Private Papers

by Margaret Forster

  *

  — ways of pleasing her. I would buy her some small thing I knew she wanted and leave it on the desk in her room. She never mentioned these little surprises. It wasn’t that I expected her to come running down (as Emily later would) shouting her thanks and beaming at my thoughtfulness, it wasn’t that I demanded such extravagant appreciation. But it is true that the total lack of response hurt. I would try not to mention it, but sometimes, to my own disgust, I would find myself blurting out, ‘Was that the pen you wanted?’ and then she would look abstracted and say that yes, it was, thanks. I tried to have the sort of food she liked too. I tried all sorts of ways to get near her and failed. The only people near her were her friends (whom she kept very much to herself, getting them from the front door to her room as quickly as possible, before any of us could even see them and say hello), and the two students who came in 1950 when she was fifteen. Trevor Maxwell and Michael Pearson.

  They were both only eighteen. Up to then, I had had third year students who were older than the normal third year students because the war had interrupted their studies. But Trevor and Michael were fresh out of school and of a different breed. They were not exactly impolite but they were not courteous as the others had always been. They took things for granted. Their thanks, if expressed at all, were offhand. I was not used to such brusqueness, except from Rosemary. Nor was I used to the hours they kept. Trevor and Michael came in at all hours of the early morning and made a great deal of noise. I objected strongly and I must say they were suitably contrite, so much so that I let it pass. But that was when I ought to have turned them out straight away, when it would still have been easy and could not have been seen by Rosemary as an attack on her.

  Both of them had a sort of charm, I suppose, even if it was not of a variety with which I was familiar. They were very natural, very at home anywhere. The other students had always seemed awkward and gauche in my kitchen – setting them at ease was one of my pleasures. Without exception, they were shy at first. Trevor and Michael did not know what shyness was. They were also openly inquisitive. Nobody had ever asked me if I was a widow – either this had been assumed or Simon Birch had told the first two students, who had always passed it on – but Trevor asked me straight away if my husband had been killed in the war. Then he asked me if I got lonely, still being young. It was ridiculous of me but I was deeply embarrassed. I felt as if my house had been invaded by some strange force I didn’t understand, and I saw straight away that Rosemary felt the same. The only difference was that, whereas it made me alarmed and uneasy, it made her excited. From the very beginning, she adored Trevor and Michael. In no time at all, worries about uniform and homework and manners were the merest nothings. I had something much more threatening to cope with.

  At fifteen, Rosemary was at her prettiest. She was never unattractive when she was young but later, until she was about twenty or so, she went through a stage when she seemed to devote herself to defiling her body and face in every way, and she almost succeeded. But at fifteen she was a pleasure to look at, far more beautiful than her sisters at that age. Her hair was long, straight and thick, with a thick fringe, and her colouring, as I’ve said before, definitely mine. (I don’t know where that complexion has gone.) Her skin was always brown, her cheeks pink, her teeth very white. She looked like an exotic gypsy child, except she was not a child but a rapidly developing woman. I seemed to watch Emily’s body change week by week but with Rosemary there were no stages – she suddenly seemed to have gone from being flat as a board to having breasts. I had to pluck up my courage to ask her if she would like me to buy her a brassiere. She told me fiercely to mind my own business, she didn’t want to be put into a harness. In 1950, that was quite daring but, though she must have aroused some comment at school, she never gave in. It was perhaps fortunate that she never wore tight things.

  As soon as Trevor and Michael set eyes on Rosemary they were captivated. At first, perhaps they did not realize she was only fifteen, since she was tall and always looked older than her age. Unfortunately, their first glimpse of her was not in her school uniform but in white shorts and a loose tee shirt. I remember making very pointed remarks to show them how young she was, but these fell on deaf ears. Instead of being either moody or argumentative at mealtimes Rosemary became vivacious, putting herself out to amuse and entertain the two new students. She had never shown the slightest interest in any of our lodgers before —

  *

  Of course I hadn’t shown the slightest interest. You should have seen Mother’s lodgers, awful, boring, middle-class snobs the lot of them, all with hair that looked as if their mothers had combed it. They made me sick. And what my mother has carefully not pointed out about Trev and Mike, but what she really wants to say, is that they were of a different social class from the others. Trev was from Halifax and Mike from Workington in Cumberland. Nor were they the sort of working-class product my mother was used to. They weren’t overwhelmed by our gentility or humble or embarrassed. They were just themselves, quite comfortable in their own skins. She says, in effect, that they had no manners – my mother was always very keen on manners – but she is wrong. The difference was that they did not have the same manners, but that doesn’t mean they were uncouth or yobs.

  The other thing Mother doesn’t mention, except obliquely, is sex. Trev and Mike were sexy. My mother hates that word and so, as a matter of fact, do I, but it is the only thing that will do. All our other students had appeared quite sexless, believe me. If the reason for having them there, apart from the money, had been to give us an idea of masculinity, it had failed. This quality never manifested itself, except for the odd moustache or beard or the ability to lug a heavy load up the stairs. But Trev and Mike (how my mother hated those abbreviations) were sensually male. No wonder my poor prim mama felt her kitchen had been invaded. It was, by sex, for the first time. They both had this way of standing, this basic cockiness, that was very masculine. Cocks were the first thing I noticed about them, no other way of putting it. Naturally, my mother had hardly been able to arrange for us to be familiar with naked cocks but at fifteen I spent a lot of time thinking about them. I could never work out where they went to, trousers being the flatfronted things they are. Did the cocks hang down one leg or did they get folded away? Did they get bent up or down or sideways? And when men sat down, how did those protuberances re-arrange themselves? Sometimes I thought they must be a myth, since no man I had ever looked at seemed to have anything there except zipped grey flannel. But Trev and Mike did. They had definite bulges there and suddenly I could believe in what this male equipment was supposed to do. I make it sound as if they both went round indecently exposing themselves, but all they did was wear rather tight trousers and do a lot of strutting about with their hands in their pockets. They also leered. Apart from men in novels I had never come across a man leering – leers were as mysterious as cocks. When Trev and Mike caught my eye and made a joke and stared, I became acquainted with the Leer. I loved it. My little girlish heart raced beneath my bra-less breast. I blushed, tossed my hair, flirted. What a pretty picture I must have made.

  But they were harmless, Trev and Mike. And nice. They sussed out the situation in our house in no time at all and were really much kinder than all those dutiful young slobs who mended plugs or whatever. They livened things up no end. They played wild games with Emily and carried her on their shoulders and, if I was besotted by our young heroes, she was their abject slave. They introduced pop music to our sedate household. Wherever they went, Radio Luxembourg blared out, and they taught us their favourite terrible songs. The other thing about them was that they were so affectionate and demonstrative – they were always slapping and pushing and hugging the younger ones, always chasing and grabbing them and making up silly games. Like most medical students they adored practical jokes and dressing up. Oh, we were lost in admiration at their childish wheezes. When they were on a hospital carnival float dressed as Good Queen Bess and Queen Victoria, we nearly died of pri
de. We were all their groupies, all except mother.

  It never entered my head then, but it enters it now: did Mike make a pass at my mother? She was only thirty-five, ‘only’ now that I am myself forty-nine. But was she an attractive older lady to them or someone like their own mothers? I’ve studied the few photographs she has of that period and it’s so hard to tell. The clothes weren’t flattering to that age of woman with those pinched, clinched waists and ghastly long ‘new look’ skirts. Hair was terrible too, all stiff and bunchy. But who can tell, except those who were there? She had good features and her famous beautiful complexion. She wasn’t either too fat or too thin. And I suppose there would have been something attractive about her position: the tragic young war widow, I mean, with all these children and no man at all in her life. Probably it fascinated them, speculating whether she missed ‘it’. Her stiffness and general air of convent girl purity would be another come-on. I always thought she wanted to get rid of them to protect me but it might have been to protect herself. Yet, surely, they would never have had the nerve even to try to flirt with my mother?

  *

  — in bed with Linda. It was the early afternoon, and I suppose they thought the house was empty. Usually I took Emily out for a walk then and stayed out until it was time to collect Celia and Jess from school. But there was a sudden thunderstorm, minutes after we left the house, and we dashed back out of the rain. I had no idea anyone was in the house. When I heard faint noises, I thought it might be burglars and so I shouted, ‘Who’s there? Michael? Trevor?’ and, when there was no reply, concluded I had been hearing things. I went up to my bedroom to change my wet clothes, taking Emily with me, and there were Linda and Michael Pearson. In my bed.

  I was rather proud of my self-control. I made some comment aloud to Emily about this being like the story of the three bears, and then I closed the door and went up to the children’s room. My heart was thudding and I was absurdly upset. Like Lady Macbeth I kept thinking what, in my house, as though that mattered. They were both grown people. Linda was twenty-two by then, a mature woman, there was nothing shocking about it, but I was shocked. Michael did not care for Linda, that was what upset me. He teased her, as he did all of us, but it was perfectly plain that he thought she was a joke. From being plump at sixteen, when I first employed her, Linda had become very overblown indeed, and her fetching, easy ways had degenerated into laziness. She trudged about my house, supposedly helping me, but doing very little except having constant snacks and singing. At least her singing was pleasant. Michael told her she had a wonderful voice and had she ever thought about having it trained. That was the level of his flattery and Linda loved it. And there they were, in my bed.

  I hated the idea of having to talk to either of them about it. I dreaded explanations. All I wanted was to act as though nothing had happened and hope it would not happen again. But Michael came to find me within minutes and could not be evaded. He said he was sorry, it was unforgivable of them to have used my bedroom, that what had happened was – but I cut him short. I said the matter was closed, let’s not talk about it. I was sorry I had interrupted. He had annoyed me by not leaving me alone at once and, indeed, by talking in front of Emily at all. I was afraid of what he might say next, so I deliberately left Emily getting dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen. He followed me and hung about. There was no sign of Linda I remember. ‘All it was,’ he said, ‘it was a bit of a romp.’ I suppose I winced. ‘It isn’t a crime you know,’ he persisted. ‘I mean we shouldn’t have been in your bed, that was wrong, but apart from that I don’t see why you’re so furious and disgusted.’ I denied that I was either, of course. Then he began to get angry himself. He said my attitude to sex was puritanical. I said I had no attitude and, in any case, I had no wish to discuss such things with him. Then he got hold of me, grabbed me, said he wondered why not. I pushed him off with such force that he crashed back into the kitchen table and the plate of fruit sitting there went flying onto the floor. I told him not to dare to touch me again. I said he was impertinent and stupid, and that he could keep his half-baked theories to himself. Emily came in at this point, furious because she couldn’t find matching socks. I was so relieved to have an excuse to escape upstairs with her. I was shaking with rage and with fear, not fear because I thought that for one moment Michael had wanted to do more than engage my attention, but because his nearness had sent a wave of excitement through me. Not sexual excitement exactly, just general adrenalin. I had grown so used to feeling nothing that it scared me and I —

  *

  Well! No wonder dear Trev and Mike left in such a hurry, no wonder Linda found herself another job at long last. I can’t blame Mike for this. Linda presented herself to him on a plate. It’s pathetic to think puny little me ever had a chance. Why should Mike or Trev even notice me when the luscious Linda was there for the asking and I was jail-bait? And to think I imagined they were attracted by me, that they might any minute ask me out properly to the cinema or a party and would certainly kiss me goodnight. I wonder if they were booted out that very day? The atmosphere must have been awful but I don’t remember noticing any change in Mother’s attitude. She was always her usual grave, cool self with them. What a pity. What a pity it wasn’t Mother in bed with Mike. She wrote at the beginning of all this that we did not realize how we have shaped our own lives, and yet she doesn’t see what she did to her own. She denied herself sex. How wonderfully virtuous. How wonderfully silly. She makes me so tired. Self-denial for our sakes, of course. Couldn’t have a mother enjoying herself like that, could we? Wouldn’t have been proper.

  Trev and Mike lived with us for not quite a year. I look back on it as a halcyon period. I used to fantasize that, if they could not be lovers, they could be brothers and then ‘family’ might not be the dreary thing it was. I loved both of them in a way I did not love Celia or Jess or Emily. Even apart from fancying them, I had all kinds of contact with them – we talked the same language, or, if that’s putting it too strongly, they talked the language I wished to learn. Nobody in my family did. They didn’t admire orderliness and obedience, they weren’t conventional, they didn’t plan and save industriously. I suppose I can’t also add that they didn’t admire the work ethic, as my mother tried to make us do: they must have worked to get themselves into that Medical School, and I don’t remember any talk of them failing examinations. When they left I was devastated. The house was like a grave. I suppose, not knowing why they had actually left, I hoped they would still come back to see us, but they never did. They just disappeared from our lives, not even a letter or card as far as I know. My mother didn’t seem surprised. She shrugged when I complained bitterly about not hearing from them and said they were very young and it was to be expected and we were just an incident in their lives. It wasn’t, she said, as if they were family upon whom we had claims, or even friends. They had come as an economic arrangement and, however devoted we had become, it wasn’t the same. What I hated was that she seemed quite pleased about it, as though she was using it as a demonstration of what family really meant so that at last I would see why she revered the institution. Well, I didn’t. I hated it all the more.