A Woman's Place

by Maggie Ford

‘No.’

  ‘I’ll probably see you on Saturday at your meeting, then we can talk.’

  ‘All right.’

  She felt thwarted, pushed away. She didn’t know what she’d expected but this stiff reception was odd. She might not see him as regularly as she would wish, but when she did, he was always all over her. This was quite different.

  ‘I’m sorry, Eveline, I really can’t …’

  Someone was coming down the stairs, unseen as yet, but the tread was light and quick. A young, feminine voice called, ‘Who is it, darling?’

  He turned as if stung. ‘Go back up! I’ll be there in a minute!’

  Instinctively glancing upward, for a fraction of a second Eveline glimpsed just a flutter of long fair hair falling over part of a slender, bare arm and shoulder before their owner hastily withdrew. Not even her face could be seen.

  Larry turned back to her with a ready grin. ‘My cousin,’ he said, then became urgent. ‘Look, you must go.’ He leaned quickly towards her, planting a light kiss on her cheek. ‘I’ll try and see you on Saturday.’

  Before she could reply, she was ushered out of the door, having it closed on her.

  For a moment she stood there, still with the sensation of those fleeting lips on her cheek. Her heart seemed to have forgotten to beat, making her feel faintly sick. His cousin. The one he introduced her to did have fair hair but not as fair as that she had glimpsed. It could have been another cousin, but that word, darling, purred this early in the morning, the slender arm, the naked shoulder not even displaying a wrap, and the long flowing hair, suggested a quite different explanation.

  Slowly she turned and moved off, her thoughts in turmoil with no real answer, or rather, not one she could bring herself to face.

  Last night, worn out by the ordeal of prison, she had slept like a top. Tonight she lay awake into the small hours, sick of heart, one minute telling herself she was being silly reading something sinister into what might have been totally innocent, the next seeing the signs she did not want to acknowledge.

  Her pillow wet, she finally fell into a fitful sleep in which she was walking from the prison to warm sunshine and a group of women waiting to welcome her. But among them she could see her parents, their faces stern and unyielding. A rubber tube was sliding into her mouth even though she clenched her teeth, a tube so immense that her mouth became a cavern, then suddenly so narrow as to become an edge, an immeasurably thin, hard edge that seemed to be cutting right through her cheeks. Then abruptly it grew huge again, her mouth opening wider, wider. She could hear Larry’s voice calling, ‘Ev – wake up! Wake up!’ and felt long fair hair waving in her face.

  Her eyelids shot open. Gran was standing over her, one hand holding her nightdress tightly to her throat as she shook Eveline’s shoulder with the other. ‘Girl, you’re ’aving a bad dream. I ’eard you call out.’

  The reality of the dream had already fled yet she knew that for years to come this same nightmare would be waiting in the wings of the night’s unguarded small hours; what had been done to her in prison wouldn’t leave her so easily. This she knew as she gazed up at her grandmother.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said and saw the woman smile understandingly.

  Her parents’ attitude hadn’t changed. These past two weeks Eveline had done her best to bury the hatchet but though some of the initial animosity had faded, Dad was still ignoring her, Mum still maintaining it was better to keep out of his way ‘You’ll just have to stay ’ere,’ her grandmother said.

  Unlike the smaller flats hers at the end of the block had two bedrooms as well as parlour and kitchen. Grandad, when he’d had the shop, let the rooms above it and his family lived here opposite. When he died, Gran had refused a smaller letting, and was able to continue with the larger rent. ‘Never could abide being cramped up,’ she said, despite having one bedroom sitting empty.

  Eveline was here now, with her clothes and her trinkets – an apt enough announcement to her parents that as long as Gran didn’t mind this was where she would be staying for the foreseeable future. But secretly she missed her family, the hubbub, sharing a bed with her sister May, their sleepy chats, exchanging the day’s events. Even after two weeks it still felt strange sleeping alone. The unused bedroom smelled damp and, even with a September sun streaming in, felt cold.

  She tried to carry on as normal, going to her Saturday meetings where she was now looked up to by newer recruits since her imprisonment. Last week she had even been asked to give a small talk on her views as a first-time prisoner – a bit nerve-racking but something to be proud of.

  One thing spoiling it was Connie’s absence these last two meetings. Eveline hoped she hadn’t given up, after being shown up before the others in court by her father paying her fine. She had written to Connie but had had no response.

  Gran said, ‘She needs to feel someone’s on her side. She’d probably like to go but you don’t know what her people ’ave said to her to stop her. Keep writing. She’d like to know she’s still got a friend she can turn to.’

  It was nice having Gran to talk to. She would listen and advise where Mum would shrug things off, being too busy looking after her family and the shop. But it was a relief to have the suffragette thing out in the open at last, even though she’d been given the sack for being absent while in prison along with having a police record now, another weight for her father’s fallen pride to bear.

  She’d found another job, and just as well – her old office manager, Mr Prentice, had started to become a little too handy with his paws, laying them on her shoulders when leaning over to check her figures, letting them linger despite her trying to shrug them off, telling her she was as pretty as she was intelligent and how seldom the two went together, saying he’d help her get promotion – if she was interested, and if she was a good girl … the rest left unsaid, he would allow himself a meaningful tilt of his balding head. She knew what he was after and being sacked had got her away from him before it led to a nasty situation.

  She was still doing office work; it was not so grand as a factory office, just a back room in a small clothing factory. Here she worked as the figures clerk with a girl who typed all the letters. The money wasn’t good but Gran took less towards her keep than Mum had. Of course Gran had only herself whereas Mum had a family.

  She was far more approachable than Mum, and Eveline felt able to open her heart to her on things, telling her all about the forced feeding, at which she saw the downy face tighten. She could never have told Mum about it and certainly never have confided in her things of a more personal nature, such as what was vaguely perplexing her this evening.

  Sitting in the parlour, Gran knitting, she was reading a library book, or at least trying to. Her mind kept flitting to Larry who despite his promise had not been in touch with her. Each time she thought of him she felt angry, hurt, let down, yet still she hoped and grew angry with herself for hoping. But how had he laid aside what had gone on between them? She tried hard to convince herself that he must still love her, though she’d never go there uninvited ever again. But her heart was telling her it was all over and her heart was breaking.

  At the library earlier, she had bumped into Bert Adams, and although he was good-looking in a robust sort of way, she again upset herself by instantly comparing him with Larry: the rough accent, the stall-bought suit against Larry’s smart, expensive clothes and sophisticated, elegant manner. But it wasn’t about Bert Adams or Larry that she needed her grandmother’s advice but something more personal which was baffling her. She kept telling herself it could be quite trivial and not that she must be ill. Gran would know.

  Her grandmother sighed and folding her knitting began putting it in its cloth bag, announcing it was time they both went off to seek their beauty sleep. Eveline quickly closed her book. ‘Gran, can I ask you something?’

  ‘Anything, love.’

  ‘It’s about me. I’m not sure but I think I could be ill or something.’

  Quickly she explain
ed what she would never have been able to speak to her mother about. Gran’s response was immediate and direct.

  ‘Lots of young girls don’t see their monthlies regular for the first few years. Some never do all their lives.’

  ‘But mine’s always been as regular as clockwork. It started when I was fourteen. That was four years ago and it’s always happened practically to the day. This should have happened four days ago, but it hasn’t and I’m worried I might be ill.’

  ‘Of course there can be that one time,’ Gran said. Eveline saw her looking at her oddly. She caught a hardly discernible shake of the head as though Gran had been thinking of something but had immediately brushed the thought away.

  ‘It’s probably shock from what you went through in that prison,’ she went on. ‘You’ll likely see by tomorrow or the next day, I shouldn’t wonder. A week’s delay now and then ain’t overlong. Unless …’ There came a small hesitation and that earlier look again touched her face. ‘You don’t seem to see much of that young man you was going out with. It wouldn’t be you and … No.’ She recovered with a shake of her head. ‘No, it’s probably the reaction from being in that prison place.’

  But Eveline was ahead of her. Colouring, she turning quickly away, hoping the blush hadn’t been noticed. If it had, Gran gave no sign as Eveline leapt up, dropping her book down on the chair seat, her head lowered as if making sure it was properly closed.

  ‘I’d better be off to bed then,’ she said brightly, pausing just long enough to plant a brief goodnight peck on her grandmother’s cheek.

  Chapter Eleven

  A letter finally arrived from Connie just as Eveline was about to leave for her Saturday afternoon meeting at George Street. It had been sent early that morning, the eleventh of September; with three or four posts daily, mail was guaranteed to reach its destination by lunchtime. Though not as fast, the letter was so short as to be as brief as any telegram.

  Sorry not to have replied before, but a lot has happened. I will see you at this afternoon’s meeting. Connie.

  This formal communication did not even respond to her own news that she was now living with Gran, although the letter had come to Gran’s address rather than her parents’, so Connie must have taken note of what she’d written.

  Intrigued and concerned, Eveline arrived at the meeting ahead of most of the women. She watched one after the other hurry in from the dreary afternoon, shaking their brollies before entering and going downstairs to the cloakroom to take off their wet outdoor things, but could see no sign of Connie.

  She grew ever more anxious, having been one of the first to go down to the cloakroom, hardly lingering to hang up her coat, stack her brolly in the umbrella stand and adjust her hat before coming up to begin her wait; she couldn’t have missed her.

  She’d peeped into the meeting room earlier. Now it was filling rapidly, the chatter beginning to swell. She turned away, disappointed, to join the others, giving the main door one last glance. Connie was coming slowly and wearily up the short flight of steps from the street, struggling with an umbrella while hanging on to a large and cumbersome travelling bag. Eveline was out of the door and taking hold of the receptacle.

  ‘Connie, what are you doing?’ she burst out. ‘I’ve really missed you. Where have you been?’

  Connie gave her a wan smile, glad to be relieved of the heavy bag. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ she said as they came into the dry.

  ‘Take off your coat,’ Eveline ordered with a need to be in charge with Connie looking so sorrowful and worn out. ‘I’ll pop it down to the cloakroom with your umbrella and your bag.’ She tested its weight. ‘My goodness, it’s heavy. You go on in.’

  Sudden panic spread across Connie’s face. ‘No, I’ll wait here for you.’

  ‘We’re late.’ She made for the narrow spiral staircase. ‘See if you can find chairs together for us. The place won’t be full, a wet afternoon like this.’

  ‘I can’t. I – I don’t want to be left in there on my own.’

  Pausing to look at her, Eveline instantly knew why. In there could be some of those who had been in court and who’d witnessed her walking away with a father having arranged to pay her fine, while they, electing not to be defeated, had gone to prison. Even though they understood that one might flout the cold authority of the law but not so easily the well-meaning authority of an overprotective parent, Connie could not face them alone.

  ‘Stay there,’ Eveline said briskly. ‘I won’t be two ticks.’

  It was just as well Connie did wait. Instead of the chairs being in rows ready for a speaker so that Connie would have only a view of the backs of those in front of her, they’d been arranged in small circles and she, with shame still etched on her face, would have been in full sight of others. This afternoon, as often happened, they were helping to make small banners – normally the sort of afternoon they both loved, doing something practical for the cause, everyone chatting as they sewed or embroidered, exchanging news and views. Eveline always felt a certain pride, making something with her own hands, but this afternoon Connie was her main concern.

  Something serious must have happened to keep her away from what she so loved, but she hadn’t reckoned on the shock of what Connie had to tell her after they’d come away from the meeting.

  As they went to get tea and cake, supplied by volunteers, she asked Connie what the trouble was. Connie looked quickly around her at those clustering by the refreshment table.

  ‘Not here.’

  ‘Why not? What happened?’

  Connie’s voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘Can we can go somewhere for a cup of tea? Somewhere we can talk in private? It’s just that I’m not going back home. I need to find a hotel for the time being.’

  In a nearby cafe she told Eveline how her father had been surprisingly more lenient than she’d expected in regard to her suffragette interests, but had nevertheless advised her not to attend any more meetings, which she had felt obliged to honour for the time being, hoping to placate him for a while. But then something came to his notice that to him was far worse than a daughter associating with what he termed demented females.

  Her voice threatening to let her down, Connie didn’t go into too much detail about her father’s wrath but said enough to reveal someone had informed him that she had been seen on the arm of a young man. The young man was, of course, George Towers. The informant, it seemed, couldn’t wait to tell her parents and by the power of his formidable presence, her father had wormed the truth from her, forbidding her to see George Towers ever again.

  ‘But I couldn’t do that,’ she whispered. ‘I’m far too in love with George. I can’t …’ This time she broke down completely and had to stop for quite a while to gain control of her emotions. When she began again, her voice had steadied.

  ‘I think I’ve told you that George is only a bank clerk. He lives in a rented house with his mother. She’s widowed. She is quite a sick woman.’

  Connie was stirring her tea, slowly, distractedly, the spoon moving round and round, its metallic clinking against the cup rim blending with all the other sounds of afternoon tea in this cosy little place. So far she’d not taken a single sip.

  ‘He looks after her, so we can’t go out very much. We can only meet on Saturday evenings and sometimes Sunday afternoons, and go for small walks. So it is quite ironic we should have been seen together.’ She set down the spoon down in the saucer only to pick it up moments later to resume stirring.

  ‘Naturally, knowing my father,’ she went on, bitterly sarcastic, ‘he set about making enquiries straight away – who George Towers was, where did his people stand in society, did he have a tidy inheritance, certainly enough to support a wife in the style to which she was accustomed, or better, that being in my father’s book an income of at least nine or ten thousand a year?’

  In a monotone she related that when he’d found George to be a mere bank clerk with no real prospects at all, he had stamped down on her, saying she had allowed hers
elf to be blinded by some young and scheming leech looking only to feather his nest and had allowed herself to sink to the level of a common hussy whose head could be turned by the first attractive face to come her way, with not the slightest consideration for the duty a young woman of her upbringing owed her family. This meant to marry well, become wife to a person of high standing, thus furthering her family’s status in society. That was her role as a daughter. It was what her education had been about. Why else educate a woman if not to groom her for marriage to the right man?

  She quoted this last part with an acrimony that took away Eveline’s breath, her eyes wide and blazing as Eveline had never seen them before, her pretty face contorted with rage and cynicism.

  ‘People like you think women like me sleep on beds of roses. But we are treated as chattels, property, expected to be genteel and obedient. You have more freedom than I. It’s different for my sister – she is the obedient sort. She cannot wait to find a wealthy husband.’

  She was calming a little. ‘I told him George wasn’t a schemer. I said he was kind and honest and hardworking, but it made no impression at all. He refused to listen. In truth I didn’t expect him to, which is why I hid it from him all this time. But George and I love each other. I could never give him up!’

  She choked back a hiccuping sob, her anger turning to utter dejection.

  Eveline sat in silence watching the tears slide slowly down Connie’s cheeks as she spoke of her mother taking her father’s side against her, telling her to give up her foolish notion, saying she had been given endless opportunities to find a husband of good standing and secure means yet had chosen to insult them by settling on a nobody and that she must be quite insane.

  ‘I am insane,’ Connie said vehemently. ‘Insanely in love. I told them I would never give George up. They were incensed. Finally my father said that if I persisted with my foolishness, he’d have nothing more to do with me and it would be best I leave. So I did. I shall never go back. Nor will I be allowed to unless I come to my senses, as my father so aptly put it.’