The Liberation of Celia Kahn

by J David Simons

  “Well, you thought wrong. The Fund uses the money to acquire land in Palestine for Jewish settlement. They buy from the effendi – Arab landlords happy to sell for a good price.”

  She tried to imagine these huge swathes of paradise on earth just waiting to be bought up with her pushke farthings. A date tree here, an olive grove there. How about those mountains that change colour throughout the day? And that lake where Jesus walked. How many pushkes for that? “Is all this just empty land?”

  “Some is, some isn’t. What’s empty are the marshlands and the non-irrigated areas. The fertile areas are worked by the fellahin, the local Arab farmers.”

  “So what happens to them?”

  “They don’t have any rights of tenure with the effendi. So they have to leave on purchase.”

  “But where do they go?”

  Jonny shrugged, looked down at his coarsened hands that had chosen to wield mattocks rather than scalpels. “Arabia is a big place. As far as the Fund is concerned, Jewish-bought land is for the Jews. It’s hard enough trying to eke out a few crops from the soil for yourself without having to worry about the fellahin.”

  “I thought you were a socialist.”

  “I still am, Celia. That’s why I don’t want to see the Jews as big-shot landowners with the fellahin as their slaves. I want to see a community of Jews as equals. The fellahin can go and live their lives where they want and how they want.”

  She picked out an éclair from the cake plate. She remembered how at this very table those several years ago, Agnes had persuaded her to come out with her to Govan, to ring the fishmonger’s bell at the sight of the sheriff officers, how the women were all riled up and excited about the justice of it all, about the power of sisterhood to prevent the eviction of tenants by greedy landlords. And now her very own farthings were contributing to another form of eviction. All in the name of socialism. And Zionism. She had never missed her dead friend so much as at this moment. She had a thought to replace the gateau in her fingers back on to its paper doily. Instead she bit into the chocolate and cream. It was delicious.

  “Why do you make me feel guilty about this?” Jonny asked.

  “I haven’t said a word.”

  “That’s exactly why I feel guilty. So what would you like me to do? Go off to Africa, start a commune there?”

  “I don’t know why you want to go off anywhere. We Jews are treated well enough here in Glasgow. What’s the point of trying to build a socialist homeland elsewhere?”

  “I’m sure the Jews in Russia used to think the same. Until the pogroms started.”

  “That won’t happen here.”

  “So would you rather I stayed?” He sat back in his chair, folded his arms against her. She noticed the sleeve of his jacket worn at the elbow. What he needed was a good leather patch, she could stitch that for him if she had a mind to. “Well?” he said, the word sounding like a challenge. “What do you say?”

  “There’s plenty of work here for a good doctor.”

  Twenty-six

  “NO-ONE’S COMING,” Charlotte declared from her vigil by the window.

  “It’s still early.” Celia was stoking up the fire in the grate. She’d made some scones, there was a pot of tea warming on the stove. There were even some pink roses, the very last of the year’s bloom, in a vase on the kitchen table. She wanted Agnes’ place to look homely and friendly, just women sitting around the hearth for an intimate chat. The boxes of caps she’d put in the bedroom for fetching when required. Samples of each size were available for trying out. She’d manage to fit one for herself no problem. It only required a certain amount of dexterity and intelligence in following the instructions. If their client or customer or whatever they were supposed to call them encountered any problems of discomfort or difficulty in fitting, then the whole process was to be abandoned. However, if matters went smoothly, the woman would be supplied with two rubber caps in her size and an information pamphlet. No medical advice of any kind was to be given. A short questionnaire to be answered. Anonymously, of course.

  She had been in correspondence with two fledgling birth control clinics down in London – the first founded by Stopes, the other the Malthusian’s League Walworth Clinic. Both had medical advice on hand although finding doctors and nurses both willing and knowledgeable had been a hard task even for them. But she had agreed with Charlotte a very clear policy. Their task was provision only. Any risk lay with the recipient. These women also had to confirm they were over twenty-one years of age, married or about to be married, and that they would not allow the device or the information pamphlet to fall into the hands of any young or unmarried person. Charlotte had produced a short waiver-and-consent form to this effect for signature, her recently acquired legal acumen coming courtesy of her current lover, a solicitor in the city.

  “There’s someone now,” Charlotte squealed.

  “You should get away from the curtain. You’ll put people off.”

  “Oh no, she’s gone past. I don’t think anyone will come.”

  “We have to be prepared for that. Or perhaps it will just take time for word to get around.”

  “I feel like an actor on first night. Hiding behind the curtains, waiting for the theatre to fill up.”

  Celia thought that an apt description of her friend. A strutting actress always performing on some stage of her imagination. “Maybe you should put on some greasepaint then,” she said rather unkindly. But she was feeling anxious herself and Charlotte’s impatience was irritating. She would rather lay herself down on a bed in the dark, swallow two teaspoons of nerve tonic, wait for the doorbell to ring.

  “I only make-up for the men. The women can see me for who I am.” Charlotte turned away from the window, combed her fingers through her short bob. “Anyway, I don’t want to intimidate some wee wifie, do I?”

  “Sometimes I wonder why you bother with all of this?”

  “Because beneath this sophisticated exterior, a Marie Stopes is waiting to burst out.” Charlotte dumped herself down in an armchair. “To be honest, sometimes I wonder myself what I’m doing here. I don’t really fancy having children. So I suppose I’m quite happy to help others who feel the same. There’s too many stinking urchins running about in bare feet, with rickets and lice and polio and TB, sucking on gobstoppers, cluttering up the streets with their stupid games. The horrible little monsters. In fact, I hate children. I’m probably a eugenicist at heart. We should just sterilise the whole human race, let ourselves die out, start all over again. Just you and me.”

  “We’d still need some man to impregnate us.”

  “I’d choose Ivor Novello. We’ll keep him for ourselves. And when he’s not impregnating us, he can entertain us with a quick song and dance.”

  “You came up with his name quick enough.”

  “I’ve just seen him in that new picture. The Bohemian Girl.”

  “You can be his Bohemian girl then.”

  Charlotte laughed, flicked away with her fingers like castanets. “All right. I’ll have Ivor. And you can have your Jonny boy. Is he still wooing you?”

  “He’s trying his best.” Jonny had already taken her to the pictures three times in the last week – once with her mother, then with Nathan and finally with an imaginary Charlotte as chaperone. That third time, he had held her hand through both features, only letting go to bring her an ice at the interval.

  “But will his best be good enough, I wonder? To break down that hard exterior?”

  “I’m warming to him. A few years ago, I hardly gave him the time of day.”

  “Well, even now you don’t sound very enthusiastic. Maybe I should have a go at him. The more I think about it, the more I think he looks a bit like Novello. A slightly darker version though. If he just swept his hair back a little, got rid of that working-class tan.”

  She felt her stomach tighten. Charlotte probably could have Jonny if she wanted to, the way she behaved around men was almost sinful, always touching their hands, rubbing
against them like a purring cat, hard for a man to resist. “You’re not his type,” she said sharply.

  “So what is his type then? Straight-laced virgins?”

  “I’ve never said I was a virgin.”

  “So who was the lucky one then?”

  “Charlotte. Can we stop this?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just tense. My nerves are all on edge about this. Do you have anything to drink in this…”

  The bell went. Charlotte jumped out of her chair. “Thank God,” she said as she raced to the door. Then she stopped herself, took a couple of deep breaths, then went out into the hallway. Celia poured some boiling water from the kettle into the teapot, fiddled with the flowers, fussed with the pleats on her skirt. The door to the kitchen opened. A refined-looking lady entered dressed in a full-length wrapover coat and a broad-brimmed hat. Behind her, Charlotte making all kinds of strange faces to confirm what they both thought. That this was not the kind of client they were expecting.

  “What am I supposed to do?” this woman asked, looking around the room rather disdainfully.

  “Please, please sit down,” Celia said, pulling out a chair by the kitchen table. “Would you like some tea?”

  “That would be fine.” The woman sat down, took off her hat, put her handbag on the table, folded her hands in her lap. She wore her hair long and upswept in the old style. “Well?”

  Celia placed the questionnaire on the table while Charlotte finished preparing the tea. “First, let me introduce myself. I am Celia Kahn, and this is my colleague, Charlotte Maxwell. Secondly, I would like to ask you a few questions.”

  The woman nodded.

  “Are you married?”

  “I most certainly am.”

  “We don’t need a full name. But would you mind providing an initial?”

  “You can put me down as Mrs B.”

  “Good. Now, Mrs B. May I ask your reasons for coming here?”

  Mrs B twisted her neck first to the left, then to the right, Celia hearing the muscles unwind and crack as she did so. Charlotte placed a cup and saucer in front of their guest, along with a bowl of sugar and a jug of milk. Mrs B added the milk but not the sugar. “I am a Roman Catholic. As is my husband, of course.” She lifted the cup to her lips, deemed it to be too hot, returned it to its saucer. Celia noticed the slight tremor in her hand, then in her voice as Mrs B said. “I have had ten pregnancies. Four children living. Two girls, two boys. The oldest is now twelve, the youngest just eight months. I am thirty-one years of age.”

  Celia noted all this down, glad of the distraction. Charlotte had sat down in the armchair, plucked a cigarette from her silver case, but remained with it unlit between her fingers.

  “Do I have to go on? All I want is to purchase some items. I didn’t think I would be attending confession.”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs B,” Celia said. “We don’t want you to feel that way. It’s just that a little detail would be helpful to ascertain people’s needs. And anyway, the contraceptives are free.”

  “I must insist on paying. I am not someone in need of parish handouts.”

  “Perhaps we can discuss this later. In the meantime, if you feel comfortable, would you mind continuing with your reasons for coming here.”

  Celia thought Mrs B was going to get up and leave there and then. She had picked up her handbag from the table, laid it on her lap, her body stiffening as if she were about to raise herself from her chair, take her hat and scarper. Instead, she unclasped the fastener on her bag, brought out a lace handkerchief. “My husband will not permit contraception of any kind. I spoke to him once about it a few years ago but he flew into such a rage, accusing me of such sinfulness against God, the Holy Father and the Church that I dared not raise the subject again. But I have no wish for another pregnancy. My nerves are so distraught by the thought of another miscarriage or a baby dying young. It is like some kind of dreadful lottery. Either a dead or a living child. Four is enough to bring into this world, don’t you think? Yet my husband continues to want to… to know me. And I can’t bear it.” Mrs B played with the clasp on her bag. “I am not a stupid woman. I am aware of these contraceptives. I also understand they can be employed without the husband even knowing they are in place. But Boots the Chemist won’t provide them without a prescription. And I cannot possibly visit my family doctor about this. He’s worse than the Pope in these matters. So when I heard about this…”

  “How did you hear about us?”

  “Through my sewing circle. You know how women talk about these things.”

  Celia put down the questionnaire. “Charlotte will take you through to the bedroom, Mrs B. There is a choice of three sizes. Please feel free to use our samples to ascertain the one most appropriate. We have prepared a page of instruction along with diagrams according to the practice of Dr Marie Stopes. It is important that the device feels comfortable for you. There is a hand-basin, soap and a towel for cleaning the samples after use. We will provide you with two items in your size. I am afraid we cannot offer any clinical advice as we are not qualified to do so. Once you have found what you want, there is a waiver we would like you to sign.”

  Mrs B stood up. “Thank you,” she said and followed Charlotte through to the bedroom.

  As soon as the door had closed, Celia blew out a breath. She could feel the little pool of sweat that had formed just above her collarbone, soaked into her blouse. The whole conversation could not have taken more than five minutes yet she felt exhausted. She leaned over to the untouched cup of tea, picked it up, took a couple of sips. She usually drank it with sugar, but she didn’t care, her mouth was so dry. The door to the bedroom opened. Charlotte.

  “Bloody hell,” her friend hissed. “What have we let ourselves in for?”

  Celia motioned for her to stop talking, move away from the door. Charlotte plonked herself down on the armchair again, lit up the cigarette she had been holding for the last few minutes.

  “How was she in there?”

  “Fine,” Charlotte whispered. “The poor woman. Well, she isn’t poor, of course. If we get any more like her and the word gets around, we’ll have the whole of Catholic Glasgow’s wealthy women waiting in the hallway.”

  “I wasn’t expecting to be serving the middle classes.”

  “Me neither.”

  “But what can we do? I don’t know about you. But I’m a feminist first, a socialist second.”

  The bedroom door opened again. Mrs B stood there, slightly flushed, her coat open. “Thank you. I have taken two items in my size.” She strode across the kitchen floor, pausing by the table to place a ten-shilling note by the saucer the same way she might tip a waitress. Without waiting for a word of protest, the offer of a scone or the request of a waiver to sign, she proceeded on her journey out of the kitchen, out of the flat. Charlotte jumped up to the window, peered out from behind the curtain. “Look at her go,” she said. “She’s walking as fast as she can without running.”

  The bell rang again.

  “Round two,” Celia said, getting up to answer the door this time. “Can you check in the bedroom to see if everything’s in order.”

  The poor woman stood in the doorway trembling, clasping this flat, round object wrapped in newspapers like it was the crown jewels themselves she was holding. Celia could see she had once been an extremely pretty girl but her cheeks all rouged up now couldn’t hide the gaunt pallor and desperation that had come to reside on her face. Once Celia had brought her through to the kitchen, she decided against making an offer of tea, went straight to the drinks cupboard to bring her a shot of brandy which she quickly accepted. Charlotte offered her a cigarette, also gratefully received. Celia had just managed to get an initial out of her for her name when Mrs T started unwrapping the newspaper from her parcel, not pausing to undo the string properly, just scraping away at it frantically with her fingers.

  “See,” the woman said.

  What Celia could see was a large plain dinner-pl
ate with the name of a well-known city newspaper embossed in the centre. “What is it?” she asked.

  “The paper give me this. For having ten bairns. You had to write in and tell them. They printed a list so readers could check you weren’t lying or anything. See my name’s on the back. Mother of ten, it says. Just so you got proof of what I have to tell you. So you dinnae think I’m trying to get something for nothing.”

  “We’re not here to pass judgement on you, Mrs T,” Celia said. “Nor to investigate. We would just like to know the reason for you coming here.”

  “That’s bloody simple. I need help, that’s what. I’ve had thirteen bairns, ten are still alive by some miracle. I’ve done my duty for King and country, that plate of mine proves it. My man lost his job at the pickle factory a few years back so he’s no bloody use to anyone. After the last bairn, the hospital told me my womb was prolapsed or something. Is that the right word? And if I had any more weans, it’d probably kill me. Not that they told me how to stop having the bloody things. Even when I asked them. It was like I’d spat in their faces the way they turned their heads so quick. My drunkard of a husband disnae seem to care that banging me up again is like a hangman’s noose around my neck. As long as he satisfies himself whenever the fancy takes him. So I come to you. I couldnae have another wee drop of brandy, I’m shaking something terrible.”

  Charlotte poured Mrs T another glass, one for herself while she was at it. Celia went on to explain the service on offer, then Charlotte directed her towards the bedroom.

  “These caps are no going to make me epileptic or something,” Mrs T. asked, as she rose unsteadily from her chair. “Or send me to the loony bin. I hear they can do that, make you go doolally. Promise me that’s no true. I dinnae want to go to no loony bin for this.”

  “I promise you it’s not true. Now Charlotte will show you what to do.”