The Liberation of Celia Kahn

by J David Simons

  Eight

  CELIA RUSHED HOME FROM THE SHERIFF COURT, prepared lunch for her father, fed Nathan, headed out again quick before Papa Kahn had a chance to ask where she was going. She’d worry later about her mother’s reaction to her absence. At Gorbals Cross, she caught the tram to the West End, the only passenger to tackle the chill of the open deck, felt she might explode from her relief and the excitement of the morning in the cramp of the lower tier.

  She got off just outside the Botanic Gardens, at the red-brick station boasting its twin clock towers topped with those strange bulbous-shaped ornamental domes. She remembered how Papa Kahn used to point them out to her as a child: “These onion designs are just like in Russia. I come all the way to Glasgow but the architecture does not change. How can this be?”

  She looked up at these domes now, then along Great Western Road, that grand tree-lined avenue with its central line of ornate street lamps stretching forever. Or at least as far as Loch Lomond. A boulevard which inspired Madame Kahn to respond to her husband thus:

  “These silly domes might remind you of Russia,” she snorted. “But this great wide avenue has the air of a Berlin strasse about it.”

  It also had the air of wealth about it. Here was where the rich dwelt. The textile tycoons, the coal barons, the steel merchants, the coffee importers, the shipyard owners. Here there was space. Here there was light. Here there were no rent strikes, no backlands, no overcrowding, no two families to a room, no men sleeping on rooftops, no unwashed children with rickets. Here she could watch a well-dressed matron strolling by with her young daughter in tow, both of them wearing matching fur-trimmed capes and mufflers. Here there was a university, an art gallery and a botanical garden.

  The Botanic Gardens. Not just ordinary gardens like her own local Queens Park with its run-of-the-mill plant life. But as the entrance sign declared, these were ‘horticultural gardens hosting impressive glasshouses devoted to temperate flora seeded and nurtured for botanical study at the University of Glasgow. Home to the noble and the exotic. The orchids, the cacti, the Australasian ferns. Housed under glass to replicate their indigenous climes and to protect them from the fog and smoke emerging from the city’s industrial stacks and domestic chimneys.’

  She thought about buying a newspaper. Why not enter the picnic with some reading material under her arm, ready to give her opinion on conscription, the battle of Verdun, or Europe’s desperate entreaties for America to enter the war? But the newspaper-seller was not at his usual pitch by the gates. Perhaps the presses were stuck on hold until they had recorded Jimmy Docherty’s court report. Instead she considered using her coppers to purchase a penny-lick from the vendor standing there with his ice-cart. ‘Mr Luigi And His Famous Italian Ices’. She used to love these ice-creams with their secret ingredients from Italy handed down from generation to generation. But wartime restrictions had blanded out the taste. Better then to arrive at the picnic with an air of serious commitment than with a mouthful of unsatisfying dessert.

  It wasn’t hard to spot the socialist Sunday school picnic, gathered as it was away from the main paths on a gentle slope close to the river, placards from the morning’s march stacked like giant kindling against the tree trunks. She was surprised by the number in attendance, there must have been about sixty souls standing around in a loose circle, adults and children alike, holding themselves against the cold now the sun was dipping past the tops of the branches. Agnes caught sight of her approach, her face still flushed from the morning’s successes, beckoned her to join. But she decided to hang back further up the rise, with a view over what was happening, not ready yet to fling herself into the company of strangers. Some kind of ceremony was in process, the focus of attention on a pink-cheeked young man with the devout air of a priest about him whose words were directed towards a young couple, a swaddled-up baby in the cradle of their arms.

  “…and so this child is not only a happy addition to these young parents and their kinsfolk but also a symbol of hope, faith and forward-looking courage for all the human race.” The functionary paused, gazed at the child on whom he had bestowed such a massive responsibility before continuing: “We therefore meet in this public forum in order to reaffirm our conviction that every child born to our race, of whatever nation or colour, should be honoured as a new addition to humanity. And so as spokesman for this community, I ask by what name you wish this child to be known.”

  “Keir Hardie MacDonald”, she heard the young father announce, fiddling with the baby’s blanket as he did so. He was wearing his army uniform, probably back on leave to celebrate his doings of nine months previous. Either that, or he was off to the Front after the ceremony, might never see his son again. That thought made her pay closer attention as did his wife who snuggled in nearer to her man as the officiant said: “On behalf of all this company present, and of society in general, I welcome this child – Keir Hardie MacDonald – into the membership of the human family, and express a heartfelt desire that his life may be blessed with health and joy, that he may render service in a humble sphere or in the public sphere, to the social commonwealth, its fellowship, its order and its progress.”

  A number of the men shouted “hear, hear”, then to her surprise the congregation started to sing, just like that, out there in the open, under the trees, not far from the glasshouses with their exotic ferns, with not a care for any members of the public that might pass them by:

  ‘We this day your name inscribe

  And whatever may betide

  Always let your faith abide

  Child of love, our comrade.’

  The audience broke up quickly after that, smothering the young Keir and his parents with congratulations, while she carefully edged her way down the greasy slope. Agnes was waiting, her lips all pursed up into a smug smile. Celia couldn’t blame her for that really, it had been her day so far.

  “You managed to come,” Agnes said.

  “I decided I couldn’t miss it. What with all the excitement of the morning.”

  “A victory for the solidarity of women against the exploitation of the working classes.”

  “What about the munitions workers?”

  “Aye, them too. Though I’m almost sorry I didn’t get a chance to throw my flour bomb. That Fothergill had the kind of face you wanted to powder.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I was shaking so much, I’m sure I’d have hit the sheriff instead.”

  Agnes laughed, rubbed her hands against the cold. “How did you like our little ceremony?”

  “Yes, it was good. At least, I understood the words.”

  “Just a simple naming of a new-born child. Not a baptism or circumcision or some other barbaric covenant with church or God uttered in Latin or Hebrew. A simple naming. The family thought it would be nice to use the occasion.” Agnes snapped open her handbag, had a look inside. “Och, I thought I had some sweets. Come on, let’s have something to eat. And I’ll introduce you.”

  A few trestle tables had been set up on the damp grass, she hadn’t seen so much food and drink in ages. Large containers of ginger beer, lemonade and cider, plates of hard-boiled eggs, apples and cheeses, sandwiches smeared with jams and honey, bread loaves, Paris buns, sugar biscuits, even a large slab of butter.

  “We’re well in with the farm workers,” Agnes explained. “Help yourself.”

  She couldn’t resist a Paris bun on a plate, took a glass of cider as well, hard to hold on to the two items what with all the people she was being invited to meet, the handshakes, the names and faces blurring by her, lots of talk about the march, about the Government set to pass legislation to freeze rents until the end of the war. Agnes disappearing somewhere, leaving her to go back to the trestle tables, filling herself up with more bread and cheeses than her ration-fed stomach was used to, needing to wash it all down with another glass of cider. She was already feeling herself a bit flushed, not used to the alcohol, suddenly remembering Avram standing there in George Square with his mother’s silver t
himble winking at her from its velvet cushion.

  A young man came to stand next to her. He wore a long overcoat, leather boots laced up to his knees, reminded of her of one of those Cossack soldiers her father warned her against. He leaned across her to pick up a sugar biscuit, she could see the white skin of his neck, a mole where his coat collar pulled away.

  “The food’s the best part,” he said, on returning upright. He swept his hair back off his forehead. Spülwasser blond, her mother called that light-dark mix of colour – dishwater blond. Tiny craters of pockmarks were scattered across his cheeks.

  “I suppose it is,” she replied, her voice coming out all strange, hard to recognise herself in it.

  “I’m called Boydie.”

  “That’s a strange name,” she said in a rush, not meaning to have spoken the words at all, just a thought in her head pouring out through her cider-loosened lips. “I’m sorry. That was rude of me. I haven’t heard that name before.”

  “It’s Gaelic. Boyd. Means blond.” He pointed to his hair. “What about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Your name?”

  “Yes, my name. Celia. I don’t know what it means.”

  He took a bite of his biscuit, stood there looking at her as he chewed, he might as well have been a Cossack measuring the worth of his horse, the way he scrutinised her up and down. With those pale blue eyes like a mirror, hard to know what lay behind them. He had a strange way of standing too, holding himself back from her as if her breath stank or he was about to be slapped. He wiped the sugar off his lips with his sleeve, she sipped on her cider.

  “First time here?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “For me too.”

  He continued to stare at her, she looked at her shoes, the wet blades of grass stuck to them, like little green flags after a parade. “Your parents are here?” she asked.

  “My father sent me. He’s a hard-nosed socialist. A union leader down the shipyards. But I came with some friends.” He tilted his head towards a group of smirking youths. Then he laughed. “They bet me I didn’t have the courage to speak to you. But I don’t mind talking to you. With or without money.”

  She blushed at that, didn’t know whether to be flattered or offended by this arrogant young man. “That’s not very polite of you,” she managed.

  “I thought it was a nice to thing to say. A compliment.”

  “How much did they bet you?” She noticed she was back speaking in that voice again, the kind of tone she imagined those actresses in the cinema used as they smoked their lipstick-stained cigarettes.

  “A half-penny.”

  “Is that all?”

  He shrugged. “They’re poor. But a half-penny means I can make a wish.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a bridge close by. The Half-Penny Bridge. Throw a coin into the river, make a wish.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Perhaps I can show you.”

  “Now?”

  “If you like.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  She took another sip of her cider, steadied herself against the side of the trestle table, how much alcohol could there be in pressed apples? “I don’t want to leave the picnic.”

  “You enjoy this kind of meeting then?”

  “I don’t know. As I said, this is my first time.”

  He looked down at the table, seemed to decide against another biscuit. “I prefer my socialism to be more radical. Not simple fables and stupid ceremonies. More militant.”

  “You would have liked today’s demonstration.”

  “Today was good. Direct action is good. The march of the proletariat. I like that a lot. What do you think?”

  “Direct action is all right. I’m just against all this killing and wounding.”

  “You don’t believe in fighting for what is right?”

  “I don’t believe in going to war for anything.”

  “Ah Celia, you are still young.”

  She laughed, a little more loudly than she would have liked. But she enjoyed the way he used her name. “Young? How old are you?”

  “I am old enough to fight.” He glanced back to his friends. “Come on, let me show you this bridge. I’d like to make this wish with you.”

  “Is it far?”

  “Five minutes.” He pointed to the path that sided the river. “Along there.”

  “I need to speak to Agnes first.”

  “Who’s Agnes? Your mother?”

  “A friend. She invited me here.”

  “You need a friend’s permission?”

  “I just want to tell her where I am going.”

  “Come on. It’s really not far.”

  She stood up on her toes, looked around. “I can’t see her. If you’re sure it’s not far. But what about your friends?”

  He grinned. “I don’t need their permission either.”

  The path followed the course of the river, dipping under overhanging branches, wooden fencing-slats missing here and there, probably young boys broken through to net for tadpoles, smoke their cigarettes on the rocks.

  “Where’s this bridge?” she asked.

  “Not far. Why are you rushing ahead?”

  “It’s getting cold. I just want to get there.”

  He tugged on her arm, forcing her to slow. “I need to tell you something.”

  “What?”

  “I received my call-up papers this morning.”

  She stopped, the two of them panting, her head clearing slightly from the walking, the chill air off the river. She could smell alcohol on his misty breath, how had she not noticed that before? And the background trill of birdsong. A thrush. Such a hopeful sound.

  “When do you have to go?”

  “I’m not.”

  “What do you mean? Everyone has to go.”

  “I’ll be a conscientious objector.”

  “You said you were a militant socialist.”

  “I’m all for violent revolution to promote the socialist cause. But my conscience forbids me participating in a war that is merely for the benefit of the capitalist profiteers.”

  She shivered, pulled in her coat, stamped her feet against the hard earth. She’d had enough of this Boydie and his Half-Penny Bridge. “That sounds like your father talking. What do you want to do?”

  “I’m not a coward, if that’s what you’re thinking. Or a peace-crank. I’ll explain my case to a tribunal.”

  “These tribunals only listen to committed pacifists.”

  “If they don’t accept my position, I’ll happily go to jail.” He looked behind him as if the local police might pounce, cart him off to his nearest depot. “You’re lucky. Women don’t do anything about this damn war.”

  “That’s not true. Look at the women on today’s march.”

  He laughed at that, his lips pulled back ugly against his teeth. Like a horse. “It was the men going on strike that did it.” He staggered slightly on his feet, falling back against the fencing. “I drank a little too much, a little too much.”

  It had become much darker, the light draining quickly out of the day. At the picnic, they would be starting to pack up.

  “I’m going back,” she said.

  He stepped around her, blocked off her path, fumbling in his pockets for something. “You haven’t seen the bridge?”

  “There is no bridge. You lied to me.”

  He held out his arms. “You’re right. There isn’t any fucking bridge.

  Do you have any tobacco?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “I’d like a cigarette. That’s what I really want. To smoke a cigarette.”

  “Let’s go back then. My friend Agnes has tobacco.”

  “Yes, your friend Agnes.”

  “Come on,” she pleaded. “Let’s go.”

  He stood facing her, patting his coat for imaginary tobacco, shifting on his feet, finding instead a bot
tle of some amber liquid in his inside pocket. “Perhaps I will go to jail. To some fucking tiny, rotting, stinking cell. Or they’ll shoot me for being a deserter.” He pulled out the bottle stop, took a deep swig. He reached out a hand but she stepped back. “I want to kiss you,” he said. “A man going into the army deserves a kiss.”

  “Stay away from me.”

  He threw the bottle on to the grass verge, lurched forward, grabbed her by the shoulders, began to push her back into the bushes. Low branches raked against her stockings, her feet slithered in the mulch underfoot, his weight pressing against her, forcing her knees to bend until she fell onto her back against the slope, Boydie on top of her, his body pinning her to the ground, one hand tight around her wrist, another flat-palmed against her nose and mouth.

  “So what do you say?” he snarled. “Give a soldier something to remember.”

  She tried to bite his hand but her action only made him press harder against her mouth. She thought her teeth might cave in from the force. His other hand had abandoned its grip on her wrist, she could feel him trying to drag up the hem of her coat, her skirts. She tried to arch her body to push him off but he was far too strong and heavy, his weight trapping her upper arms so she could do little more than beat a fist faintly against his side. She couldn’t breathe. Saliva was building up in her throat, choking her. His face above her, crimson, sweating, eyes bulging, those pock-marks. She could hear her own stifled cries within her head. He must have seen the panic of suffocation in her eyes for he let his hand slip slightly so it only covered her mouth. She snorted in the air, smelt the dampness of the earth, the mud on his palm, the alcohol on his breath. She could hear his breathing, her own gasps for breath, the hammer of her heart, the sound of the thrush echoing through the park. His other hand wriggled inside her skirts between their two bodies, between her thighs, searching out the slit in her drawers.

  Nine

  SHE DIDN’T CRY OUT when he split her, when her whole universe had split. She didn’t scream at all. Even though she had the opportunity when his hand had slipped from over her mouth as he became more engrossed in seeking out his satisfaction. Her arms had freed slightly too so that she could beat hard on his back but he didn’t seem to care. It was as if her own violent onslaught only deepened his pleasure. But she didn’t cry out. Just suffered in silence. As a thousand years of practice within her race had taught her to do.