The Dark Side of Pleasure

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  Small and with tousled hair and anxious, dirt-smudged features she realised that the person she saw no longer belonged in this safe and luxurious world. She was already lost. Yet it was too terrible a fact to face.

  Panic-striken she shouted at her mother: ‘This is my home!’

  ‘They all blame me. They all talk as if is my fault,’ Felicity wailed. ‘It is so wickedly unfair. My social life is an ordeal instead of a pleasure now. I cannot face my friends.’

  ‘Oh, what does it matter about your stupid friends or their silly spiteful talk? What does it matter?’

  ‘Such selfishness. Such wickedness. She does not care about my sufferings!’

  ‘Mama, you do not know what suffering is. You have always been pampered and sheltered. You do not even know where the Briggait is. You do not know what I am talking about.’

  ‘I have been so ill I have not been strong enough to put a foot on the floor without help. I have been too weak to reach my carriage. I have not been out to buy one new bonnet or gown. I have not had one moment’s pleasure.’

  ‘Is that all you can think about! I’m with child. I’m at the mercy of that dreadful man. He has even struck me, Mama. He has beaten me. I’m living in a hovel. I’m cold and hungry and frightened. I’m begging for your help and protection and all you can talk about is not getting out to buy a new bonnet?’

  Her mother was never going to help or protect her. The conviction made Augusta wild with grief. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror again. There she was—for ever and ever—a dirty-faced trollop from the underworld, an untouchable. In tragic rage she snatched a brass ornament from a nearby table and hurled it at the mirror.

  A deafening explosion lengthened into a medley of clattering and tinkling sounds as splinters of glass showered the mantleshelf the clock, the ornaments, the tiles on the fireplace, the brass fender.

  ‘McPherson! McPherson!’ Mrs Cameron’s screeches rivalled the noise that Augusta was now making as she jerked the whatnot from its corner, causing its load of objects d’art to fly from its shelves and spray the room like bullets.

  The door burst open and McPherson entered to stride immediately over and grab Augusta by the arm.

  Mrs Cameron kept babbling, ‘McPherson, protect me, she’s a madwoman. Get rid of her. Get her away from me!’

  Augusta fought to free herself of the maid’s strong grip. ‘How dare you! Leave me alone!’

  Despite her struggles and her angry commands, however, McPherson hung grimly on and managed to drag her from the room and jerk her unceremoniously across the marble-floored hall towards the front door.

  Longing to be upstairs in her own bedroom, Augusta wept in tragic despair. Pushing her roughly outside the maid delivered the final insult:

  ‘I hope you think he’s worth it, you dirty little whore!’

  Chapter Twelve

  Augusta fled in the opposite direction from where she’d come. Eyes wild, she forced herself on until the steepness of the hill rising above the north side of the square snatched her breath away and the fight for air became more urgent than her grief and humiliation. She flung back her head, gulping hugely, nostrils dilated.

  It was a long time before she managed to calm down, and when she did and her convulsions had at last subsided she stared dazedly around, trying to get her bearings. The few elegant villas and gardens straggling the hill had dwindled away to nothing. She found herself alone on a wide expanse of rough grass high above the town. On the right a wooded area darkened the landscape. Some distance ahead a road cut across and faded into the trees. But before completely disappearing it passed a sombre building set well back and barely visible. It had a chilling yet familiar look.

  Standing with the wind tugging at her cloak and whipping her hair across her face Augusta remembered that she had once taken a country ride with her parents along that road. Her papa told her it was called Asylum Road and the ugly building was the lunatic asylum. She and her mama had withdrawn deep into the coach so that they would not be offended by the sight of the place.

  She averted her gaze now but more in fear that she too was going mad. So much had been happening to her. Her whole life had quickened, turned upside down. She felt bewildered. At the foot of the hill was the jungle of Glasgow, packed to suffocation and half-hidden under a pall of smoke. Surely this could not be the Glasgow she had always known? She was eighteen now and could still recall being taken country walks first by her nurse, then by her governess Meredith who taught her about the trees and hedgerows and wild flowers that started right at their back door. Even Queen Street was pastoral. Surely it was not so long ago that from her bedroom window she had watched the kilted cowherd driving the cattle down towards Argyle Street? She stared at the tall chimneys thrusting up like black fingers pointing at the sky. In the distance the River Clyde, slate-coloured on this sunless day, twisted alongside densely packed roof-tops. She saw where the Old Bridge spanned the Clyde and knew that it was to there she must return. It seemed incredible now that she had passed along Clyde Street in her carriage on her way to Glasgow Green to watch, from the carriage window, the troops parading on the Green. She had actually passed Stockwell Street and the Briggait without even noticing they were there. Fighting for control of her emotions she dried her face as best she could with her cape and reluctantly, oh, how reluctantly, began her descent back down the hill.

  As her frail shoes jarred and slithered on the slope and their ribbon cross-straps cut into her ankles she blamed Luther Gunnet for all her misfortunes. Her bitter resentment of him gave her the strength she needed to pass Cameron House without dissolving into tears again. She felt it unwise to risk any other route in case she became hopelessly lost. But her feet quickened down Queen Street on to Argyle Street, and she pulled the hood of her cloak well forward to hide her face. All the way along Argyle Street she kept her eyes lowered, determined that no one who knew her would see her in this state.

  Only when she turned down Stockwell Street did she release her hold on her cape and raise her head. Steeling herself she entered the Briggait, went through the close, crossed the yard with its mountain of rubbish and human excretion and entered the house.

  Luther was shrugging into a clean shirt. There was no sign of his mother. The children, she knew, would be at school.

  ‘Oh, God,’ he groaned at the sight of her. ‘I thought we’d seen the last of you.’

  ‘Believe me, if I had my way,’ Augusta said fervently, ‘I would not be here. Do you think I wanted to set eyes on you again? Or this stinking hovel?’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Watch your tongue. This is my home and you’ve been glad of its shelter.’

  ‘Glad?’ Her voice heightened in mocking incredulity. ‘Glad? How could anyone be glad to be stuck in this dungheap? No one with any intelligence or decency would want to be within miles of its revolting stench.’

  ‘This is the cleanest house for miles. My mother sees to that.’

  ‘Your mother,’ she peeled the words off her tongue with as much distaste as her bitter suffering could muster. Instinctively she knew that to insult his mother would hurt him most, and she searched for words outrageous enough to cut him deepest. But all she could think of was: ‘That common skivvy!’

  A few strides brought him with frightening rapidity to where she stood. She was sure he was going to strike her but such was her hatred she raised her head almost as if to welcome his blows. He stopped, hand straining in mid-air, fighting with himself.

  ‘Still the proud lady, eh?’

  ‘I will always be a lady. Living under the same roof as scum like you will never change that.’

  ‘Scum, is it?’ He grabbed her by the arm as she made to walk away towards the room and jerked her back to face him. ‘I’d still be up on the box and everybody saluting me as the best dragsman in the country if it wasn’t for you. I’d still have a pocketful of money and a beautiful girl waiting and willing in every hotel. It’s because of you I’ve no work and my mother is
out searching for the cheapest scraps she can find to eat, and my brother and sister will have to give up their schooling.’

  ‘Remove your hand from my arm at once. You’re hurting me.’

  ‘The trouble is I’ve been too much of a gentleman.’

  ‘You!’ she raised an eyebrow and flung the words at him derisively. ‘A gentleman?’

  ‘You neither know or appreciate how lucky you’ve been . . . .’

  ‘Lucky? You’re mad!’

  ‘With frustration perhaps. Both work and pleasure are being denied me. The wenches are peeved because they think I’m getting my pleasure from you. And I’m not.’

  ‘Let go of me, I said.’

  ‘It’s time I did though. It’s time you justified your keep.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re the one who’s caused the trouble. You and your revolting animal behaviour.’

  ‘I’ve had enough of this. After today you’ll know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ she cried out in alarm when he suddenly threw her cloak aside then with both hands roughly caught hold of her dress. To her horror, before she could make any attempt to stop him, he had ripped the bodice open to the waist. Panic-stricken she flew towards the room but he was too quick for her. Before she could shut and lock the door his boot kicked it open and he was in. With one hand he crashed it shut again.

  ‘Get the rest of them off!’

  She clutched her arms across her chest, gripping her shoulders tightly, more to contain her terror than to prevent him from seeing her chemise and the bulge of her breasts above it.

  ‘All right, I’ll get them off for you.’

  At first she hardly struggled, she was so stunned as he jerked and tore at her clothes. She gave little gasps that rapidly changed to sobs and then to screams as he denuded her of her last garment.

  ‘Scream away,’ he said coolly, ‘for all the good it’ll do you here.’

  Bumping into the conglomeration of table and chairs she tried to reach the bed for a blanket with which to cover her nakedness but he followed her and tossed it aside.

  ‘You’re no lady now,’ he said, holding her at arm’s length without effort, despite the wildness of her struggles. ‘You look much the same as any other wench to me. You have breasts.’ His hand flipped at them in a contemptuous gesture. ‘Not much as far as size goes. I’ll admit I’ve seen better.’ Then his fingers explored between her legs with neither tenderness nor passion. ‘Yes, you’re exactly the same there as any wench I’ve ever known.’

  His coolness was somehow more insulting than anything else she had had to bear. Twisting her head to one side she closed her eyes and wept.

  ‘Get into bed,’ he said.

  She remained like a helpless rag doll, not seeing that he was stripping off his shirt and breeches but aware that that was what he was doing.

  Suddenly she was manhandled into the bed. Managing to twist on to her stomach she clutched at the end of the mattress. He made no attempt to turn her towards him. Instead he hoisted up her thighs and took her from the back like an animal. She wanted to die, she could not cope with the shame. Her sobbing increased and only dull rhythmic moans escaped each time he plunged into her.

  Afterwards he rolled on to his back and she slid her legs straight and closed her eyes and was silent. Eventually the bed jarred as he got up. He took a few minutes to dress, then she heard him stride across the room. The door opened and shut.

  The cold made her stir eventually. She got up feeling weak and sick. Her back ached and a sticky liquid oozed from her and trickled down her legs. In disgust she rubbed at it with one of her torn undergarments before donning fresh clothes. Wrapping a shawl around her she clutched it close for comfort.

  She did not know how much time passed before she heard Mrs Gunnet’s voice, the sound of dishes being put on the table and the sawing of bread. She leaned her head back against the rocking-chair, nearly swooning with longing for a cup of tea. Her whole being revolted against going through to the kitchen and seeing or being seen by Luther Gunnet, yet at the same time she knew it was inevitable. When she felt sufficiently recovered in strength she would walk through that door into the tiny room beyond. She would collect a cup from the dresser and she would walk across and fill it with tea. She would take a slice of bread too. She had to eat. It was simply a matter of surviving. Surviving meant having to force herself to perform necessary actions. It meant crushing or somehow keeping all sensitivity and spiritual awareness in abeyance. It mean enduring. It meant accepting the practicalities that life insisted must be met.

  For the first time she had an inkling of what Mrs Gunnet and other working-class women must have felt through the years. In this jungle world there were no choices. Priorities fell into place. Things became basic. A cup of hot tea and a hunk of bread were more important than shame, embarrassment, humiliation or even hatred.

  Still feeling weak and dizzy she managed to rise and go over and open the door. She saw Luther before he saw her. He was sitting at the table, his head supported, his eyes half-shaded with one hand. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw him look up as she entered. She avoided his gaze but she could not control the trembling of her hands as she collected her meal of tea, bread and a piece of cheese. She marvelled at the fact that despite her distress she could at the same time feel a pang of pleasure in finding the cheese. As soon as she returned to the privacy of her room she stuffed a piece into her mouth. She’d had nothing to eat all day and very little the previous day. Before she reached the settee she had wolfed down the rest of the cheese and started on the dry bread. She had nearly finished the meal and was gulping down some tea when Luther came in and shut the door behind him. She cowered away, hugging the hot teacup for comfort.

  Keeping his hand on the door handle he said abruptly:

  ‘We’d better get married. For your sake as well as the child’s. I’ll see to it,’ he told her. Then the door jerked open and crashed shut and he was gone.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The minister came to the house to perform the ceremony. He was a highlander and new to the town, a shifty-looking individual in a dark coat and breeches and grubby linen. Ill-at-ease with the discord between Augusta’s fine clothes and the poverty of her surroundings he did not seem sure what attitude to adopt towards her. Normally with ladies he fawned and flattered. Common women he bullied and harassed with threats of eternal damnation, accusing them of being wicked fornicators and corruptors of men since the time of their ancestor Eve.

  He suspected that Augusta was pregnant and itched to launch into one of his tirades. Her aloofness, however, and the strangeness of the situation made him hesitate. The bridegroom did not seem to fit into the surroundings either. He sported very fashionable clothes with skin-tight white trousers strapped under the instep and a waistcoat resplendent with mother-of-pearl buttons. His frock-coat, thrown wide open across his chest, had huge revers and a padded collar that reached down to a nipped-in waist.

  As the minister fussed and fiddled with his holy book he stole another glance up past the frilled shirt and cravat to Luther Gunnet’s face. The man looked anything but happy. His features could have been carved out of solid rock. His unwavering stare was glued to a high point on the opposite wall, and his voice although clear was devoid of expression as he repeated the words:

  ‘I, Luther Gunnet, take this woman, Augusta Cameron . . . .’

  The girl’s face was a mixture of misery and haughtiness. Her hair parted, in the middle, had a cluster of ringlets tied up with blue ribbons on either side of her head. The glossy grey dress she was wearing caught the light as if shining through a glass darkly. She wore no jewellery and her hands were entwined tightly in front of her.

  Crowded into the small parlour were also Mrs Gunnet, her two daughters and her younger son. Not one of them looked as if they viewed the occasion with the slightest approval, far less happiness. Even the youngest, a girl of no more than six, was glo
wering and hanging back. Her brother Billy’s eyes were lowered. The lad was digging and scuffing at the floor with his heel, and it was as much as the minister could do to prevent himself from giving the irritating rascal a well-aimed punch.

  Mrs Gunnet, dressed in shapeless brown cotton, and with coarse red hands, was obviously an ordinary working-class woman. Yet there was something about her too that disturbed the clergyman. It was not so much her statue stillness, her poker-straight back or her tight thread of a mouth. Behind the stillness he imagined he caught, on her guarded eyes, one demented flicker. It increased his uneasiness and made him hasten the ceremony to a conclusion. He wanted to quit the cold gloomy place as soon as possible and return home to his open-faced, biddable wife.

  After he’d gone, Luther did not follow his family through to the kitchen. He shut the parlour door and turned to Augusta.

  ‘We’re husband and wife now in the eyes of God and man. Do you understand that?’

  She did not reply.

  ‘Augusta, I want no more nonsense. No more having your meals by yourself through here. No more expecting my mother to do anything for you. The worry of all this has affected her health and if you don’t care about her I do. In future I’ll expect you to help her rather than the other way around. Now, go through to the kitchen.’

  She remained motionless and erect but he could see the furtive beating of her heart. It was like a pain she was trying to hide. Hands clasped, eyes staring in his direction, she managed not to look at him. Severe in her grey dress yet so small and absurdly defenceless, she made him feel a twist of pity. For the first time too, he experienced stirrings of admiration.

  ‘We’ve got to make the best of it.’ He had meant to soften his voice, yet the words rapped out like bullets. He was always more aggressive with her. He regretted it, struggled with it as ferociously as with a tiger on the loose, but to no effect. Bitterness and resentment against Augusta continuously fought with his other emotions. The more he determined to ‘make the best of it’ and contain his conflicts, the more concentrated and explosive they became.