Lady Russell paused. She was well aware that she held her audience in the palm of her dainty hand and a slight smile touched her lips. ‘It is an impossible task to crush or delay the march of women towards their rightful heritage of political liberty and social and industrial freedom. One day, perhaps not for some decades it is true, but one day a woman Prime Minister will rule this great country of ours and a woman Home Secretary will sit in office. Women will take their rightful place in the medical profession, in law, in business and in scientific research.’

As resounding cheers broke forth, the wife of the maligned Ned turned and shook her head at her friend. ‘Never in a month of Sundays,’ she scoffed. ‘I’d love to see it, mind, but a woman Prime Minister? As much chance of that as hell freezing over.’

It did seem a pipedream. Ruby’s gaze swept over the group on the bandstand and then took in the bright hopeful faces all around her. But then if you didn’t believe you could make your dreams come true, what was the point in anything? Why not a woman Prime Minister and Home Secretary? Why not women rising up in the professions Lady Russell had mentioned? The only thing that would prevent it was women themselves and if this gathering was anything to go by, there were plenty who believed it could happen in spite of the woman in front of her. Change was in the air; it was almost tangible, and it was exciting.

Once the noise had died down, Lady Russell’s piercing eyes surveyed her audience. ‘My great heroine, Emmeline Pankhurst, was fortunate enough to have been brought up by parents who took an active part in the great struggle for human freedom in many areas. From a young child she understood the meaning of words like slavery and emancipation. At a time when, to their shame, propertied classes in England were largely pro-slavery, her family and the circle of friends they associated with were opposed to such wickedness. Her father, Robert Goulden, was a most ardent abolitionist, and her mother took an active part in raising money for newly emancipated slaves in the United States.’

What a different childhood to her own. Ruby didn’t know if she envied Emmeline Pankhurst or pitied her. Her own home had been a place where her mam cooked and cleaned and looked after them all, including her da, and the only time any conversation had been faintly political was when her da was reading the paper and commented about something or other like ex-servicemen reduced to a life of street hawking by the lack of jobs after the war. Before he had come home from France, her mam had never even bought a paper. Her childhood had been carefree on the whole, happy.