“Mary, do you want to come back with me tonight? Or you could take a cab later . . . ?” The evening had done her a world of good, I would give Childe that. She was again calm and sure of herself, though she, too, had something of the crust-in-the-corner look to her that made me think she might rather be alone.
“No, Ronnie, I’ll go along to my club later, if that’s all right with you. They’ll give me a room, and I keep clothes there. I’ll send these things back tomorrow—or shall we meet for lunch?” I offered. It amused me to ignore the woman standing in the background, as it had amused me in our earlier exchange to deny her the last word. I looked only at Veronica, but I was very aware of the other figure, and furthermore, I was conscious of her own awareness of, and amusement at, the undercurrents I was generating.
“Oh, yes, let’s,” Ronnie enthused. “Where?”
“The Elgin Marbles in the British Museum,” I said decisively. “At midday. We can walk around to Tonio’s from there. Does that suit?”
“I haven’t been to the BM in donkey’s years. That’ll be fine. See you then.” She took a deferential leave of Margery Childe and fluttered out.
4
MONDAY, 27 DECEMBER
The female sex as a whole is slow in comprehension.
—CYRIL OF ALEXANDRIA (376–444)
THE DOOR CLOSED behind Veronica, and I was half-aware of her voice calling out to Marie and then fading down the corridor as I sat and allowed myself to be scrutinised, slowly, thoroughly, impassively. When the blonde woman finally turned away and kicked her shoes off under a low table, I let out the breath I hadn’t realised I was holding and offered up thanks to Holmes’ tutoring, badgering, and endless criticism that had brought me to the place where I might endure such scrutiny without flinching—at least not outwardly.
She padded silently across the thick carpet to the disorder of bottles and chose a glass, some ice, a large dollop from a gin bottle, and a generous splash of tonic. She half-turned to me with a question in her eyebrows, accepted my negative shake without comment, went to a drawer, took out a cigarette case and a matching enamelled matchbox, gathered up an ashtray, and came back to her chair, moving all the while with an unconscious feline grace—that of a small domestic tabby rather than anything more exotic or angular. She tucked her feet under her in the chair precisely like the cat in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, lit her cigarette, dropped the spent match into the ashtray balanced on the arm of the chair, and filled her lungs deeply before letting the smoke drift slowly from nose and mouth. The first swallow from the glass was equally savoured, and she shut her eyes for a long minute.
When she opened them, the magic had gone out of her, and she was just a small, tired, dishevelled woman in an expensive dress, with a much-needed drink and cigarette to hand. I revised my estimate of her age upward a few years, to nearly forty, and wondered if I ought to leave.
She looked at me again, not searchingly as before, but with the mild distraction of someone confronted by an unexpected and potentially problematic gift horse. When she spoke, it was in an ordinary voice, neither inspiring nor manipulating, as if she had decided to pack away her power from me. I wondered whether this was a deliberate strategy, putting on honesty when confronted by someone upon whom the normal techniques had proven ineffective, or if she had just, for some unknown reason of her own, decided to shed pretence. My perceptions were generally very good, and although it did not feel like deception, she did seem watchful. Hiding behind the truth, perhaps? Anticipation stirred.
Her first words matched her attitude, as if blunt honesty was both her natural response to the problem I represented and a deliberately chosen tactic.
“Why are you here, Mary Russell?”
“Veronica invited me. I will go if you wish.”
She shook her head impatiently, dismissing both my offer and my response.
“People come here for a reason, I have found,” she said half to herself. “People come because they are in need, or because they have something to give. Some come because they want to hurt me. Why have you come?”
Somewhat unsettled, I cast around for an answer.
“I came because my friend needed me,” I finally admitted, and she seemed more willing to accept that.
“Veronica, yes. How did you come to know her?”
“We were neighbours in lodgings in Oxford one year.” I decided I did not need to tell her of the elaborate pranks we had joined forces on, opting for a dignified enterprise instead. “Ronnie organised a production of Taming of the Shrew for the wounded soldiers who were being housed in the colleges. She also hired a hall for a series of lectures and debates on the Vote”—no need to specify which Vote!—“and dragged me into it. She has a knack for getting others involved—but no doubt you’ve discovered that. Her enthusiasms are contagious, I suppose because they’re based in her innate goodness. She even succeeded in getting me involved in one of the debates, and we became friends. I’m not really sure why.” I was astonished, when I came to a halt, at how wordy I had been and how much of the truth I had given this stranger.
“The attraction of opposites, I see that. Veronica is softer and more generous than is good for her, which I doubt would be said about you. The hard and the soft, power and love, tug strongly at each other, do they not?”
It was said in a mode of casual conversation, and followed by a pull at her glass, but the devastating simplicity of her observations immediately raised my defences. However, it seemed that attack was not her intention, because she went on.
“That is the basis of our evening cycle of services, you might say.” She reflected for a moment. “And of the daytime work, as well.”
“A cycle?” I asked carefully.
“Ah, I see Veronica did not explain much about us.”
“Nothing very coherent. A lot of talk about love and the rights of women.”
She laughed, deep and rich.
“Dear Veronica, she is enthusiastic. Let me see if I can fill in the gaps.” She paused to crush out the cigarette and immediately light another one, squinting through the smoke at me. “The evening services are what I suppose you might call our public events. Quite a few of our members came in originally out of curiosity, and stayed. Mondays, the topic is left general. I talk about any number of things; sometimes we have Bible readings, silent or guided prayer, even a discussion of some political issue currently in the news—I let the Spirit lead me, on Mondays, and it’s usually a small, well-behaved group of friends, like tonight. Thursdays are different. Very different.” She thought about Thursdays for a minute, and whatever her thoughts were, they turned her eyes dark and put a small smile on her full lips, and the magnetically beautiful woman I had seen earlier was there briefly. Then she reached down and flicked her cigarette over the ashtray and looked at me.
“Thursdays, I talk about love. It’s a very popular night. We even see a fair number of men. And then on Saturdays, we talk about the other end of the spectrum: power. Sometimes Saturday meetings get quite political, and a lot of our hotter heads are given free rein. We don’t get many men on Saturdays, and when we do, it’s usually because they want a fight. Saturdays can get very exciting.” She grinned.
“I can imagine,” I said, calling to mind the shouts of the “quiet evening” I had witnessed. “And you have other activities, as well?”
“Oh heavens, the evening services are just the tip. Our goal, simply stated, is to touch everything concerned with the lives of women. Yes”—she laughed—“I know how it sounds, but one has to aim high. We have four areas we’re concentrating on at the moment: literacy, health, safety, and political reform. Veronica is in charge of the reading program, in fact, and she’s doing fine work. She has about eighty women at the moment learning to read and write.”
“Teaching them all herself?” No wonder she was exhausted.
“No, no. All Temple members volunteer a certain amount of time every week to one or another of our projects. Veronica mostly coordinates the
m, though she, too, does her share of actual teaching. It’s the same in each of the four areas. In the health program, for example, we have a doctor and several nurses who give time, but it’s more a matter of identifying the women in the community who need help and putting them into touch with the right person. A woman with recurring lung infections will be seen by a doctor, but also by a building specialist who will look at her house to see if the ventilation might be improved. A woman with headaches from eyestrain will be given spectacles, and we’ll see if we can find a way to put more light into her working area—laying on gas, perhaps, or even electrical lights. A woman ill from exhaustion and nerves who has eleven children will be educated about birth control and enrolled in our nutritional-supplements program along with her children.”
“You haven’t had any problems with the birth-control thing? Legally, I mean?”
“Once or twice. One of our members spent a week behind bars because of it, so we tend to give that information orally now rather than as pamphlets. Ridiculous, but there it is. It’s getting easier, though. In fact, I understand that Dr Stopes—you know her, the Married Love woman?—intends to open a clinic here in London specialising in birth-control methods, sometime this spring. She’s going to come speak to our members next month, if you’re interested.”
I grunted a noncommittal noise; I could just imagine Holmes’ reaction.
“And safety?”
“That was a branch off the health program originally, though now it’s almost as large and certainly causes more headaches for us. We run a shelter—for women and their children who are without a roof or in danger from the father. It is appalling how little help is available for a desperate woman who has no relations to turn to. Violent husbands don’t count as a threat in the eyes of the law,” she commented, her voice controlled but her eyes dark, this time with anger, and I was briefly aware of her once-broken nose. “So two years ago when one of our members left us two large adjoining terrace houses on the corner, we opened them as a shelter and let it be known that any woman, and her children, of course, who needs a warm, dry, safe place is welcome.”
“I can imagine the headaches. I’m surprised you aren’t overrun.”
“We don’t allow them to stay indefinitely. We help them find a job and someone to care for the small children, try to work something out with the husband—the shelter is not meant to be a permanent solution. There are still workhouses for that,” she added with heavy irony, though the hardness of her face bespoke her opinion of the institution.
“Only women, then?”
“Only women. We occasionally get men, who think we’re a soup kitchen, and we give them a meal and send them away. Men have other options. Women need the help of their sisters, and in fact, that to me is one of the most exciting things about what we’re doing, when women of different classes meet and see that we share more similarities than differences, in spite of everything. We are on the edge of a revolution in the way women live in this society, and some of us want to ensure that the changes that are coming will apply to all women, rich and poor alike.”
“Most of the women I saw here tonight, even in the service, seemed far from needy,” I commented.
She refused to be baited, and smiled gently.
“My ministry is twofold. On the one hand are my poorer sisters, whose needs are immediate, even desperate, but relatively straightforward: spectacles, treatment for tuberculosis, warm clothing for their children. On the other hand are the women you saw tonight at the service, as well as those who refer to themselves as the ‘Inner Circle’—young women like yourself who grew into maturity during the War, when it was common to see women doing work that would have been unthinkable ten years before, as well as older women who were running the country five years ago and are now made to feel harridans and harpies for pushing men out of jobs. My task is to bring the two hands together.” She did not literally clasp her own hands, but the speech had the odour of ink about it, and I suspected it was normally accompanied by the theatrical gesture.
“Poor little rich girls,” I murmured.
“Their needs are real,” she said sharply. “Their hunger is no less acute for being spiritual rather than physical. In some ways, it is greater, because there is no cause to point at, nothing to blame but themselves. An empty cupboard is an inescapable fact; an empty heart can only be inferred from the life lived.”
“And you say they lead empty lives,” I said. I was irritated at the cliché, particularly tonight, with the smell of London’s bleakest districts still in my nostrils. I wanted to push her into spontaneity, even if it meant ignoring my own opinions and playing devil’s advocate to the full. “I should doubt that most of the women in this parish would agree with you. Most of them would be very happy to trade their empty cupboards for the trials of education, physical ease, and leisure. It’s hardly 1840 we’re talking about, it is? Or even 1903. This is nearly 1921, and nobody I know is about to be forced back into whalebone corsets and hobble skirts. Why, half of the women here tonight can probably vote.”
“The vote was a sop,” she snapped. “Granting individual slaves their manumission after a lifetime of service doesn’t alter the essential wrongness of the institution of slavery, nor does giving a small number of women the vote adequately compensate the entire sex for their wartime service—to say nothing of millenia of oppression. All the vote did was break up the underlying unity of feminists and allow the factions to disperse. We allowed ourselves to be misled by a sop,” she repeated. This speech was more personal and had its glints of spontaneity, but it was still ready-made—careful words, though with an angry woman behind them.
“So you use these women; you put them to work on your various projects in order to make them feel useful,” I said.
To my surprise, far from taking umbrage at my words, she subsided with a laugh and winked at me conspiratorially.
“Just think of the vast amount of energy out there waiting to be put to use.” She chuckled. “And no man will touch it. No male politician dares.”
“You have political ambitions, then?” The newspaper photograph came back to me. A donation, had it been? To a Lord Mayor?
“I have no ambitions . . . for myself.”
“But for the church?”
“For the Temple, I will do what needs to be done. Part of that may involve my entering the political arena.”
“Using the vast resources of energy available to you.” I smiled.
“Representing a large number of people, yes.”
“And their bank accounts,” I noted, but she did not rise even to that gibe. Instead, she put on a face as bland as anything Holmes could come up with.
“If you mean the funds our members make available to the Temple, it is true, God has been very good in meeting our needs. Most members tithe; others donate what they can.”
My near accusation bothered her not in the least, and I had the distinct impression that she had searched her own heart on this question and felt certain of the truth in her words. She waited calmly. Her drink was only half-gone—whatever her faults, drunkenness did not seem to be one of them. I changed the subject.
“I was interested in your reading of the text,” I began. “Tell me, was that a personal interpretation of the Creation Story, or was it based on someone else’s work?”
To my astonishment, after all I had asked and intimated in the last few minutes, this apparently innocuous question hit her hard. She sat up, as amazed as if Lady Macbeth had interrupted a peroration to give a cake recipe, and watched me cautiously through narrowed eyes for a moment before an abrupt question was forced out.
“Miss Russell, what newspaper are you with?”
It was my turn to be astonished.
“Newspaper? Good heavens, is that what you thought?” I didn’t know whether to laugh or to be offended—my only contacts with the profession had tended heavily towards the intrusive and ghoulish. It did, however, explain her odd façade of easy intimacy combined wit
h formal speeches. She thought I was an undeclared journalist, using an unknowing acquaintance to get in and prise at The Real Margery Childe. I decided laughter was more called for, and so I laughed, apparently convincingly.
“No, Miss Childe, I’m not a reporter, or a journalist, or anything but a friend of Ronnie Beaconsfield.”
“What do you do, then?”
I wondered briefly at the question, and realised that I didn’t give off the same air of easy affluence that the rest of them had. It was a pleasing thought, that I was not recognisably of the leisured class.
“I’m at Oxford. I do informal tutoring, and a great deal of research.”
“Into what?”
“Bible, mostly.”
“I see. You read theology, then?”
“Theology and chemistry.”
“An odd combination,” she said, the usual reaction.
“Not terribly.”
“No?”
“Chemistry involves the workings of the physical universe, theology those of the human universe. There are behaviour patterns common to both.”
She had forgotten both cigarette and drink momentarily, and she seemed to be listening to some inner voice, head tipped.
“I see,” she said again, but I thought she was not speaking of my last sentence. “Yes, I begin to understand. You were interested in the way I read the stories of the Creation of woman. How might you read them?”
“In a very similar fashion, though I imagine we reached the point by rather different means.”
The Mary Russell Series Books 1-4 Page 39