Rich Girl, Poor Girl

by Eileen Ramsay

  ‘What does a braw wee thing like you want with an education? Are you jist looking for a better type man? What good will all that book learning be when you’re peeling tatties?’

  Rosie knew that his views were only half serious. He just liked having someone to talk to, but his attitude changed when she roused herself one morning and told him that she would not be content with a mere degree. She was going to become a doctor.

  ‘A doctor?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And you look like such a nice wee lassie. Well, you can never tell.’

  Like countless others, men and women, he had assumed that she was not a good girl because she wanted to become a doctor. Narrow, narrow minds, she thought, as she looked at the cold, set face and vowed to get up before the milkman. She had a feeling that from now on no friendly helping hand would pull her aboard and she would be left disconsolate on the platform. Nothing, nothing must keep her from her classes.

  Rosie loved everything about university. She loved the walk from the station in the morning, in every weather. She walked around the golf course and never once wondered what it would be like to play golf, although someone told her that Mary Queen of Scots had actually played here on the ground on which she trod.

  Occasionally she, a travelling girl, would meet one of the town girls, and they would walk together. There were three types of students at St Andrews. Those who lived in the university residences – there were, as yet, no residences solely for women – were top of the social tree. Then there were the town students who lived in lodgings, and the travelling students who came in every day by train or bus or farmer’s cart. Attendance at all lectures was compulsory and a student could only sit examinations if he, and now she, could prove by production of a certificate that they had done all the course work. Rosie could not understand how anyone could contemplate missing one word of the drops of knowledge that fell so readily from the lips of learned professors. Constantly she pinched herself to assure herself that, yes, it was true, Rosie Nesbitt was a student at St Andrews University.

  Apart from lectures, what she remembered most about her first few years was the singing. Students sang everywhere, not raucous rowdy songs, although many were silly nonsensical ditties, but folk songs, melodies from the theatre.

  When a residence was built for women students, the warden invited Rosie for tea.

  ‘I’m getting a name for myself, Ma. I’m known at the university, and this warden wants all the town and travelling girls to come along and have lunch at the residence. There’s no common room, you see. I’m sure she’s only worried that we’re not having a hot meal.’

  ‘How much?’ Practical Elsie.

  ‘9d.’

  ‘A week?’

  ‘A day.’

  ‘My God, does the woman think we’re made o’ money? You go and have your tea, but don’t let them rich people . . . whit’s the word?’

  ‘Patronize.’

  ‘Aye, make you feel cheap.’

  ‘Oh, they won’t do that. Thank God for the gown.’

  ‘Will you maybe have to take it aff in the hoos?’

  ‘I’m great at pretending I’m too cold. Ma, don’t worry. I’ll see what she wants to discuss and I’ll not stick my pinky up when I’m drinking my tea.’

  Rosie took the train back to St Andrews. ‘Poor Ma,’ she thought. ‘She thinks tea is a meal; she’ll be hoping I get sausages.’ Rosie had never been particularly interested in food, but she did like a good sausage.

  She washed and ironed her good frock and washed her hair. She darned her stockings with tiny stitches and cleaned her shoes. ‘Hell, hell, hell. I won’t ever give a damn what I eat, but I will have leather shoes in all colours of the rainbow and hell, hell, hell’ – this last as she looked at her one pair of gloves, too shoddy to take her hands to tea – ‘gloves, silk gloves, leather gloves.’ Did gloves look right with the gown that hid all other imperfections except the scuffed and well-polished shoes? Ladies always wear gloves. Do they? Do they not?

  The warden of the new residence for female students was not wearing gloves . . . but then she was inside her house.

  Miss Louden, herself a brilliant scholar, was aware of most of the worries besetting Rosie. She recognized the look almost of belligerence that disguised shyness and a fear of being pitied. Only too well she knew that in men and women the gown too often hid inadequate clothing draped on a too-thin body.

  ‘I feel that it is very important that I get to know as many of the travelling girls as I can, Miss Nesbitt. I am aware of all the reasons that many young women have for not living in this residence.’ She saw Rosie’s proud head lift and the small nostrils almost flare. ‘A natural desire for independence being foremost. Students who live in residence enjoy a completely different view of university life. I would like all the women of St Andrews to share that fellowship in some way.’ She gestured to the table where an exquisitely embroidered cloth made a perfect backdrop for the porcelain plates with their beautifully arranged sandwiches, their delicate and delicious cakes and pastries. ‘China or India?’ she asked, and looked at Rosie whose mind was a complete blank. Before the silence became embarrassing she realized that Miss Louden meant the tea. My God, what kind of tea? The tea that comes full of stoor in a wooden box from the shop in the Pillars in Dundee. I know no other.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not a connoisseur, warden,’ said Rosie and could have sworn that a look of genuine liking crossed that austerely beautiful face.

  ‘I like mine hot and wet, and quite frankly rarely notice the flavour, but we’ll try China and next time India perhaps. I hope you don’t mind if I eat like a ravenous schoolboy, Miss Nesbitt, but I find that there are so many interruptions at luncheon that I very rarely have a chance to finish. Do try the roast beef. I swear Mrs McBride should have been a surgeon. See how thinly she cuts.’

  Rosie took a sandwich. Roast beef. This is my first ever roast beef. I must remember everything for Ma and I must not like this woman. She wants something from me.

  ‘You are hoping to do medicine, Miss Nesbitt. I wish you well. Sophia Jex-Blake is a friend of mine. You may have heard of her?’

  How had she managed to eat three sandwiches? ‘Doctor Jex-Blake. The Doctor Jex-Blake?’

  ‘Yes. We fought together for the right of British women to get to university, Miss Nesbitt, not to have to go abroad as she did, and so you will see that the welfare of all female students is very precious to me, for her sake as well as mine.’

  Rosie held out her cup, what a beautiful cup, for a second cup of the China tea. ‘What do you want from me, warden?’

  ‘You are very popular with the students, Miss Nesbitt. You look surprised. Are you so involved in your studies that you have not noticed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The warden laughed, a tinkling, musical laugh. Rosie liked the sound.

  ‘You have or could have influence with the travelling girls and the town girls – oh yes, of course I know the names by which you call yourselves. I would like you . . .’ She stopped. She could see Rosie bristle. Silly child, silly child, I will not insult you by offering you a free meal. She pretended that she was checking the silver pot. My God, thought Rosie, a silver pot with nothing in it but water.

  ‘I would like you to come, at least occasionally, for lunch in the winter. If you come, many of the other travelling girls will come, and the town girls. We will give a three-course luncheon, a different selection every day. Fish on Fridays, of course. Are you Catholic?’

  Violently Rosie shook her head. ‘I don’t think we’re anything.’

  No disapproval. Just acceptance . . .

  ‘We could arrange luncheon recitals, poetry readings, music. We might have guests, like Doctor Jex-Blake, or, who knows, the divinely handsome D’Arcy Thomson from Dundee. You do know about the Marquis of Bute, by the way?’

  Rosie could not follow this quicksilver mind. ‘The rector?’

  ‘Yes, my dear. He intends to fund a medical school. He is dedi
cated to the development of medical and science teaching in St Andrews. But you must know, as a doctor manqué, why we are unable to complete medical training in St Andrews?’ She waited for Rosie to acknowledge the correctness of her remark.

  Rosie blushed. It had simply never occurred to her that she could not complete medical training at the university; she had been so glad to get a place in the Arts department. Medical training was not allowed for women before the age of nineteen, which would have been three wasted years.

  ‘I was so grateful to have been accepted by the university, warden.’

  Miss Louden nodded. ‘There is no hospital within reach . . . for experience, Miss Nesbitt, clinical training. You must, if you are accepted, finish at Dundee. His lordship is building a conjoint medical school with the University of Dundee and funding it. £20,000 per year. There will be scholarships, one hundred pounds per year. I would imagine you will be one of its first students, Miss Nesbitt, if not its scholarship winners.’

  One hundred pounds every year. God in heaven! With money like that a body could have a 9d lunch, three courses with fish on a Friday, every day of the week, and have money left over.

  The warden stood up. Between them the plates were nearly empty.

  ‘St Andrews is so beautiful, warden, that it is a joy to wander the streets during the lunch-hour. But in the winter . . . well, I could imagine that a hot lunch . . . occasionally . . . would tempt me from the wynds or the links.’

  ‘You are a golfer?’ Even more interest.

  ‘No, but I love to walk along and smell the sea and see St Andrews rise up . . .’ She stopped, embarrassed.

  ‘It casts its spell on all of us, Miss Nesbitt. I will keep you informed of my luncheon programme.’

  She offered her hand. It was white and soft, and the fingernails shone without the aid of polish. Rosie grasped it in her short, stubby, rough red hand and was surprised at the strength of the grip. Well, perhaps someone who ate sandwiches like a schoolboy did not notice such stuff as bitten fingernails.

  What had that old recipe book said? Half an ounce of pure glycerine in a three-ounce bottle. Fill it up with distilled water and rub it into the hands every time you wash them and before they’re quite dry. Easy, easy, to be well groomed.

  ‘And I can at least stop biting my nails,’ said Rosie aloud and rushed, exhilarated, to a late tutorial.

  5

  Edinburgh, 1893

  IN 1893 HERMANN Dresser introduced a substance called acetylsalicylic acid. For years Lucy called it aspirin. It was a magic potion and doctors loved it. Doctors’ lives and, of course, the way of the world changed with other news that Sir John gave his daughter in a letter from Washington that same year. Henry Ford had developed what he called a gasoline buggy.

  They say we will all take to the highways and byways in these noisy smelly contraptions, Lucy, but quite frankly, it will never be as reliable as a horse. I do not intend to buy one – that is, if the man is not a maniac and actually gets the thing into production. Your mother, however, insists on being the first diplomatic wife to have one, not, I would say – but who listens to a poor soldier? – the most diplomatic of manoeuvres.

  Lucy laughed. A letter from her father was like a week’s holiday, so refreshed did she feel after reading them. It was years since she had seen him. He would have no home leave for another year, and she had used her two long summer holidays in further study. She was reading the letter in Dublin where she was taking a summer class at the famous Rotunda Hospital. Moving from one hospital to another was as much of a holiday as she allowed herself. There was just so much to learn.

  The letter continued:

  I have some bad news for Mother’s ambitions. I am to be transferred. Actually I am surprised that we have been left here so long. We are to go to Delhi. I was there as a subaltern and enjoyed the life very much. Will you visit? I know your mother will enjoy the social life once she has forgiven the Foreign Office for another hot posting. The good thing about it is, of course, that we will have home leave, and by the time you receive this letter all should be in train for our removal. Shall we take a hotel suite – I do not want to ask the Alexanders to move: they have been excellent tenants – or can your tiny flat accommodate us? What a wonderful Christmas we shall have.

  Max du Pay continues to cut a swath through society. We cannot understand why he has not succumbed to the blandishments thrown his way. His mother is one of those fragile women who ask for nothing but always seem to get their own way, and there is a certain Southern belle of her acquaintance. . . !

  What shall we bring you from these United States? I regret that we did not travel more here. I should have enjoyed a visit to the west coast.

  Lucy read the letter several times and then folded it away. Max du Pay! When his face, a memory of his voice, had pushed itself into the forefront of her mind in these past years, she had ruthlessly thrust the memories away. Once she had thought . . . what had she thought? That she liked him, that he liked her, that perhaps they could be friends. ‘When you have grown up a little,’ he had said, but she had grown up and he had seemed deliberately to ignore her. There had been no other personal invitations to the du Pay Thanksgiving Hunt. Her parents seemed to have dined with the du Pays often, but when they returned the invitations when Lucy was at home, Max was always somewhere else . . . tiger-hunting in India, skiing in Switzerland, trekking in Africa, or already engaged with one charming Southern belle after another. And now one of the hunted seemed to have captured the great white hunter. Good luck to her. Who cared for Maximilian du Pay? Her parents were coming, though Father had not said when they were to leave. She would write immediately to insist that they stay with her. It would be wonderful.

  And so it was. November had been a dreadful month when a tempest swept across Scotland, destroying property and even life. The beginning of December too had been windy, with great trees being blown down in Perthshire. Now, as they approached Christmas, the winds had settled down and there were frosts, flutterings of snow and rain, rain, rain. ‘Typically Edinburgh,’ said Lucy as she clutched at her skirts and her umbrella.

  The flat was warm and welcoming. Lovely smells came from the kitchen where Annie, delighted to have all her family together, was singing as she worked. Sir John lay in an armchair by the fire, his long legs stretched out to the flames, the Scotsman over his head.

  ‘That is not the way to absorb the news,’ said Lucy as she removed it and kissed his forehead.

  ‘I’m living in a lovely dream, Lucy,’ he said. ‘Toasting my slippers by the fire, my daughter blowing in from school . . . sorry, college, my wife bankrupting me buying Christmas presents, steak and kidney pie, if I’m not mistaken, in the oven, that same daughter pouring me sherry . . .’

  Lucy took the hint and filled a crystal glass with amber liquid.

  ‘Join me, my dear.’

  ‘I’ll wait for Mother. I have some notes to write before dinner. Why does it always happen that just as I congratulate myself that I have sent all my greetings, two drop through my own letterbox from people I have forgotten about completely?’

  Lucy left him and went to her room. Annie had drawn the curtains against the dark and cold, but Lucy opened them again. She loved to look at snow or rain falling against lamplight. She busied herself with her correspondence and after a while heard a horse-drawn cab pull up at the door. Lady Graham stepped out and then reached behind her for her parcels.

  ‘What can be in that huge box?’ laughed Lucy and hurried down to help her mother. Annie was there before her and the box had been spirited away.

  Lucy felt twelve years old again. ‘That in my room, that in the kitchen, that in . . .’ The orders went on and on, a beloved part of Christmas past.

  ‘Lucy, my dear. Has Father told you we are going to Fifeshire for New Year? I refused the invitation for Christmas, but there is to be a Hunt Ball and lots of young people and old friends of our own we haven’t se
en in an age.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Lucy but she already knew.

  At New Year it would be exactly two years since she had seen Kier, although he still wrote – not so often as before, but every few months.

  ‘Will Kier be at home?’ She followed her first unanswered question with another.

  ‘I expect the ball is to announce his engagement?’ Lady Graham looked at her daughter’s stricken face in some surprise. ‘Why, Lucy my dear, you don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ His letters were full of Cynthias and Alices and Janes. Lucy had never believed they meant anything to him, and now one did and she heard herself tell her mother she did not mind and did not know whether or not she told the truth.

  On Christmas morning, the big box revealed a sealskin coat with fur trimming. It was absolutely lovely and Lucy threw it round her shoulders and danced around the small drawing room.

  ‘It is the most beautiful thing,’ she said over and over again.

  ‘It will see you through medical school, darling,’ said her mother. ‘That wool coat you’re wearing is not nearly warm enough for Edinburgh winds.’

  ‘Good gracious. I wore it in Washington,’ laughed Lucy as she stood before a mirror admiring the fetching picture she made in the lovely soft grey coat.

  ‘Ah, but Americans know how to heat their houses,’ said Lady Graham, and frowned as her husband laughed at the irrelevance of her remark.

  Lucy wore the coat on the journey to Fife and was glad to know that she looked her best as Kier handed her down from the train and kissed her with all his usual exuberance.

  ‘I ought to have a sleigh drawn by reindeer to pull you home,’ he said. ‘I’ve put my name down for one of these new gasoline carriages though, Sir John. Have you seen one, sir?’

  It was as if they had never been apart. It was always like that with Kier. He had been a big part of her life for so long and she could not imagine him belonging to anyone else.