Letters to a Friend

by Diana Athill

  8 MARCH 2007

  Darling,

  V. sad here, because Hannah died yesterday. At last Barbara called in the vet to give her a lethal injection, which she should have done days earlier – the poor little dog has been dying slowly, slowly for so long, but B stubbornly clung on to refusing to admit it. I, though thankful that it’s over, feel v. sad, but B is so distressed it’s unbearable to see it. I’m sure she loved Hannah more than any human except Adam. A kind neighbour put us on to a lovely gardening lady who came to dig a grave in our garden – a very hard task because in London you only have to go down about ten inches before you strike a most evil, solid, slimy yellow clay. Adam had made a little coffin and the funeral is tomorrow – but I shall be taking Barry to an appointment with his doctor, I’m glad to say, so will miss it.

  I did tell you, didn’t I, that I have rashly let myself in for being one of the judges for the BBC’s Samuel Johnson non-fiction prize? Can hardly get into my sitting room for the piles of books and my eyes are beginning to give out. Up to now, of the five contenders I’ve sieved out, the two most likely are a very elegant life of a savage old Welsh poet, and a gigantic history of the 1950s (tremendously impressive tho’ utterly exhausting to someone like me who is far from being at home in the field of economics). How the hell anyone could decide which of two such unlike-each-other books is ‘the better’ god alone knows. It makes for rather infrequent reading of e-mail, I’m afraid, and short answers. Better soon, I hope. XXXXXXXXXX Diana

  12 MARCH 2007

  Darling –

  How adventurous you are! The idea of making a film by means of a computer seems to me to belong in the realm of science fiction. You will, I know, fight your way through to familiarity with your new machine, and I’m so envious and admiring of your courage and cleverness that I can hardly bear it. How can I be so dim that I don’t even know how to delete all my old e-mails from this old thing? It is a sort of idiocy, into which I seem to be sunk – and look at you, soaring into the computer empyrean like an eagle!

  Your earnings are impressive, but with no National Health Service you don’t half need them! One of the books under which I am buried is a history of the 1950s – a very serious one, all about the politics and economics of the time, and I think tremendously good (tho’ being illiterate as regards economics I have found a lot of it hard going). It makes it hideously clear that when they embarked upon the Welfare State none of our politicians and thinkers had got round to understanding that we were no longer an immensely rich World Power, so they bit off far more than the country could chew . . . they were doing something we simply couldn’t afford, the consequences of which are still mounting up. It’s very frightening, actually, but still how glad I am that they did it, considering that the NHS is at least staggering on for long enough to see me out (God Willing!).

  This Prize’s workload is not really too appallingly heavy. Only about three hundred books were submitted, and at our first meeting (a long and exhausting one), we most ruthlessly weeded out most of them (actually it was easier to do than I expected – so many of them were just obviously not going to make it). We left ourselves with a mere fifty, which we have all been reading with the aim of reducing them to a long-list of twenty, out of which we will have to choose a short-list of six, and that will be when the agony begins, when a decision will have to be made between books all good and all of completely different kinds! Out of my fifty I already know that there are five obvious contenders. It’s going to be interesting to learn at our next meeting, in two weeks time, what the other three judges have been deciding.

  It is strange what an emptiness poor little Hannah has left – Barry and I keep thinking we hear her barking, or scratching at our door demanding to be let in, and of course it is worse for Barbara. But to my great surprise, at the weekend she switched on the telly in order to watch Crufts, the huge and internationally famous dog show that happens once a year (it used to be a London event, but has been moved to Birmingham now). At one point the camera concentrated on some little dogs called Papillons (because they have big ears rather like butterfly wings) and she was so charmed by them that I realized she may well invest in another puppy before long. I think she’s too old to take on a new dog, because she’s almost as bad at walking as I am, but probably she’s envisaging moving permanently to the country in the not so far future (she has already made this house over to Adam) and there we have enough garden for a small dog to run about in without needing to be taken for walks. I now think that when she does make that move, she’ll probably get a new dog.

  The news that spring fever has begun to turn your thoughts in the direction of London is very welcome. Love and love. Diana

  16 MARCH 2007

  Darling –

  A lovely long one about how France was broke too, and how medical bills are mounting but you are still aiming to come in May, did get through, which I suppose to be the one they said didn’t.

  We were so broke because we had huge debts (I haven’t managed to understand to whom or why) and had spent a lot more on the war than France because we went on being in it after they were out of it, and because without the Empire (which we were busily and to my mind rightly getting rid of) we are very small, which our half-witted politicians couldn’t get their heads round. The worst thing I have always thought was utterly losing our splendiferous steel industry which we could have saved if we hadn’t been haughty and refused to join a proposed European organization (the book’s weakness is a very inadequate index, so when I want to check up on things in it, such as name of said organization, I can’t!). ‘We don’t want foreigners buggering about with our steel’ said Anthony Eden or words to that effect, whereas if we’d become part of it together with France and Germany we’d still be in business. A very fascinating part of the book is that so many hitherto secret documents have now been opened. One never, of course, had much time for politicians, but the extent of their idiocy when fully revealed is gobsmacking. But one of the qualities we judges are supposed to take into account is ‘reader friendliness’ so I don’t know what the consensus will be about the very considerable amount of heavy going in this book – which we will after all be having to compare with other v. good books.

  Today a sweet photographer turned up to take a picture of my ‘work space’ – the Guardian has been running a little feature of photographs of writers’ dens, most of which have been wonderfully professional-looking, in cosy rooms with pleasant rural outlooks before which are placed huge desks covered with every kind of Modern Convenience and learned apparatus. I’ve been saying to myself ‘Lucky I’m not famous enough for them – I bet no one else has to eat off their knee because their only table has become their work space, and has to clear everything off it on to their bed if they want to serve a meal to guests.’ But they got round to me in the end, and declared themselves delighted to have found a writer in my circumstances. I’ll send you what they publish when it comes out. The photographer was a dear man and threw in a pic. of me for free to go on the back of the jacket of the new book. He said he liked my work space best, but I bet he says that to all the girls and boys.

  Today I’m feeling a bit better. I’ve been having fiendish aches and pains all over for the last month or so, starting with a frozen shoulder, then spreading. At first it seemed that my osteopath was helping, but such improvement as he achieved never lasted more than a day or two, so I’ve just made an appointment with my doctor, who won’t be back from her holiday till next Thursday, and perhaps by that time it will be all better!

  Francis Hughes, my computer nanny, who has most tiresomely moved to France and also to Italy from time to time, luckily still answers his mobile and called me this morning to report that he has tracked down for me a 2nd hand printer exactly the same as my broken one, so someone is delivering it to me on Tuesday and I’ll be able just to plug it in and go ahead – no new soft-whatsit to install and I can use my old ink cartridges. The broken one is out of date, of course, so it’s great l
uck that he’s found a match for it. Which is timely, because I’ve got two thousand pounds worth of article to send to the Guardian Weekend next week. They are doing a series of articles about the last decades of the last century and asked me to do the 50s – a lucky coincidence with that book! XXXXXXXXX Diana

  5 APRIL 2007

  Darling –

  Alas, but Barry is really ill. They are talking in terms of an operation – a new valve for his heart, or perhaps a by-pass – but say they couldn’t operate yet because he’s not well enough. At first they seemed to think that they could get him stabilized by next Tuesday (today is Thursday) but this afternoon he struck both me and Jess as most peculiarly dopey, and thank god she was there, because being by now an almost-qualified doctor gives her the nerve to make her presence felt, and her great charm makes her able to do so without alienating the doctors and nurses in the hospital, so off she bustled and cornered the head cardiologist who came at once and examined B and can you believe it, he’s been in that hospital only one night and already he’s got an infection! So that’ll have to be coped with. It’s really desperate about hospitals – someone as ill as he is just has to be in one, yet the dangers of being there are so real. Jess says she’s seen enough of them by now to understand that an old person in hospital can easily be just left there to die unless they have someone young and knowledgeable in attendance to make sure that they get properly looked after. It’s the most enormous luck for us that she is here and is taking on that role wholeheartedly (Barry’s been like a most favourite uncle of hers all her life). Barbara has just called from Norfolk to say that it’s absolutely ravishing there at the moment and can’t I come down for the weekend given that Jess is taking over at the hospital, and I am sort of dithering. It’s true that today he hardly noticed my presence, and that she is the one who is of great practical use, but I feel dreadfully uneasy at the thought of not being around. I think I’ll wait to see how things go tomorrow, and then discuss it with Jess. Actually it would be easier for her without me, because she has to take me up by car and there are nightmarish parking problems, whereas by herself she can nip up there on her bicycle in five minutes and no parking problems – probably, unless he’s much worse tomorrow I will go . . .

  My own problems seem v. small compared. Went to my doc this morning and it turned out that the technician who had taken my blood for the test, who was a trainee (very sweet but rather nervous) had not taken enough blood. The lab had been able to do all the tests the doc had asked for except one – and that one was the very one we most need! It’s nice to know that all the other things (thyroid, liver, cholesterol and god knows what else) are in perfect shape, and the doc very kindly took blood herself then and there instead of sending me back to the hospital for it, but now of course we have to wait for the lab to report on it, and she happens to be going off for a week’s holiday, so I won’t be able to hear the result for another two weeks. Perhaps it will clear up on its own by then, touch wood. I’m so happy that you’ve been released . . .

  Jess has just called to say that she’d pedalled up to the hosp. for another look at him and he’d perked up a lot – was sitting up and eating some supper, and that of course I should go to Norfolk for the w.e. and we can call each other all the time so stop fussing. So I shall go! And my computer, properly chastened by the faunlike but very expensive Sean, is being as good as gold. Are you happy with your new one – and have you embarked on the film of Tobias’s apt.? XXXXXXX Diana

  24 APRIL 2007

  Darling Edward –

  I managed, with the help of his doctor, to get Barry back into hospital this morning, having failed at breakfast time to persuade him to take even one sip of drink or one bite of food . . . and collapsed into bed, suddenly feeling to the full how exhausting the last ten days have been (angelic Jess went with him in the ambulance and saw him into bed). Then, just as was beginning to recover enough to plan four blissful days in Norfolk (supposing that he would be safely tucked up in hosp. for at least a week) I hear from Jess that the hospital said they would keep him for two days. I can’t see how he can possibly be put right in two days! Of course they may change their minds, but bang goes my plan of slinking off to the country tomorrow – I shall have to wait here till Thursday, when it looks as though we well may be back in square one. I can’t tell you how bleak I feel that prospect to be. But at least, dear Edward, I’ve got tomorrow. Is it possible for me to park my car in your little yard, like I did once before, and can I visit you, if so? [Edward and Neil were in London, staying in a block of flats with a convenient forecourt.] Call me.

  Diana

  [A long silence ensued, caused by complicated events during which communication was infrequent and by telephone. Barry became much iller and needed a heart operation too complex for the Royal Free Hospital, so they referred him to the Heart Hospital. There we were told that they wouldn’t operate because the probability of his dying on the table was too great. The surgeon told us to expect his death within a year. Barry didn’t seem unduly distressed (‘I don’t feel as though I’ll be dead in a year, but I don’t suppose I’ll mind much if I am’) but I was pretty desperate: my 90th birthday was approaching and how I was going to cope I could not imagine. It is impossible to express my thankfulness when, without warning, his niece Margaret Bernal arrived in London saying she had come to take him back to Jamaica where she had arranged a little flat for him in a house she owned across the road from her own house, where a couple lived who would look after him. Sally rushed up to London and between them the two women got him packed up and onto a plane (first class) within a week. It was a long time since Margaret had told me she was thinking of taking him in if necessary, and I had assumed she had forgotten about it, so it hadn’t entered my head to call on her.

  It was a shock, and of course it was sad that our long relationship had come to this; but simultaneously it was a most profound relief – a relief registered in my body before it fully reached my mind. The acute pain I had been experiencing in my neck and arms vanished almost at once. In Jamaica Barry continues – still continues – to live exactly as he did here, lying in bed all day, watching a little television, hardly ever talking – except for saying to Margaret not long ago that he intended to live another twenty-five years. Sally visits him, and often telephones him, but I no longer do, because although I have explained the situation to him over and over again, in letters and by phone, all he ever says is ‘When am I coming home?’]

  9 OCTOBER 2007

  Darling –

  Such a long silence! I’m getting quite worried, but tell myself to stop fussing, it’s more likely owing to your having been away, and busy, than to ill health. And I too, after all, have been silent – largely due to longish periods during which my laptop was playing up. Going on to broadband, meant to be such an ease-making delight, seems to have disgreed with it. And as for bloody Skype – all it ever tells me is that people aren’t there to receive it!

  Somewhere Towards sold to Norton – did I tell you? So it’s almost earned its advance before publication which is a cheering thought.

  This week, such a lovely thing. Thirty-five years ago my sister’s youngest daughter had a baby. She fell in love at age thirteen with her riding master, and being a stubborn child hung on to him in spite of much parental discouragement through thick and thin – I remember my sister saying in despair ‘We can’t actually lock her up or we’ll lose her forever.’ They knew what a miserable little shit he was, but infatuated Jane refused to see it – until, when she was seventeen, she got pregnant and he said ‘Alas, I’m not good enough for you. We must part.’ (Since when, it seems, he’s gone on from teenager to teenager.) She refused an abortion, or to settle for having it and letting her parents help her look after it, but she strongly felt that she did not want to condemn herself at that age to the life of a single mother, so she decided to come to England (they lived in Zimbabwe, then called Rhodesia), give birth and have the child adopted. So she came to me, and was
very brisk and brave, getting temping jobs throughout her pregnancy. I’m glad to say that all the family, even the oldest and sedatest aunts, was kind and supportive, not just me, and her mother came over to England to be with her for the birth. She was expecting the adoption agency to take the child as soon as it was born, but they said no, she must be fully aware of what she was doing, so she must keep her for a month. And that was agony. She stuck to her plan, even choosing the family to whom the child was going, but she cried for a solid month once it was gone. But then she pulled herself together, got a job as a veterinary nurse, and before a year was out had married the vet. Since when they’ve had four children and a good life, but she has never stopped aching deep down at having given up that baby, and has dreaded it turning up one day to blame her.

  Well – last week, out of the blue, an e-mail from New Zealand, and there her daughter was – a really lovely young woman, friendly and thrilled at having traced her, telling her that she’d had a marvellous childhood with parents she dearly loves, and grandparents too, and wasn’t tracing her birth mother for any other reason but natural curiosity, and was anxious not to do anything that might upset Jane or her family, but she’s coming to England for a visit next week and might they perhaps meet. Jane, of course, is in raptures – all her family is thrilled – if Beth were going to be here long enough (sadly she isn’t) she’d find that instead of upsetting anyone she has suddenly found a large and open-armed second family and a birth-mother quite drunk with joy at knowing at last that she didn’t harm her child. She, at least, she’ll have time to meet. I’d love to meet her too – after all, she spent quite a long time in this flat before she was born – and hope I will one day. And I wish my mother were still alive to know that this happy thing has happened – she was very fond of Jane.