‘Thanks,’ Vee says. She must be a feminist, then. Although at work the word feminist is usually followed by ‘ball-breaker’. This might not go down well with Barry. She finishes her pint. He wouldn’t like that either.

Leonie smiles a sideways smile, something that would look like flirting on a man, and asks, ‘How about we get some food, soak this lot up a bit, and then you take my photo? That would be groovy.’

‘Groovy,’ Vee repeats. She’s never heard anyone say that in real life before, only on the TV. Being with Leonie feels like being at the heart of something.

*

As she drives home, Vee thinks back to when she and Barry got engaged. They’d been boyfriend and girlfriend for four years, since they were fifteen, and he is good and kind, and they have a laugh. It was the logical next step, he said, and she agreed. The night they talked about money and planned for the future is nearly six months ago now but she’s never forgotten how she felt. She’d slapped his hand away when it started to slide up her thigh, because she was tired, and it felt too much like he wanted a reward for telling her what his wages were. And after he’d gone she’d worked out what she might earn, before she had kids, what she could earn afterwards, if she went back to work part-time. And when she’d seen the difference between what she would be likely to achieve, and what Barry could take for granted as an estate agent, even without commission, she’d felt stupid for thinking of herself as a career woman. It had seemed that there was no such thing.

When she gets back, Barry is at the house. She’d forgotten they were supposed to be going to the pictures. ‘Hello, love,’ she says, and he looks at his watch before kissing her on her cheek. He’s always prompt, is Barry. Reliable. That’s one of the things Vee and Stanley like about him. He can be funny, too, and kind. ‘You smell like a brewery. What have you been doing?’

‘Really?’ Stanley looks concerned. ‘You know it’s not a good idea to drink if you’re driving, treasure. And now they’ve got breathalysers.’

‘I’m not drunk. I had a drink at lunchtime, that’s all. Just . . .’ Vee thinks back, and subtracts the last round for the sake of peace, ‘a sweet martini and a pint of cider.’

‘A pint?’ Ah, of course – these two won’t be fans of women drinking pints.

Well, may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. ‘Yeah. With some lesbians I met. Now come on, we don’t want to be late for the film.’

July 1968

July 1968

This Month magazine

Leonie Barratt: Letters from a Feminist

Our monthly column from the front line of the Battle of the Sexes

Dear John,