The Dark Side of Pleasure Read online

  Of course he never spoke to his parents of the times he enjoyed with women. Nor did he ever mention the many ways he made extra money. If he picked up a passenger on the road who wasn’t entered in the waybill he pocketed the fare. Poaching did a thriving business and he obliged by carrying wild fowl and game at a price. He also made a considerable profit by the more legitimate means of buying articles cheaply in their place of origin and selling them often at a huge profit in Glasgow, or he bought things made in Glasgow and sold them at a profit in some other town. The boot of his coach had transported delectable goods like cheeses, fresh salmon and barrels of oysters bought on commission for tradesmen or private individuals.

  All this as well as his normal gratuities—and they were often very handsome—meant that he could not only keep his mother and the two younger members of the Gunnet family but put a bit of money away in the Ship Bank. He had no intention of burying himself for the rest of his life in a hovel in the Briggait.

  He turned into the street, swearing for the hundredth time that one day he’d get his family out of this place and provide them with a house in a decent area, perhaps a cottage along Anderson Way where there would be room to move. Here the crowds were even denser than in Stockwell Street, partly because the Briggait was so narrow and partly because so many of the inhabitants of the hovels were glad to get out to the street for a breath of air. At least in his place there were only his mother, his younger sister Rose, his brother Billy and himself. Tibs stayed in the Cameron House except on her night off; and of course work kept him away too as often as not.

  Women in shroud-like shawls lined the inner side of the pavement, leaning against walls as if for shelter and support. Some languidly gossiped, others stared, dull-eyed and silent, like a row of skeletons in some long-forgotten tomb. The street’s narrowness made it cold and shadowed, even in daylight, and the clanging of horses and carts reverberated on the cobbles. It was dark now and gas jets and shop windows and taverns cast out talons of light.

  He lived in the first close next to Biddy’s old clothes shop. Coats, jackets, petticoats and gowns dangled from a long shelf which stretched above the door and windows; the garments covered the place and made it like a cloth jungle that stank of sweat. Dodging his head to avoid the low roof, he clattered into the entry of the close. A foul stream of water hissed and spat. He was glad to reach the other end of the passage that led to an open yard. But around it buildings leaned near to one another and lanes, known as wynds and vennels, no more than cracks between the houses, led off the main yard. From these lanes trickled subterranean-type paths that only someone like himself, born and brought up in the area, could ever hope to find their way around.

  The entrance of his own building took on a ghostly light when he opened the door. A candle flame shrank back shivering in the draught. Closing the door, he crossed the lobby and made an exuberant entrance into the kitchen.

  ‘Ma, me old darlin’! It’s your handsome broth o’ a boy Luther, begorra and bejabbers!’

  Swivelling him a reproving glance, his mother said, ‘What would Mr Cameron think if he heard you speak like that? Just you remember your father.’

  Luther knew what she meant. His father as well as his mother had always put great store not only by giving proper respect to one’s master but also keeping oneself of good character and suffering trials and tribulations with patience and dignity. One of the trials of the Briggait was the Irish immigrant population. His father had never had anything to do with them. They had brought such desperate overcrowding to the street and took part in so many of the street fights after drinking in the taverns. His father had never frequented taverns, or gone to cockfights or to the theatre, or travelled or done anything at all except work. From dawn till dusk he sat absorbed at his loom. The monotonous clank and clatter was woven into the fabric of Luther’s childhood but with threads of magic too, as he’d watched the materials grow like coloured cobwebs under his father’s hands.

  ‘To hell with Cameron,’ Luther said. ‘Now who wants pies? Hot and juicy and delicious!’

  His mother turned from the pot she had been stirring over the fire, one hand on her hip, her back kept stiff.

  There was still the look of a handsome woman about her, despite the stands of hair drifting greasily forwards over her tired eyes.

  ‘That wicked lack of respect to your betters will get you in trouble yet.’

  ‘I’m as good as any man and better than Cameron,’ Luther aimed his hat at young Billy’s head. It landed on target, sucking the boy’s face inside but not far enough to cover his toothy grin. ‘And anyone who disagrees with that doesn’t get a pie.’

  Billy ran towards him, tilting the hat so that he could see. Rose pattered after him on bare feet like pink seashells.

  ‘No one’s better than you, Luther,’ they squealed.

  ‘I’m warning you,’ his mother said grimly. But Luther was laughing along with the children and swooped Rose into his arms to stuff a pie against her mouth and moustache her with grease. After tossing her down again he switched his attention to Billy.

  ‘Here’s yours, squire. You look as if you need all you can get to put a bit of flesh on your bones.’

  ‘I did well at my lessons, Luther. The dominie says I’ll make a professor yet.’ Billy’s eyes shone expectantly up at his brother.

  Luther looked suitably impressed. In fact he reeled back on his heels as if completely knocked off-balance by the momentous news.

  ‘A professor in the family? I always knew you were a genius, Billy-boy. Here, have two pies.’

  Mrs Gunnet gave him another reproving stare. ‘You’ll be giving that boy a swelled head.’

  ‘Well, he needs an oversized noddle to hold all his brains, don’t you, squire?’ He rubbed his brother’s head so energetically that Billy missed his mouth and stuffed some pie in his ear, making Rose splutter with laughter.

  Sal Gunnet tutted as she ladled out bowls of soup. ‘Stop it, Luther. Say Grace then eat your soup. Come on, Billy, and you too, Rose. Sit at the table and less of your nonsense.’ Sitting down herself she bowed her head and waited.

  Rose clambered up on to a chair. Then, barely visible except for her mischievous eyes, she sat with shoulders squeezed up and lips pressed together in an effort to contain both pie and giggles. Billy wriggled his bottom on to his seat, his eyes shining up at Luther who gave him a wink before praying in solemn chant.

  Afterwards Mrs Gunnet informed him, ‘I’ve plenty of water in. There’s enough for each of us to have a wash ready for tomorrow.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have carried all that. I could have done it.’

  ‘I knew it would be turned off by the time you got here.’

  ‘It’s a pity Tibs won’t be off, Mother,’ Luther said. ‘She’ll miss all the fun of the procession.’

  ‘If she’s needed by her mistress, it’s with her mistress she ought to be.’

  ‘I don’t see why her mistress should need her tomorrow. Her mistress and her daughter will be out enjoying the celebrations. I saw the pair of them earlier today. A couple of right empty-headed idiots!’

  ‘Luther, how dare you be so wickedly disrespectful! The trouble with you is you don’t know your place. I was always a good servant and proud of it. I was always loyal and respectful to my mistress and when I left I was given a letter to testify to my good character. I could get a job anywhere just by showing that letter!’

  She had shown it to them many times, lifting it reverently out from the wooden box where she kept a lock of hair from each of her dead babies, her mother’s wedding ring and a dried flower. The letter was wrapped in a piece of silk for protection but it had still turned yellow and was falling apart at its folded edges.

  ‘Mother, you deserve a lot more respect than Mrs Cameron or her daughter. I’ve seen more than a few pampered horrors in my line of business, but those two are without doubt the world’s worst.’

  ‘Luther!’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he
said. Then with another wink at Billy, ‘I always behave like a perfect gentleman to the ladies.’

  Chapter Two

  What Luther liked about Jody was the way she could be so relaxed and yet so responsive. As she lay back with legs spread wide and eyes dreamy, she looked completely passive yet totally sensual. Leaning over her, he kissed her on the mouth while his hand caressed her. In a while he slid over her, and locking him close with both arms and legs she curved to meet him in the frenzy of passion that engulfed them both.

  Afterwards she sank back and soon drifted smilingly into a deep sleep. He lay beside her, his body exhausted but his mind restless, until eventually he surrendered himself to oblivion.

  When he awoke he lit another candle and consulted his watch. Five a.m. He had slept no more than three hours, but for him it was enough. Stretching luxuriously despite the icy air he glanced sideways at Jody. She did not move even when he rose, struggled into his trousers then removed his coat from the bed before leaving.

  Trongate Street was bald and silent when he emerged from the Tontine Hotel, but as he walked along, his feet cracking on the cobbles, candles were beginning to wink in black cavities of windows and dribble yellow light down walls. On a doorstep of a grocer’s shop two girls were crouching, one laying her head on the shoulder of the other, trying to sleep. As Luther turned down Stockwell Street a gas lamp elongated shadows of two men and a cart coming out of one of the closes. The cart was heaped with filth and dung and filled the street with an obnoxious stench. Luther returned the men’s greetings as he marched past with his hands stuffed in his pockets and his hat jauntily perched on the back of his head.

  When he arrived home his mother was up and polishing the bars of the kitchen fire. Billy and Rose were contented balls of sleep in their set-in-the-wall bed. A stub of candle withered on the table and the kitchen was depressingly cold.

  ‘Good morning, Mother.’ He kissed the top of her head then lit another two candles and put them on the dresser. ‘It’s going to be a splendid day for the procession. Not a spot of rain in sight.’

  ‘I’ll have the fire going in a minute, son.’

  He could sense her excitement. Kneeling down intent on the fire she kept her back and head held stiff, but even so, he detected the tremor of anticipation and pleasure at their planned outing. He was glad that he had promised to accompany her. She had few outings or company of any sort and must often feel lonely.

  The fire crackled, flurrying out light and heat.

  ‘That’s better.’ Luther rubbed his hands and held them out as if admiring them.

  Soon the oatmeal that had been steeping all night was put on to boil, and water too. Soon the children had bounced from the bed, their feet slapping across the floor. Soon the morning shadows from the yard were filtering in and making the square of glass set deep in the wall turn a wispy grey.

  ‘Where are we going first, Luther?’ Billy jumped up and down with excitement after everyone had washed and breakfasted.

  ‘To the Green, of course, squire. All the military are going to be in the parade,’ he enthused, ‘the Rifle Brigade, the Hussars, the Glasgow Sharpshooters, the Highland Regiments . . . .’

  ‘Come on, Rose,’ his mother urged, having donned the bonnet and shawl she kept for Sundays and special occasions. ‘Put the hood of your cloak up. It’s cold. And, Billy, tidy yourself up at once. Fasten your waistcoat. Do I look respectable enough, Luther?’ Her faded eyes anxiously sought his from the shadows of her bonnet.

  ‘Mother, you’re the most beautiful girl I know.’ Luther flicked his topper in the air, caught it neatly with his head, gave the crown a slap and offered his mother his arm.

  The back court was busy with people now. The crowds swept towards the close, leaning, hunching forward to enter its low tunnel then straightening as they discharged into the Briggait at the other end.

  Luther felt exhilarated as he and his family went down to Clyde Street and walked beside the river towards the Low Green. They passed the court and jail buildings that faced on to the Green, and crossed over to join the multitude that was as thick as a field of corn.

  Above the babble they could hear the yelling of sergeant-majors and the sound of pipes and drums and bugles lustily blowing but they could see nothing until, using his iron-hard body as a battering ram, Luther forced a path to the front. His mother nearly lost her bonnet and shawl in the process. Billy was almost separated from them and had literally to fight his way to keep up. Rose began to cry with fear at being buried in a forest of legs. But it was worth it in the end when the magnificent spectacle of soldiers and cavalry opened up before them. A vast panorama of colour rippled like a huge flag agitating in the wind.

  Men in kilts and scarlet tunics and tall fur bonnets moved shoulder to shoulder behind officers in white hackle plumes and gold-fringed epaulettes, brandishing long swords. Other soldiers in red and blue coatees and blue trousers and tall peaked hats crowded past, clutching rifles and bayonets. With careless confidence, straight-backed men in capes and high-collared tunics rode noble looking horses that tossed their heads and pawed the ground and air, as conscious as their riders of attention and admiration.

  Luther hitched Rose up into the crook of one arm, settled Billy in front of his legs then hugged his other arm around his mother’s shoulders.

  ‘What did I tell you, eh?’ He smiled.

  ‘Ah, my dear Mrs Cameron, I swear I have never seen a day shine forth with such great splendour,’ Mrs Binny gushed over the luncheon table in the large room of the Tontine Hotel where the Lord Provost, bailies and local dignitaries had gathered for an early luncheon.

  ‘I know I’m just a simple soul, Mrs Binny, but I do believe this sort of thing spoils the work people and gives them wrong ideas. All the shops and places of business are closed and every seamstress and shop assistant is out on the streets.’

  ‘Ah, my dear Mrs Cameron, it is all in a good cause—the glorification of our noble sovereign.’

  Felicity Cameron smiled sweetly and fluttered her eyelashes at the other woman. ‘Mercy, I hope my servants will think none the less of his Royal Majesty, God bless him, for remaining at their duties in Cameron House. After all, one must pursue one’s family’s interests, Mrs Binny.’

  She patted her ringlets and the ruby and diamond brooch at her throat. ‘And I do try to regulate my household by economy, in money and time. I never visit the servants’ quarters, for instance. I have trained Augusta to be my deputy in such matters.’

  ‘A most charming and delightful deputy,’ Lieutenant Fitzjames said. Augusta modestly lowered her eyes. But his scarlet tunic with its gold embellishments glimmered through her lashes, pleasing her. She fingered the delicate gold chain at her neck, then the locket that held inside it a snippet of her fiance’s hair.

  They planned a summer wedding and the Fitzjames family would be travelling up from London for the occasion. And what an occasion it was going to be! She and her mother never tired of discussing the arrangements. Her father had assured them that money was no object. ‘Nothing but the best is good enough for a Cameron. People will expect us to put on a good show.’ Her mother said the wedding would be the sensation of the city. Musicians would be brought from Edinburgh. The materials for the wedding outfit would be specially purchased from France.

  There would be the most splendid banquet. But of course before that they were to go down to London to spend Christmas with the Fitzjameses and discuss and finalise the details of the wedding . . . .

  Augusta was aroused from her reverie by the Lord Provost proposing the first toast.

  ‘. . . . and I am sure all now present will accord with me when I say that every act of His Majesty’s reign has been distinguished by the kindest regard for the best interests of his people; and that the fervent wish and prayer throughout the nation is that he may long wear the Crown with which he is this day to be adorned—our beloved sovereign, William the Fourth, four times four. . . .’

  His Lordship then c
ontinued: ‘The amiable and estimable virtues of our gracious Queen are so universally acknowledged that I require only to wish that she may long live to be the solace of our sovereign, and a bright example to her sex. Our beloved Queen Adelaide, four times four. . . .’

  The next toast was to the Princess Victoria, followed by others to the Royal Family, the British Constitution, Earl Grey and His Majesty’s ministers, the Imperial Parliament, the Army and the Navy and the Sheriff of the County.

  After the toasts many of the ladies and gentlemen left the hotel to watch the procession from the pavements and other vantage points in their own or friends’ houses. Others, including the Camerons and Lieutenant Fitzjames, repaired to the hotel’s Coffee Room, the windows of which looked on to the High Street. The Tontine was on the corner at Glasgow Cross and from its windows the four streets leading from the Cross could be seen: Trongate Street, Saltmarket Street, High Street and Gallowgate Street.

  Along the Gallowgate came a dense forest of flags, each flag bright with sketches of different scenes and mottoes to represent the particular trade of that part of the procession. The spectacle, with its hullabaloo, the cheering, the clatter of horses’ hooves, the cracking of flags, the uproar of emotion, awakened in Augusta such sensual excitement she could hardly contain it. It burned in her eyes when she stared up at Lieutenant Fitzjames, willing him to share in her intoxication. But the lieutenant’s pale eyes betrayed a slight shrinking of embarrassment and she immediately lowered her lashes.

  Eventually, when the whole procession had passed, the gentlemen assisted the ladies into their pelisses. Augusta snuggled happily into hers before lifting her muff. Lieutenant Fitzjames offered her his arm and they followed her parents out to the yard of the Tontine where their carriage was waiting.

  The parade was passing along George Street when they reached the square, and a dense mob of spectators had spilled down the Queen Street side of the square completely blocking the entrance to Cameron House which was situated at the corner.