Vee has photographed her father several times, usually when she’s trying out a new piece of kit, and images of him are always compelling: there’s something about the proportion of his face, the straightness of his brow, the angle that his nose makes to it. His earlobes are long and his left eyelid droops a little more than the right. And now he looks sad, weighed down by her decision, and she wants to do three things: photograph him like this, tell him that it doesn’t matter, just to see him smile – and explain. She takes the hardest option. ‘It’s nothing to do with you, Dad. I just want to be independent. And I want to have a career. London’s the best place.’

He shakes his head. ‘You’ve changed, treasure. I don’t know what to make of you.’

She puts her hand over his. She is so small, in comparison; she knows this is what he is seeing too. ‘I’m still me, Dad. I’m just finding my way. Changing with the world. Isn’t that what happens? Did Gran and Gramps never say they couldn’t understand you?’

A smile; a chink.

‘It’s all different now. Women have more options. They don’t have to get married and have babies anymore. There’s the Pill. They can make choices.’

Fen says they should talk about sex and contraception in front of men, to ‘normalise it’, and Vee agrees. Plus, she and her dad have had to about to talk about things she would have normally discussed with her mum, periods and bras, so she thinks it should be all right.

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes,’ she says, and then she looks into his face and realises what she’s said. Her parents got married when they found out her mother was pregnant; her father sometimes says she was the best accident that ever happened, usually when he has drunk too much at Christmas, or on the anniversary of her mother’s death. ‘Oh, Dad. I didn’t mean—’

He gets up, pushing his weight against the table, and she has no choice but to move her hand away. ‘I know,’ he says, but his face has become a blank and he won’t look at her. ‘I’ll talk to Johnny at the allotments and see if I can borrow the van. It’ll save you making a few trips. Just let me know what day.’

November 1970

November 1970

This Month magazine

Leonie Barratt: Letters from a Feminist

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

Dear John,

Well, Miss World was quite a ride this year. Did you spot me, John? I was there. I didn’t quite get to the stage, but one of my flour bombs did. In the excitement I forgot about the rotten lettuce in my handbag, but battles rarely go completely as planned.