Time to Be in Earnest

by P. D. James

  Afterwards I went to the House to listen to the second reading of the Crime and Punishment Bill and two speeches on the abolition of doli incapax, the requirement of courts to be satisfied that children accused of criminal acts know that the acts are seriously wrong, not merely childish bad behaviour. I made a brief and not particularly relevant intervention in which I recounted an incident I saw in a juvenile court. An agreeable small delinquent with the face of a roguish angel and attired in a multi-striped hand-knitted pullover had been accused of letting off an airgun in a supermarket. His response to the question whether he knew it was wrong—“I knew it was against the law, but I didn’t know it was wrong”—provided a nice problem of law for the juvenile justices.

  SATURDAY, 14TH FEBRUARY

  Yesterday I had dinner at the Dorchester with Rosemary Herbert, the journalist from Boston whom I first met when she interviewed me about twenty years ago and who has become something of an expert on crime writing. Rosemary is at present Editor-in-Chief of a compendium of crime writing to be published by Oxford University Press. She is anxious for me to cooperate on an anthology of the best crime short stories in the last hundred years, to be published at the Millennium. The suggestion is that I write the foreword and introductions to the selected stories. I said I would not wish any major work to be published by a publisher other than Faber and suggested that she provide a written proposal which I could consider, and if necessary discuss.

  I am not a natural collaborator and I suspect that few novelists are. A novel is essentially the product of an individual voice and a single concentrated mind. Drama can be collaborative and textbooks frequently are, but I can think of no major work of fiction written by more than one author. Canaletto might ask an apprentice to paint in an inch or two of waves, but I can’t imagine Dickens, however hard pressed, handing over a synopsis to a pupil and asking him to help out with some of the duller chapters.

  A car called this morning to drive me to Birmingham to take part in the BBC quiz programme Call My Bluff. Our captain was Alan Coren and my fellow panellist the actor Michael Maloney. On the other side were Kate Adie, Sandi Toksvig and Robert Daws. I can remember when Frank Muir sat on one side against Patrick Campbell, now alas both dead. I am told that they took the game with deadly seriousness and both hated to lose. Luckily our captain was less fanatical, but I was surprised how glad I was not to have made a fool of myself. The final score for both games was a draw of three points each.

  The game was recorded at the International Convention Centre and I was astounded how much the centre of Birmingham has changed for the better. I remember going to my father-in-law’s funeral some fifteen years ago and walking out of Birmingham Station to take a look at the city while waiting for my connection. The Bull Ring appalled me: a concrete monstrosity in which only motorists, criminals and psychopaths could feel at home. It is still in place, but I believe the city fathers plan to demolish it. In contrast, the development by the canal is impressive and obviously designed for human beings. Old brick buildings have been restored and there are outdoor cafés and walkways by the canal. Gradually some cities are putting right the follies of the 1960s.

  SUNDAY, 22ND FEBRUARY

  At Southwold with Lyn and Clare. Yesterday was dull and with intermittent rain but still warm. Clare and I went to the small antique shop in the High Street to buy her birthday present. She chose an enchanting Victorian souvenir of Cambridge, a little circular wooden inkstand with a glass pot and a coloured plaque of King’s College Chapel, together with two very heavy square-cut glass inkstands. I found another brown Doulton jug for the kitchen shelf. We had a celebration dinner at the Swan and then went back to the house to review the rough-cut video of A Certain Justice.

  This was more enjoyable and did less violence to the story than I had feared. The fact remains that it is impossible adequately to adapt a long and complex novel for the small screen in three episodes. Inspector Piers Tarrant has been dropped, with the somewhat risible effect that Dalgliesh and Kate Miskin appear to be the only police officers on the job, evoking the comment from Clare that Scotland Yard was obviously economizing on manpower. This impression is reinforced by the number of interviews which Dalgliesh conducts, not at headquarters, but at any convenient place where he happens to be. But the beginning is very effective, a clever piece of adaptation, and the acting good throughout.

  At first I thought that the actress playing Octavia, Venetia’s daughter, was too pretty, but she conveyed an impression of vulnerability combined with obstinacy which is effective, and the young man playing the psychopath—an extremely difficult part—is convincing. The trial scene is well done (court scenes seldom fail on television), but the actress playing Venetia moves in court to demonstrate how far a television set is from the witness. I had learned during research that barristers do not move in court and that she would have asked a solicitor to do this for her. As it is, every barrister will note the mistake. Another anomaly is the introduction of Venetia’s memorial service. The timescale of the novel is short; indeed the plot depends on this; and in the book there hasn’t even been time for the inquest, let alone a cremation and memorial service. But I can see a reason for introducing it. Dalgliesh is present, as are all the barrister suspects, and the camera can range from face to face with the unspoken question: Is this the one? The scene is not true to the book, but if I mildly protest I am sure I shall be met with the usual excuse: it makes good television. On the whole, though, I think this will be regarded as one of the more successful adaptations.

  I awoke today to beautiful spring weather. Lyn and I walked round the dunes to Walberswick and met Clare, who had taken the path across the common, at the Harbour Inn. It didn’t open for coffee until 12, so we didn’t wait but walked back on the narrow path fringing the road and the water meadows and had a drink at the Lord Nelson. We left as darkness fell, and I spent the night with Lyn and Clare in Cambridge.

  MONDAY, 23RD FEBRUARY

  The Prime Minister has exhorted us to show a little more enthusiasm for the Millennium Dome, which he has prophesied will be the envy of the world. This I rather doubt, but I imagine that the Dome Experience will be some kind of repetition of the Diana Experience; once it becomes fashionable to make one’s pilgrimage, everyone will want to join in. It can’t be allowed to be a failure and if enough money is spent on promotion, it won’t be. Perhaps the country will be gripped by Dome mania.

  I don’t in the least object to a pleasure dome providing a happy day out for all the family, but I do feel antagonistic to the idea that this will be some great cultural experience. If I want to immerse myself in the history of England I have the National Portrait Gallery as well as the V&A and the British Museum, and any passion for scientific achievement can be met by the National Science Museum. For those who want to experience religious emotion, our country’s churches, cathedrals and all other places of worship offer a more appropriate place than the spiritual area of the Dome.

  I suppose what I most dislike about it is the idea of spending £750 million on a building without first knowing what its purpose will be. If we are celebrating 2,000 years of recorded time, surely something more permanent could have been erected, preferably a modern theatre for opera and dance. Visitors could come up by river—a quarter of the cost of the Dome could subsidize river boats—and there could be restaurants and riverside gardens. Then the Royal Opera House, suitably renovated and with its facilities updated, could be used for smaller operas. I suggested this when I was a member of the Arts Council but I can’t remember that it was received with particular enthusiasm.

  Hubris has inspired me to celebrate the Dome with a Dome Pome. This is likely to be the only verse included in my diary, which is just as well:

  O Dome gigantic, Dome immense

  Built in defiance of common sense.

  Wide-stretching Dome, O Dome sublime!

  Memorial to recorded time

  How justified will hubris be

  When all the world
bows down to thee.

  When millions in awe will scan

  This miracle of modern man.

  For though its shape holds no surprise

  There’s no denying it has size.

  In Greece they’ll grit their teeth and foam

  In envy of our Wonder Dome,

  And crowds will riot in Peru

  Demanding that they have one too.

  They’ll groan from Chad to Montserrat

  “How come we never thought of that?”

  Italians will weep and swear

  “St. Peter’s dome cannot compare,

  Nor all the monuments in Rome

  Surpass Great Britain’s Wonder Dome.”

  And Frenchmen soured with Gallic pride

  Will hardly bear to look inside,

  The USA will greatly rue it

  To think that only Brits could do it,

  While millions join the Greenwich queue

  From Togoland to Timbuktu.

  And God Himself is stricken dumb

  To see how clever we’ve become.

  March

  SUNDAY, 1ST MARCH

  I took the 7:30 a.m. bus from Gloucester Green, Oxford, expecting that the M40 would be very busy and the journey take far more than the usual hour. However, the road was clear and I got home in fine style. I made a fuss of Polly-Hodge and fed her, and then took the bus to Marble Arch, walked down Park Lane and joined the Countryside March as it entered Hyde Park. Park Lane was closed, and it was strange to have the road almost entirely to myself. I walked through the barriers to join the marchers and immediately found myself hailed by Margaret Clayton, who was my last Assistant Secretary when I worked at the Home Office. She had retired early and was now working part-time for six days a week and obviously happy. She moved quickly on to join her friends before the march ended on the road just north of the Albert Memorial.

  A large barrier slung across the path with the word “Finish” on it was a slight anticlimax, but I could understand why the organizers had decided against speeches. The marchers are united in their support of the countryside and those who live and work in it, but I doubt whether large landowners and small tenant farmers have a great deal in common, or that all the marchers care greatly about fox-hunting. I wouldn’t wish to hunt myself; this is mainly because, even if I were young, strong and able to ride, it wouldn’t seem to me an activity worth risking my neck for. But I am sure the fox suffers less from the hounds’ jaws at the end of a hunt than by shooting or the horror of poisoning, and it seems irrational to ban hunting while permitting fishing or tolerating the conditions under which our eggs are produced.

  It was a wonderfully diverse group of people: a tall corduroy-suited elderly man who looked like the stage stereotype of an irascible colonel striding along alone, groups of the young chatting or singing as they walked, middle-aged ladies who were obviously stalwart upholders of the WI, and agricultural workers who marched with a kind of rugged determination in support of their livelihoods. No one dropped litter.

  My walk home along the Bayswater Road was made interesting by the pictures on the park railings. They are an odd mixture. Some of the watercolours, particularly of flowers, have an attractive spontaneity and freshness and in all I saw three pictures which I would have been reasonably happy to see on my walls. But most are awful, although the non-representational art didn’t seem worse than some examples I’ve seen in prestigious galleries. I suppose it’s a matter of taste. I liked the little autobiographies and critical notes and extracts from magazines which are pinned up by some of the paintings. Obviously those painters are managing to make a living, and good luck to them. I would much rather buy a picture from these railings than a reproduction. I did in fact find a very agreeable scene of Dover Cliffs some years ago which I still enjoy.

  St. David’s Day always reminds me of my first day at the Home Office. I was being taken on the usual short induction tour of departments and had arrived in the Home Secretary’s private office. James Callaghan was Home Secretary at the time and the outer office was piled high with daffodils sent to him by his constituents. The office was busy and it was hard to reconcile this controlled activity with the overwhelming smell of spring flowers. Thus, incongruously, I began the last stage of my working life as a bureaucrat.

  I learned early to cope with parliamentary questions, those regular minor irritants which fell on to the desk in the form of lurid yellow folders. I had to provide background notes about the MP and his preoccupations and the possible reason for the question, provide an answer and then follow up with pages of notes for supplementaries. This was the most difficult part of the exercise. The object was to ensure that the Secretary of State or Minister was never left without a readily accessible answer to any supplementary question that the Member might choose to ask. Apart from the Forensic Science Service and Forensic Pathologists, I was also given responsibility for police vehicles. When I protested I couldn’t even drive, my Assistant Secretary said that made me eminently suitable for the task.

  By chance my first PQ was from an MP who asked for details of every make of vehicle held by all the police forces in England and Wales. The draft reply I put up said this information would be of no possible public use. My Assistant Secretary gently pointed out that there was a form of words to provide for questions where the cost of obtaining the information would be disproportionate to its use, but that I hadn’t hit on it.

  I received no period of formal training but occasional miscellaneous advice, the most important being never to use a green ballpoint, since green was the prerogative of Sir Philip Allen, the head of the office.

  Despite some initial stress, I enjoyed my time at the Home Office. It is a department where ministers’ reputations are more easily lost than gained. The department is inured to receiving a critical press, being seen as draconian, illiberal and dilatory, but I left with a respect for the integrity and intelligence of the senior officers with whom I worked.

  It was while I was in the Police Department that I wrote my first work of nonfiction, in cooperation with the Assistant Secretary, Tom Critchley. The Maul and the Pear Tree (published in 1971) deals with a series of notorious and brutal murders in Wapping in 1811, referred to usually as the Ratcliffe Highway Murders. The first victims were twenty-four-year-old Timothy Marr, a linen draper on the Highway, his wife Celia, their three-and-a-half-month-old baby son Timothy, and their apprentice boy, James Gowen. It was a Saturday, 7th December 1811, and the shop remained open until eight. A little before midnight, Timothy Marr called to his servant girl, Margaret Jewell, gave her a pound and sent her out to pay the baker’s bill and to buy some oysters. She found the baker’s shop closed, went to another place to try to buy the oysters but again was unsuccessful. After about twenty minutes she returned home to find the door shut tightly against her and the shop in darkness. Thinking that the family might have gone to bed, she pulled the bell, the jangling seeming unnaturally loud in the quiet street. And listening, she heard a sound that gave her the comforting assurance that Marr or his wife would soon be opening the door. There was a soft tread of footsteps on the stairs. But no one came. The footsteps ceased and again there was silence.

  The clanging of the bell and the girl kicking the door aroused the interest of a night watchman and then the neighbour, John Murray. He told the watchman to continue pulling hard at the bell and he would go into his back yard and see if he could rouse the family from the back of the house. The back door was open and he made his way inside by a light from a candle burning on the landing of the first floor.

  In the shop he found the first body, the apprentice boy James Gowen, with the bones of his face shattered by blow after blow. With a groan, Murray stumbled towards the door and found his path blocked by the body of Mrs. Marr, blood still draining from her battered head. Murray opened the front door and screamed his news incoherently, “Murder! Murder!” and the small crowd, swollen by the arrival of neighbours, pressed into the shop. The air was loud with gro
ans and cries. They found the body of the child still in its cradle, the side of its mouth laid open with a blow, the left side of the face battered and the throat slit so that the head was almost severed from the body. And behind the counter, lying face downwards, was the body of Timothy Marr.

  But that wasn’t the end of horror. Twelve days later, and in the next parish, a blameless middle-aged publican, Mr. Williamson of the King’s Arms in New Gavel Lane, Shadwell, his wife and their maidservant were murdered with equal brutality.

  The crimes provoked nationwide panic. The government offered an unprecedented reward for the conviction of the murderers, while there was a vigorous and persistent demand for the reform of the police. The Prime Minister himself speculated on the crimes in the House of Commons while Sheridan made a characteristically witty and trenchant attack on the incompetence of the investigation. De Quincey was powerfully interested in the murders and years later they inspired his essay on “Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts.”

  Both Tom and I were fascinated by the setting as we were by the investigation of the crime. In 1811 the Port of London was the greatest port in the world. Every year 13,000 vessels from all parts of the world dropped anchor. The great vessels of the East India Company, bulky and formidable as men-of-war, bearing cargoes of tea, drugs, muslin, calicoes, spices and indigo, colliers from Newcastle, whalers from Greenland, coastal vessels, packets, brigs, lighters, barges, ferries and dinghies. The parishioners of Wapping lived their lives against a constant accompaniment of river sounds. It was from the bustling trade of the river that nearly all the inhabitants, rich and poor, drew their life: stevedores, watermen, suppliers of rope and tackle, ships’ bakers, marine store dealers, instrument makers, boat builders, laundresses who lived by taking in the sailors’ washing, carpenters to repair the ships, rat catchers and the keepers of cheap houses where the seamen lodged.