Free No Job for a Lady by Carol McCleary Page B

bullet and go on to explain how I tried to get my editor to let me become a foreign correspondent. “He said it was no job for a lady.”
    “Balderdash! The only jobs men know of for women are in the bed or the kitchen.”
    She spoke loudly enough for heads to turn, and we both scoot down in our seats and smother giggles.
    When I am finished with my story, confessing that I was not sent by the newspaper to report, she gives me a big hug.
    “I can’t tell you how much I admire you, Nellie. I have the same feelings you do about avoiding spending my life as the helpmate to a man who has all the fun and adventures while I keep the hearth warm and the family nurtured.”
    “Then you won’t tell your uncle?”
    “He won’t get it out of me even if they break my bones on the rack.”
    That sets off another wave of giggling like schoolgirls as we head for the dining car.
    “So you’re visiting from England?” I ask as we work our way through the train.
    “Oxford. Studying history, my favorite subject. I’m on a short sabbatical to learn about the Aztec Empire. It’s really an excuse to romp around some ancient ruins under a warm sun, rather than sit in a study and stare at winter’s kill outside my window. Besides, my father says you get better knowledge by experiencing something firsthand.” She stops and looks at me. “Now I have a secret to tell you. I want to become an archaeologist. I believe that if we know more about the past, we can advance better with the future.”
    “Gertrude, that’s fabulous!”
    “Not by man’s way of thinking. Thank goodness I have my father. You and he are the only ones who know my desire. If my stepmother found out…” She pauses for a moment, as if she’s thinking how to word her thoughts, something I am all too familiar with.
    “It’s not that she would object—she’s all for causes and strong women, but she’s still of the belief that a woman should get married and have children, first and foremost. Like the person who wrote that editorial that offended you, she believes a woman should be only her husband’s helper when it comes to matters outside the home.
    “Take this trip, for example—I knew that when I approached them about it, she would object, which she did, so I talked to Father first and had him in my corner.” She checks the time on her pendant watch. “We must hurry. Don Antonio is quite the connoisseur of fine food and wine. He will have us both on the rack if we spoil his dinner.”
    I have complete trust in Gertrude. As my mother would say, “You’re two peas in a pod,” at least when it comes to men and life careers, so I’m tempted to spill the beans about my sharing a compartment with a man. I hold back as we head for the dining car and tell her instead about Mrs. Percy encouraging me to come to Mexico and the lack of resources available to study the country and ancient civilizations. I realize Gertrude probably knows much more about Mexico than I do, having studied it.
    “You know a lot about the country and its history?” I ask, certain that anyone who goes to Oxford knows about everything. She’s so lucky. I would have loved to have gone to college.
    “A bit. We can get together tomorrow and I can give you some background materials for your dispatches.”

 
    Gertrude Bell
    [Gertrude Bell was] the most brilliant student we ever had at Lady Margaret Hall, or indeed I think at any of the women’s colleges. Her journeys in Arabia and her achievements in Iraq have passed into history. I need only recall the bright promise of her college days, when the vivid, rather untidy, auburn-haired girl of seventeen first came amongst us and took our hearts by storm with her brilliant talk and her youthful confidence in herself and her belongings. She had a most engaging way of saying “Well you know, my father says so and so” as a final opinion on every question under discussion.

    She threw herself with untiring energy into every phase of college