Then suddenly her eyes opened and saw that she was lying in a small dark box that could hardly be called a room. The door was ajar and orange light from the kitchen was trickling in. She could hear voices with startling clarity and they made her struggle to a sitting position, her heart thumping in her throat.
‘She can’t possibly stay here any longer,’ Cook was saying. ‘Do you want us all to get sacked? That’s what will happen if we’re found out. And we can’t just put her out. What’s she going to do? She’s a lady. She can’t do anything. She’ll die out on the streets. And I’ll have no more of your stories about saving her life. It’s your fault she’s in the state she’s in. Are you going to let her die now? That’s what I’d like to know.’
Gunnet’s deep voice shouted angrily:
‘Christ, what am I supposed to do? Her father’s sacked me. I’ve my family to worry about. To hell with her!’
‘The way I see it,’ Sid Cruickshanks deliberated, ‘you and you alone are responsible, Luther. It seems to me there’s no getting away from the fact. She’s your responsibility. You’ll just have to worry about her as well.’
‘She’s going to have your baby,’ Nessie emphasised.
There was a long silence, then Luther groaned: ‘Oh, all right. I’ll take her to the Briggait. My mother can see to her.’
Chapter Nine
The only thing Augusta could do was to remain as silent and as aloof as possible. She did not in fact know how a lady should behave or what a lady should do in such circumstances. She had no terms of reference. Nothing she had ever spoken of, nothing she had ever read, gave her any point of guidance, any clue, any idea whatsoever.
Standing in the candlelit kitchen among the servants, dressed in her bonnet of fawn velvet, tied under her chin with brown and orange ribbons, and her coat with its luxurious fur collar, she felt the whole situation was beyond her. The urge to burst into tears was all but overwhelming. Yet she realised that she had no alternative but to go with Tibs and Luther Gunnet.
Ever since she’d wakened and found herself in Nessie’s room it had seemed too ridiculous to be true. She still felt dazed inside. Disbelief, partly born of stubbornness, clung on. She just refused to believe such a thing could happen to her.
That morning she had felt physically recovered and had savoured the breakfast cook had given her in bed on a tray decorated with a pretty lace cloth. There had been kidneys and bacon and egg and toast and muffins and marmalade, and a pot of refreshing tea. When Tibs brought warm water, she had washed and dallied over the choosing of what to wear as if she was going for her usual drive with Mama. Tibs had laced her stays and helped her to don petticoat after petticoat, then her fawn silk dress. Then she’d tied her ringlets up with ribbons to match.
Afterwards she had sat in the windowless room reading a novel by candlelight until cook served lunch on the table by the bed.
In the afternoon Tibs packed all her things except her fur-trimmed coat. It was pinched in at the waist and widened towards the hem and she felt it looked very fashionable especially with the large puffs of the upper sleeves.
As soon as day had begun to fade into night Luther arrived. His voice startled her back to reality. Listening to him talking in the kitchen to Cook she was tempted to make a scene, lock herself in the room, have hysterics, refuse to move. Yet at the same time she knew it was impossible to do any of these things.
So now she was standing with as much pride and dignity as she could bring to her aid, her trembling hands well hidden in her muff. On one side of her hovered Tibs clutching a bag containing articles of clothing. Luther Gunnet on her other side also held a bag filled with her belongings. She was about to leave her home here in George Square with these two servants and go to their home, she knew not where. The Briggait had been mentioned but this name meant nothing to her.
Augusta hesitated then said, ‘You are a good servant, Cruickshanks.’
‘Thank you, Miss Augusta.’
Nessie came as near to curtsying as her bad legs would allow her, but had to immediately steady herself by grabbing at the table.
Gunnet groaned. ‘Oh, come on, for God’s sake.’
Cook, obviously detecting, to Augusta’s shame, the fear in her eyes, said, ‘Don’t worry, Miss Augusta. You’ll be all right with Mrs Gunnet.’
Augusta disdainfully shook off Gunnet’s hand which was now attempting to drag her unceremoniously from the kitchen, and before he could touch her again she swept out on her own.
Darkness halted her. The moon was playing hide and seek high above. Standing outside the kitchen door facing the wall beneath the yard felt like being trapped at the bottom of a deep, narrow well.
‘The stairs are on the right,’ Gunnet said. ‘Hold on to my arm.’
Ignoring him she removed one hand from her muff to daintily edge up her skirts so that her feet could feel the steps without tripping.
Tibs whimpered, ‘They’re slippery, Miss Augusta.’
‘If she slips and falls it’ll be her own fault,’ Gunnet said.
With concentrated care, taking one step at a time like a child, Augusta managed to reach the top.
Round into West George Street now, into the square and down Queen Street. As she passed the front of the house her throat constricted and tears almost betrayed her. She was frightened. The man taking her away from everything safe and comforting was a coarse stranger.
‘Hurry up,’ he was saying now. ‘There’s no use pitter-pattering along like that as if you’re scared a bit of dirt will spoil your slippers.’
Not having any wish to demean herself by arguing with him in front of Tibs she said nothing. But she hated him for making her walk. Surely he could at least have provided her with a sedan chair. Obviously, being the ignorant brute that he was, he had no idea of what a lady needed not only to protect her person but her sensibilities.
Argyle Street and the Trongate were crowded but it seemed a different and more ominous throng than during the hours of daylight. It was a strange, terrifying world. Gas lamps and the occasional lantern attached to the walls of buildings cast ghostly fingers along creaking shop boards, shadowing doorways and endless threads of closes and wynds. Passing these places as she hurried along the main street between Luther and Tibs, she caught glimpses of ragged gossipers at the tops of stairs and at the bottom of closes and wynds. But she tried not to look to either side of her, concentrating instead on the ground immediately in front of her feet.
When Tibs and Luther suddenly crossed the road she was forced to raise her eyes fearfully to evade the coaches and horses and rough men with sedans, jumbling noisily and dangerously along. Once across, they continued down a side street.
‘Where are we now?’ she asked Tibs.
‘Stockwell Street, Miss Augusta. This leads straight down to the river. The Briggait cuts off at the bottom. We won’t be long now.’
‘This is the close,’ Luther said at last.
In an inclined posture he groped his way into a dark tunnel-like place, the stench of which made her feel sick.
Tibs’s voice echoed eerily all round. ‘We won’t be long now, Miss Augusta.’
Keeping between Luther and Tibs she crossed the open courtyard to the left until they reached a door set back in the shadow of a wooden stairway. Luther pushed open the door and indicated that she should enter. Fighting to keep her apprehension in check and ignore her palpitations of alarm she felt her way into first of all a lobby no bigger than a broom cupboard, and from there into a low-ceilinged room less than a quarter of the size and in no way as congenial as the kitchen she had just left. From the dismal light of a couple of candle stubs and a smoky fire she could discern two set-in-the-wall beds, a wooden table and a few stools around it. Two chairs covered with woollen cushions sat on either side of the fire. A dresser with shelves held a few pieces of crockery arranged neatly with cups and saucers at either end, and a bread plate standing up in the middle displaying its blue willow pattern and brown cracks. Th
e room appalled Augusta with its poverty and lack of warmth and comfort.
Standing over by the fireplace was a woman of handsome features who had obviously made some attempt to look presentable. Her skin was shiny and red in patches as if she had been scrubbing it. Her hair, the same mousy colour as Tibs’s, was pinned back but looked as if it had been done very inexpertly and without a mirror. Two children leaned shyly against her skirts. The woman pushed them aside and curtsied with surprising grace.
Luther said: ‘This is my mother and my sister Rose and my brother Billy. I’ll put these things through in the room.’
‘Tibs,’ said Mrs Gunnet, ‘take Miss Augusta’s coat and bonnet and muff. Put them in the cupboard in the parlour.’
Then turning to Augusta, her eyes veiled with painful embarrassment yet with her head held high, she said, ‘We have quite a comfortable parlour, and you are welcome to use it. It will not be what you’re accustomed to, of course. But at least it is better by far than anything for miles around here. I have a respectable home.’ She stopped as if in mid-sentence and turned her face towards the fire.
Tibs said hastily, ‘I’ll take you through, Miss Augusta.’
Augusta followed Tibs across the kitchen to the door through which Luther had just emerged. He seemed even bigger in the tiny hovel. His wiry bush of hair nearly touched the ceiling and his shoulders looked of enormous width. She drew delicately back from him as he passed her and followed Tibs into the parlour.
‘Shut the door,’ she told the girl.
‘Yes, Miss Augusta. Shall I unpack your things now?’
‘Very well.’
She sat down on a chair beside the fireplace, oppressed by the smallness of the room. For a few minutes she watched Tibs scurrying about unpacking her clothes and hanging them up or folding them into drawers then pushing the bags underneath the cotton valance of the set-in-the-wall bed. She noticed with some relief that the patchwork quilt, or what she could see of it in the shadows, looked clean enough.
‘Will that be all, Miss Augusta? I’m here all night, you see. I don’t need to go back to work until five-thirty tomorrow morning. So if there’s anything else . . . .’
‘Why isn’t there a fire in here? I am cold.’
‘Oh . . . oh . . . .’ The girl’s face screwed up in distress. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Augusta. I’ll . . . I’ll . . . .’ Suddenly she turned and flew from the room. There was a worried murmur of voices and then scraping noises. Then the door opened and Tibs came anxiously running in, holding out a shovel full of red hot coals. The parlour fireplace was set with paper and after Tibs emptied the coals on top of it there was soon a decent glow of heat.
Augusta said, ‘Be sure to shut the door when you go out.’
‘Yes, Miss Augusta.’
Tibs curtsied before leaving and shutting the door behind her.
Left alone, Augusta took stock of her surroundings by the light of the two candles. The walls were whitewashed and the floor, like the furniture, gleamed darkly with polish. In front of the fire at her feet lay a rag rug with a black centre and a black border. The chair she was sitting on was a rocker on which was tied a maroon woollen cushion. On top of the mantleshelf a pewter candlestick wavered like a grey ghost illuminating a text which read in Gothic letters: GOD BLESS THIS HOME. Another candlestick billowed its yellow skirt on top of the chest of drawers and glistened her brush and comb set. In the centre of the room a small table hid under cream tatting and at the opposite side of the fire bulged a black, buttoned horsehair sofa. The only other furniture consisted of four chairs, two of dark oak and two upholstered in blurred tapestry. These few articles cluttered the place and used up nearly every inch of floor-space.
Sitting primly with head held high and hands folded on lap she tried to keep her eyes fixed on her silver brush and comb set. But desolation and fear kept caving her in. All the ramparts of her life had gone and she did not know what threat tomorrow might bring.
In this clutter of a place she could not settle to read. Yet she did not dare allow herself to think. At last she called out:
‘Tibs!’
‘Yes, Miss Augusta,’ Tibs hastened breathlessly into the room.
‘I think I will retire now.’
‘Yes, Miss Augusta.’
The fire had sunk low and she felt cold as she allowed Tibs to undress her and put on her nightgown, then twist pieces of tape in each of her ringlets to secure them. But she felt too depressed even to bother telling the girl to bring more coal. Instead she climbed into the bed and slid under the blankets and quilt.
Tibs snuffed out the candles. ‘Goodnight, Miss Augusta.’
‘Goodnight,’ Augusta murmured faintly.
It was very dark and strange. She pulled the quilt over her head and, hiding beneath it, sobbed broken-heartedly.
Chapter Ten
‘Miss Augusta?’
The voice with its questioning yet withdrawn tone disturbed her sleep. She did not recognise it, and for a few seconds she felt bewildered and too frightened to open her eyes. When eventually she peeped from above the bed covers Augusta realised that the candles had been lit again and Mrs Gunnet was standing by the bed. Her hair had not been brushed and, although still screwed up and pinned, strands had escaped and strayed down over her ears.
‘I’ve brought you a cup of tea.’ Eyes were guarded in a face set hard. She was a big woman but not fat.
‘Where is Tibs?’
‘She’s gone to work. Yesterday was her night off. She won’t be back now until next week.’
‘Oh.’ Augusta struggled into a sitting position and immediately discovered that the room was bitterly cold.
‘The fire is not lit. How can my clothes be heated? How can I venture up? Well?’ she asked Mrs Gunnet who was hesitating in a wretchedly indecisive manner.
‘There’s a bit of fire in the kitchen.’
‘What use is it there? Light a fire in here as well.’
Still the woman hesitated, her face strained. At last she turned, went over to kneel in front of the fireplace, and began raking it out with her hands.
Augusta finished her tea, which at least warmed her inside and quelled the nausea that had begun to rise. She called Mrs Gunnet to remove the cup, then from beneath the comfort of the bed-clothes watched her take what seemed an age in folding and tying strips of paper and packing them into the grate. After carefully sifting out cinders Mrs Gunnet arranged them on top of the paper. This task having been completed she rose and disappeared through to the kitchen, leaving the door ajar.
Augusta was just about to call a rebuke when the sound of Luther Gunnet’s voice arrested her. He was speaking to his mother in the kitchen.
‘What are you doing?’
The answer was an embarrassed half whisper: ‘I’m lighting a fire in the parlour.’
‘What for?’
‘For Miss Augusta of course. So that she can get dressed.’
‘If she has to have a fire to dress in front of she can either come through here or light one in there herself.’
‘Luther, don’t be ridiculous. She’s a lady. She’s never been used to anything like that.’
‘She’ll have to get used to a lot more than that. And anyway, we’ve never been able to afford a fire in the parlour before and we can afford it less now. You know that perfectly well, Mother.’
‘Yes, but you can’t expect her to understand . . . . Luther, where are you going? Luther.’
Augusta stared wide-eyed at the figure dwarfing the doorway before hiding her head under the quilt. She felt humiliated at being seen with her hair twisted round tapes and sticking out grotesquely. Then to her horror the bedclothes were suddenly ripped back not only from her head but from her whole person.
Mrs Gunnet came rapidly into the room. ‘Luther, what are you doing?’
Ignoring her, Luther said to Augusta: ‘It’s time you were up. But first let’s get something straight. There are no servants here. You have no right whatsoever to expect
my mother to run after you. If you want a fire lit you do it yourself. But coal costs money and, thanks to your father, I’m not earning any just now.’
Mrs Gunnet was surreptitiously trying to tug the quilt from his hands in order to cover Augusta again, but he pushed her aside.
‘Mother, we’re not exactly strangers. She is expecting my child.’
‘Have you no shame?’ his mother asked.
‘Not as far as she is concerned. Now, Augusta . . . .’
‘Miss Augusta!’ Augusta managed an imperious tone despite her crimson cheeks and trembling lips.
‘Augusta,’ he repeated firmly, ‘my mother and I are going through to the kitchen. We’ll expect you to join us for breakfast in not more than ten minutes.’
‘I’ll stay and help her to dress,’ Mrs Gunnet said.
‘It’s time she learned to dress herself.’
Gripping his mother by the arm he forced her from the room. On his way out he tossed the bedclothes on to the sofa and Augusta had no alternative but to get up. Shivering with anger as well as cold she first of all struggled with the tapes covering her ringlets. Once freed from this indignity she hurriedly wriggled from her nightgown. Then not without difficulty and much fumbling she dressed herself in her dark green gown with the white collar. But although she was cold and hungry she could not bring herself to eat at the same table as Luther Gunnet. She sat down on the sofa, clasped her hands tightly on her lap and tried to be brave. Eventually Luther returned, followed by his mother. Mrs Gunnet never fidgeted or fluttered or gave any of the usual physical signs of agitation, yet an aura of extreme distress managed to emanate from her rigid body.
‘Luther, please, for my sake . . . .’
‘It’s you I’m thinking of, Mother.’
He towered above Augusta whose hair still looked somewhat awry. She had not been able to fasten all the buttons at the back of her dress, and Mrs Gunnet leaned across and deftly did them up.
‘Why aren’t you through at the table?’ Luther demanded.
‘I wish to eat here on my own.’
The Dark Side of Pleasure Page 7
