking care not to incite public disorder in case the law came down on her.

  She’d display her Holloway arrow brooch and challenge anyone who jeered to go through what she had; she would even in part describe the ordeal; perhaps it was the greater wrong of being deserted by her child’s father which put that other evil in the shade. Victoria admired her courage in standing up to those who called her womanhood into question for making an exhibition of herself. Perhaps the heckling reminded her that she was not a weak woman but one who could face adversity with her head held high and the ability to meet insults and barracking with quiet fortitude and common sense.

  Victoria felt proud of her, and supportive, which was more than her parents were at present.

  Two days ago Eveline had gone across to their flat. ‘I really ought to see a bit more of them,’ she’d said. ‘We can’t go on being at loggerheads.’

  ‘You should tell them about your condition while you’re there,’ Victoria had told her. ‘If you don’t soon, they’ll start to notice and call you underhanded and that won’t ’elp matters.’ But Eveline shook her head.

  ‘A few more weeks, then I’ll tell them.’ Victoria understood, and felt sad. That took courage, even for Eveline.

  She came back an hour later, her expression bleak, and Victoria could see she was trying hard not to let her lips tremble. Victoria let her take her time, though she guessed what had happened.

  Slowly Eveline’s face relaxed but there was a stubborn dignity in it. ‘You were right, Gran, they had to know eventually. It was Mum. She made a remark that I was putting on weight around the middle. I don’t know how she could tell because I hardly show at all.’

  Victoria had gone to sit beside her as she sank down on the edge of the sofa. Her voice was low, controlled. ‘Then she said, “To look at you, some would say you was pregnant. Are you?” I felt really shaken, the way she said it. I just looked at her and said, “Yes.” I couldn’t help it, it just came out.’

  She saw her granddaughter’s lips tighten again. ‘Dad just exploded. He called me a dirty little bitch, wanted to know who the father was. It made me so angry because at one time he was so pleased I was seeing someone with a few quid to his name. But asking me that question – it was just like the way Larry accused me of it not being his. Gran, I’m not that sort!’

  Giving Victoria no time to comfort her, she had rushed on.

  ‘I never intended to speak of him ever again, but I really did love him and I really thought he wanted to marry me. I’ve been a fool. And there was Dad bellowing that he was going to sort him out and give him a thorough bashing and make him marry me. I told him not to be so silly. He’d already turned his back on me and I wouldn’t lower myself to marry him now if he was the last man on earth. That’s when I got up and left.’

  As Eveline’s lips began to tremble, Victoria had gathered her in her arms and held her tight, murmuring what words of comfort she could think of while the comforting embrace only served to send the girl into racking sobs. But at least it got it out of her. Since then no girl could have been more stoic and dry-eyed than her granddaughter.

  Yes, she was proud of her, and Dora and Len had every inch of Victoria’s contempt; when they were most needed, their hearts were not large enough to let them stand by their own child. And after what her husband Herbert had done for Len, handing the shop over to him all those years ago. Such gratitude! Not to return a little of the goodness that had been
done to them.

  At least May had come over to see how her sister was, as did her older sister Tilly with her husband and their new son and her brother Fred with his wife and little boy. To Victoria it was so good to have her home filled with those she loved on these odd occasions, just like in the old days, and in a way it was all thanks to Eveline.

  The small wedding reception was held in Eveline’s grandmother’s large front parlour. Connie could hardly express her gratitude for such kindness when her own people hadn’t even replied to her invitations. She hadn’t expected them to, and did her best to dismiss them from her mind. This was her day.

  She and George had escaped in a shower of confetti and good wishes, running hand in hand before a wintry wind that promised show before long. People they passed waved at them still in their wedding clothes, called out good wishes to them. Reaching the block in Corfield Street that held their new home, they ran hand in hand up the stone stairs to the fourth floor.

  Their flat overlooked an open yard of Allenbury’s chemical factory and beyond to a small park on the other side of Cambridge Heath Road, almost as if they were in the countryside. The lower flats didn’t have half this view. She’d fallen in love with it when George had first taken her to see it, knowing that each morning she’d see the sun rise when, as George’s wife, she got his breakfast before he went off to work. One day, she dreamed, he would be a bank manager and they’d have a grand house with grand views, but she’d always remember this lovely little letting with its own fine views to the east.

  But for now with December’s short afternoon left outside, they lay together in the double bed all snug and warm. Their wedding attire was now draped over chair backs and they wore nightclothes that smelled all new. This, their first time together, had begun in shyness as they hastily undressed with their backs to each other, but slowly the shyness was dissipating. George’s hands were smoothing away her tenseness, his hands warm on her body that she knew would soon lie naked beneath his love.

  Waiting, consumed with strange excitement, she thought momentarily of Eveline, alone in the bed they’d once shared, no man to comfort her, and carrying a child without a father’s name. Suddenly, despite her own good fortune, Connie found herself crying against George’s shoulder. ‘It’s that I’m so happy,’ she said and, as he responded, she forgot about Eveline.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A small crowd was gathering as, one after another, passers-by had their attention taken by the young lady on the wooden packing case that served as a rostrum. Encouraged, Eveline’s voice lifted higher in her public oration.

  Now and again she’d glance down at her companions. On one side of her stood Connie with a placard on which was painted the usual wording, Votes For Women. On her other side was Agatha Coleman, small and slender, with pencil and clipboard ready to take the name of any who had a fancy to express sympathy for the women’s political cause, who perhaps would even care to join them. This was not always very likely, but one had to try.

  Here with approval from the WSPU Headquarters this Saturday afternoon, they’d been told not to speak for long and risk being apprehended by the police for causing an obstruction. Their rivals, the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies, the NUWSS, were even more against any sort of militancy, deeming street-corner oratory to be counterproductive in inciting riots, maintaining that the suffrage problem should be settled by votes not violence. On this the two factions had reached a political impasse.

  Connie smiled back at Eveline from under her wide hat brim, its low crown a lot more modest than the millinery she once wore as the pampered daughter of a wealthy Harley Street specialist.

  She and George were faring well enough on his wage but needed to be careful with money all the same. He seemed happy for her to continue her suffragette activities, saying he was all for the women’s struggle to be given the vote, but Eveline suspected Connie was still trying to make up for not being with her fellow militants last August. Time had probably softened the edges but Eveline tried not to refer to it in her presence if she could help it.

  ‘Try not to go on too long,’ Connie warned, her eyes darting up and down the streets she could see from this corner. She shifted her placard to a more comfortable position. In case the police do turn up.’

  With this in mind, Eveline turned back to the gathered bystanders, most of them huddled in winter coats and scarves and brave enough to pause in a cold January wind that whipped around the skirts of her own coat. Black, its tent-like shape, rather like a duster coat, helped to hide her distended stomach and with only four months to the birth she gave thanks for winter and the need for extra clothing. Even so, people couldn’t help noticing her condition if they looked closely, just as one did now.

  She’d hardly opened her mouth to speak when the coarse male voice bellowed from the back of the crowd: ‘So where’s the ole man then? Can’t be much of a man, lettin’ you out ter spout the odds in your condition.’

  Eveline was back at him immediately. ‘My husband is dead, sir.’

  To her, Larry was dead; in fact using him felt very satisfying and gave her a sense of getting her own back in some small way.

  She became aware of the crowd beginning to shuffle and feared she could lose their attention, as nothing was more designed to make people ill at ease than wearing a sorrowing heart on one’s sleeve. If she wasn’t quick, they’d disperse, glad to be on their way, away from this disturbing declaration.

  A woman’s voice floated out from the centre of the throng towards the unfeeling voice. ‘Why don’t yer shut up, ’er carrying ’is baby, poor luv! Shut up an’ let ’er ’ave ’er say, ’fore we all freeze ter death, or else sod orf!’

  Attention turned back to her and Eveline let a smile touch her lips.

  ‘I carry my baby in his honour,’ she lied, raising her voice to express this pride. ‘As does any woman who knows the importance of her role as a wife, a mother, and the mainstay of her family. Why should that role not be recognised and similarly honoured by our government? It is as important to this great British Isle of ours as much as that of any male voter, which incidentally includes the drunkard, the ex-convict and the lunatic! Is every respectable woman then to be considered less than such as these? Can that be right?’

  She had come with a prepared speech but this was better. She almost wanted to thank the heckler as she felt many of this small audience starting to sympathise with her; a hush fell, a sort of silent intensity that seemed to move through them. She could feel them slowly coming over to her side, some of the men even, despite one or two stalking off shaking their heads at women who unsexed themselves and interfered in politics. But they didn’t matter. They were the sort who would never be convinced if the Lord Himself came down to argue the women’s cause.

  ‘Isn’t it only right,’ Eveline continued, turning her eyes from the departing men, ‘that such women be allowed to have a say in this nation’s future? Any decent woman carrying a child within her and yet struggling to bring up her family has a right to be included as an asset to this country’s great name. And the way this can happen is for every responsible woman who raises her family and often even runs a business to be given the franchise. Give women the vote and watch our nation grow stronger because of it!’

  There was no stir from the crowd, but it wasn’t a hostile silence, just people listening. Instinct told her this was the time to appeal to them.

  ‘Ladies, you who’ve kindly paused in your important chore, buying food for your families, you know what I’m talking about. And you, kind gentlemen, you who have spared a moment of your time to hear what I’m saying, you too must know our worth.’

  ‘I’d give my old woman a black eye if she started tryin’ ter tell me ’er worth!’ a wag called out, but to Eveline’s immense relief it brought no answering laughter.

  ‘Any of you,’ she hurried on, ‘who feel just a trace of sympathy for what we are trying to do, and that includes changing the law to recognise the right
of women not to be knocked about at the hands of their husbands, perhaps you’d add your name to the petition my colleague here has ready.’

  She indicated Agatha, standing beside her holding the sheaf of lined notepaper. ‘We would be most grateful. We will never stop fighting for the cause – for your cause – until the day we die or succeed. Sooner or later it will happen – women will be given the vote!’

  She let her speech die away and there came a thin, somewhat ragged clapping. It was risky to go on too long. The police might be kind and merely move them on their way or they could be awkward and take a delight in making an arrest and it wasn’t worth it. Eveline stepped down quickly from her rostrum, as one or two women had come up to put their names on the petition, and surprisingly a couple of men, the rest dispersing.

  As the three began gathering up their belongings, an elderly woman came over to Eveline, who at her approach stood up from manoeuvring the packing case so that two could take one end each when they left. The woman put a blue-veined hand on her arm, her voice hardly above a whisper.

  ‘Yer not married, are yer, my dear?’ As Eveline stared at her, half annoyed, half surprised, she went on, ‘I ’eard it in yer voice. Them what’s lorst an ’usband don’t ’ave that bitterness in their voices like the ones what’s been left in the lurch by a bloke. I could ’ear it in yer voice.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ Eveline snapped, but the woman didn’t flinch.

  ‘Them what’s widowed,’ she went on, ‘it’s the will of God I s’pose and there ain’t nothink yer can do abart it. But them what’s been done down by a bloke what’s gorn orf elsewhere ter get ’is bit of fun, them’s the ones what feel bitter against what’s bin done to ’em. Look luv, don’t you give ’im the satisfaction. You ’old yer ’ead high and Gawd bless yer. ’Ere, let me sign me name, though I dunno what much good it’ll do, an old gel like me, but it all ’elps, don’t it?’