Mrs Gunnet said: ‘I can easily bring her porridge in here.’
‘Why should you?’ Then to Augusta, ‘If you don’t come through and eat with us then you don’t eat at all.’
‘Luther, she’s got to eat for the child’s sake. And . . . and I’d rather have it this way. I value my privacy too.’
‘All right. But it’s not going to work forever. Sooner or later she’s got to fit in.’
After he strode from the room Mrs Gunnet opened the shutters to reveal a window at which hung a pair of net curtains. Immediately Augusta became aware of noise that she had not noticed before. The clatter of coaches and carts and wagons. The gruff urgings of drivers. The shuffling of feet and the whisper of clothing.
‘Is that the Briggait out there?’ she asked Mrs Gunnet.
‘No, Miss Augusta, that’s Stockwell Street. “We’re on the corner, you see. The close is on the Briggait. I’ll get your porridge.’
The bowl in which the porridge arrived was made of thick undecorated crockery, and the equally primitive-looking jug held watery milk.
‘Is there no cream?’ she asked in surprise.
Hearing her, Luther called from the kitchen. ‘Just think yourself fortunate that you’ve anything to eat at all. If I don’t find work soon we could all starve.’
His mother’s face stiffened. ‘Luther!’
‘Well, it’s true. And it’s her bloody fault. That’s what sticks in my throat. Her and her stupid family.’
Mrs Gunnet said: ‘I’m sorry about the cream, Miss Augusta. And I know there should be other things too. Eggs and meat and muffins and marmalade and the like. I have been in good service and I know how everything should be done. But we are poor people, you see.’
‘Come away and have your breakfast, Mother. There’s no need to apologise to her.’
Mrs Gunnet held a chair at the small table in readiness for Augusta to sit down. Then after settling her comfortably she went out, shutting the door behind her. Nevertheless Augusta caught some of the woman’s words to her son.
Words like ‘tragedy’ and ‘responsibility’. Then the son’s voice raised in anger.
‘If I wasn’t accepting my share of responsibility she wouldn’t be here. But this could ruin my bloody life, Mother. If I let it. But I’m damned if I’m going to let it!’
Augusta’s hand trembled as she raised the spoon to her mouth. The noise of the man’s voice on the one side and the violent sounds of the street on the other made her feel like a fragile butterfly in between, something so out of place that it could be destroyed simply by finding itself in such an alien environment.
Tears choked hard in her throat, but she was hungry and she continued to spoon porridge into her mouth and make the effort to swallow it down. Then she sat like a child staring at the empty bowl. The low-roofed room closed in on her. The whitewashed walls had a streaky, bluish tinge in daylight, reminiscent of the diluted milk. They were like stable walls and cluttered within them the furniture gave the room the appearance of a seedy back shop. It had been good once; each sagging chair had obviously belonged to a respectable home at some stage in its life. The chest of drawers had once graced some civilised bedroom. The little oak table had stood on a carpeted floor and been a useful place to rest a lady’s embroidery frame or china teacup. Now the pieces of furniture were only shabby homeless articles long ago abandoned and crushed together like junk.
She rose eventually and squeezed over between the chairs to stand at the window. The scene outside was blurred by the net curtain, but she did not pull it aside. A rough, noisy throng crushed terrifyingly close to the glass. She shrank back quickly and retreated to the rocking-chair. Trying to concentrate on her novel she struggled to ignore the rumble of noise from outside, and the cold wrapping around her like a wet shroud. Mrs Gunnet came in later to make the bed, empty the chamber pot and take away the dirty dishes, but made no attempt to communicate with her. Augusta watched the older woman. She worked quickly and deftly like someone who had been well trained. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if a fire could be lit but caution restrained her. She did not know if Luther was still in the kitchen and she had no wish for another distressing scene.
After what seemed like an age Mrs Gunnet returned with a cup of tea and a plate of bread and cheese. The afternoon dragged on and she was forced to don her coat and hug her fur muff to prevent her hands from freezing. Darkness gathered in the room. She thought she heard children’s voices and surmised that the young Gunnets must have returned from school. She tiptoed over to the door and listened harder to try and find out if Luther was also there. Then plucking up courage she eased open the door. Mrs Gunnet was sitting erect beside the fire, hands clutching each arm of the chair, feet set firmly on the wood floor, head tipped back. Her eyes, though closed, seemed twisted with pain, and as if instinctively sensing Augusta’s presence she immediately opened them and stood up with a proud grace.
‘Yes, Miss Augusta?’
The two children hurried over to lounge half-hidden behind her chair. Luther was nowhere to be seen.
‘Even with my coat and muff I am frozen to the marrow of my bones, and I have not even had the civilised comfort of a wash. Surely I can have some of that fire to heat this dreadful room? And unless I get a hot bath I shall probably die of cold.’
‘I would have seen to the fire, Miss Augusta—only Luther said . . . .’
‘I do not care what your son said!’ Augusta shivered with anger now as well as cold. ‘I need to have a fire and a bath of hot water.’
Mrs Gunnet took a moment or two before saying, ‘I’ll bring the fire through but I don’t know how I can manage the hot water.’
‘Heat it, of course.’
‘It’s not just that. We haven’t a tap, you see. It’s a pump out in the yard.’
‘Well, bring it in from the yard. Get the children to help you. They can be fetching some in while you’re seeing to the fire. Oh, do hurry, for goodness sake. I’ve never been so wretchedly cold in all my life.’
Another few agonised moments of hesitation before Mrs Gunnet nodded. Then she bent down and began digging the shovel into the grate. In a few minutes the fire in the parlour was lit and a tin bath placed in front of it.
‘I’ve one kettleful hot just now. I’ll empty it in.’
After she’d done this she told the children: ‘Rose, you manage the kettle, and Billy, you take the bucket, and mind how you go in the dark.’
With frozen clumsy fingers Augusta struggled to undress herself. For one thing she wanted to make sure she got a bath before Luther Gunnet returned. For another, she was impatient to feel the comfort of the hot water thawing her icy limbs. However, she was forced to give up her desperate fumblings with the back buttons of her dress and ask Mrs Gunnet to assist her with them.
She was sitting blissfully in enough hot water to lap against her thighs when she was startled by an outraged voice shouting,
‘Mother, why the hell are the children struggling outside in the dark with kettles and buckets?’
There was no reply and suddenly the parlour door crashed open and Luther entered. Augusta screamed and squeezed her eyes tight shut as if by doing so she could will him to disappear.
Mrs Gunnet’s voice came close to her ear and tugged a towel protectively around her nakedness. ‘She—sh! It’s all right, Miss Augusta.’
Augusta opened her eyes wide. ‘No, it’s not all right. How dare he invade my privacy like this?’
Her indignation faltered with fear when she saw Luther’s face. In his eyes was a malice so concentrated it paralysed her.
‘How dare you,’ he said, ‘make slaves of my mother and brother and sister!’
Mrs Gunnet kept her gaze averted from him. ‘I don’t mind, Luther . . . .’
‘I mind!’ he interrupted. ‘I mind a great deal and will not have it. Go through to the kitchen, Mother . . . .’
Augusta gave a cry of panic and clutched at the older woman’s arm. Frantic
ally she tried to stop her from rising.
‘Mrs Gunnet, I forbid you to leave me!’
‘You have no right,’ said Luther striding over and wrenching off her clutching hands, ‘either to order my mother to do anything or to forbid her to do anything. Get that into your empty, useless head!’
‘Luther, Luther,’ his mother repeated in a tight monotone.
‘It has to be done, Mother. For her own sake as well as for ours.’
Then suddenly she was jerked to her feet, and before she knew what had happened she was sprawled across Luther’s knees and her naked thighs were stinging under the vicious blows of his palm.
Chapter Eleven
Lying back in the black pit of the bed, in the stale-smelling stable of a room, she tried not to cry. Desperately she clung to anger to harden away fear.
How dare Luther Gunnet frighten her! How dare he hurt and humiliate her! How dare he shatter her whole life! She could not, would not tolerate it. He had bullied her into coming with him while she was ill and in a state of shock. He had literally dragged her off. He had wrenched her from her beautiful, civilised home and imprisoned her in this dreadful hovel.
That last time at Cameron House she should have run upstairs from the kitchen and sought the protection of her mama and papa, if she’d only had her wits about her. Their fury and disappointment would have subsided by then and they would surely have realised that what had happened was Gunnet’s fault, not hers. That night of the blizzard she had fought him with all her strength but he had overpowered her. They must realise the truth of this by now. They too had been in a state of shock and confusion before, but now they would have had time to think.
Augusta’s heart began to fill with hope. If she returned to George Street they would take pity on her.
‘Please, please, Mama and Papa,’ she would say, ‘forgive me for unwittingly causing you such worry and distress. But, oh, how distraught I have been too . . . .’
They would make everything all right again. She willed time to pass quickly until it was morning and she could be away.
At last a feeble wisp of light threaded through a crack in the shutters. She arose in an agony of impatience but was forced to feel her way slowly and cautiously across the room since it was still dark. After much fumbling she managed to unlatch the shutters and allow the small window to shoot beams of dusty brilliance into the room.
Outside, Stockwell Street had already awakened. Hurrying past were women in shawls, carrying shopping baskets, black-faced chimney-sweeps, men in ill-fitting fustian clothes, ragged children with eyes dazed by fatigue.
From the farrier’s building came the resounding clanging of iron and the shuffle of horses’ hooves. A cart rattled over the cobbles; its racket battered about inside the room, louder and louder before gradually dwindling away again. A carriage swayed and creaked and thundered and blocked out light.
Cold chilled through the soles of Augusta’s feet and her cotton nightgown. She took a spasm of shaking and hurried, moaning a little, to where her clothes were strewn on the sofa. Not yet adept at dressing herself, she was near to tears before she managed to don her gown. At last she won the fight with buttons and tyers and, quite faint with the need for a cup of tea, gave her hair cursory attention before opening the bedroom door.
She saw him immediately. Dressed in a loose-fitting white shirt he sat at the table with his mother and the children. Each had a bowl of watery-looking porridge in front of them. They were eating with no sign of enjoyment. The tiny room was lit by a candle stub stuck in a saucer. A smoky fire blackened both kettle and the teapot on the hob.
Luther’s eyes pierced her like barbs of hate, making her clumsy as she lifted a cup from the dresser and carried it over to the hob. Nervously glancing at the table she saw no signs of any milk or sugar. Without a word she carried the steaming brew into the other room and shut the door. Sipping at the tea, she willed herself to ignore its revolting taste and not be overcome by the wave of nausea that so often buffeted her in the mornings. Nevertheless it seemed to warm and strengthen her, and after she’d finished it she donned her brown hooded cape and waited behind the door, hugging the cape around her and praying for sounds of Luther leaving the house.
At last she heard the outside door bang. Hurrying to the window she peeped tentatively out. Soon Luther came into view, tall and muscular among the crush of people. Growing bolder and moving nearer to the glass her eyes clung to him as he strode further away up the street. He still wore his hat at a jaunty angle, and moved with a careless swagger. He was an insolent, wicked man who needed to cool his heels in jail. Merely to deprive him of his employment wasn’t a stern enough measure with which to punish him. She would tell her father so.
Having assured herself that Luther had completely disappeared, she left the room. Mrs Gunnet’s even voice halted her in the kitchen.
‘You cannot go out alone. It isn’t safe for a lady to be on the streets by herself. I will come with you.’
Augusta hesitated, remembering the rabble outside and the dark, stinking yard and close that she would have to pass through before even reaching the street.
‘Oh, very well. But do hurry. I am eager to be home.’
‘You mean to George Square?’
‘Where else?’
Lowering her eyes but not her head Mrs Gunnet picked up a shawl and tossed it round her shoulders. Her face had a sickly pallor and her mouth was set in a thin bitter line.
As soon as Augusta stepped outside she was glad she had let the older woman accompany her. The yard was a gloomy underworld from which there seemed no escape. For a few seconds she felt totally confused.
‘This way,’ Mrs Gunnet said.
Augusta followed her out to the Briggait. Scant light filtered into the narrow street, but in a minute or two they had turned up the Stockwell which at least was bright and busy. Soon they were making their way along the much wider and more familiar Argyle Street with its colourful coaches and proud prancing horses. The glass of shop windows winked friendly invitations, creating a kind of joy inside Augusta. In her imagination she savoured again the life to which she had been accustomed. What shop would she visit today? What new bonnet or gown would she order? What acquaintances would she and her mama call on? With whom would they sit and gossip and sip tea?
Round into Queen Street now, with its elegant mansions kept apart by private lanes and fronted with double stairs, separated from the street by iron railings. Into George Square at last, and there was Cameron House. Reaching the front door Augusta said,
‘Thank you, Mrs Gunnet. You may return to your home now.’
Mrs Gunnet stood in utter stillness for a moment, then without looking at Augusta and with not a word she turned and walked away.
Augusta rattled the door-knocker and waited impatiently until it was opened by McPherson, immaculate in a blue and white striped morning gown. The maid stared in astonishment at Augusta’s dishevelled hair and untidy appearance. She was not wearing a bonnet and the hood of her cape had blown back. The crumpled collar of her dress protruded from the top of the cape and her face looked far from clean.
‘You are blocking my path, McPherson,’ Augusta said. ‘Stand aside, please, so that I can enter.’
All expression smoothed from the maid’s face and she said politely:
‘You are no longer welcome here, mistress.’
‘That is not for you to say.’ Augusta pushed past her. ‘Where is my mama?’
‘In the parlour. And she has said . . . .’
‘Thank you, McPherson. We shall ring for you if we need you.’
Stubbornly Augusta waited until McPherson had withdrawn before she hurried across to the parlour.
Her mother was reclining on the sofa, covered by a knitted blanket. Immediately on catching sight of Augusta she screamed in hysteria:
‘What are you doing here? How dare you come back! Leave this house at once!’
‘But, Mama, please,’ Augusta struggled to make
herself heard. ‘Surely, at least, we can talk.’
‘Talk, talk, that’s all I hear is talk,’ Felicity cried out, ‘you wicked wanton creature. Better you were dead and buried. You have ruined everything for me. Even my own dear son has deserted me. Fled to the colonies to escape the disgrace you have brought on us, and to start a new life. But what about me, what about my life?’
‘We haven’t talked at all,’ moaned Augusta. ‘You don’t understand. I want you to know how terribly sorry and distressed I am. I have been forced to live in the most intolerable condition in the Briggait. It is a frightful place, I cannot bear it.’
‘They never stop talking,’ Felicity ranted on. ‘They simper and whisper behind my back and torment me most cruelly to my face. I am tormented beyond endurance till I shall surely die.’
‘Mama, please listen to me. It was not my fault. He was too strong for me. There was nothing I could do. I’m frightened and desperately unhappy. I need you and Papa to protect me.’
‘They simply delight in it. Oh, the cruel barbs; the knives slyly pushed in and twisted unmercifully.’ She waved a handkerchief wildly in front of her face. ‘I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it. My whole life has turned to ashes because of you. Get out of my sight: I want nothing more to do with you.’
‘Mama, you cannot make me go back to the Briggait. You do not know what it is like. It is just too horrible to describe.’
‘Only the other day Mrs Laidlaw-Smythe called with her daughter Polly. All the way from Edinburgh, just to crow about that girl’s propriety and delicacy and good taste, her modesty, decorum and unsullied virtue. How she rubbed it in, saying it was all the result of good breeding, of course.’
Augusta couldn’t believe her ears. Her very soul clung frantically to the safety and comfort of the room. It was like the difference between heaven and hell. Every part of her being savoured the thick carpet, the easy chairs, the footstools and the big black marble clock with its pillared front that tick-tocked leisurely and tranquilly in this haven of comfort.
Then in the towering mirror, ornamented with gilt shells and pink cupids, she suddenly caught sight of herself, and was shocked beyond measure at how alien she looked in these surroundings.
The Dark Side of Pleasure Page 8