Mandell Creighton, a nineteenth century ecclesiastic, said: “No
people do so much harm as those who go about doing good.” Now,
twenty-five years after I started on the do-gooding road, I would
agree with him. It would be a rash generalization, and wrong to
suggest that all do-gooders were harmful, but certainly the motives
for wanting to do good are often questionable, and the results often
undesirable. If it is true, and it seems to be, that altruism doesn’t
exist, the only reason that people are ‘wonderfully self-sacrificing’ or
whatever, is because that is what they wish to be. Naturally this does
not apply to anyone looking after a disabled member of the family,
or some such, who, therefore, has no choice.
Most of the women and men I met at various voluntary activities
were over thirty-five, with time to spare, looking for something to fill
their empty lives. In my married life, I was one such a woman.
Many voluntary organizations encourage their volunteers to see
themselves as ‘counsellors’. (This terrible word means nothing
superior whatsoever, but is simply someone who listens, or talks, or
who gives good or bad advice). The ‘counsellor’ then acquires a
sense of power which otherwise she or he would not possess. There
are indeed training schemes to train volunteers from being ‘ordinary
folk’ into ‘caring counsellors’. How to acquire a ‘caring’ voice is also
taught so that whatever filth is metered out to you on the telephone,
at one of those establishments, you have to keep repeating “I know
how you feel,” in a caring voice – even if you haven’t the least idea
what it must be like to be masturbating in a telephone box.
Knowing that there are others sadder and more bereft than
oneself can have a cheering effect on the listener. When I was
unhappy years ago, I had many so-called friends. I have many less
now, and the reason, I think, is that my present contentment is a
touch dull, whereas my misery, for them, was exalting. One of the
characters from Aldous Huxley’s Ends and Means said: “I can
sympathize with peoples pain but not with their pleasure. There is
something curiously boring about someone else’s happiness.”
Not entirely cured of my somewhat manic desire to be of help to
the community, I answered an appeal I heard on Radio 4. It was for
people to man the telephones at the local Rape Crises Centres. Rape
Crises Centres were, apparently, short of volunteers to perform this
activity. I rang locally, and spoke to a woman who told me to come
to a meeting taking place on the following Wednesday evening, at
7.30. The address was in the Cowley Road, which, although I have
grown fond of it, is not a place to be when the light has faded.
Cowley has been described as dirty, lawless, dangerous, and noisy.
This is an accurate description.
When I arrived at the given address, from outside I could see one
light. It was coming from an attic room. I pushed the front door open
and found myself in a dark, gloomy hall. Following the light I started
up dirty, bare, rickety stairs, until I reached the top landing. I knocked
on the door and was asked in. In this bizarre room the floor space
was almost entirely covered with old mattresses. On one of them sat
a young woman, but, to my conventional and untrained eye, she
could have been a man. She wore a man’s shirt, red braces, trousers,
and bovver boots. A donkey jacket was by her side, with a tin of roll-
your-own navy cut tobacco sticking out of the pocket. “Hello” she
said, “I’m Linda – I’m on duty for Lesbian Line.” “Oh” I said, confused,
“but I thought this was the meeting place for the Rape Crises
Volunteers.” “It is,” she said, “they take place in the same room –
this room. Why don’t you sit down?” Since there were no chairs, I sat
down on a mattress and looked about me.
The walls were entirely covered with posters unflattering to me.
viz: All men are rapists – Penis Power is woman’s violation – Rape in
Marriage is a crime, and many more of a similar nature.
There were pamphlets and printed sheets littered about, all
pertaining to feminist causes and female rights. Soon women started
arriving. They were between twenty and twenty-five, and mainly
Linda-look-alikes, although there was one in an Indian skirt. A fierce-
looking androgynous person asked me who I was and why I was
there. I muttered about the radio appeal which seemed to satisfy her
and the meeting began.
The room was very small and with nine
people in it, mostly smoking roll-ups, the atmosphere quickly
became pungent. I was squashed between to women in donkey
jackets who smelt quite strongly of sweat, tobacco and beer.
Fervently I wished that I had not answered this particular call for
help, and that I could run back home. But that was not possible
without drawing attention to myself, so reluctantly I stayed.
Among several points to be brought up on the agenda, the
boycotting of Miss Oxford remains the most prominent in my mind.
It was to decide what role each one would play in seeing that this
event did not take place. Or, if it did, it would only do so with
maximum harassment. Various tactics were discussed, including
bottle throwing, tyre slashing, crowd agitation and several other
destructive ideas. Suddenly I was asked what I was going to do in the
way of disruption. My heart beat faster as I suspected that, in this
particular company, mentioning that I was a magistrate and
therefore, ineligible to fight the battle, might not have been
appropriate or appreciated. Indeed, there could have been positive
hostility. The quiet and gentle heroines of Mrs Gaskell and Jane
Austin that I so revere were about as far removed from these women
as could possibly be. I declined with some excuse. At 10.30pm the
meeting adjourned and everyone, except me, went to the pub. (God
knows why, since there must have been men there to contend with.)
So much discussion about men’s bestiality, so much emotion, so
much earnestness, and so much real spite all delivered in a totally
humourless way was a pathetic way to waste one’s life, I mused on
the way home. And so was it a waste of my time getting involved in
organizations which I did not believe were constructive or even
useful. Perhaps I will have a go at Meals-on-Wheels next time I get
the do-gooding urge – at least I know that is worthwhile.
My own theory on rape is that it is difficult to put the crime under
one heading. There are many many different kinds. No one could
possibly get them confused. One is an outrageous attack on a
woman, by a person or persons unknown. Another rape can be
perpetrated by a husband, a son, a lover, or a family friend. For these
men, when and if convicted, life imprisonment is too short, I think.
However, I have known of women both stupid and naïve in their
dealings with men. In some cases, women invite men into their
homes and lead them on with drinks and general coquetry and then
are surprised and horrified when they are ‘raped’. In my youth a
crude saying “if you don’t want the goods don’t muck about with
them” was expedient and, I think, still could be.
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