Saturday, 1 January
Timothy 2:11-12
I did ring the Temple the following morning, and after long delays and losing the connexion twice, I finally spoke with the churlish Marie, whose accent on the telephone was thick as marzipan. I shifted to French, but she stubbornly persisted with fracturing English, and at the end of the bilingual conversation, it transpired that Miss Childe was not able to see me that day for longer than fifteen minutes, that Miss Childe wished to see me for a longer period of time, and that Miss Childe therefore suggested that I dine with her the next evening, Saturday, at a half past six. I told Marie in the most florid of French that such an arrangement was entirely felicitous and unreservedly acceptable, then rang off.
I sat for a minute at the telephone desk, whistling tunelessly, and then picked up the receiver again and asked for a number in Oxford. While waiting for the trunk call to go through, I retrieved the morning paper. The day’s article on Iris Fitzwarren stretched one meagre piece of news (that the nightclub she had been in was raided by Scotland Yard late Thursday night, with a number of deliciously scandalous arrests) into two columns, but despite the writer’s efforts, it was obvious that nothing was happening. Had it not been for her name, the story would have been killed or relegated to the innermost recesses.
The exchange came up then with my number, and I spoke for a few minutes to the man on the other end, referring obliquely to certain debts and favours and describing the information I wanted, and said I would ring him back in an hour. Holmes would have done the matter by telegram, I knew, but I always prefer the personal touch in my matters of mild blackmail.
I went for breakfast and then returned to the telephone. My informant had the college address and private telephone number I needed, which I wrote in my notebook. I thanked him, took up my hat, gloves, and increasingly light handbag, and called a farewell to the concierge (such a grand name for that dried-up figure!). Taxis beckoned, but I resolutely turned my steps toward the Underground. Ridiculous as it seemed, after the depredations of generosity the other night to the East End poor, my purse was emptying fast, and no reinforcements were due until the banks opened on Monday. As I walked down the steps into the noisy station, a sudden thought made me laugh aloud: The cost of the clothes the elves were making for me amounted to precisely five pounds more than the total allowance I had drawn during my three years at Oxford, and here was I hoarding my last few shillings. Monday a ragged-coated philanthropist, Friday too poor for a taxi, and Sunday on the edge of being a millionaire (in dollars, perhaps, if the market was strong and the exchange rate very good).
In Oxford, I walked through a low drizzle and presented myself at the address in my notebook, where I was surprisingly well received despite the fact that I was obviously interrupting the great man’s work. I spent an instructive two and a half hours and came away with a list of books and names. The former, I tracked down in the Bodleian, where I spent the afternoon skimming several thousand pages. I spent a few shillings on a stodgy pub meal, worked a while longer, and on my way out of the town centre stopped for a brief chat with the colleague (whom I had dubbed Duncan) with whom I was doing the public presentation in January. The brief visit turned into dinner and a lengthy consultation, and I returned late to my digs on the north end of town, read for another couple of hours, and slept fitfully.
Saturday morning, I rose early, made myself a pot of tea, and began to read Evelyn Underhill’s massive (in scope, if not number of pages) treatise on mysticism. At a more reasonable hour, my landlady came in with a tray of coffee and buttered toast. Reluctantly, I closed Miss Underhill and picked up the material Duncan had given me the previous evening. At mid-morning, I walked to his house, an amiable shambles of loud children and a wife every bit as absentminded as he, and after an hour’s friendly argument, I took myself on a contemplative stroll through the Parks and Magdalen’s deer park to a converted laundry in Headington, a building that smelt oddly of starch and scorched sheets when warm, at whose whitewashed front window passersby often drew up, startled at the noises coming from within.
Watson called this form of martial art “baritsu,” for reasons best known to himself. (There was in his day a form of glorified grappling by that name, invented by an Englishman and dignified with an Oriental title, but had Holmes depended on it, he would never have survived Reichenbach.) That day, out of condition from weeks at my books and distracted as well, I called it torture, and I collected a handsome variety of bruises from my gentle and ever-genial teacher. I bowed to him gingerly and crept away to the train, reflecting on how salutary it is occasionally to put one’s self in the hands of a ruthless superior.
I arrived at the Temple promptly at five o’clock, at the everyday business doors down the street from the meeting hall. As we had arranged, Veronica met me and spent the next hour showing me the workings behind the doors. It was an enlightening experience. We saw the Refuge, open to poor women in trouble, with long tables to feed them, a small surgery to treat their ills, and a tiny garden in the back with swings for the children. (“The only garden some of them have ever seen,” commented Ronnie.) I saw the classrooms, with readers designed for children but used mostly, said Veronica, by grown women (“We’re writing a simple adult reader”); the commissary, with its stores of food and clothing for the destitute; the secretarial training rooms, with a row of typewriting machines (“You probably know that if a woman refuses to take a job as a servant, because of the low pay, long hours, and lack of dignity, she may have her unemployment benefits cancelled,” Ronnie said. I had to admit I did not); and a storage room with shelves of books, a future, dreamed-about library (“These people will read anything and everything, given a chance”).
The next building, between the Refuge and the lecture hall, was the Temple’s heart. On the street level were offices that handled communication for Margery—speaking engagements, business appointments, interested outsiders. These rooms resembled the offices of any prosperous business, without the heavy oaken dignity. What surprised me was the extent of what lay behind these.
Behind the front offices and taking up the entire basement was the Temple’s political organisation. One room had nothing but telephones in cubicles and a large switchboard. (“We can get a response or put out information immediately—it also serves to train women while they earn.”) Another had a round table nearly twelve feet across (“for making decisions on policies”). On the walls around it were a number of typed and hand-written notices and memoranda. “First reading divorce bill—March??” said one. “Remind Refuge workers that midwives get a shilling for each referral,” said another. “If you know of any sympathetic journalist, give the name to Bunny Hillman.”
“Pamphlets for the Parliament demo will be ready midday 5 January.”
“Needed: more typewriters, bedding, children’s shoes, eyeglasses.”
“Physical culture classes beginning 20 January; see Rachel.”
“Talk on ‘Sex-Role Conditioning, Marriage Contracts, and the Age of Feminism,’ Saturday, 22 January, St Gilberta’s Church, W1.”
“needed: country overnight lodgings for mother-infant outings this summer, preferably with forest or lake nearby. See Gertrude P.”
“lost: shawl, mauve with dark trim; see Helen in the front office.”
“The next France tour leaves 18 February. Sign up now!! Remember: sensible shoes and be there early! See Susanna Briggs or Francesca Rowley.”
“Hymnbooks are disappearing at an alarming rate! Please remember to watch for them in the foyer after services and remind the member to return it to her seat!”
“books wanted for lending library, good condition, nothing too dreary. Veronica Beaconsfield.” We went on.
The next room was a study, with books on law and history; filing cabinets of articles, maps, and census reports; several volumes of jokes; and great piles of journals, from suffragette tractates to
