Sonia and Bobby lived in a run-down part of the town, in a flat above a derelict shop, reached by an outside stair. It did not have that ultimate degradation, an outside lavatory shared by other families, but it did not have a proper bathroom either. What it had was a tiny toilet contained in a ramshackle wooden porch. Even Peggy with her short legs found her knees scraping the wall as she sat on the lavatory seat. Sonia’s latest complaint was that if her belly got any bigger she’d get stuck. She hated that toilet. It affronted her dignity as a mother-to-be. She waited till she was in agony before she would go and use it; especially when icy winds blew through cracks in the wooden walls.
Sonia and Bobby had their name down on the council housing list. There were more than a thousand names in front of theirs. The birth of little Archibald would not advance them much. It took six weans to make any difference, Sonia had said. She was quite prepared to have them, for other reasons besides that, but it would take too long.
She was surprised but pleased to see Peggy. Her flat was clean and comfortably furnished on credit. The wallpaper and carpets were too gaudy for Peggy’s taste but Sonia called them cheery.
The kitchen was also the sitting-room. Peggy sat on an orange-coloured chair while Sonia, her hair in curlers, made tea on the gas cooker.
To forestall her hostess’s lamentations about the flat Peggy said that she had been to the supermarket and was fixed up to start work at the beginning of July.
‘And this,’ said Sonia, going over to consult a calendar which had a picture of a sailing-ship, ‘is June 15th. If you’re going to visit those swanky freen’s of yours you’ll hae to get a move on.’
‘I’m not going.’
Sonia was astonished. ‘But she said her family were a’ looking forward to meeting you. Ah heard her myself.’
‘She was just being polite.’
‘Weel, Ah did think it a bit strange, her being sich a lady and them living in a castle, but she did say it, Peggy.’
‘They’re not my kind of people.’
‘That’s silly, Peggy. Ah ken it’s whit your mum says but it’s silly juist the same. They’ve a’ got yin nose and twa ears, juist like you and me. They’ve got mair money but that’s juist their guid luck and we shouldnae grudge them it. You and me could hae cashmere jumpers and Italian shoes if we had mair money, couldn’t we?’
‘Could we have such good skin?’ asked Peggy, teasing her.
‘Skin? My skin’s as good as hers.’ Sonia stroked her cheek. ‘It’s juist your bad luck, Peggy, that you’ve got the kind of skin that attracts blackheids and spots.’
‘But wouldn’t you say eating the best food, living in the country, and having a fine big house with two or three bathrooms – each of them twice the size of this kitchen – wouldn’t you say all that makes them a superior kind of people?’
‘Maybe it does and maybe it doesnae. Ah prefer to think they’re juist luckier. Go and see for yourself. Whitever they are they’re the sort you should keep in wi’. Isn’t that whit you went to University for? To meet the kind of people who could help you to rise in the work? Weel, you’ve met them. These Sempills. It would be a shame if you didnae tak advantage. There are times, Peggy, when your brither and me think you’re no’ very smart at looking efter yourself, for a’ your brains. Getting a degree’s fine but it’s only the beginning. It gets you intae the right company, like these Sempills. But you’ve got to keep in wi’ them, even if it means you pushing yourself forward. That’s where you’ve got Bobby and me worried, Peggy: you’re no good at pushing yourself forward. Even in a bus queue you let people get in front of you. Ah’m being serious. Don’t laugh.’
‘I’m not laughing, Sonia.’
‘When wee Eerchie’s born he’ll be your blood kin, Peggy. That Diana she’ll hae weans, why shouldnae hers and mine and yours tae be freen’s? It’s no’ impossible. Is it impossible, Peggy?’
‘No.’
‘If it’s claes that are the trouble – you should tak mair pride in your appearance, Ah’ve telt you that before – then Ah’ll be gled to lend you my oatmeal costume Ah was married in and hae worn only twice since, and the hat that goes wi’ it. They might be on the big side for you but that wouldnae maitter. Toffs are careless aboot dress.’
‘I didn’t know that, Sonia. Diana’s always very well dressed.’
‘Juist as long as you don’t go dressed like a tramp.’
‘I’m not going at all.’
‘You’ll regret it, you’ll regret it a’ your life.’
So I shall, thought Peggy, and with a shudder sought to change the subject.
Unfortunately she happened then to look up.
‘So you’ve noticed it?’ cried Sonia.
She was already on to her third chocolate biscuit, while Peggy was still nibbling her first.
There was a patch of damp on the ceiling.
‘Slates are missing,’ said Sonia. ‘It’s been reported but naething’s been done. When it rains Ah’ve to put basins underneath to catch the drips.’
‘Doesn’t Bobby know any slaterers?’
‘You ken Bobby. He juist says gie me peace, for You-Ken-Who’s sake. This job he has, humphing bags of coal up flights of stairs, it’s too much for him. He shouldnae be daeing it for he’s really a driver, but Mr Logan says he cannae afford a driver that doesnae dae his share o’ humphing. There’s something Ah want to ask you, Peggy. Mair tea?’
Peggy held out her cup while Sonia poured.
‘Bobby said Ah wasnae to mention it to you, so Ah’d be obliged if you said naething to him. Your faither’s a member o’ the Labour Party, isn’t he?’
Sonia’s own father, Archibald Ramsay, was a Tory. He believed that ‘Men wi’ money’ were better equipped to run the country than ‘socialists wi’ nothing but talk.’
‘He’ll ken Cooncillor Orr?’ said Sonia.
‘My father knows several councillors.’
‘Orr’s the yin Ah’m interested in. You see, he’s chairman o’ some committee that has to dae wi’ housing. Ah ken for a fact that he’s got a hoose for people behind me and Bobby on the list. It’s true that they’ve got eight weans but juist the same they’d have had to wait their turn if it hadnae been for Cooncillor Orr. Whit Ah’m getting at, Peggy, is that Ah want you to ask your faither to speak to Cooncillor Orr, no’ for my sake or Bobby’s but for wee Eerchie’s. Ah ken your faither says he’s got principles but surely family comes before principles?’
‘Has Bobby asked him?’
‘Aye, but he doesn’t think much of Bobby. He’d dae onything for you, Peggy. You’re the apple o’ his ee. Tell him it’s being done a’ the time.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I’ve heard money’s changed haun’s.’
‘Are you saying Councillor Orr takes bribes?’
‘Ah’ve accused naebody, but it’s done a’ the time.’
‘Well, I’m sorry, Sonia, I’d like to help, but I just couldn’t ask my father. He’d be insulted.’
She expected Sonia to sulk, for a minute or two anyway, but no, after a long sad sigh, Sonia went back to the subject of the Sempills and Peggy’s visit to Poverty Castle.
Eleven
IT WOULD have been far worse if she had had a taste of the tall white house, inside and out, and the four other girls, and their father with the melancholy eyes and their mother with the medieval face. In that case Peggy might have been consumed by a longing so strong that it would have made her ill. As it was her mother remarked on how pale she was.
‘You never had rosy cheeks, no’ even in your pram, but Ah’ve never seen you that colour before. It’s a’ that reading. Maybe you should go and see the doctor.’
Her father was shrewder. ‘Are you missing your University freen’s?’ He meant them all, not Diana in particular. It never occurred to him that Peggy, brought up to take the side of the poor, might be pining for a family which she had never seen, except in a photograph, and which belonged to the parasitical class that enjoyed the best of everything wi
thout having to work for it. It amazed Peggy herself. Diana had ideas about class and rank that Peggy considered absurd and anachronistic. She was never really at ease in Mrs Brownlee’s and some of the girls were never at ease with her. They said, half-jokingly, that she was preparing for when she became Lady Campton, mistress of servants. She would be able to claim that she had experience of common people. That was why she travelled in buses when she could afford taxis. All that was true, and yet if next session Diana was absent from Mrs Brownlee’s Peggy would be disconsolate. A window through which a richer life than her own could be seen would have gone blank.
Then one morning while she was still in bed her mother brought her in a letter.
‘Swanky paper,’ she said, with a sniff. ‘Must be from your hoi-polloi freen’s.’
Her husband had once pointed out to her that hoi-polloi meant the opposite of what she thought, but she still used it.
Peggy almost said: ‘Take it away. I don’t want it.’ She said nothing and took the letter. Her name and address were handwritten but it wasn’t Diana’s handwriting. It didn’t look like a woman’s. It couldn’t be from Edwin, could it? No, that was daft. She and Edwin had even less in common than she and Diana. Besides, they had never met.
‘Aren’t you going to read it?’ asked her mother.
It was curious, thought Peggy, how her mother accepted with childlike joy the most unlikely circumstances in the romances she read, such as shop girls marrying lords’ sons, and yet as regards real life she was hardheaded and sceptical. As a romantic she had enjoyed Diana’s visit and had entertained her colleagues in the supermarket with accounts of it, but as a realist she was convinced that association with Diana’s family would be harmful to Peggy in that it would make her discontented with her own home and family.
Peggy read the letter.
‘Dear Peggy,
‘I hope you don’t mind my calling you that, it would seem pompous addressing Diana’s friend and room-mate as Miss Gilchrist. As the nominal head of this household I have been asked, on behalf of everyone, to remind you that you are most cordially invited to spend a few days with us in Kilcalmonell. It is very beautiful here at this time of year. Please come. We shall all be very disappointed if you don’t. You see, we all know you and respect you very much, from what Diana has told us about you. Do not, we beg you, deprive us of the pleasure of meeting you in person. Write or telephone and let us know when to expect you. Arrangements will be made to collect you.
‘Yours most sincerely,
‘Edward Sempill.’
After his signature came, in their own handwriting, the names Diana, Effie, Jeanie, Rowena, Rebecca, and Margaret Sempill, who must be Mrs Sempill.
Mrs Gilchrist was impatient. She had her coat on, ready to go off to work. ‘Is it frae Miss Sempill?’ she asked.
‘No. It’s from her father.’
‘Whit does he want? You’ve never met him, have you?’
‘No. Would you like to read it?’
Her mother took it and read it, with pursed lips. Now and then she uttered a little snort. ‘He’s being sarcastic,’ she said, at last. “The pleasure of meeting you”. Some hope. They juist want you there to laugh at you.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘Whit else would they want you for?’
Peggy was silent.
‘Don’t tell me you’re thinking of going?’
Peggy still said nothing.
‘You start work, mind, no’ this Monday but the next. Ah wouldnae want you to disappoint Mr Stevenson, efter him being so obliging. Maybe they do respect you, Peggy, as they should, but they’re no’ oor kind. Amang them you’d be naething, amang your ain kind you’re somebody. Weel, Ah’ll have to be aff.’
When her mother was gone Peggy lay staring up at the ceiling. She wanted very much to read the letter again but she wasn’t going to. She was going to put it in the fire, except that there was no fire, the house being all electric. She would put it in the garbage bin under the sink.
When she got up her father was in the kitchen reading his Daily Record. Every morning he went first thing to the newsagent. It was, he admitted, full of trivialities but he couldn’t do without it.
‘Your mither said you got a letter frae Miss Sempill.’
‘From her father.’
‘Whit does he want?’
‘You can read it if you like.’
‘Are you shair it’s no’ private?’
‘Maybe you could advise me, after you’ve read it.’
‘Thanks, Peggy.’
He read at first with frowns and then with smiles and nods. Evidently he thought Mr Sempill was sincere.
‘It’s a very nice letter,’ he said, cautiously. ‘Are you going to accept?’
‘Do you think I should? Mum thinks I shouldn’t.’
‘Your mither would be terrified to find herself amang folk like that, but she forgets you’re a different generation and you’re educated. If you’re no’ on their social level yet you will be one day.’
He was supposed to believe in a time when everyone would be on the same social level. Were his dreams of justice and equality, like her mother’s fantasies, merely compensations for the irreducible harshness of real life?
‘I’m not going, Dad,’ she said.
‘If it’s money Ah’m shair your mither and me could help.’
‘It’s not money.’
‘He hints in his letter as if he thocht it might be. Why don’t you want to go?’
‘I want to but I can’t.’
‘Whit’s preventing you?’
It would have taken a long time to sort out the mixture of prejudice, fear, envy, inhibition, and self-distrust that stood in her way. She was used to doing without things that she couldn’t afford, but making do a while longer with old jeans or old shoes was hardly to be compared with giving up this opportunity to spend a few days at Poverty Castle. Was her mother right in thinking that when she saw how they lived in their beautiful and comfortable corner she would be sick with discontent?
Better not to go. She would write to Mr Sempill, thanking him and saying she was sorry she could not accept his invitation. She would tell the kind of lie used on such occasions: her mother wasn’t well. She would write it at once and go out and post it. Once it was in the letterbox she would be free to concentrate on the book she was reading, which was Prescott’s Conquest Of Mexico. Her dropping the letter in the box would be the equivalent of Cortes’ burning of his boats on the beach at Vera Cruz!
It took her only ten minutes to write the letter. The notepaper and envelope she used were cheap in comparison with Mr Sempill’s. But then hers were coming from a council flat with a view of an abandoned steelwork, his had come from a castle in sight of the sea.
She went through to the living-room to look for a stamp in the little silver dish in the display cabinet.
Her father was still reading the newspaper. ‘Are you going to post it right away?’ he asked.
‘Why not?’
‘Shouldn’t you wait a day or twa? Second thoughts are often best.’
‘I’ve thought about it too long already.’
It was a bright morning. In Kilcalmonell the sun would be glittering on the sea. Here it shone dully on heaps of litter and some haggard grass. She remembered how Diana had looked at all this unloveliness with pity for those condemned to live amidst it but also with impatience at their failure to tidy it up. She had not realised that living here for years had a paralysing effect. To tidy it up and keep it tidy would need Herculean efforts hardly within the capability of people burdened by generations of deprivations. Flowers and bushes had once been planted by the council, only to be torn up within days by children whom everyone, including their parents, had called vandals. But it had seemed to Peggy, herself a child then, that that vicious and exultant destruction had also been an unconscious gesture of revenge. In this television age the children of the poor saw every night how the rich lived.
She
came to a letterbox in a wall. She took the letter out of her pocket and held it in the slot but did not let it go. It might not be safe here. Children dropped in lighted matches. Better to find a letterbox in a safer place.
It would be as well to make for the post office in the main street. A letter posted there went faster.
She came to it and walked past. She told herself she must not send a letter that contained a lie. But that itself was a lie. The truth was she had sentenced herself to a kind of death and dreaded to pull the trigger.
She sat in the public park, reading the Conquest Of Mexico. Young women with babies in prams passed, talking about babies. There had been babies in Montezuma’s kingdom. Prescott, that blind admirable man, generously excused the conquistadors, on the grounds that they were men of their time and ought to be judged by the standards of that time. They had believed that cruelties and murders perpetrated by them on heathens in an attempt to win them to Christ were not only pardonable but praiseworthy, and would earn them a place in heaven. But what if, thought Peggy, there was one person, just one, in the sixteenth century who believed in his heart that those cruelties and murders were evil like all other cruelties and murders, that Cortes and his men, for all their endurance, courage, and fame, were brutal murderers, especially as a part of their motive was greed for gold?
She imagined that one person, sitting in the sun in a public park in Medellin, the town in Spain where Cortes was born, not daring to say it but thinking it, that treachery was treachery, greed was greed, cruelty was cruel, and murder murder, no matter what extenuations were offered, religious or patriotic.
In her own day, she thought, such a person might say, in defiance of the vast majority, that the killing of thousands of innocent people at Hiroshima, say, could never be justified. In the twenty-second century, if mankind had not destroyed itself by then, would some historian like Prescott write that it had been the general belief of the twentieth century that such massacres, though unfortunate and lamentable, had nonetheless been necessary, so that civilisation might be saved. Since all believed it no one was to blame.
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