‘Women,’ she says. As she speaks the word, she realises that that was why she got the feeling she did at the picket line when she pressed the shutter. It’s what she’s been feeling her way towards, at the paper, even though every time she tries something different she gets shot down. Her photos of women talking over a cup of tea at a coffee morning are not used. Her photographs of women in a line, one holding a wonky home-made cake on a plate, one with a teapot, are what Bob wants. Even though no one looks comfortable; even though there’s nothing in these line-ups that isn’t interchangeable with last week’s church fair, tomorrow’s get together at the Mothers’ Union. ‘I want to take photographs of women where they look like . . . themselves.’

Leonie doesn’t take her gaze from Vee’s face. Vee feels her intention forming as the words emerge. She has the feeling that she is waiting to see what she will say, as much as Leonie is. ‘I mean – women are always meant to look like something, aren’t they? Like their job. But most of them ain’t good jobs, real jobs, like being a carpenter or a lawyer or something. So photos are usually being somebody’s wife, or with something they’ve baked, and even if they’re something like – like a singer, like Dusty Springfield, they still have to look – their looks still matter more than they would if they were a bloke. I mean, look at Pink Floyd. Women couldn’t get away with that.’

Leonie nods. ‘And how does all that fit with getting married?’

‘I don’t know.’ The cider is going down quickly. ‘Barry wouldn’t mind. And anyway, why shouldn’t I get married if I want to? What else are women supposed to do?’

Leonie lights her roll-up. ‘Well, if they’ve got the guts, they could follow their heart. They could take their profession seriously. They could build a career. If they had a vision. And they recognised that the world was about to start taking women seriously. In all respects.’

Vee sits up straighter at the thought of herself as being someone with a vision. The room rocks. ‘Is that really going to happen, though?’

‘Well,’ Leonie says, ‘we’ve got Barbara Castle in our corner. That’s one woman in the Cabinet. It’s a drag that there’s only one, but it’s a start.’

‘There are loads of MPs this time, though.’ Vee’s father had commented on it, after the 1966 election, with something like wonder.

‘Twenty out of six hundred plus,’ Leonie says, ‘that’s not what I’d call representative.’

‘No.’ Vee should have thought of that.