The Lorimer Line

by Anne Melville

  ‘You mean - ?’ But the question was unnecessary. It was Margaret’s turn now to flush, for it was difficult for her not to feel shocked. ‘It would perhaps be as well,’ she said doubtfully, ‘if we did not mention the baby to Mama.’

  Luisa continued to keep silent, forcing Margaret to make up her own mind. Postponing a decision, she looked again at the baby.

  ‘What is her name?’

  ‘She is christened Alexandra. But the name is so long for someone so small. I call her Alexa.’

  ‘Goodbye, Alexa.’ Margaret stroked the baby’s downy golden hair softly with a finger. Then she kissed Luisa goodbye. It was time to return to the arrangements for the afternoon.

  They had proceeded smoothly in her absence and by two o’clock it was obvious that John Junius’s instructions about the weather had been obeyed. The sun shone from a perfect May sky. Even the wind which at almost every season rushed up the gorge to toss the heads of the chestnuts and acacias on the western boundary of the garden seemed today to be enjoying a Bank Holiday rest. Margaret could think of nothing likely to spoil the occasion except her meeting with Walter Crankshaw.

  What made the situation more difficult was that she had never liked to explain her objection to a young man whose reputation was a respectable one. Margaret visited her sick families under the auspices of the Gentlewomen’s Aid to the Distressed, a charity sponsored by the most prominent ladies of the city. They subscribed generously to its purposes and by their names protected the reputations of the younger women who actually ventured into the less pleasant areas of Bristol. Margaret went into the slums without fear of scandal, but even she accepted that there was one part of the city which a young lady should never visit.

  Just once, in an emergency caused by an accident to a child, she had broken this unwritten rule, protected by her father’s coachman. It was on this occasion that she had seen Walter emerging from a house off Joy Hill. Unlike the dockside stews, the establishments in this district were outwardly respectable, but their costs were often defrayed by gentlemen who would not in public admit to knowing the females who occupied them. Margaret’ upbringing had been strict, and she accepted the restrictions which were designed to protect her before her wedding day. But she was young enough to be an idealist, not accepting a double standard for men and women. If Walter behaved before marriage in a manner that she could not approve, might he not continue afterwards in the same way?

  Margaret was well aware that she was not supposed to know why the Joy Hill area was forbidden to her. Georgiana would have been horrified to discover how her twenty-year-old daughter’s mind had been corrupted by conversation with the sick and poor. Any admission of what she had seen, much less the deduction she had drawn from it, would result in an immediate prohibition on any further visiting.

  But for Margaret these journeys were not merely a way of passing the time. They were the only part of her day’s activities which she felt to be of any value, and she did not intend to put them at risk merely so that Walter could have an opportunity to explain his movements or, alternatively, that her own repugnance for the proposed association should be understood.

  This was why she had given her father no reason for her rejection of Walter Crankshaw, which in turn made her fear an embarrassing encounter at the party. But when the afternoon came Walter bowed politely over her hand without speaking and his parents were fulsome in their compliments about the appearance of the garden.

  With her small ordeal over, Margaret felt able to relax. The upper lawn and terraces, usually deserted, were crowded by now. Since everyone must have arrived, it would be in order for her to move away from her parents’ side. But just as she began to turn away, a late guest made his appearance. He was a stranger to her - a good-looking young man, clean-shaven and bright-eyed, revealing dark curly hair as he raised his tall hat. She waited while the new arrival exchanged a few words with her parents. Then Mr Lynch, the manager of Lorimer’s, brought him across to be introduced to her.

  ‘Miss Lorimer, you will not have met our new company accountant. He is only recently arrived from Scotland to take up the post. May I beg leave to present Mr David Grcgson?’

  2

  When an employer extends a social invitation to the members of his staff, acceptance is taken for granted. The fortunate minions need only consider how best to express their gratitude, and take pains to be punctual in arriving and leaving.

  David Gregson had been in grave danger of offending against this unwritten rule as the time approached for the start of the garden party at Brinsley House. To spend his free time in the company of fellow-workers offered little prospect of pleasure, and he had been put to an expense he could ill afford in order to dress in the check trousers and cutaway coat prescribed by Mr Lynch as suitable for his position. Nevertheless, he had recognized that it would be unthinkable to refuse his chairman’s invitation and was prepared to utter all the polite insincerities which the occasion would demand.

  As a comparative newcomer to the city, however, he had not realized in time how much the residents of Clifton valued the exclusive character of their suburb. Only when he was leaving his lodgings did his landlady warn him that the tramway company had never been allowed to lay a line there in case the general public should be tempted to intrude. He would have to walk the whole distance. As he strode up the steep hill from the city centre his thoughts were solely on the undesirability of being late. He had no premonition that the next hour would change the course of his life.

  A footman with a fine pair of calves, wearing the family’s green and gold livery, showed him to the lawn at the rear of the house where the chairman of Lorimer’s was waiting to greet his guests. Mr Lynch was hovering near at hand in order that the lowlier members of the staff could be introduced by name. David had met Mr Lorimer at the time of his appointment and had not been forgotten yet, but Mrs Lorimer was a stranger. Plump and pale, she gave him a gracious smile but had nothing to say. Mr Lynch led him the few steps necessary to present him to the daughter of the house.

  David had seen Margaret Lorimer on two or three occasions in her father’s carriage, but they had never spoken. As they exchanged politenesses he could tell that the occasion was a strain for her, but one on which she was determined to do her duty more conscientiously than her mother. Even so, he did not expect to be allotted very much of her time. The Lorimers had invited the staff of the bank, but they would prefer to converse with the directors. He had exchanged only a few words with her when he became conscious of Mr Crankshaw approaching with his wife and son. Taking this as his cue to bow and withdraw, he noticed just in time that the chairman’s daughter was deliberately turning away from the Crankshaws.

  ‘May I show you our gardens, Mr Gregson?’ She began to move across the grass even as she spoke, as though unaware that anyone else might be seeking her attention. The flush on her freckled face revealed, however, that this was not the case.

  He wondered for a moment, as he thanked her for the privilege and offered his arm, whether there was any significance in the small incident. Lorimers might possibly be able to quarrel with Crankshaws, but Crankshaws could in no circumstances afford to quarrel with Lorimers. David’s responsibilities at the bank covered the checking not only of the ordinary deposit accounts, but also of the far larger amounts which Lorimer’s lent to a variety of local undertakings. He knew, for example, that besides being a director and a large shareholder in the bank, Mr Crankshaw was heavily indebted to it. The money which he had borrowed was being well used to develop new dock facilities at Portishead, near the mouth of the river. One day these would certainly prove to have been a good investment, but that day was still in the future: in the meantime the security which he had given for the first loan, nine years earlier, no longer came near to covering the further borrowings which had become necessary as the scale of the development enlarged. If Lorimer’s was to call in the loan, Crankshaw’s yard would go bankrupt.

  Since in those circumstances Lorime
r’s would lose all chance of repayment, this was a situation unlikely to arise; but as an accountant David could not help being conscious of the size of the unsecured part of the loan. As a relatively junior member of the staff, however, he could do no more than bring the situation to the attention of the manager at the end of his preliminary study of the bank’s financial affairs, and this he had done.

  All this, of course, was a confidential matter, not to be thought of outside business hours, and most certainly not to be mentioned to Margaret Lorimer, who would know nothing of her father’s affairs. Instead, he stooped a little to listen as she told him the names of unfamiliar ferns and flowers. He had no taste for botany, but her voice interested him.

  David Gregson was an ambitious young man. It was ambition which had carried him out of his first apprenticeship to the study of accountancy: it was ambition which had brought him south out of Scotland. Only twenty-seven, he had moved a long way already from the poor home into which he was born, and he intended to move further. So he was sensitive to the manners and the accents of the rich: studying and copying them had become a habit.

  The country customers of Lorimer’s Bank spoke a Somerset dialect, and the accent of the town was lazy as well, although in a different way, softening the consonants which fell in the middle of words until they could hardly be distinguished at all. None of this slovenliness could be heard in the Lorimer voice. The chairman spoke with a sharp gruffness; it could not be copied without producing an immediately recognizable imitation which would give offence. But his daughter was a different matter. Her voice was clear and precise, the vowels pure and the consonants sharp. She had had lessons in elocution, perhaps, but long enough ago for her not to be self-conscious about the effect. Her sentences were phrased in a formal way, very different from the shouted exchanges of the women who lived near his lodgings. She had been taught to be polite rather than spontaneous.

  David was not, at this first moment of meeting, greatly interested in pursuing his acquaintance with her, since he was unlikely to meet her again until the next Bank Holiday. But he listened with care to the construction of her sentences and made a mental resolution that from now on he would always say ‘you’ instead of ‘ye.’

  Perhaps the fact that he was listening to the sound rather than the content of her words made his hostess become aware that he had no great interest in plants. She changed the subject as they came to the steps which led down from the upper terrace, and enquired where he had found lodgings.

  It was an unfortunate topic. Knowing nothing about Bristol when he arrived, he had taken rooms in a quarter which, although conveniently near to Corn Street, he now knew to be lower in status than his new employment made proper. But the young foreign woman who was the only other tenant in the house and who supported herself by giving piano lessons was very often, he knew, behind with her rent, and the widow who cleaned and cooked for him had come to depend on his more regular payments. He mentioned the district reluctantly, without giving exact details of his address. At least he could feel that a young lady like Margaret Lorimer was unlikely to be familiar with it.

  He was wrong. Explaining why she often passed through that part of Bristol, Margaret told him also about her visits to sick families in the depressed area to the east of it. Her voice lost the polite formality with which she had greeted him: her face, which until now had expressed only conventional politeness, became animated. It was enough to make her appearance immediately attractive, although there was nothing, he felt, that could be called pretty about her. At first David was amused by the vigour with which she expressed her feelings. Then he found himself becoming both flattered by her confidences and impressed to the point of admiration by her sincerity.

  ‘Your work must give you a deal of satisfaction, Miss Lorimer,’ he said.

  ‘What I do is second-best.’ She was firmly scornful of her own efforts. ‘The houses round the Froome flood in every rainy winter. To take a warm blanket to a woman whose room is perpetually wet is almost useless. The funds that are raised would be better spent in providing a building with a healthy atmosphere in which such a woman could recover, or by controlling the river so that the cause of the illness is removed.’

  ‘And can such things not be arranged?’

  ‘I have no authority even to suggest them,’ she said. ‘And althought the gifts of money we receive are generous, they are not sufficient for more than the day-to-day needs of the families I visit.’

  ‘Your interest in the sick is unusual,’ he suggested. It was common enough, he knew, for young ladies with time on their hands to make charitable expeditions, descending from a carriage with a bowl of broth prepared by a servant. But Margaret Lorimer’s descriptions of her arguments with landlords and disinfectings of rooms indicated a more practical approach.

  ‘It is a very particular interest,’ she told him. ‘I wish to see women give birth to healthy babies, and to watch those babies grow up to be healthy children. Do you know how many of our city children die before their first birthday, Mr Gregson? It is a number that shames us all.’

  ‘We need more doctors, I suppose,’ he said. It was a casual conversational remark, but its effect startled him.

  ‘Yes,’ she said with a sudden emphasis, stronger than any she had used before. When she repeated the word it was in a quieter manner, almost as though she were talking to herself. ‘Yes. We need more doctors. I wish very much that I could become a doctor.’

  Now she had surprised him indeed. For the first time since his arrival he looked directly into her eyes. There was an earnestness in her expression which bore a family relationship to the determination to be seen in her father’s eyes at all times. But John Junius was a man who not only expected instant obedience to his orders: he was confident of obtaining it. His daughter’s opinions might be equally strong, but it seemed that she had accepted defeat so far as putting them into practice was concerned.

  ‘And is this not possible?’ he asked cautiously. It was true that he was not acquainted with any women doctors, but he had assumed that this was because girls found the profession too unpleasant or too intellectually demanding for them to attempt entry into it. Even before he asked the question he guessed that he was wrong.

  ‘There are obstacles on every side, so grave that any one by itself would be enough to make such a wish impossible of fulfilment. Here in Bristol, for example, a new College of Science is due to open in October. For the first time women will be admitted to the classes - in every subject except one. The exception is medicine.’

  ‘You must go to London. There is a School of Medicine for Women, is there not?’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed; and she must have been pleased that he had troubled to remember the fact when he heard it, for her sudden smile was charming. ‘I suppose it is a great advance. Women are allowed to follow the same courses off study there as male students. But when the first women to enrol finish their studies, they will find that no university in England is prepared to examine them. Without a degree they cannot be admitted to the medical register. Without such registration they cannot practise.’

  ‘Surely some women doctors do exist.’

  ‘A handful, yes, but each of them has had to qualify in France or Switzerland or the United States. How can I ask my father to pay the expenses of a course which may prove to be entirely wasted, or else to allow me to live alone in a foreign country? Since he would disapprove even of the ambition, the means needed to achieve it would seem quite insupportable. And even if all these problems were to melt away - ’He saw her lips tighten in disapproval. ‘Three years ago a female physician was appointed to the staff of the Children’s Hospital in Bristol. Immediately the appointment was known, every other member of the staff resigned.’

  ‘And so what happened?’

  ‘Do you really need to ask, Mr Gregson?’

  Of course he did not. They were both silent for a moment, turning back from the parapet of the lower terrace without even pausing to admire the s
plendour of the view. David was sorry that he had allowed the subject to be discussed to a point which obviously caused his companion distress. He could tell that it was still on her mind, for she gave a sigh of hopelessness.

  ‘It might be possible to oppose one’s family with the backing of society, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Or to oppose society with the backing of one’s family. But when both unite to regard a woman as …’ She stopped abruptly, and the flush which he had noticed at the approach of the Crankshaw family rose again to her neck. ‘I am speaking too freely, Mr Gregson. It is most improper of me. I must rely on you not to reveal my indiscretion.’

  The appeal in her eyes had an effect on David as disturbing as it was unexpected. Her hand was still resting lightly on his arm. He had a sudden overwhelming desire to take it in his own, to press it to his lips, to promise its owner anything in the world that her heart could wish.

  This is absurd, he told himself. He had heard often enough of young men who were swept off their feet by the first glimpse of a beautiful girl. But Margaret Lorimer was not beautiful, and he had survived the first glimpse of her without the smallest increase in the tempo of his heartbeat. Nothing of significance had occurred in the past few minutes. As a man who had already pulled himself a little way up in the world he had been drawn into an immediate sympathy for someone whose ambitions might be just as strong as his own, but who found wealth more difficult to escape from than poverty. But their conversation should, if anything, have diminished his interest. His companion’s thoughts were clearly concentrated on a subject which left no room to spare for young men. It was ridiculous to expect that she had formed any opinion about him at all. It was still more ridiculous to feel sorry for a sheltered young woman who would probably never in her life know a moment’s anxiety about anything of real importance. It was overwhelmingly ridiculous - he put it bluntly to himself - for a young accountant, even one earning a salary of more than a hundred pounds a year, to fall in love with the daughter of his employer. It was all so ridiculous that it could not possibly have occurred.