‘For somebody who’s supposed to be so clever you can be very stupid,’ Lily said as she marched me through the Jesus College gates and on to Turl Street. ‘Did your fool of a father teach you nothing about men at all?’
I was furious. With the Principal. With Peacock the Popinjay. With every man that made Oxford what it was. But not with my father. Never with him. ‘Don’t talk about my father like that.’
‘He was my cousin. I’ll talk about him however I like.’ Lily waited for a trolley coming out of Market Street to go over to Brasenose Lane before marching on. ‘He was a fool when he was a boy and he never improved if you’re anything to go by. He should’ve got you married off, like a normal person, instead of encouraging you to come here with your foolish ideas.’
Peacock the Popinjay brayed inside my head. It’s pointless you being here. You’ll never be able to do anything.
‘Why are you giving me houseroom if you think studying’s foolish?’
Two ladies in frills, with bustles so big they looked as if they were sitting on teapots, turned their heads to stare at me as they came out of a haberdashery shop. I didn’t care. They could stare all they liked. And I could shout all I liked.
‘I never said studying was foolish.’ Lily was trying to keep her voice down. Why she was bothering was anybody’s guess. Even this near Jesus College the likelihood of anybody understanding Welsh was small to none. ‘It’s your ideas that are foolish. Thinking you can be as good as the men. Better than them, even.’
This time it was two young men coming out of a barber’s shop in a rush of warm, steamy air who stared at us.
‘But I am as good as them!’ I said, glaring at the two youths until they turned away. ‘I’m better than most of them.’ If Lily didn’t understand that after a year of having me as her lodger, there was no hope of me persuading anybody else.
‘I’m not saying you’re not cleverer than them. But you’ll never be as good as them. Not in the eyes of the world. And if you haven’t worked that out yet then you’re a fool. This is a man’s world, Non. You can’t go head-to-head with them like rams in a field.’
I glanced sideways at her. Back as stiff as a poker. Sober dark blue dress just right for a chaperone. Cheeks pink with embarrassment. Mouth in a thin line. And a small, feather-trimmed hat that sat low over her brow as if she was using it to keep a lid on her exasperation. As a rule, Lily – who was actually my father’s second cousin – was a sunny person. She smiled a lot, sang while she worked and wasn’t one to take offence easily. But once her dander was up, it was hard to bring it down again.
‘You think, now that you’ve got the AEW, and the ladies’ halls, and permission from a few dons to go to lectures, that it’s all going to be easy, don’t you? You think it’s only a matter of time before they let you in to the University, give you your own colleges, let you wear the cap and gown. But you want to remember, my girl, anything that’s given can be taken away. Just like that.’ She tried to snap her fingers, but she’d forgotten she was wearing gloves. ‘If you go around showing off, they’ll take back your permission to go to lectures as quick as look at you.’
I ground my teeth. ‘Why is it showing off when I use what I know in an argument and commendable scholarship when they do?’
She stopped dead, taking no notice of the barrow boy who swore as he swerved around us. ‘Stop behaving like a child, Rhiannon. You know perfectly well why. Men don’t like to be shown up. They won’t stand for it.’
‘Basil doesn’t mind when I win an argument.’
‘And now you’re arguing against yourself. Proves you’re just in a contrary mood.’ She set off again. ‘Anyway, Basil’s not like the rest of them.’
‘And Professor Rhys wants me to argue.’ The University’s Jesus Professor of Celtic appeared in my mind’s eye, all impish grin and springy hair. ‘Evidence, Non,’ he’d say in our tutorials. ‘If you’re going to argue that I’m wrong, give me evidence that you’re right.’
Lily made an impatient noise. ‘Professor Rhys is one of us, isn’t he? From Cardiganshire. And his wife’s a sensible woman, even if she is from North Wales.’
We were almost at our destination – the shop where Lily’s friend, Mrs Long, offered a private ladies’ hairdressing room three days a week. ‘But there aren’t enough men like Basil and Professor Rhys, are there? It’s all going to take time, Non. And you’re not going to make it come any sooner if you behave like that. Offering to drag in that doctor.’
‘But if there’s any doubt about how this young man died—’
‘No!’ Lily stopped and grabbed me by the arm. ‘Stop this now. It’s none of your business. Nor your doctor friend’s.’
‘Yes, it is.’ If I’d been a different sort of woman, I’d have stamped a little foot. As it was, I just glared at her. ‘When somebody dies suddenly like that, it’s everybody’s business. That’s why inquests are public.’
Lily let go of my arm and looked around to see if anybody was watching. But the street was suddenly quiet. ‘Don’t be clever with me, my girl,’ she hissed. ‘You know what I mean. There are plenty of people who’ll be looking into this young man’s death.’
‘But they’ll just call the University coroner in, and unless the dead boy’s got a bullet hole in his head or a knife sticking out of him, the coroner’ll just rule “natural causes” to stop any scandal, won’t he?’
Lily took my arm again and propelled me forward. ‘You’ve got no reason to think he died of anything other than natural causes.’
Nothing apart from a long acquaintance with Dr Benton Reckitt. Dr Reckitt believed very strongly that unless every single death was investigated by autopsy examination, murders would go undetected and fatal conditions would go undescribed, depriving doctors of the chance to treat them in future. I’d known him since I was a child and he’d given me good reason to agree with him.
‘Your mother warned me,’ Lily said, marching me on.
I didn’t ask what she meant. I knew my mother’s list of my failings off by heart and in alphabetical order.
‘Your father indulged you too much. Let you go about looking at dead bodies with a doctor who should’ve known better than to encourage a young woman – a girl – to do such a thing. Well, your father’s gone now, and I agree with your mother. It’s not right. Dr Harper obviously thinks so too. And you know who else would agree with me? Miss Rees. Don’t make me write and tell her that you’re trying to bring Dr Reckitt here so you can watch him cutting dead bodies open again.’
I wrenched my elbow out of her grasp just as we got to Mrs Long’s door. ‘You should. Go on, write to her. She’ll be on my side.’
Miss Sarah Jane Rees, my benefactor, wouldn’t agree with Lily and my mother. I was certain of that. But I also knew that her support wouldn’t be of much practical use to me. Not here.
When Miss Rees had first offered to find me lodgings in Oxford so that I could attend the AEW’s ‘lectures for ladies’, I’d imagined that her name would open doors for me. I’d been wrong.
Sarah Jane Rees might be famous at home, but Oxford had never heard of her. It wasn’t interested in her, and it wasn’t interested in me. It especially wasn’t interested in my ambitions. Most of the young women who came here to study just wanted a bit more education than they’d had so far, usually so that they could be better teachers. So they were thrilled with what was on offer. Not me. I wanted to sit at the table, not take charitable crumbs from the back door.
‘Don’t expect too much of the other girls,’ Miss Rees had written when I’d complained, in my weekly letter, that I hadn’t found a single other female student who was interested in real scholarship. ‘Most of them will be lucky if they’ve had any decent schooling, never mind the standard you’ve reached. It’s going to take our sisters a while to be ready for the kind of thinking a university encourages.’
The lack of a university education hadn’t stopped Miss Rees thinking independently. Or acting independently, either. She’d been a sailor in her youth, and a teacher of navigation. Now, she was a poet, public speaker, writer and editor. And it was her writing that had made her name known throughout Wales. Even though I’d been brought up to call her Miss Rees, respectfully, like all the other children, I always thought of her as Cranogwen, because that was the bardic name she’d used when she’d beaten our country’s most famous male poets at the national eisteddfod.
It had been a big disappointment when I’d realised that there wasn’t anybody like Cranogwen – or like me – at Oxford. Most of the young women I’d met here were desperate to please and so overwhelmed at the notion of being allowed into lectures, and the Bodleian Library, that they could barely keep their feet on the ground. I’d only found one who didn’t set my teeth on edge and make me want to push her into the Cherwell, and that was Annie Rogers. Annie was the nearest we had to a female don, and she was famous for having beaten all the male candidates in the local examinations six years ago. It was her example that’d given me the idea to sit the men’s papers and submit them under my initials.
But what was the point of all the exams and lectures if we weren’t going to be allowed to use what we knew?
It’s pointless you being here. You’ll never be able to do anything.
I should have listened to Dr Reckitt. He’d been against me coming to Oxford. He’d wanted me to go to London where he had friends and colleagues who could have helped me.
Dr Reckitt was a recognised expert in his field, but the Jesus College Principal had dismissed him just because I’d suggested him. The thought made me rage.
Lily pushed me out of the way, opened the door to number three and bundled me into the passage. She stuck her head through the doorway into the parlour and nodded at Mrs Long, who was busy showing a lady pictures of different hairstyles in one of the illustrated magazines. Mrs Long nodded back, and Lily shut the door again. ‘Right then, let’s get this contraption out and get home.’
Lily always spoke about my tandem as if it was a huge inconvenience to her. But the walk to her house from Jesus College was almost a quarter of an hour; on the tricycle it took barely five minutes. If she’d been prepared to ride about on her own, like me, she’d have saved herself hours every week. But no. She’d only ride ‘the contraption’ when I was there to do the steering. To be honest, I don’t think she’d really forgiven me for bringing the tricycle home.
Or perhaps she just hadn’t forgiven me for the way I’d come by it.
I’d won it in a bet.