by Maggie Ford
Stemming her excitement, she entered the library leaving the last glimmer of daylight still glowing beyond the rooftops. She loved reading, romantic novelettes with amorous young females melting into the arms of smouldering men, usually against the wishes of their fathers and, after a stormy passage, eloping with their handsome and virile lovers to everlasting happiness, love conquering all. But she’d been unable to concentrate on this present book for thinking of the pageant and next Saturday’s meeting.
Handing the book in at the desk, she made her way over to the shelf that held romantic fiction. Scrutinising the rows of well-thumbed books that always smelled of mustiness and other people’s homes, she skimmed over the titles. A fast reader, she’d read most of them. Authors never wrote quickly enough for her. What did they do all day when she could get through so many even with the interruptions from a family of eight and Mum wanting chores to be done?
The library was a haven where a person could be left alone to browse in peace and not have Mum crying out, ‘Wasting time again with yer nose in a book the moment something wants doing round ’ere.’
Mum blamed her for being lazy while her sister May made six of her because she always found some excuse to get out of doing something.
‘As soon as there’s washing-up ter be done, it always seems you’ve got something else ter do, disappearing inter yer room. I know what yer up to there – reading, that’s what, leaving yer sister ter do all the work.’
What was the point of arguing except to say sorry and promise to pull her weight in the house? But with Mum accusing her of laziness should she pick up a book during any spare moment at home, leaving her little time for reading, where else could she escape to?
There wasn’t much here in the library this evening to choose from. Selecting a book at random, she was startled by a voice directly behind her.
‘’Ello there!’
She swung round to see Bert Adams, his broad, good-looking face creased in a wide smile.
‘Ooh, you made me jump!’ she burst out.
He didn’t apologise.
‘I see yer come in. I come ’ere a lot meself. I seen you in ’ere quite a few times. I was over by the reference books.’
He laughed as she wrinkled her nose.
‘I’m ’oping ter be a surveyor one day, that’s what I’m studying this sort of stuff for.’
He held out the tome for her to see. The black cover looked horribly uninteresting and as he thumbed through it for her benefit every page showed endless dull prints and diagrams.
‘Weren’t no chance of study at school,’ he went on. ‘’Ad ter leave before I was due, ’cos we lorst me dad. Me mum needed me ter bring in a bit of money ter keep us – me, me bruvver and ’er. He’s around eighteen months younger than me. He works too now, so it ain’t too bad. We lorst me two sisters when they was kids. I’m a butcher’s lad at the moment, the pork butcher’s in Bethnal Green Road on the corner of Valance Road. I get tips fer delivering stuff so I can save up fer night school fees, ’cos I want ter get on.’
This was the first time he had ever spoken to her and yet it was as if he’d known her for years, hardly coming up for breath, while she stood, book in hand, smiling politely with no real interest in furthering the conversation even if she’d been given an opportunity.
He was, as her friend had said, quite handsome in that rugged way that could be attractive to girls. He wasn’t much taller than her but she would say he was so well-muscled as to be thickset. The grin that wrinkled his face seemed to light up his whole features.
‘Been a butcher’s boy ever since I left school,’ he went on. ‘Ain’t no future in it, but then I’m studying, ain’t I? Six years since I left school. Ain’t even been put be’ind the counter yet. He’s got a son what does that and there ain’t room fer the likes of me. So I still pedals me bike and do the deliveries. But one day, yer won’t see me rear fer dust. Can’t afford no college, so I’m studying off me own bat.’
She’d never seen such determination in a person’s eyes. Admiration flowed through her. ‘I hope you get what you want,’ she ventured.
‘I ’ope so too. I’ve seen you in Bethnal Green Road sometimes.’
Yes, she’d seen him too, glimpsed him in passing when she and Ada or Daisy joined in the evening parade of young hopefuls up and down the main road eyeing the lads similarly parading in twos, threes and fours. Many a couple would team up from these patrols. Daisy had, but only casually as yet. Whether it would develop into something more permanent was another matter. Eveline had never seen any she fancied so far, being a bit too particular. But Daisy going off had left a hole, although her interest in suffragettes had helped to fill it.
‘By the way, I’m Bert Adams, if yer don’t know,’ he supplied.
‘Yes, I do know,’ she said.
‘And you’re Ev Fenton.’
‘Eveline,’ she corrected. She’d always hated hearing it shortened.
He beamed, unperturbed. ‘Eveline, sorry. Your dad’s got that grocer shop in Three Colts Lane. Though I ain’t never seen you in there.’
‘I don’t work there,’ she explained. ‘Only him and my mother, and my sister sometimes. They don’t need any more behind the counter. I work at the biscuit factory.’ Why was she telling him all this? ‘In the office,’ she added quickly in case he thought her a lowly factory worker.
She had run out of words and now noticed a small pimple on one cheek well on its way to erupting. In spite of him being quite good-looking, some of her interest faded. Yet he was nice – and polite, unusual in lads from around these parts. She came to herself with a start.
‘Well, I must be off. It was nice talking to you but I’ve got my book and I need to get home before it gets too dark.’
‘I could walk yer.’
‘No.’ She moved away. ‘It’s all right. You go on with your studying.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes, perfectly.’
‘I’ll see you in ’ere some other time then.’
‘Yes, some other time.’
Hurrying off, she wondered why she’d said that. An open invitation if ever there was one. Now she’d have to avoid him. Fine to fancy someone’s looks from a distance, but he had a pimple. The young man she’d seen at the suffragette meeting hadn’t got pimples.
For Connie it had been a week she would never forget. Seven days starting with argument and threats and ending with brooding silences, her mother in despair, her father refusing to speak to her.
Trying to plead her case had fallen on deaf ears until finally she had retreated to her room where she had remained for the rest of the week, not coming down to breakfast or lunch though good manners demanded she appear at dinner. This though was eaten in deeper silence than usual; poor Verity, her younger sister, visibly ill at ease while her mother toyed with the food on her plate, announcing herself too devastated to eat, her father gazing straight ahead as he ate his meal at an agonising, steady pace, finally rising from the table to stalk from the room without a word to anyone.
At night, determined not to relent, she would lie awake hearing Verity going off to her room, her parents to theirs, Agnes raking out the fires downstairs, Bentick bolting the front door and locking windows, the silence that followed leaving her to continue an imaginary argument with absent parents, her head filled by their counter-arguments, none of it solving anything.
Now and again Verity would steal into her bedroom to give her support, and on Friday had burst out impulsively: ‘I think Simon Whitemore a thorough bore. I wouldn’t want him for a husband, well connected or not.’
‘I wouldn’t say he is that bad,’ Connie said, defending the man in his absence. ‘He’s a good person, but I don’t love him enough to marry him.’
Verity had taken the mild reprimand calmly to gaze at her sister in awe. ‘Father is livid. I wish I had your courage to stand up to him.’
Connie had smiled at that. When something was important enough to affect a person’s en
tire future, some sort of stand had to be made exactly as many a woman was doing for the suffragette cause.
As Verity left, Connie’s thoughts turned to those women, helping her to take her mind off her own troubles. Like Eveline Fenton she too had been only mildly interested at first but what they stood for had quickly taken over. Of course her father would eventually find out and it wouldn’t merely be a matter of refusing a suitor; after all, another could easily be found for his beautiful daughter. Belief in a strong cause wasn’t so easily put aside and she had a horrible premonition that one day it would reap dire consequences.
Now it was Saturday. She’d be going to her suffragette meeting. She awoke strangely lighter of heart and even came down to breakfast to suffer her father’s steely disregard. After lunch, dressed for town, as she adjusted her oversized hat in the hall’s ornate mirror while little Agnes stood with coat and gloves, her father’s study door opened. Next minute he was in the hall, his face with its trim beard reflected behind her in the mirror.
‘Where are you going, Constance?’ It was the first time he’d spoken to her directly in days. She turned to face him.
‘I am meeting my school friend, the girl I saw last week.’
‘I’m afraid you do not leave this house, Constance, until you come to your senses,’ he said as if addressing a child. The words would have been laughable had it not been so serious. ‘You may send your friend a telegram informing her that you will not be meeting her.’
‘I don’t know her address,’ Connie said, the lie stiff on her lips.
‘Nevertheless …’
Sudden anger flooded over her. ‘You can’t stop me, Father!’
For a moment he looked stunned that she could speak to him in this manner but swiftly regained his composure.
‘Leave this house, Constance, and you can take my word that this door will not be opened to you on your return.’
Hardly able to believe her courage, Connie glared back at him. ‘Then so be it!’
He seemed to mellow a little. ‘This friend, is it a man?’ he asked, his tone slow and soft. Now she could at least tell a partial truth.
‘No, Father. My friend’s name is Eveline and we have been meeting each Saturday to have lunch together.’
There she left it. Best not to say more before it became too involved for her good. He must never know that this wasn’t an old school chum but a fellow suffragette. She continued to stare him out while Agnes, holding her coat and gloves, gazed uncertainly from one to another.
For a moment longer he returned her steady gaze then, turning on his heel, refusing to be drawn into an undignified squabble in front of a member of his staff, strode back to his study, the door closing softly. But she knew there’d follow weeks of uncomfortable silence and little she could do about it.
This Saturday afternoon saw a larger than usual group attending at George Street, all talking about the preparations for the Tuesday evening pageant.
Eveline had difficulty finding any vacant pegs for her coat in the cloakroom with so many hanging there. She kept her hat on as quite a few did, more for convenience with all that removing and reinserting of hatpins, large brims with their wealth of trimming knocking together as ladies gossiped.
There were two men present too. They stood out like sore thumbs amid the squash of females. The middle-aged one did appear interested, unlike the second, a much younger man looking utterly bored. Eveline recognised him instantly as the young man she’d seen at that first meeting. She saw too that the young woman he’d been with then was with him again.
It was silly, the dismay that went through her on seeing the woman – no doubt a steady lady friend, who had probably dragged him along with her judging by his reluctant expression. But even seeing him here, from then on Eveline found herself unable to concentrate on anything else.
‘Are you all right?’ Connie asked as she came to sit beside her.
She forced a smile. ‘I’m fine,’ she said a little too exuberantly, then sobered. ‘You see that young man in the corner talking to that woman?’ She waited for Connie to follow her discreetly directed gaze. ‘He’s the one who kept staring at me at the Ambrose Hall meeting.’
Connie was looking a little bemused and she realised that she hadn’t so far mentioned him to her. She now needed to play it down. ‘I expect he was probably looking at someone else but I wonder what he’s doing here?’
‘I suppose the same as we all are,’ Connie said without too much interest. ‘There are plenty of men sympathetic to our cause, thank the Lord.’
The lady chairman, Mrs Edith Duffield, was commanding attention from the small dais, her voice raised above the general chatter.
‘Thank you! Thank you, everyone!’
Hush descended. The ladies standing about talking hurried to their own seats. The young man leaned back in his. The woman with him was sitting much too close to him and again Eveline experienced that deep sense of dejection.
‘It is so very pleasing,’ Mrs Duffield was saying, ‘to see so many of you here. But of course it was expected, being such an important week in our calendar. I refer to the International Woman Suffrage Alliance holding its Quinquennial Congress in London and in the very same week the Pageant of Women’s Trades and Professions. Let me tell you a little about that.’
She gazed around at fifty or more pairs of attentive eyes, their owners having squashed into a room designed to hold hardly more than forty, and it included a table for committee officers and speaker.
‘There will be a good thousand of us from ninety different occupations gathered under the trees in Eaton Square. The procession as you know will be lit by lanterns as we move off down Sloane Street skirting Hyde Park and terminating at the Albert Hall. It will be a sight to behold.’
‘We will make such a show,’ cried one member, totally carried away. ‘We’ll be a blaze of light with torches and lanterns and emblems, an endless column of light,’ to which everyone agreed with enthusiasm.
The talk turned to the procession itself, Eveline finally dragging her gaze away from the back of her quarry’s head as their chair lady continued.
‘The procession is to proceed in five separate blocks, according to trade and profession. Each block will have a number. Block One will be for farmers, market gardeners and all others in that field. It will also include housewives, housekeepers, and trades such as sweet and jam makers, cigar and cigarette makers, and so on. I have lists of every trade here so that those of you who do plan to join us can come and take one to find out where you will be.’
‘I expect I’ll be in Block Four,’ Eveline said to Connie as they went up for their list. ‘I am more or less an office worker.’
It was a good one to be in, among the secretaries, shorthand typists, indexers and printers, also including writers and journalists, actresses and singers and musicians. She, a mere calculating machine operator, felt quite elevated to be among such distinguished people.
‘I’m not sure where I shall be,’ Connie said somewhat glumly. ‘I don’t have a trade and I don’t work. I feel a little left out. I shan’t be wanted.’
Eveline looked at her in surprised sympathy. Only a few weeks ago it had been she who’d felt like that, a stranger glad to be taken under someone’s wing, that someone being Connie, for which she had felt eternally grateful. Now here was Connie admitting to feeling left out.
‘Of course you’ll be wanted. There must be something you do. Maybe you help with some charity work or other?’
Connie shook her head. ‘My mother does. She has lots of charities.’
‘Couldn’t you choose one of them and say you do those things too?’
Again Connie shook her head. ‘I don’t think this includes charity work.’
‘Well, what do you do for a pastime?’ Eveline urged helpfully.
Connie pursed her lips. ‘I like to paint. I paint landscapes and …’
‘Well there you are then!’ Eveline felt suddenly in control. ‘You could
be in Block Two with the painters and sculptors and fashion designers and all those sort.’
Block Two would also have house decorators, florists, dressmakers, milliners, pottery painters, especially when Connie divulged that she had also turned her hand at a little pottery at a class she went to.
‘There you are then,’ Eveline said again. ‘The other two blocks don’t concern us – industrial workers and the nursing professions. I’d like to have an emblem of some sort like what’s been described but not the secretary bird they suggested because I’m not really a secretary. I suppose I could draw a calculator machine but I’m not very good at drawing.’
‘I’ll design one for you,’ Connie said, suddenly full of enthusiasm. ‘I could paint a tape of calculations in red coming out of it. I’ll make something for myself too – an artist’s pallet and brush.’
As the meeting began to break up with everyone chattering at once, Eveline regarded her with envy. ‘I wish I was as clever as you,’ she said as they moved over to the refreshment table with the rest for more tea and cake to send them on their way. ‘And I wish I had your freedom too.’
‘Freedom!’ The word burst from Connie’s lips. ‘If only you knew. What freedom I have is won at high cost.’
In short bursts she related the way she had defied her father over the man he had set his mind on her marrying.
‘Why should I marry someone I don’t really love, just to please him?’ she went on vehemently. ‘Simon and I got on to a certain extent but he was too much like my father, too full of his own importance for me to want to settle down as his wife.’
Words tumbled out, how she had spoken her mind before both sets of parents, Simon shocked, stunned rather than devastated, everyone shocked; the week of remonstration that followed. Connie lifted her chin defiantly.
‘I’ve rather burned my bridges in that direction. It’s only a matter of time before I burn a few more by telling my father that I’m a suffragette. He utterly disagrees with women having independence. I’m sure it stems from a fear of us becoming too independent, able to do without them, especially men such as he of high standing. He’s a doctor, you know. But I don’t care if he does throw me out of the house; I am determined nothing is going to stop me continuing to be a suffragette.’
