The Dark Side of Pleasure

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  Voices now. Mrs Gunnet’s fury drowning out the pleading tones of her neighbour.

  ‘How dare you have the effrontery to enter my house! This is a respectable place. My husband shall hear of this. If you don’t get out of my house at once I’ll run you out by the back of your neck.’

  Sounds of protest, then urgent scufflings. A door banged. A bolt clanged. Then silence.

  Augusta could not believe it. She opened her eyes and tried to see through a mist of sweat. She tried to heave herself towards the door, but she was helpless against the pain that kept dragging her back into herself. Thoughts of Mrs Dinwoodie swirled away and were forgotten. All her energies were needed to fight the battle with her body.

  She was bathed in sweat and fainting with exhaustion by the time the pain stopped and she saw the tiny creature moving fitfully, blindly between her legs. It was still attached to her with what must be the cord Mrs Dinwoodie had spoken of. Reaching with difficulty for the scissors Augusta wept, partly from fatigue and partly because she was so unsure about cutting into the flesh in case it hurt or injured the baby Then she remembered the neighbour had said something about tying the cord. Fumbling for the bobbin on the small table, she managed to unwind a piece of thread and somehow twist herself round to reach the cord and fasten a tight tourniquet round it. She had to move the baby in order to do this and it began to cry, its tiny hands stretching and curling in protest. She sobbed along with it in a distress of spirit far more harrowing than the physical pain she had just suffered. Then she fought with her weakness to lift the child and pull it into her arms. It stopped crying and she became aware of its sticky closed eyes and its naked, bloodied body, and the urgent necessity to wash it and put on its gown. The performing of these tasks was a nightmare of concentrated effort made all the more terrifying by the sudden rush of what she later realised was the afterbirth.

  By what seemed a miracle she cleaned the child and somehow got it into the gown. Then she wrapped it in her shawl and laid it on the floor at her side while she struggled out of her petticoat, lifted it like a bag with the afterbirth inside and deposited it all in the pail. Finally she cleaned herself as best she could.

  After that she must have slept, for the next thing she heard was the sound of dishes being put on the table and the early morning whine of Rose’s voice. It took Augusta a long time to raise herself, lift the baby and make her way, with the help of the furniture, across to the bed. After tucking the child under the covers she returned to pick up the pail and to shuffle at a snail’s pace through the kitchen and out to the dung heap to empty it. Similarly, taking the journey in slow, determined stages, she emptied the tin bath. She felt slightly mad. Her exertions had gone far beyond her capabilities. She was no longer aware of how she managed to complete each task.

  Back in the kitchen again where Mrs Gunnet was sitting by the fire nursing yellowish brown paper curled up at the edges, like leaves of a withered rose. Without warning, Augusta snatched the testimonial letter from her mother-in-law and tossed it into the flames.

  Chapter Nineteen

  During the night Luther had tramped through the streets and alleyways of the poorer districts. He had penetrated into every black cave of close, quickened his stride at the glimpse of every shawl-shrouded figure, the sound of every female voice.

  Anger soured inside him as he returned to the Cross after having searched the High Street, Gallowgate and Saltmarket. As soon as he found the girl, he vowed, he would give her the thrashing of her life. He had enough to bother him without her making things worse.

  Argyle Street stretched before him into the far distance, puddled with gaslight and washed every now and again with ripples of silver from the moon. The Tolbooth clock struck one against the silence. Not a living soul could be seen, although he knew that many a doorway would be hiding homeless men, women and children. It was his constant nightmare that one day there would not be enough money to pay his rent and his family would be flung out to survive as best they could in the open. Because of this it was a torment for him to walk along Argyle Street and view at close quarters the huddles of wretched humanity. Men leaned against doors, shoulders and heads sagging forward, hands pushed deep into trouser pockets or with arms hugged across chests as if trying to defend themselves against the pitiless onslaught of cold. Women clutched shawls over their heads or tried to shelter babies in their arms. One woman wore a limp bonnet, the flowers and ribbons that decorated it telling of better days past. She was keeping her face hidden down in a large handkerchief but he knew not only by the bonnet but by the black curls escaping from it that it was not his sister.

  He quickened his pace. He could not believe that Tibs would venture into the streets of the better-class residential areas, with their large villas surrounded by iron railings. No shelter of any kind could be found there. Anyway, he was well aware of how timid and excitable his sister was. That also made it difficult to imagine that she would have struck out for the country in the dark. But where else could she be?

  Gaslight faded out towards the end of Argyle Street and left only the moon to intermittently reveal a path through the blackness. He felt it useless to go any further yet at the same time he could not bring himself to return to the Briggait. The mere idea was like a desertion of Tibs when she needed him most.

  He went on walking until it was as if he were the last man in the world. Only the rustle of some small animal in the hedgerows or the hollow hooting of an owl cut through the emptiness. He was just about to turn back when he caught sight of a larger shadow moving against a hedge. Then as he strode rapidly nearer he heard jerky moans of fear.

  ‘Tibs,’ he called, ‘is that you?’

  Suddenly the dark shape untangled itself from the bush and rushed at him.

  ‘Oh, Luther, I’ve been so frightened. I was going to sleep here till morning but I was afraid I’d see ghosts or witches like in “Tam o’Shanter”.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ His anger melted with the relief of finding her safe and sound. ‘There’s no such thing. That was just Robert Burns’s imagination. Come on, I’ll take you home.’

  She kept a tight grip on his arm as they walked back along the road but a silence strained between them. He felt her tenseness as if she was continuously struggling on the verge of telling him something.

  Eventually he burst out, ‘The mill’s no worse than a thousand other places. You were lucky to get in there.’

  ‘Lucky!’

  ‘Yes, lucky. And you haven’t a chance of being taken back. I suppose you know that. You’ve probably lost Billy and Rose their jobs as well.’

  ‘They hate it too.’

  ‘I know they hate it. The crowd of you have been too bloody pampered, that’s what’s wrong. Well, any day now there’s going to be no money to pay the rent and you’ll all be out on your arses on the streets.’

  She began to wail. ‘Isn’t there anything you can do, Luther?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said bitterly. ‘I’m just allowing my family to starve because I choose to.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Luther. I didn’t mean . . . .’

  ‘I’ve done all I can. I can do no more.’

  He knew he was lying. He had not grovelled. He had not begged. He had not slunk cap in hand, whining to house doors. He had not stood in full view of the gutters with hands helplessly outstretched. The mere idea nauseated him. It wasn’t his nature to do it.

  Yet when he returned home to find Augusta lying like a ghost in the room bed and the child sleeping innocently beside her, he knew he no longer had any choice.

  ‘It’s a boy,’ Augusta said.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘I’ll survive.’

  ‘Mother managed to see to things all right, did she?’

  She turned her face away from him. ‘Don’t talk to me about your mother.’

  ‘All right.’ He touched the child. ‘He looks a fine lad, what shall we call him?’

  She looked round at him again. ‘I thought s
omething from the Bible. Samuel perhaps?’

  He nodded and she went on, ‘Luther, what are we going to do? Will Tibs get her job back, do you think?’

  ‘She’s at the mill just now. We’ll just have to wait and see.’

  ‘How do you know she won’t run away again?’

  ‘She’d better not. Will I fetch you a cup of tea?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Through in the kitchen his mother was repeating words to herself like some sort of litany.

  ‘A woman of Christian character and smart appearance, a good efficient worker. A woman of Christian character and smart appearance, a good efficient worker . . . .’

  He was appalled at how much of a stranger she looked. Her big frame, once softly rounded, had become gaunt and angular. Her best black dress was crushed and food-stained. Her once handsome face, topped with a greasy bird’s nest of hair, was dirt-ingrained and darkly lined like old leather.

  ‘Would you like a cup of tea, Mother?’

  ‘A woman of Christian character and smart appearance . . . .’

  ‘Mother . . . .’

  ‘A good efficient worker . . . .’

  He took the cup back to the room and gave it to Augusta before going over to the window to stare blankly out at Stockwell Street. Memories flickered across his mind. His mother had never been a demonstrative woman but there had been times when she had given some rough yet affectionate prodding, or a quick glance of pride that had betrayed the depth of her feelings and the high hopes she had for him. He had promised her a cottage in the country, fine clothes, a whole new life. He had meant to keep those promises. He could have kept them . . . .

  ‘Luther,’ Augusta’s voice forced its way through his thoughts. ‘I’m worried about what’s going to happen now that we’ve got the baby. I can’t bear him to suffer.’

  He made no reply.

  ‘Luther!’

  ‘I heard you.’

  ‘Maybe I could find work. Luther?’

  He kept his back towards her, not trusting himself to speak.

  ‘I’ll do anything, Luther. I don’t care about myself any more. I just don’t want my baby to suffer.’

  He left the house with long rapid strides.

  Around the hotels were favourite places for beggars. Often he’d whipped them out of the way to clear a path for ladies and gentlemen emerging from the Black Bull to board his coach. It was the same at the Tontine Hotel, and that was where he made for now. On reaching the archways in front of the Tontine he found the Royal Mail was the centre of attraction. The usual bustle of humanity crushed about on all sides. Apart from the crowds of onlookers in the street, maidservants watched and giggled in the doorway of the hotel, aprons dancing in the breeze. In front of them, arms akimbo, beamed the landlord. Luggage spilled across the pavestones while the guard, with proud ritual, attended to his most important duty, the securing of the mail. Ladies and gentlemen ebbed and flowed, bidding their goodbyes. Or they swirled around like rainbows, checking that their boxes and bags were among those heaped on the ground.

  A man in rags so thin and tattered they were barely decent pushed his hat in front of one of the gentleman travellers.

  ‘Spare a penny, sir? For the sake of my children. A penny to help soothe their hunger pains. Please, sir?’

  The gentleman was laughing at a joke told by one of his companions, a dandy of a fellow in a full-skirted coat with a fur collar.

  ‘Please, sir,’ the beggar persisted in his attempts to catch one or other of the gentlemen’s attention. ‘For my children.’

  Luther was wearing an old black topper. He’d long since sold the smart white hat he’d worn in his coaching days. He removed the hat and for a few minutes stood crushing it against his waist, fiddling with the brim, agitating it round and round. The breeze frizzed out his hair and side whiskers, giving him a wild look. Suddenly he jammed the hat back on his head and pushed his way so violently through the crowd he caused yells of protest to erupt and fists to be raised.

  Ignoring them, he automatically made for the Green, the nearest place where he felt he could breathe, where he could be free from crowds. Yet even in this country oasis in the middle of the city there was no escape. Here he found an even larger gathering. Indeed there was such an enormous multitude it stopped him in his tracks, until he remembered that this was the day that the famous Clem Doberman was taking on his latest challenger, Jack Kitson. Thousands were anxiously waiting for the fight to begin. Grassy lawns, stretching up from the river to daisy-spotted banks fringed on top by tall trees, were tightly packed with people.

  Luther edged through them, rehearsing pleas for money and struggling to squeeze out the necessary words. But his mind kept paralysing his tongue with excuses. This wasn’t the right time, or the right place, or everyone was spending too much money gambling on the pugilists. There would be nothing to spare for beggars here. Rain that had been sporadically whipping the town lashed across the scene without him noticing it, so intense were his secret arguments with himself. He almost blurted out a plea for money but recognised just in time a group of coachmen he had once known. There they posed, great swells in their white toppers and gloves and fancy waistcoats. Managing to avoid being seen by them he pushed forward again until he could go no further. He had reached the outer ring, the place cleared around the boxing ring for the umpires, the referee, the wealthy backer, their particular friends and other gentry of the town.

  It was obvious from the tall polished hats and well-cut frockcoats, the cigars and heavy gold watch-chains, that there could be no evading the fact that he was faced with plenty of money now.

  Taking off his hat he stood twisting its brim, at the same time fixing belligerent attention on a prosperous-looking man immediately in front of him. The man’s companion was saying,

  ‘Time’s up, McLure. I claim the stakes.’

  McLure fished a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket. ‘There’s another five minutes yet.’

  ‘There’s not a sign of your man. And I can’t blame him. Clem Doberman is enough to frighten anybody off.’ He gazed proudly at the ring on which three men restlessly roamed about.

  It was easy to distinguish Clem Doberman from his seconds. The pugilist was bigger and burlier with legs like tree trunks and a shaved head to protect him against any other fighter’s grip. That head had butted many an opponent insensible.

  ‘You’ll have to pay up. No challenger. No fight.’

  McLure was obviously struggling to hide the keenness of his anger and disappointment. He kept his eyes down on his watch but a dark flush was creeping up from his neck. In a reckless impulse Luther caught hold of the man’s arm.

  ‘Can I have a word with you, Mr McLure?’

  The man twisted round in surprise. ‘What about?’

  ‘You still have a chance of winning.’

  ‘Come to the point.’

  ‘I’ll take up the challenge for the same purse as Kitson.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Luther Gunnet.’

  ‘What prize-winning experience have you had?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘And you can beat the champion?’

  ‘I don’t know but I’m desperate enough to make one hell of a try.’

  McLure’s hesitation only lasted a few seconds as he puffed at his cigar. Then he shrugged and said, ‘What more can I lose? You’re on!’

  Chapter Twenty

  The P.C. ring was raised about two feet from the ground, covered over with dry turf and a cartload of sawdust.

  Colonel Bentley, the referee, had mounted the ring to bawl out that because Jack Kitson had failed to come to scratch there would now be a trial of manhood between the champion and one Luther Gunnet from the Briggait.

  The colonel, a stiff-limbed man, then retreated through the ropes with some difficulty to the outer ring. The seconds tossed a coin. Doberman’s won and, after testing the state of the wind, led their man to the corner of their choice.

/>   The mark or scratch in the middle of the ring had already been made and Doberman had tied his colours (a black handkerchief which he took from his neck) to the stake in his corner. McLure passed a blue handkerchief to be secured to Luther’s stake.

  Laughter guffawed around the outer ring at the combination of colours and Josh Cribben, Doberman’s kneeman, shouted:

  ‘I’ll take one hundred to one we’ll see black and blue on their mugs before it’s over.’

  Lord Deerston, the umpire and timekeeper, took out his stopwatch. The combatants stripped to the waist and placed themselves in attitude at the scratch.

  It was obvious to Luther as well as everyone else that Doberman, although of similar height, had a weight advantage of at least a stone. Luther was anatomically sound, with broad shoulders and hard knots of muscle bulging in his arms, but his belly and loins had a thin fragility by comparison.

  They had only taken up the stance for a few seconds when the champion, legs planted like oaks and toes glued to the line, let fly right and left. Luther warded the blows off with a guardian arm. He was well aware that the normal practice of defensive boxing was ‘never to shift’ and to try to ward off blows with the arms without the aid of footwork. It occurred to him however that if he was to stand a chance of even surviving the fight he had to manoeuvre about and keep free of his adversary whenever possible. He had seen Doberman fight before, had seen him in fact kill two men in the ring. He had also witnessed the eye-gouging, the crippling kidney punches, the cross-buttock throws and the suit in chancery at which this pugilist was a master.

  He tried though, as he kept retreating and Doberman slowly advanced, to jab at the heavier man’s jaw. He landed several punches, one of which jarred Doberman’s head back but didn’t stop him. Then suddenly they were wrestling. Their sides had come together, Doberman’s arm was over his neck, had grasped his loose arm with his other hand, had shifted to his front, had got his crutch on his hip and canted him over the gorilla-like shoulder.