Light & Dark

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  Leave one or two nice girls before the sex your system smothers,

  Or what on earth will poor men do for sweethearts, wives and mothers?

  Clementina didn’t care what anybody thought. The enforced triviality and self-denying vacuity that middle-class girls endured at home was not for her.

  To give Miss Viners her due the governess had, over and above the required ‘accomplishments’, conscientiously provided her with a good basic education. There had been the ‘three r’s’ and also history and mythology; they even did some reading in philosophy.

  Once her mother, on discovering that she was learning about the mythologies of Greece and Rome—the heroes and nymphs and stories like the Iliad and the Odyssey—had sweepingly condemned the learning of such heathen mythologies: ‘Useless knowledge like that is not going to be any good to you at all, Clementina.’

  But the next day at lessons Miss Viners had said, ‘How would you know what a person meant if they spoke to you of someone having “Herculean” strength?’

  Clementina had seen the point. Words were not only sounds. There was reason behind them.

  Lessons had been dull at first, for there had never been the slightest sense of humour or fun about Miss Viners. But over the years they had developed a kind of hypnotic interest. Clementina had graduated from the horrible screech of slate pencil on slate as her hands slipped on a line or figure, to the splutter of real ink and a quill pen in her much blotched copybook. Learning had gradually become a challenge that suited her stubborn, sturdy spirit. Over the years of determined plodding more and more flashes of insight rewarded her. Many hours of reading began to fall into place and consolidate and illuminate the formal part of her learning. It was also to Miss Viners’ credit that she encouraged her pupil to read widely. It was the governess she had to thank for being introduced to A Vindication of the Rights of Women and the essays of John Stuart Mill and Harriet Taylor Mill.

  Miss Viners, she discovered eventually, nursed some secret bitterness about the role of women in the scheme of things. Her clergyman father had always wanted a son to follow in his footsteps and had been acutely disappointed to be burdened with a daughter. A daughter could not take up the ministry or indeed do anything except become a governess after his death. It was then Miss Viners had found herself left penniless and without even a home to call her own.

  ‘You will never be allowed to do anything you really want to do either, you know,’ she told Clementina. ‘There is no point in building up your hopes. You will not be allowed to go to University, but your young brother Jamie will. And he will get first class training for a career that will stand him in good stead and provide him with a good income for the rest of his life if he needs it.’ She gave a humourless laugh. ‘Which he won’t, because when your mother dies he will inherit this house, the estate, everything. You will end up having to toady to some man in order to survive,’ she said bitterly. ‘Just as I have to do to rich people.’

  It was enough to make anyone bitter, but what worried Clementina more than the property or the money was the denial of her individuality and the free development of her potential. She wanted to be independent, to travel and see things.

  In other words, she wanted and was determined to have the same freedom and opportunities as men. Sometimes she dared not dwell on the unfairness that existed between men and women—it made her hate the male sex so much.

  But there was something else too. In a mixed company she could argue with any man present and tell him a thing or two and no mistake. But if she ever found herself alone with a man, no matter how nice or mild or inoffensive he might be, sooner or later she experienced a surprising undercurrent of fear. It was only a tremor, which never came anywhere near the surface. She never allowed it to do so. Contemptuous and impatient with any kind of weakness in herself, she tossed her head in disdain at the image of the timorous, dependent and fundamentally weak female upon whom society smiled so indulgently. She was not timorous; she was not weak; she was afraid of nothing and no one. She kept bullying herself into believing this and for the most part she knew it to be true.

  The tremor was always stilled and quickly forgotten. Only the bitterness and the sense of injustice was allowed to remain.

  37

  Clementina walked down the hill to Bathgate despite the wintry darkness. Her mother was out with the carriage to a family dinner at Gilbert’s. The purpose of this particular dinner was to get down to some of the practical details such as guest lists—of the coming season of dances and parties that the ladies of the family were concocting between them for Clementina’s benefit.

  ‘It’s better that you should not be there, dear,’ Lorianna had told her. ‘You would just confuse the issue and annoy Gilbert with your foolish talk.’ Then she had tried to impart some of the motherly advice that she apparently felt it was now her duty to administer. ‘You really must try to be more circumspect in gentlemen’s company, darling. Even with your own family. It never pays to upset any man; you only cause harm to yourself in the end.’

  ‘Do at least try to be tactful,’ Lorianna was always urging. ‘Men don’t like to be contradicted. Listen to them nicely, even if you don’t agree with them. And if you don’t agree with them, keep your opinions to yourself.’

  When her mother spoke like this it made Clementina feel sick with anger. Of course men disliked being contradicted—the spoiled, selfish bores. Why should she listen to them nicely—or in any other way? What had they to commend them except their selfishness? And why should she pander to it?

  Now as she walked to Bathgate, the night was alive; with creepings, hootings, bleatings and rustlings. Nearby a stream tinkled through the heather, but Clementina heard nothing but the thudding of her own anger in her ears. She walked purposefully and fearlessly. The countryside at night had the familiarity of long years and the only thing over which she exercised some caution was the placing of her feet on the rough stones of the Drumcross Road. Now the road dipped steeply down and she could see the polka dots of light in the Bathgate streets below. Soon she began to discern the faint flutter of candles in house windows and the occasional winking of carriage lanterns like moving stars.

  She was going to a meeting in the Co-op Hall in Jarvie Street and glad of the chance to hear a rousing talk that she had no doubt would take men down a peg or two. She had seen the advert a few days ago in the Courier and she and all her friends had been absolutely thrilled about it. Two quite famous suffragists who had been speaking in Glasgow were breaking their journey at Bathgate en route for Edinburgh. It would be most interesting to see what kind of audience attended—this would be a good indication of the extent of support for the suffragist movement in Bathgate and West Lothian. The notice had apparently been in the Scotsman as well, and so the news would be more widely read than by people in the Bathgate area only. She was meeting her friends Millicent, Betsy, Eva, Kitty and Agnes inside the Co-op Hall. Whoever got there first was supposed to keep seats for the other five.

  Clementina was becoming more excited with every step, although she was not the type of person to indulge in much emotion and certainly not to allow it to get the upper hand. She strode out smartly, her feet making crisp cracking sounds on the loose stones and her skirts swishing. Her three-quarter coat was fastened with eight buttons that neatly nipped in the navy serge at the waist and smoothed it down over her hips. She would like to have worn one of the new style blouses with high round collars and tie like a man’s, but her mother refused to allow the dressmaker to make her one. The way her mother was interfering with her freedom just now was most annoying. It was only because she wanted to get rid of her of course—Clementina knew that perfectly well.

  The plans her mother was busying herself with all of a sudden were not for what she called ‘your “Coming Out”, dear.’ It was for her ‘getting out’. The unusual interest in her clothes and the long talks she was having with the dressmaker who regularly visited Blackwood House did not indicate any interest in
Clementina, except as an object to attract some man who would take her away from Blackwood House forever.

  The collar of the blouse she had been forced to wear was boned at the neck right up to just below her ears and edged with a frill that tickled her ear-lobes and chin. Similar frills protruded from under the sleeves of her coat and also annoyed her. She was not a ‘frilly person’. The dressmaker was at the moment working on another blouse which, although having lace inserts and rows of pleats and tucks, at least did not have frills. Unfortunately it had not been ready for wearing tonight.

  Clementina was having the same problem about hats, preferring the wind tugging at her hair and the freedom to concentrate on more important things. But her mother had become surprisingly emotional about hats; it was the nearest she had ever seen her mother to losing her temper and actually becoming violent. She had become so upset in fact that she had rung for Mrs Musgrove, which had annoyed Clementina as much as anything. For a long time after her father died, Mrs Musgrove had prevented her from seeing Lorianna. She had been only a child at the time and had not understood; it was strange, frightening time and she had wanted so desperately to be with her mother, even for only the occasional half-hour in the sitting-room. But Mrs Musgrove always seemed to be hovering about, ready to bar her way. Once, in desperation, she had actually struggled with the housekeeper and could never forget the iron grip of the mittened hands and the painful bruises they had left on her arms.

  So far as wearing a hat was concerned, her mother had said, ‘You will do as you are told or I will have you locked in your room until you see sense.’ Her eyes looked wild, almost crazed and her wide mouth had such a venomous twist that Clementina was quite taken aback. ‘No friends. No books. Nothing. You will just sit there and contemplate your disgraceful behaviour until you learn to be more obedient and respectful towards your mother.’

  Then Mrs Musgrove had arrived and led Lorianna to a chair before ordering Clementina from the room. Her mother had sat there and never raised a murmur of protest when a servant spoke so harshly to the daughter of the house.

  Clementina had been tempted to sulk but then thought better of it. She needed to get out and around and see her friends, for they had much to discuss and plan. So she capitulated about the hats and even apologised to her mother, because when she came to think about it, she had been arguing rather a lot with her lately. That was only because they had so little in common. Of course her mother was so terribly old-fashioned. And so weak! Much as she loved Lorianna, she couldn’t help despising her a little too. It was bad enough allowing herself to be dominated by her husband—but by a servant!

  Her mother had accepted her apology with good grace, but Clementina could see that when she turned away she was trembling and Mrs Musgrove had put a heavy hand on her shoulder and gripped it until the trembling stopped. It occurred to Clementina in surprise that her mother was in fact an extremely emotional woman under her normally crystal-cool and graceful exterior.

  So, she was wearing a hat. It was the plainest she could lay her hands on—a wide-brimmed navy felt, decorated with a white ribbon and two white roses to match her blouse. She could admire large curling feathers, great clusters of fruit and flowers and yards of frothy veiling on the hats that her mother or her friends wore, but she somehow felt ridiculous wearing anything so fancy herself. As soon as her mother and the milliner turned their backs, she denuded the hats that had been made for her of all such extravagances. Once Lorianna, seeing her wearing a black felt with only a white grosgrain ribbon to relieve its plainness, had accused her of looking like a common working woman. But Clementina didn’t care. As she tried to explain to her mother, she just wasn’t a person for any kind of fuss or fol-de-rols. And that, as far as she was concerned, was that.

  Now she crossed to the right side of the road, past Torpichen Street, then Marjorybanks Street, Gideon Street and round into the deeply shadowed Jarvie Street where gas-lamps skirted themselves with misty grey circles. The clock on the Parish Church tower opposite the Co-op gloomily struck seven times, the sound echoing sadly over the old gravestones. A group of women, some of them heavily veiled, were talking in low apprehensive voices outside the door as if trying to pluck up courage to go in. Nearby a few working men were gathered, all dressed in caps, mufflers and shapeless jackets and trousers. Clementina marched past them and then past the ladies in the door and straight up the stairs into the hall. As she mounted the stairs, she heard the door creak open again and then the nervous whispering of the ladies as they followed her up.

  The hall at the end of the dimly lit corridor past the Co-op offices, was full, mostly with women. Only a handful of men were present, one of them being the Reverend John Ainslie, a gentleman with a snowy white moustache and a thatch of hair parted in the middle who was acting as chairman.

  Millicent and the other girls were already seated at the front and they waved to her to join them. Millicent was looking absolutely stunning in a soft-collared blouse, a broad grosgrain tie and a hat in the style of a man’s exaggerated tweed cap.

  ‘Not too bad a turnout,’ Clementina said once she was settled. ‘Especially for a dark winter’s night.’

  ‘I’m just afraid there are going to be more,’ Eva said grimly.

  Clementina looked round at her in surprise. ‘The bigger the audience the better, surely?’

  ‘Not necessarily.’ Eva was a tall, lanky girl with a fur tippet at her neck and fur bobbles on her hat. ‘It was advertised in the Scotsman, you see, and my brother and all his friends saw it.’

  ‘You mean they’re going to turn up?’

  ‘Maybe a lot more. But I’m hoping it was just a joke.’

  ‘What was?’

  ‘You know Aleck’s at Edinburgh University?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, a notice was being passed round. It said: “University Anti-Suffrage Society Unlimited. Supporters travel by 6pm train to Bathgate. Bring your own hatchets and battle-axes.”’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake,’ Clementina rolled her eyes. ‘Your brother and his undergraduate friends are really infantile. This is another example of their childish pranks… .’

  The Reverend Ainslie had risen, smiling, to his feet. He cleared his throat. ‘Ladies and er … gentlemen, my appearance in the chair is not an affair of ornament or meaningless embellishment of the proceedings—’

  Suddenly there was a noise like distant thunder from somewhere along the corridor. The hall reverberated discernibly under their feet and the ladies in the audience moved uneasily, stealing little glances over their shoulders.

  The Chairman also looked worried as the noise grew louder and nearer and began to sound like the clatter of many boots. Nevertheless he continued ‘… I appear as an avowed advocate of women’s rights. There is not, in my view, a single social, political or theological problem which can rightly be stated where woman is not the fundamental factor of it. To ignore her presence, to leave her out of the consideration is to present the play of Hamlet without the Prince of Denmark—’

  The hall door burst open at this point and a crowd of young men streamed in from the corridor in a gust of noise and hilarity.

  The chairman raised his voice in an attempt to be heard above the racket as men clambered over the wooden forms and jostled each other for seats, yelling and shouting and singing: ‘Vote for Edinburgh University!’ ‘Down with suffragette spinsters!’ ‘All the nice girls love a student …’! ‘What we want in society is less caste, less convention, more freedom and more rationality of outlook …’ ‘All the nice girls love a spree …’

  The Reverend Ainslie mopped his brow in obvious distress, but the two women speakers sitting on either side of him at the table betrayed only a look of boredom and disgust. Clementina felt absolutely furious. Already there must be about a hundred men in the hall and they were now singing ‘Lead kindly light …’ which was obviously meant as an insult to the minister.

  When she turned round to glare at the intruders she not
iced an elderly lady sitting behind her, trembling with a handkerchief pressed to her mouth and tears in her eyes.

  ‘… So far as votes for women are concerned,’ the chairman pressed on desperately, ‘it is purely and simply a matter of logic …’

  A dog chain flew through the air, narrowly missing both the old lady and Clementina.

  ‘Do you need a chain, minister?’ a male voice yelled.

  There was shocked silence on the platform but, unable to contain herself any longer, Clementina stood up and, facing the riotous men, called out in a loud clear voice, ‘No, he doesn’t, but you need a rattle. Why don’t you go back to the nursery where you belong and take your infantile friends with you?’

  Eva tugged at her coat and forced her to sit down again. ‘Don’t provoke them,’ she said. ‘There’s no telling what they might do.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t I provoke them? They’re provoking me!’

  She felt as she used to do when the village boys tormented her. Action dispelled fear and now, as then, she had the urge to dash in with fists flying, not giving herself time to feel afraid, refusing to be intimidated or defeated. Before she had the chance to do anything, however, someone sent a missile crashing through one of the windows and her friends cried out in alarm, Eva clinging to her all the more fiercely. The loud explosion was followed by another and another, accompanied by the light tinkling sound of glass. Then there was the thunder of benches being upturned. A gas-mantle was broken, then a second, creating dangerous pools of darkness.

  ‘Let’s teach them a lesson!’ someone bawled.

  The Reverend Ainslie immediately called out above the din, ‘I declare the meeting closed!’

  Then he hastily proceeded to shepherd the two speakers from the platform and out of the hall, not without considerable protest on their part. The men originally in the audience took their cue from the minister and, using themselves as shields, began helping the other ladies out of the dark shadowy hall amid much jeering and jostling. To her extreme annoyance Clementina found herself among those being, as far as she was concerned, forcibly ejected. Never before in her life had she felt so infuriated. It ought to be the students who were being forced to leave, not the speakers or those in the audience who had come to hear them.