Introduction
‘The women at the gate’
in Rebel women between the wars

This chapter sets out the latest scholarly thinking on the women’s movement during the interwar years and lays out the conceptual framework for the book, constructing a metaphor for the masculine public sphere and the struggles of the women who tried to access it. It suggests that women who wanted to leave the domestic sphere during this time needed to be possessed of a kind of disruptive energy to enable them to escape from the rigid destiny planned for them. It emphasises, particularly, the indivisibility of women’s activism during the interwar years from their writing, either in public journals or in private letters and diaries. This chapter also discusses the pros and cons of academic study using biography as a method.

In the summer of 1921, three Englishwomen travelled across Switzerland by train, dressed in skirts adorned at the hem, as was the fashion, with feminine ‘frills and furbelows’.1 Having arrived at the Alpine station of Stalden, they opened their travelling trunks and underwent a strange transformation. Off came the skirts and ladies’ soft gloves; ‘out came tins of herrings in tomato sauce, worn corduroys, woolly mufflers, battered aluminium saucepans and spirit stoves, a box of Keating’s and mud-stained leather gloves’.2 Now in breeches and hobnail boots, with cotton bandanas around their heads, the women slung knapsacks over their backs and walked 20 kilometres to the village of Saas Fee from where they would complete a remarkable feat: the first Alpine cordée feminine, up the Mittaghorn, and a traverse of the Egginergrat ridge: rope climbing above 3,000 metres, including a difficult 100-metre ‘chimney’, bodies suspended over the abyss, without a male guide or escort. ‘Manless climbing’, as it was then known, was a highly subversive act and expression of modernity, encompassing subterfuge, transvestism, gender disruption, physical exertion, danger and a ‘joyous release of body’ as they dangled over the void.3 It may seem like a commonplace thing today for a woman to rope-climb without a man to help her, but in 1921 this was an extreme act of rebellion against the ‘masculine outdoors’ which decreed that women were not sufficiently strong, skilled or experienced to be trusted to mountaineer alone.4 The pre-eminent climbing journal of the day, the Alpine Club Journal, indeed described ‘lady mountaineers’ as both ‘foolish’ and ‘insane’.

When, three years later, two of the trio, Dorothy Pilley and Lilian Bray, launched the Pinnacle Club Journal, a ‘little’ magazine for women climbers, Bray wrote an article on that ‘manless’ ascent, and ‘Three Pinnaclers in the Alps’ was published in the first issue.5 In writing down, editing, typesetting, printing and disseminating their account of this rebellious climb, they were acknowledging the indivisibility of women’s activism and writing. During the years of suffrage campaigning, women, denied their rights as citizens to vote or stand for Parliament, and mostly unable to raise their voices at public meetings, created a rich ecosystem of advocacy newspapers and journals as the basis of a powerful extra-parliamentary political culture. This alternative print culture, connecting activists and social reformers with an increasingly literate female reading public, maintained a strong hold on women’s activism through the 1930s.6 They were outsiders, so they wrote, advocating for change, persuading, challenging and celebrating the inch-by-inch gains they made in print. With the caveat that writing and publishing magazines required literacy and economic agency, and therefore favoured the middle classes, print’s central role in helping women, before 1928, to ‘construct their own identity’ as citizen subjects cannot be underestimated.7 While voting in parliamentary elections, legislating and practising law (until 1919) was forbidden to women, writing, at least, was not. Virginia Woolf, in her feminist tract Three Guineas (1938), acknowledged that of all the professions and activities contested by women because they were barred from participating in them by patriarchal structures, only writing was not fought over:

There has been no battle of Grub Street. That profession has never been shut to the daughters of educated men. This was due of course to the extreme cheapness of its professional requirements. Books, pens and paper are so cheap, reading and writing have been, since the eighteenth century, so universally taught in our class.8

When she launched the Pinnacle Club Journal, Dorothy Pilley was 29 and thus unable to enjoy full rights as a citizen.9 So she turned the magazine into a public platform where women could assert their rights to participate in and write about the wild, and yes, celebrate wearing breeches, eating sardines with muddy fingers and swinging from ropes. While ‘manless climbing’ is of a different order of activism to campaigning for employment rights, the right to control one’s own fertility, or the right to participate in international disarmament conferences, as other women were doing, it was still, in 1921, a boldly political act, completed when written down and published, and part of the wide-ranging and vast line of battle on which women in their thousands were contesting the masculine hegemony of the 1920s and 1930s. This book will show how, beneath the well-turned surface of such familiar names as Virginia Woolf, Beatrice Webb, the Pankhursts, Nancy Astor, Ellen Wilkinson, Marie Stopes, Helena Swanwick and Winifred Holtby, ‘ordinary’ women were daily chipping away at patriarchal power, making inroads in all walks of life, from engineering, to humanitarian activism, to foreign correspondence, and how their writing, in diaries, letters, newspapers and periodicals, was axiomatic to the construction of these new public selves. This volume will also show the wide range of strategies – many ingenious and courageous – that women employed to overcome the enormous social and political obstacles in their way, so that we can better understand how change and progress can be achieved.

The women’s movement after the First World War

The First World War had, in many countries, radically disrupted gender roles and enabled women to break out of the domestic sphere and assert their right to work in traditional masculine occupations, and generally to be more active, productive and visible.10 After the war, various legislative and social pressures curtailed to an extent women’s continued advancement, such as the Restoration of Pre-War Practices Act (1919) and male-dominated unions blocking equal pay and challenging women’s ability to work on an equal footing with men.11 On a more personal level, fathers and elder brothers returning from extended absence due to the war reasserted their patriarchal control over their wives, sisters and daughters. Newspapers and women’s magazines also exerted some ‘back to home and duty’ pressure, encouraging women, through news pieces and features, to be dutiful wives and mothers and demonising the bachelor woman.12 However, this kind of article was liberally leavened, particularly in the popular press, by others celebrating women’s successes and female ‘firsts’, from motor racing, flying and swimming the Channel, to becoming magistrates and police officers, although it must be stressed that not all women found this emphasis on the tabloid ‘superwoman’ helpful.13 Dorothy Pilley herself became a fleeting newspaper celebrity when the Daily Mail reported: ‘Englishwoman Climber: First to Perform Alpine Feat’, after she made the first ascent of the Dent Blanche (4,300 m), one of the most difficult peaks in the Alps, in July 1928.14

It is now generally agreed that although the women’s movement fragmented after the 1918 and 1928 suffrage victories, women continued to seek equality in all parts of their lives, despite Ray Strachey’s triumphant signing off, in her classic feminist history, that ‘the main fight is over and the main victory is won’.15 There is still disagreement, however, over the strength, focus, direction and achievements of women’s activism in the interwar years. Some scholars continue to argue that the feminist movement declined, lacked direction and suffered deepening divisions as organisations such as the National Union of Societies for Equal Citizenship (NUSEC) fought over what their priorities should be.16 Others argue that women turned from overtly feminist goals and embraced domesticity while still working for social reform from within non-feminist organisations such as the Mothers’ Union and Women’s Institute; others claim that the movement simply morphed into equally forceful campaigns for peace, welfare and children’s rights.17 Of course there is no easy generalisation to be made, either of the ‘backlash’ model or of the ‘surprising vibrancy’ argument. As with all periods there is a messy, unfocused and kaleidoscopic picture, and scholars who work on this basis probably get closer to the truth of how events unravelled.18 My contention is that the movement simply altered its cellular chemistry, as it were, and the fight was joined not just by large, single-issue organisations but by thousands of smaller groups and individual women enacting multiple assaults upon the fortress of the masculine public sphere, often in intensely private and personal ways – rejecting proposals of marriage, standing up to sexual harassment, or insisting on seeking employment and living outside the family home.

What is certainly clear is that by the end of the two decades, women’s opportunities and employment were utterly transformed. They may still have suffered unfair discrimination, unequal pay, sexual harassment in the workplace and a lack of promotion prospects, but compared to 1919, by 1939 the field of opportunity had widened enormously for the educated woman. One only has to examine the pages of The Lady, that bastion of aspirational domesticity, to see how the employment sections changed over the two decades. Early post-war issues simply carried classified advertisements matching the magazine’s readers with less fortunate women seeking employment as ‘half-cooks’ and ‘ladies’ companions’; in May 1932, the magazine began a new regular ‘Earning a Living’ feature, this time for its readers’ benefit, presenting, every fortnight, employment opportunities in the worlds of dancing, architecture, accountancy and dentistry, among other professions. Many of the women who pioneered to take their place in the world of work and public life have flown below the radar, and to see them we need to refocus our field of vision, to catch the single-cell structures, as well as the larger organisms, a process of ‘rethinking the political’.19 As Maria DiCenzo and Claire Eustance have recently argued, in order to understand better the direction and energy of the women’s movement during the interwar years, we need to look beyond traditional concepts of political activism, which ‘have not been able to account adequately for the range of spaces in which not just women generally, but an individual woman might take political action’.20

This book is a contribution to the ongoing interpretive quest, and foregrounds the struggles of individual women in their efforts to participate in public life. Recognising that listening to women’s voices is central to the task of writing women back into history, I recover here many of their overlooked texts in poems, novels, memoirs and journalism.21 We can read in their own words their ideas, passions, and their unique interpretation of this rapidly changing, brilliantly modern and at times terrifying two decades. My focus is twofold: to fill in some of the gaps where individual struggles are concerned with a rich layer of detail about women’s lives, motivations and personal dispositions, and also to identify a range of participation strategies employed by women seeking to leave the domestic sphere and to engage with the public world. In doing so, I contend, as other scholars have done, that because of their legal, social and political subjugation, women during the interwar years must be seen as a minority or marginalised group, even though in numerical terms they outnumbered men.22 Studies of activism among marginalised groups or populations have established that even within minorities facing apparently insuperable obstacles, there is always a ‘culture of resistance’ which fosters endless renewal in strategies to oppose and overcome, just as the elite or dominant culture practises continuous strategies of defence and exclusion.23

Feminist critics argue that early concepts of the public sphere, while useful in describing the world of politics, economics and public action, have been ‘gender blind’, and as originally conceived, having its roots in a period before women were allowed to be citizens, would better be described as the ‘masculine public sphere’. Public sphere theory simply replicates age-old patterns of male dominance and female subordination as it classifies production in terms of the male/active/public/economic and the female/passive/private/unpaid and thus legitimates the confinement of women to a ‘separate sphere.’24 Neither do public sphere theories recognise the fact that in the paid workplace, women have traditionally been assigned to subordinate, low-paid, service-oriented and often sexualised occupations which enable and serve the masculine world of power and money without benefiting equally from it.25 What this means in essence is that to break out of the domestic, private world and participate in the masculine, public one, women, particularly in the interwar years, needed to be disruptors.

Storming the fortress

As a useful conceptual device, I have envisaged the masculine public sphere as it was configured in the 1920s and 1930s as a well-defended fortress designed to protect its occupants from challenge but also active in repelling potential invaders. Around this fortress is a complex system of defensive rings: these are many and varied, and include the denial of the vote to women (and then after 1928 the painfully slow increase in the number of women MPs) and restrictive employment practices, both enshrined in law but also imposed by individual employers, such as marriage bars in various workplaces, or the ban on women working at night ‘for their own safety’. A particularly powerful defensive ring was the poor quality of women’s education compared to that of men. This applies both to middle-class women (Virginia Woolf’s famous ‘Arthur’s Education Fund’ of Three Guineas) and ordinary elementary school education, which devoted less of girls’ time at school to literacy and numeracy than boys.26 To schooling we can also add the resistance of universities to admitting women on some degree courses, particularly in science and medicine, and some not conferring full degrees on women even after they had passed their exams.27 Further legislative rings in the area of rights over property, children and divorce also existed in 1918, although through the 1920s much legislation was enacted to amend these long-standing inequalities.28

Other rings of defence relied on assumptions and traditions, the most potent being that women were expected to put their husbands’ and families’ wishes before their own. Others were the social pressure to marry and start a family, prejudices against the ‘spinster’, the ‘new woman’, the ‘business woman’ or the ‘surplus woman’ who did not fit into conventional social patterns, prejudices that extended to suspicions over female friendships, and the general assumption that women were simply inferior, both intellectually and physically, to men. How then to mount an attack on this fastness, when knocking at the gate and asking for entry seemed so hopeless a task, if even one could reach the gate unscathed? Is it possible to identify a set of assets and dispositions, and then a strategy for undermining the fortress’s defences, that made it more likely that a particular woman might succeed in creating a breach through which others might follow?

For each chapter a different participation strategy is identified. Studies of other kinds of female activism identify various strategies such as ‘direct action’, putting one’s head over the parapet, including running for public office and union work. There is also ‘intellectual activism’, which includes writing as resistance, journalism and filing lawsuits. Then there are acts of ‘everyday resistance’, such as dressing or cutting one’s hair in a certain way and resisting being stereotyped, but these are often easy generalisations.29 This book aims to identify and assess a range of strategies that women of the past employed, which include the use of formal and informal networks and friendships to increase one’s ability to mount an attack; other kinds of individual direct action; and more subtle methods including subterfuge and what I call ‘hiding in plain sight’. Different strategies depended on individual women’s dispositions, motivations and targets. Some, such as the MP Leah Manning, aimed for high public office, and social networks at the group, organisational and international level helped her to pursue this goal successfully.30 Others, such as the engineer and chauffeur Claudia Parsons, simply wanted to study engineering, in overalls, alongside men, and obtain the same qualifications that a man could; for her, rejecting a series of powerful figures’ and organisations’ socially conservative views of what constituted acceptable feminine behaviour was a long and weary battle throughout her life. Shiela Grant Duff wanted to be a foreign correspondent, and when the ‘safe’ option of taking a job in a newspaper foreign department was closed to her on account of her gender, she chose to take the riskier freelance route. Francesca Wilson, a humanitarian aid worker, found, like Grant Duff, conventional channels of engagement closed because of her youth and perceived unserious temperament, but she opted for subterfuge as a way of getting around the obstacles before her.

In order to identify the strategies, motivations and dispositions of this ‘baker’s dozen’ of women, this study adopts a multidisciplinary approach, employing cultural, literary and historical analysis, newspaper and periodical history, feminist theory and other sociological, behavioural and philosophical concepts. In embedding each chapter in its social context, the book adds to our understanding of the interwar years in areas from motoring and leisure, to mountaineering and the wild, to education and journalism, to humanitarian activism and race relations in the imperial metropolis. While most of the subjects here are British, I have included two major international case studies in order to connect British feminist activism at this time with international movements. The first is the poet and activist Una Marson, who left Jamaica to seek literary engagement only to encounter a bewildering and exclusionary racism in ‘the mother country’. The second is the Australian novelist Kylie Tennant, who used her documentary fiction to expose the hypocrisy of the White Australia Policy and to chronicle the lives of both rural and urban workers in Depression-era Australia. Other minor international case studies also help add to our understanding of how women across the globe became galvanised by successive suffrage victories and how they interpreted and fashioned their own new identities as active citizens. Sustained by links to the original women’s movements, women’s activism remained vibrant, looking forward to ‘a future based on true equality with men’.31

Recent work on the interwar period has shed light on women’s achievements in a number of areas, from the literary world to the rise of female civil servants, women in the colonial and diplomatic services, women humanitarians, scientists and political theorists.32 However, scholarship tends to focus either on ‘extraordinary’ women such as Virginia Woolf, Nancy Astor, the feminist pacifist Helena Swanwick, or the Labour MP Margaret Bondfield, in great detail, or to look at groups of women in organisations such as the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom, the Labour Party or the Women’s Institutes. The former method, while providing a richly detailed narrative of one brilliant life, does not always help us understand how the vast ranks of women began to make individual advances towards participation in public life. The latter method, although giving enlightening overviews into the culture and achievements of such groups, fails to answer one of my central questions which asks how individual women became energised into choosing the strategies and participation goals that they did. This book takes the form of a multiple biography, its subjects comprising a large enough group to be valuable in identifying what the historian E. P. Thompson called the ‘nodal points of conflict’, the tensions between the private life and the sociopolitical world that provoke action.33 The accumulation of new and illuminating historical ‘facts’ and psychological insights, it is hoped, will help us read societal change through the individual life, ‘providing a different path into the past’.34

Biography as method

Much of this study employs the biographical method, often used by historians of interwar feminism, illustrating that that the ‘personal is political’.35 There are, however, drawbacks that need to be addressed. Biography, one eminent historian (and biographer) recently wrote, ‘remains the profession’s unloved stepchild, occasionally but grudgingly let in the door, more often shut outside with the riffraff’.36 Another has called it an ‘abject form of history … a kind of history lite’, because it often relies less on empirical facts and more on creative interpretation.37 The problems of biography as a way of investigating the past are numerous: leading journals often refuse to review biographical studies; the traditional ‘cradle-to-grave’ approach tends to ignore greater moments of periodisation, outside the birth and death of the subject; and biography is necessarily highly selective: among all the letters, diaries, newspaper articles and other sources, how does one distil the essence of a life in convenient chapters? Another weakness is that biographical study from a historical period such as the interwar years necessarily limits the subject matter to those who had the education and resources to write and keep letters and diaries and other private mementoes, to pay subscriptions to join organisations, to travel, and to have the confidence to write and speak in public. Ultimately, also, they needed relatives or interested parties: libraries and record offices to store and catalogue their private papers, so that one day a biographer or historian could unearth their lives. These requirements naturally limit the available subjects to women from the middle classes, and while I have made strenuous efforts to seek out subjects who have been overlooked, they are, without exception, middle class.

What, then, of a multiple biography such as this, with only a chapter, or in some cases half or a quarter of a chapter, devoted to a particular woman? What chance of capturing anything except a superficial and fleeting glimpse? Added to this problem is the inconsistency in the range of sources available. At one end of the scale, Dorothy Pilley kept a diary every year of her life from the age of 19 until her death. There are rows and rows of small, ruled notebooks, covered in her dense and at times barely legible inked script, recording not only activities, impressions and appointments, but books read and journals ordered, all stored carefully in the Old Library at Magdalene College, Cambridge. There also are her meticulously kept newspaper cuttings books and her heartrending letters to her future husband, the literary critic I. A. Richards, including a beautiful, closely argued, 60-page letter of rejection to his marriage proposal (and it was not that she did not love him). At this abundant end of the scale is also Shiela Grant Duff, who not only wrote a detailed memoir of her work in the 1930s but also kept almost all of her letters, diaries and much other memorabilia, including calling cards, dance cards, dinner menus, medical prescriptions and a card index system of political and journalistic contacts annotated with her hilariously spiky notes (‘Bayer, Dr Frantisek, Bratislava (September 1936): Small, beady-eyed … said to know about the Germans, might help but doesn’t look very intelligent or special’). In her papers at the Bodleian there is also one small, brown, leather diary, locked with a little key hanging off a faded ribbon, dating back to when she was about 12, brought to me, as a waiter might bring a dish of Beluga caviar, by a white-gloved librarian, and revealing the character of a courageous little girl who clearly felt that she was special.

At the other end of the scale, Margaret Lane – rather irritatingly, as she was a biographer herself – tore up every letter and threw it in the bin or fire as soon as she had read it, ritually destroying her own archive as it formed.38 At least Lane’s daughter, Selina Hastings, gave much of her time to tell me about her mother, and directed me to various caches of information, including her old school magazine and a small collection of material at St Hugh’s College, Oxford. The novelist Kylie Tennant has a small collection of her letters and first drafts of manuscripts in the National Library of Australia, with more material in the National Archives of Australia (including a partial file of the record kept on her by the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation when she was suspected of being a communist agent from 1935 to 1957). However, a sharp note at the beginning of her memoir – ‘to the academic, whose name I have forgotten, who visited us when my husband was dying’ and took away valuable records of book reviews and other material, but who never returned them, despite ‘promising to post them back’ – points to a tantalising quantity of disappeared ‘evidence’.39 Perhaps the most evasive of the subjects in this book, having apparently left no diary and only a few letters in the archive of English PEN at the Harry Ransom Center in Texas, is the journalist Edith Shackleton. For Shackleton I have relied mainly on her prodigious journalistic output and some staff records of her time at the Daily Express and Evening Standard in the Beaverbrook papers in the House of Commons. Biographical details, too, are pieced together from press cuttings on her kept in the Steyning Museum, Sussex, close to where she lived for her last thirty years.

The proper aim of biography should not be to try to capture the complete person, but, as historian Oscar Handlin wrote, to capture ‘the point at which [the person and society] interact. There the situation and the individual illuminate each other.’40 In addition, the biographical approach enables the author to answer questions about personality and character that the historian usually does not ask. Life stories can help us understand ‘women’s work in negotiating an identity apart from the domestic self’ and thus go some way to answer how the transition from passivism to activism works.41 The individual political journeys of women who, as Karen Hunt put it, have slipped through the net of many of the histories of the twentieth century, if taken together, can help to reveal the individual circumstances and choices that women made to move from the domestic towards the public sphere.42

Finally, employing the biographical approach enables us to recover the power of these women’s words, in their letters, diaries, fiction, poetry and memoirs, and thus to finish what they so hopefully started, by writing them (back) into history. For readers curious about these women’s lives after the Second World War, an Appendix at the end of this volume provides brief accounts of what they did in later life, and provides details of where their archives may be found.

Notes

1 The title of this chapter is taken from the Evelyn Sharp short story of the same name (1910), in which the narrator sees suffragist women trying to gain entry to the House of Commons and is energised to fight for her own equality.
2 Pilley 1965: 131; Keating’s powder was an insecticide used to kill fleas and lice, which at that time spread typhus.
3 The climber Nan Shepherd was the original creator of this lovely phrase (see Chapter 3).
4 For a more detailed discussion of the ‘masculine outdoors’ versus feminine nature, see Chapter 3.
5 Bray 1924.
6 Tusan 2005: 2.
7 Tusan 2005: 7–8.
8 Woolf 2006: 107.
9 Women under 30 were not allowed to vote until 1928.
10 For a good account of the emergence of ‘New Public Woman’ 1880–1930, see Evans 2019.
11 See Chapter 6, particularly, where I discuss the multiple legal cases brought under the Restoration of Pre-War Practices Act by men’s industrial unions. This Act was partially balanced by the Sex Disqualification (Removal) Act of 1919, which removed barriers to women entering the professions such as architecture, medicine and the law.
12 See Chapter 1 for examples. For women’s magazines’ role in encouraging the ‘back to home and duty’ theme, see Briganti and Mezei 2006. Bingham (2004a and 2004b) is particularly persuasive on the counter-argument.
13 In Chapter 6 I discuss the limitations of how helpful these kinds of ‘superwoman’ articles were to ordinary women.
14 Daily Mail, 25 July 1928, p. 13.
15 DiCenzo and Delap 2008: 52; Strachey 1978: 385.
16 For example, Gottlieb 2014: 443–4; Beddoe 1989; Clay 2018: 32–4.
17 For example, Beaumont 2013; Theobald 2000; Thane 2001; Law 1997.
18 For example, Bingham 2004b; Hunt 2009; Glew 2016; McCarthy 2014.
19 Tusan 2005: 7–8.
20 DiCenzo and Eustance 2018: 328.
21 Barclay 2010: 338; this method also recognises the value of the so-called ‘linguistic’ or ‘narrative turn’ in historiography, which places high value on the texts of the past and challenges ‘objective knowing’ (Archibald 2012: 9; Munslow 2003: 1).
22 Beetham 1996: 1–14.
23 Guy-Sheftall 1999: xxi. In this context the author is discussing the resistance strategies of African-American women.
24 Fraser 1987: 34.
25 Fraser 1987: 37.
26 ‘Arthur’s Education Fund’, Woolf contends, is the system in middle-class families of saving up money to be able to send sons to boarding school and then university, to the detriment of expenditure on the ‘daughters of educated men’ who not only did without equivalent education but also had to go without travel and other opportunities. Woolf 2006: 7; Holloway 2005: 9.
27 Oxford University began conferring full degrees on women in 1921. Women graduates from Cambridge had to wait until 1947.
28 These included the Matrimonial Causes Act 1923, the Guardianship of Infants Act 1925 and the Law of Property Act 1922.
29 Springer 1999: 2–3; Springer’s work studies black female activists in the United States.
30 See Westaby 2012 on how social networks can help individuals and groups attain their goals and shape their aspirations.
31 Theobald 2000: 67.
32 For example, Glew 2016, 2018 (civil servants); McCarthy 2014 (diplomats); Sloane 2018 (Labour party activists); Davies 2007 (international disarmament campaigners); Beaumont 2013 (organisations such as the Mothers’ Union and Women’s Institutes); Stockman 2017 (a fascinating look at political theorists in international relations, including Marjory Perham, Lucy Mair and Agnes Headlam-Morley).
33 Thompson 1993: xii.
34 Kessler-Harris 2009: 626.
35 Gottlieb 2014: 444.
36 Nasaw 2009: 573.
37 Munslow 2003: 2.
38 Interview with Selina Hastings, Margaret Lane’s daughter.
39 Tennant 2012, ‘Author’s Note’.
40 Handlin 1979: 276.
41 Ward 2019: 31–3.
42 Hunt 2009: 212.

Rebel women between the wars

Fearless writers and adventurers

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