The Sex Lives of English Women
Page 21
And the woods were where I met my husband, Wallace. He was one of the men who came into the wood with a horse to pull timber. His father rented a farm from the village squire. A very feudal village. His name was Squire Elliot and he was held almost with reverence. The village people didn’t – wouldn’t – speak to him if he was out in the village. There was no reason why they shouldn’t; in fact he was a very shy man. He used to do watercolouring. Now, I being an awkward cuss, I didn’t want to have the window frames and the door of my rented cottage painted the same colour as everybody else’s. Well, for that, I had to ask the squire. He said, ‘You can paint it what colour you like!’
When I married my husband, it was in a tiny little village and they were all very gossipy because we used to walk around the village hand in hand before we were married. So when we got married they expected me to produce a baby within three months. That didn’t happen because we’d been much more careful! That was in 1945. Margaret was born in ’47, and Janet in ’49. The cottage we lived in in the village had no mod cons. Oil lamps and candles. Bucket loo down the garden. No water. I had a sink but no tap over it and the water would drain into a bucket underneath.
Oh yes, yes, I was happily married. Got a bit boring sometimes, but yes. Being interested in natural history and living on a farm, there was nothing I could have wanted better. We were growing potatoes, and potato picking – backbreaking work – but I loved it. I was in love. And love surmounts everything. Probably we had nothing particularly in common. He was much brighter than me, especially mathematically. I’ve got a picture of him on the sideboard. He doesn’t look like a farmer.
Then in 1984, completely suddenly, in bed beside me, Wallace died. He’d just become sixty-five. I mean, I couldn’t believe he was dead by me, in bed on a Sunday morning! He had said, ‘Oh, I don’t feel very well,’ and staggered off to the loo and then he came back and I thought, well, he’s probably feeling sick, so I got a bowl and he laid on his back and held my hand and suddenly his hand released tension. I turned over and realised he’d stopped breathing and so I started giving him the kiss of life and I thought, this is silly. I realised, he’s dead. What’s more, if I did eventually bring him round he’d probably be brain-damaged so I stopped. I then rang my daughter next door. Sounds silly but I said, ‘I think your father just died.’ She came racing across and sat on the side of the bed. Well, obviously, so unexpected to be widowed, it was a total shock. But I was determined not to let grieving spoil my memories. I said, ‘I’ve got to concentrate on all the happy memories, of which there are many.’ And I think I achieved that actually. It was after I was widowed I took up pottery.
I’ve had a boyfriend, Eustace. He died recently; he was ninety. Jewish. Lost his parents in the Holocaust. I’d known him all his life and it only happened after his wife died. He and his wife used to come here regularly for lunch and sometimes they’d stay overnight and he continued doing that after his wife died. He was going to stay one night. I said, ‘Oh dear, I’ve forgotten to put the electric blanket on your bed.’ He said, ‘Well, it’s a pity to warm up two beds, isn’t it?’ Now this man is in his eighties, I think I probably blushed! I don’t do blushing really. But I agreed. And so, yes, it went on from there.
It was an intimate relationship with Eustace but more cuddles. But no, sex is not part of my life any more. Some people, I do think, have sex in their nineties; some need it and want it. But not many. I don’t think men in their nineties can get an erection. Well, some take Viagra. I don’t think many women want it. It would become mentally and literally a bit of a pain. I have never indulged in self-satisfaction at all, never ever. But my last chap, Eustace, he mentioned it to me because he said his wife did it and I said, ‘Well I …’ He said, ‘You must have! All women do.’ ‘No.’ Well, no, I didn’t and that’s it. No need. I never think about whether I’m sexually satisfied. My sexuality changed over time. I have less need of it. I’m less responsive to it. Sometimes I didn’t particularly – I’m referring to in marriage – want it, but I did it to oblige. That was my role as a wife; it was something my husband wanted.
I have an appalling tendency to think I can get away with saying anything to anybody because I’m ninety-four. The trouble with being ninety-four, you lose so many of your contemporaries. I’ve got one close friend who’s ninety, Audrey, we argue all the time, but she’s a close friend who lives nearby. I’ve led a fairly sensible farmer’s wife existence but it’s all to do with genes. I’m not frail. I eat like a horse. I’m too fat. I’m told I’ve got a voice like a foghorn. I’m so lucky: I’m a bit deaf, not profoundly deaf, but otherwise, I still drive, thank goodness. My licence has just been renewed. Oh yes, I’m into life. I am. I am. I don’t think about dying. And I’m not religious. I’m not ready to die; I’ve got so much more life to live, so much more I want to experience.
It was only six weeks ago that I broke my hip. I broke it outside the blacksmith’s back door because I’d had Sally, my labrador, put to sleep the day before. The blacksmith, who’s become a great friend, was also very fond of Sally, and I was feeling bloody miserable, shedding tears, and I thought, ‘Oh I’m going to go round and have a word with Chris.’ I just fell down. Outside his door. And he was wonderful. He got the ambulance, he rang my daughter, came to see me in hospital, popped round afterwards. A great friend. And, yes, a real artist. He makes amazing sculptures and he only started doing it when he was forty-five. He’s in his forties. He’s got one problem – verbal diarrhoea. I now say, ‘Oh, shut up Chris,’ and walk away. Yes, I’m very fond of him. He could be my next boyfriend. Well, yes.’
Acknowledgements
Thank you to the people who were early readers and gave me advice, some of whom have been asked to be left out of the acknowledgements but nevertheless made very valuable contributions. Thank you to Adrian Cross, Anita Patel, Barrie Musgrave, Ben P., Bernadine Evaristo, Blake Morrison, Celia Michaels, Charlotte Tarrant, Dianne Benham, Emily Hayward Whitlock, Flo Hanson, Flo Perry, Frances Nutt, Freed of London, Gaelle Lemoine, Gina Langton-Durkin, Grayson Perry, Harriet Winterburn, Helen Fox, Henrietta Colvin, Jemima Jabb, Jeremy Knight, Jewels Wingfield, Jo Hislop, Kate McGeever, Kristen Palazzo, Laura Edwards, Libby Nehill, Linden Hibbert, Livia Franchini, Louise Botos, Luisa Richards, Mark Benham, Martyn Eagles, Mary Beard, Mary Mike, Matilda Aspinall, Natalie Dorchester, Neil Shashoua, Nick Barlay, Nicky Forsyth, Nicole van Zomeren, Nina Stibbe, Paula Nightingale, Pete Ayrton, Peter Ayton, Peter Robinson & the Bradshaw Foundation, Phyllis Richardson, Rebecca Egan, Sally Woodward Gentle, Sandra Newman, Seraphima Kennedy, Simona Valeriani, Sophie Molins, Susie Boyt, The Cinema Museum, Verity Woolf, Xinran, Zoe Pilger. And to the women I met in the Forest of Dean – thank you!
Particular thanks to Helen Arthur for intelligent support, Sally Furnival for listening when the book was only an idea, Nell Leyshon for encouragement and spot-on feedback, and Kent Carroll for advice and belief.
Thank you to my agents, Jenny Hewson, Peter Straus and Matthew Turner at Rogers, Coleridge & White for understanding contracts, advising me well, and having cracking parties. Thank you to my editor, Hannah Westland, for immediately understanding what I was trying to do, for considered and intelligent editing, and exceptional patience and kindness.
I’d also like to thank George Frankl, Lila Berg, Lorna Sage and Rachel Pinney, my wise and once fierce teachers. Thank you to Julie and Colin. And to Gwyn. And I’d like to thank a certain unnamed person who regularly declares, ‘S.e.x. is gross.’ I’d particularly like to thank him for not showing a blind bit of interest in what I’ve been writing, not drawing on the manuscript and, so long as he was reading the Beano or listening to books on CD and had something nice to eat, was, sometimes – on occasion – actually quiet for long enough for me to do some work.
To the women I interviewed, who remain nameless, and who entrusted me with their histories and their vulnerability – thank you.
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