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
‘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
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