Chapter Fourteen 1898 #2
Are we to say that, at the age of eighteen, a boy may be so wholly condemnable that there is No Hope of reforming him?
Who among us can look back at our younger selves and not see that we were still learning to master our selves; still lacking in our fundamental understanding of the world?
Should the state not intervene with the purpose of Salvaging that person, rather than simply extinguishing their life?
Would a specific reformatory for the under-aged criminal not be the more rational, the more humane, course of action?
Toby tweaked the punctuation and changed the word order here and there as he went, before writing out a fair copy for the typesetter.
When one speaks out against the judicial death penalty, one often hears a quote from the Bible in reply: ‘A eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ But, surely, the imposition of such a penalty out of vengeance makes Murderers of us all?
If there is a debt to be paid to society, and if society must be protected, then these twin goals may be amply met by the imprisonment, reform and transportation of convicted men.
To rethink is to risk ridicule, but one must not baulk at ridicule if one longs for change.
In his closing statement, he’d wanted to distil his revulsion and anger into a single, unarguable paragraph. As he re-read it now, that anger surged – it always did.
All men are flawed, and Any System Designed and Operated by Man is Therefore Inherently Flawed. Mistakes will be made. While the death penalty remains, Innocent Men Will Be Sent to the Gallows, and this is a far more grievous injustice than a guilty man being treated too leniently.
Toby wanted to shout it from the rooftops.
He wanted to pick the prime minster up by his lapels and shake him till he rattled.
Instead, he slammed his palm down on the tabletop, which wobbled and slopped ink over his fair copy.
Toby ground his teeth for a moment, then took out a fresh sheet of paper to begin again.
Essex Hall was off the Strand, a twenty-minute walk back across the river.
Toby arrived an hour before the meeting and got to work setting out the chairs, hanging the banners and furnishing the ticket desk by the door.
The room smelled overwhelmingly of wood – old wood, polished to a shine.
It had strong schoolroom connotations that were comforting to Toby, though perhaps not to everyone.
He set up a table on the dais for the three notables, and a chair to one side for himself.
He’d spent some of Tom’s twenty pounds on a course in shorthand notation, which was proving extremely useful.
Before long, the audience began to file in: mostly men, but not exclusively so.
Thinkers, writers, left-leaning minor politicians.
He saw familiar faces – enthusiasts who came to every meeting – as well as strangers.
A few young working-class men in suits gone shiny at the elbows, tired-eyed at the end of the day.
Then, a pair of latecomers gave Toby a shock of recognition.
The grey-headed man in the turquoise waistcoat, being helped to his seat by a younger fellow, was Timothy Crudge.
Toby ducked. His immediate reflex was to hide, perhaps because of how much Crudge knew about him.
But Crudge had only ever been good to the Meriwethers, and had done his best to help Kit.
Toby ought not to blank him. He realised he’d missed Bernard Shaw’s opening remarks, and quickly fudged something for the minutes.
Then he barely looked up again until the meeting drew to a close two hours later.
As the volume rose and hats returned to heads, he went over.
‘Good evening, Mr Crudge.’
Crudge turned, his face lighting up. ‘Tobias Meriwether! How simply delightful to find you here!’
‘How do you do?’
‘Very well, very well. And yourself? Do let me introduce my amanuensis, Nicholas Bourton.’
As they shook hands, Toby relaxed. Crudge’s magnanimous good humour was always contagious, and Bourton seemed pleasant enough – all smiles and diffidence.
‘This is our first time at one of these lectures,’ Bourton said. ‘Are you a Fabian?’
‘I am. In fact, they employ me – I’ve just been taking the minutes.’
‘Really?’ Crudge said. ‘But how marvellous – jolly good show!’
He beamed with almost paternal pride, and Toby grew a little. In that moment, he was proud of where he had got to. For the first time since leaving Durham, he felt that he was doing well.
‘The cause of social justice could have no finer champion,’ Crudge went on. ‘Young Toby here has always been an excellent scholar, Nicholas; fertile ground for liberal ideas to germinate. But you must dine with us, Toby, and tell us all about it – we’ve a table at Simpson’s.’
‘That’s very kind, but I’ve no wish to impose—’
‘Nonsense! It will be our pleasure to invite you. I insist.’
‘Then I accept.’ Toby smiled. ‘Thank you. I’ll need to finish up here.’
Crudge gave a nod. ‘We’ll go ahead and wet our whistles. You come along as soon as you’re ready.’
Toby knew Simpson’s in the Strand, but he’d never been in – couldn’t afford it.
The huge dining hall was opulent with chandeliers, marble counters and leather banquettes.
World-famous chess players still met there for contests, but most people went to eat, drink, and be seen.
White table linens, silver cloches, complicated cutlery.
Toby tried not to feel self-conscious as he was loaned a dinner jacket and tie by the ma?tre d’h?tel, but since neither Crudge nor Bourton seemed to notice that the jacket didn’t match his trousers, Toby decided not to worry about it.
And he could hardly turn down the wine, when it was the best he’d ever tasted.
He relaxed, and dared to feel that he belonged.
They talked about the book Crudge was writing – a new anthology of the myths and legends of the South of England, with an analysis of their basis in archaeological evidence – then moved on to justice and politics and social reform, all without ever touching on how Toby might have come to espouse his causes.
Toby knew, instinctively, that Crudge wouldn’t have discussed his particular circumstances with Bourton.
The old man had always shown perfect tact and discretion, and he was grateful for it.
He also knew that Crudge wouldn’t offer any unasked-for information about Theo.
But as the evening grew late and the wine swaddled Toby’s brain, he began to almost resent it. It made little sense, but perhaps he wanted to hear some news of Theo without having to ask. Because he was damned if he was going to ask.
‘And Mrs Anscombe? Have you seen her lately?’ he heard himself say, when Bourton had excused himself from the table.
Crudge’s face fell. ‘I haven’t actually seen her in quite some time, but she writes.’
‘Oh?’
The old man looked uncomfortable, and turned his wine glass by its stem.
‘Forgive me, Toby, but why do you ask? You cut yourself cleanly from Hallewell and all your old acquaintances. I completely understand why you did it, and perhaps you were right to. But you can’t imagine your going wasn’t painful for her?’
Toby picked up his glass, but it was empty. A waiter appeared at once.
‘Lots that went on was painful,’ he said. ‘I suppose, as one gets older . . .’
He wasn’t sure where the sentence had been going. She wouldn’t even go and visit Kit, he wanted to say, like a child. His cheeks flared as blood thudded through his skull.
‘Anyway, she clearly recovered from any injury well enough to marry that doctor,’ he said. ‘But you’re right – it was wrong of me to ask. Only, I know how close the pair of you are.’
Crudge nodded. ‘She’s as dear to me as my own daughter. And expecting a child any day now, I’m happy to be able to tell you.’
‘Only now? I’m surprised it’s taken so long.’
Crudge winced minutely at the crass remark. ‘Yes. Well. Others came, but sadly did not stay.’
Toby looked down at his plate – the globs of congealed gravy, the strip of gristle from his steak – and was suddenly awash with bitter, aimless disgust. He didn’t belong there.
He wasn’t a man of intellect or urbane society, he was just scrabbling along, feigning composure and trying to stay afloat, like he’d always done.
The wine turned to acid in his stomach, and they sat in silence until Bourton – who seemed boyishly delighted by everything he saw – returned to the table.
‘I say, I’ve just come past the sweet trolley,’ he reported. ‘I hope you’ve left room, chaps, because it all looks stupendous.’
‘Jolly good,’ Crudge said.
‘Tell me, Mr Meriwether, where do the Fabians stand on the subject of women’s suffrage?’ Bourton asked. ‘My sister is terribly hot on it these days.’
‘Well.’ Toby marshalled himself. ‘We’re more concerned with social reform than political.’
‘But surely social reform can only come from political reform?’
‘Swingeing changes, perhaps, but that is not the essence of the Fabians. Personally, I think there are more pressing concerns than votes for women. Suffrage ought to be extended beyond landowners, first to all working men come of age. They’re the ones living out the policies of ministers they haven’t been permitted to elect. ’
‘But plenty of women work, these days – and not only on farms or in factories. Are they not subject to the exact same policies as men?’
Toby thought of Dr Sanderson, who’d treated him during his fever. It threw him right back to that night in the ruins of the castle, when he’d spoken loftily to Theo of women, and seen her recoil. He pushed back against the memory.
‘Are women politically minded, for the most part? It seems to me that many are perfectly happy and fulfilled in the domestic realm, and that those agitating for the vote are a small minority.’