Light & Dark

by Margaret Thomson-Davis

  Without a glance at the pheasant, hare and rabbit that had been sent helter-skelter everywhere in the wake of the hunt, she got on her cycle and pedalled fiercely along the stony road, trying to ignore the illogical pangs of hurt she was feeling at being reminded that Douglas had a life of his own that was continuing happily quite separate from her. Why shouldn’t he have a life of his own? She did. And she had chosen that it should be this way, so it was quite ridiculous to feel as she did now. She must be sensible. It was far better and wiser that they should keep their relationship on this friendly but subtly distant basis. He was always polite and charming to her at parties, but no longer forced any amorous attentions upon her. He would smile at her across a crowded room, but never rush towards her. She kept telling herself that this was wiser and better—they had nothing in common and every time they got closer they argued and he became angry. No, no, far better to keep their relationship cool like this. But how annoying it was that the cooler he kept it, the more foolishly emotional she became. In secret, of course; she would rather die now than let him know how she felt. Her mother had always said she was wickedly perverse and she was forced to admit to herself that it looked as if her mother was right. This realisation made her feel ashamed and she determined more than ever to take herself in hand.

  As soon as she reached the house she asked Mrs Musgrove how Lorianna was. The housekeeper, who seemed to have become one of the permanent shadows in the reception hall, assured her that she was being well taken care of but was still confined to bed and could see no one. Clementina had heard her saying the same to Mr Stirling who had become quite angry and insisted that he must see her. But then Mrs Musgrove, still barring his path, had informed him smoothly, ‘Madam says she does not wish to see you, sir, and it is my duty to see that madam’s wishes are respected.’

  Clementina felt both guilty and sad that her mother’s health had broken down again. As far as she understood from Mrs Musgrove, it was the same trouble with her nerves that she had suffered before. Clementina had no doubt that all the upset, scandal and worry she had caused by the violent scene with Douglas, and then getting herself arrested and flung into jail, was to blame for the relapse. She wished there was something she could do to be of help and comfort, but suspected that even the sight of her would do more to upset her mother than anything.

  However, while she was at dinner she heard a commotion in the hall and Gilbert shouting, ‘To hell with you! I don’t care what you say. Hilda and I have come all this way to see her and see her we will.’

  Then there was a banging of doors, so Clementina went out into the corridor and looked along to the hall. Mrs Musgrove was standing outside Lorianna’s bedroom door, her sallow face contorted with hatred. Immediately her quick, sharp eyes saw Clementina she said, ‘He will only upset her; he doesn’t know her as I do.’

  Clementina approached her. ‘Yes,’ she agreed, remembering how Rhona had been treated, the angry words spilling out before she could stop them. ‘He’s an ignorant insensitive lout.’

  ‘Yes, you’re learning what men are like the hard way. You’re taunting them with your new ideas and ways and making them drop their masks and show themselves to be what they really are.’

  ‘Not all men are the same,’ Clementina’s voice became frostier.

  ‘Ah!’ Mrs Musgrove’s mouth twisted slightly. ‘Of course! Every woman thinks she’s found the exception—you believe yours is Lord Monteith.’

  Clementina flushed. ‘Lord Monteith isn’t my anything.’

  ‘Better for you that it should remain so. You have work to do—important work. He will only try to stop you.’

  ‘Nobody stops me,’ Clementina said. ‘Or tells me what to do, or what not to do.’

  ‘You’re strong now,’ the housekeeper said as she leaned closer to her and Clementina suddenly felt uncomfortable. All her distaste of the woman came rushing back.

  ‘You’re strong like a tree, Miss Clementina. He’s just a rotten branch that has to be ruthlessly cut away. That’s the only way any woman can keep what strength she has and survive.’

  ‘I ought to go in and make sure Gilbert and Hilda aren’t tiring Mother.’

  The housekeeper said nothing more but Clementina felt the glittering eyes following her as she walked towards the bedroom door.

  ‘You have the nerve to show your face in here?’ Gilbert hissed immediately she set foot in the room. ‘After all you’ve done to upset your mother and disgrace the whole family! You will be the death of her yet.’

  Indeed Lorianna did have the look of death on her and Clementina was shocked by the sight of the still figure on the bed. The beautiful face was so pale, the eyes so large and tragically haunted.

  ‘Oh, Mother,’ she said, ignoring Gilbert. ‘I am so sorry.’

  Hilda sniffed and addressed her husband, ‘Sorry, she says. A lot of good that does anybody. A good whipping is what she needs.’

  Clementina stood by the bed, hardly daring to breathe because she was in such danger of breaking down and weeping at the sight of her mother. She had never loved her so intensely as now—never ached so much to touch her and hold her.

  ‘It’s all right, dear,’ Lorianna managed to whisper. ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘If it’s not her fault,’ Hilda said, ‘I don’t know whose fault it is.’

  ‘You have been far too good to her, Lorianna,’ Gilbert said. ‘And patient. Sometimes I think you have the patience of a saint.’

  Clementina would have given anything to be able to assure her mother that in future she would be different. She would be quiet and modest, sweet and obedient and everything that Lady Alice was—with no thoughts of anything other than perfecting her embroidery and capturing a husband. But she couldn’t. She wanted to say things like: ‘I know we’re different, Mother, and we don’t understand one another. And I know you don’t love me, but it doesn’t matter. If you would just let me love you …’ But she couldn’t. All she managed was. ‘I believe … we all believe that what we’re doing is right, Mother. It’s a matter of conscience.’

  ‘Would you listen to that?’ Hilda appealed to Gilbert. ‘Conscience, she says. She doesn’t know the meaning of the word.’

  Tears welled up in Lorianna’s eyes and Gilbert cried out indignantly, ‘Look what you’re doing to her. If you had a grain of conscience you would get out of here and leave her alone.’

  Still gazing helplessly up at Clementina, Lorianna said, ‘Tell Mrs Musgrove that I need her.’

  Clementina nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Outside in the hall there was no sign of the woman and in an agitation of anxiety about her mother, she hurried along the library corridor and down the shadowy servants’ stairs, lit only at intervals by candles in sconces. Impatiently she rapped at the housekeeper’s door.

  ‘Enter,’ Mrs Musgrove’s voice called.

  She was sitting like a queen on a throne on a high-backed leather chair by the fire. On the table in the centre of the room, an oil-lamp spread a yellow pool of light that didn’t quite reach her.

  Rising as Clementina entered the room, Mrs Musgrove said, ‘Has he gone?’

  ‘No, not yet. Oh, Mrs Musgrove, are you sure that it’s just mother’s nerves? She looks so pale … and … I don’t know … I feel terribly worried.’

  ‘She’ll be all right again in time. She just needs plenty of rest and quiet, the same as she did before.’

  ‘She asked me to tell you she needs you.’

  ‘I’ll go to her now.’

  As she passed Clementina, the housekeeper put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Rest here if you want. And don’t worry—I’ll get rid of master Gilbert.’

  Clementina remembered then that she had very much wanted to have a private talk with Gilbert and tell him in no uncertain terms what she thought of him. But unnerved by the few minutes with her mother and now by the oppressive atmosphere of Mrs Musgrove’s room, she decided to postpone any confrontation with Gilbert until another day. There just was
n’t time now—it would be enough of a rush to get to the meeting.

  She managed to slip some food up to Rhona and while she was eating it in the schoolroom, Clementina went into the bedroom and changed into her navy-blue tailor-mades and her navy hat with the emerald green ribbon. This outfit, she always felt, looked both smart and businesslike. Rhona was sitting soaking up the heat of the fire when she returned to the schoolroom.

  ‘Would you look at that,’ Clementina tutted with annoyance as she went over to stare out the window. ‘It’s lashing with rain. And listen to the wind! This will probably mean a smaller attendance.’ It would be difficult enough for her to get down the hills on her bicycle to Bathgate tonight, but for most women from the outlying villages it would mean trudging for miles on foot and with nothing but a shawl to cover their heads and shoulders.

  ‘Your hat will be ruined,’ Rhona said, peering over Clementina’s shoulder.

  ‘Oh, never mind about hats!’ Clementina said. ‘It’s the attendance that’s important.’

  Rhona’s eyes flashed. ‘Oh yes, I forgot! It’s easy for you to say “Never mind about hats!” You’ve got so many of them.’

  ‘Yes, I have. And you’re welcome to your pick of them—I have told you before.’

  Rhona looked sullen. ‘Feels good to act Lady Bountiful, does it?’

  ‘Look, Rhona, I know how you must feel. But try to be patient. I will work something out, I promise.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Rhona began sauntering around the room, touching this and that and absently opening books and flicking over pages.

  ‘Well, I’d better get away,’ Clementina said. ‘Aren’t you going to wish me luck?’

  ‘Oh, sure,’ Rhona said without looking round at her.

  Clementina hesitated at the door, staring worriedly at her friend for a minute before hurrying away.

  She would be late if she didn’t put a spurt on and outside, after tying a scarf over her hat and securing it firmly under her chin, she mounted her bicycle and raced down the drive and into the lane. It was sheltered there, but soon she had swooped out on to the Drumcross Road and was battling against the wind and rain once more.

  She was shivering and out of breath by the time she had reached Marjorybanks Street, her skirts were slapping wetly around her ankles and calves and her cheeks were bright pink and tingling. She forgot the trials of the journey however, the moment she turned into Jarvie Street. A large crowd had gathered, mostly well-dressed men of all ages but there were a fair number of ladies too. The ladies were middle-aged and elderly and well-protected from the elements in high-collared fur coats, capes, hats and enormous muffs.

  ‘There’s Clementina Blackwood!’ one man’s voice rang out. ‘She’s another of the ringleaders.’

  Then the cry rose: ‘Shame! Shame!’

  ‘Filthy slut!’ a man shouted. Another, eyes ablaze with hate, bawled into her face, ‘You’re a disgrace to the community and a danger to our wives and daughters.’

  ‘A danger to you, you mean,’ Clementina hurled the words contemptuously at the enraged be-whiskered man as she pushed past him and parked her bicycle against the wall of the building.

  ‘What you need is a good thrashing,’ a voice twisted with venom rasped out. ‘A pity your father isn’t alive right how to give you one.’

  ‘That’s her trouble,’ another top-hatted man shouted. ‘Her father spared the rod and spoiled the child.’

  Somehow she managed to thrust her way through the jostling, hostile crowd and in through the door of the Co-op building.

  She climbed the stairs, then strode purposefully along the corridor. The hall was packed to overflowing and she could see her five friends sitting with straight backs and stiff expressionless faces on the row of wooden seats on the platform. They had all dressed with great care and looked smartly turned out. Eva was wearing her fur tippet and her hat with the fur bobbles.

  ‘Right!’ Betsy said as soon as Clementina reached them. ‘Here goes!’

  55

  Betsy had hardly started to speak when several policemen filed into the hall and up on to the platform to confiscate the piles of pamphlets lying ready for distribution. The pamphlets were declared obscene and seized, but not before Clementina, Betsy and Kitty had each grabbed a bundle and started tossing them with all their might into the audience. For a few wild minutes the air was thick with flying paper and a forest of hands was shooting up, catching pieces and hiding them away under shawls and coats.

  After the police left, Betsy told the audience, ‘This proves my point. There is a way to prevent conception, but the mere idea of it frightens men so much that they will not permit women to know about it. It turns their world upside-down, you see. They have always believed that woman’s only function is to be pregnant. Our duty, they have always told us, is to go forth and multiply in penance and pain. Oh yes, there has to be the pain. When Sir James Young Simpson, a Bathgate-born doctor, discovered the anaesthetic property of chloroform and tried to use it to help women in childbirth, was he hailed as a public benefactor?’ She leaned forward, eyes flashing as bright as the glossy blue feathers curling down from her hat. ‘Not a bit of it! He was publicly attacked, just as we are being publicly attacked. Men said he was flying in the face of Providence—that it was the judgement of God on sin that women should suffer the pain of childbirth. Men surgeons insisted the pain was good for their character. It took a woman, Queen Victoria, to put the seal of approval on chloroform by using it at the birth of one of her children.’

  Right from the start there had been a rumble of unrest among the top-hatted men in the audience. Now one of them jumped to his feet and shook his fist at her, ‘How dare you soil the late Queen’s name by allowing it to pass your lips? Her Majesty had nothing in common with women like you. She said women’s rights, with its attendant horrors, was a mad wicked folly and women like you ought to get a good whipping.’

  ‘Aye and that’s exactly what we should give them,’ someone else shouted.

  Betsy held her ground. ‘Her Majesty was quick enough to accept chloroform as I have said, sir, because she needed it and so other women benefited. She didn’t need power—she was the only woman in the country who had any. A pity she was like men in that respect and guarded it so selfishly.’

  This caused an uproar but Kitty, who was chairwoman, excitedly appealed for the speaker to be allowed to finish her address and loudly banged the gavel on the table until she restored some semblance of order. Betsy then launched into the main theme of her talk, in which she accused men of not being able to accept the idea that women should have anything other than a dutiful attitude towards sexual intercourse. It worried them… . It made them feel afraid… . If women were not dutiful, men might lose some of their power over them.

  ‘One of the classic male responses to women’s greater freedom has always been to accuse woman of emasculating them. Well,’ said Betsy cheekily, ‘I believe they should never have had the power in the first place, so I am all for emasculating them.’

  The men in the audience, although in the minority, created a furore of noise again, but Betsy shouted defiantly over it.

  ‘They are afraid their masculine pride and privilege is being taken away at the mere suggestion of birth control. I say, give them the fright of their lives. Use birth control! Use it all the time and start right now!’

  Suddenly a man’s cane came hurtling through the air and smashed against Betsy’s shoulder, making her stagger back clutching at herself, her face twisted in agony.

  Immediately Clementina jumped forward to take her place.

  ‘Birth control means freedom for women. Don’t let them tell you it’s a private matter. That’s what they say about everything that relates to women. The truth is that this is a question of women’s politics versus men’s politics. We have a right to campaign for birth control as we are doing tonight and we shall continue to do tomorrow and the next day and the next. We will not be silenced or intimidated… .’
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  She then launched into a brief history of contraception, starting with the linen condom evolved by a sixteenth-century anatomist Gabriel Fallopian after whom the fallopian tubes were named. This was invented originally as a protection against infections like syphilis, and it was not until afterwards that it was found to reduce the risk of pregnancy.

  ‘It was not all that successful though,’ Clementina said, ‘because a Parisian woman, Madame de Sévigné, described it as “an armour against enjoyment and a spider’s web against danger”.’

  There was a titter of laughter at this from some of the women in the audience, but the men roared out indignantly, ‘Shame! Shame!’

  In the background Agnes tried to make herself heard: ‘Clementina, Betsy’s shoulder is paining her so badly I’m afraid she’s going to faint. I ought to take her home.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Clementina, without turning round. ‘Don’t worry, Betsy. I will tell them all you wanted to say.’

  Agnes helped a white-faced Betsy down from the platform and the two women began squeezing through the crowds of jeering men who were now standing in the aisles. Clementina lost sight of her friends as the men closed around them. Raising her voice, she continued, ‘Eventually the linen condom was replaced by the sheath made from the blind gut of a sheep, treated with chemicals and softened and dried. This became very popular in the eighteenth century, but it was not until the end of the nineteenth century that the chemical contraceptive pessary first came into vogue.’

  ‘This filth must be stopped,’ someone shouted. ‘I’m calling in the police!’

  Clementina ignored the interruption.

  ‘In 1800 W. J. Rendall, a chemist in Clerkenwell, made the first commercial spermicidal pessary. It was a mixture of quinine and cocoa-butter made to melt at just above body temperature.’

  ‘Filth! Filth!’

  A feverish and perverted kind of excitement was mounting. She could hear it in the voices.

  ‘There were various other means of avoiding conception of course, mainly with the use of chemical solutions by douching or by syringe. But most women were too afraid to use methods like these that would be apparent to their husbands. One would think,’ Clementina shook her head, ‘that husbands who had promised to love, honour and cherish their wives would have been seriously concerned about their terrible health problems, and the way in which their constitutions were being weakened by constant pregnancies and miscarriages. One would think,’ she insisted over the heat of the rabble, ‘that they would welcome contraception. But no. Oh no! They fight tooth and nail, as they are doing tonight, to prevent women from even hearing about such things. And they say it is unnatural, when they know perfectly well that the whole of civilisation is a never-ending battle with the effects of uncontrolled natural processes—’