Private Papers

by Margaret Forster

  Emily had no idea of what she intended to do, once this divorce had taken place. All she wanted was ‘space’. She said that when she had left Mark she would then, and only then, be able to sort herself out. I called her selfish. I said she was putting herself first. She agreed, said she certainly was, that she should have done so a long time ago, that it had never occurred to her that, in taking on the duties of a wife and mother, she would submerge her identity. When I asked her what identity, she pounced on my innocent question and said triumphantly that this was precisely the point: she did indeed have no identity now, other than Mark’s wife and Daniel’s and Vanessa’s mother. She needed to find herself. I cringed. To hear any child of mine coming out with such a cliché offended me. I had thought better of her.

  Emily had not proved to be a good mother, not once her children were out of infancy. Over the years, I watched with anxiety as Emily’s possessiveness increased. She could not let her children alone. Everything they did she had to do with them, which at first was wonderful for them – they were greatly envied in the neighbourhood for their young and energetic mother – but then, later, it became a burden for them to carry. Their friends were Emily’s friends and it led to absurdities. Yet she loved her children dearly and they adored her, even when she was too much for them. They were so proud of her youth and prettiness and her enthusiasms, especially for dancing. With them, she maintained all the contact she had lost with Mark. She spoke to them, but not to him. The worst thing she did was to voice to them her boredom with their father, unforgivable. Daniel, aged thirteen at the time of the divorce, was completely devastated by his mother’s disloyalty. He had no defence against it. Vanessa was less sensitive and better able to rally.

  I had my grandchildren a great deal then. I had retired from my job (it seems now such a brief period in my life) and had once more plenty of time. It was a strange feeling having them in my flat. I was aware of quite different feelings towards them than those I had had towards my own children. It was true that the distance of a generation lent an enchantment to the relationship, which meant it was blessed from the beginning – until the divorce. Until then I enjoyed my grandchildren without reservation. My lack of true responsibility for them was a great liberating force. I was an indulgent grandmother but also one heavily and gladly involved in whatever stage they were at.

  But then, in 1976 when the divorce happened, my easy times with my grandchildren stopped. Emily, naturally, had told them what was happening. She would have liked Mark to have been with her to break the news, but he refused. He said he did not want a divorce, that he was simply worn down by her insistence, and that he would be unable to prevent himself contesting the things she was bound to say, which would be an additional, unnecessary ordeal for the children. Emily could tell them and then he would talk to them himself. So Emily told them. What exactly she told them I do not know. I only heard what Daniel and Vanessa made of it. Daniel told me he supposed I knew Mum was leaving Dad and that they were going to be divorced. I said, yes, I did. My distress at the sight of his solemn little face, eyes watching me carefully, was great, but I knew I must not show it. Yes, I said, I did know and I was sad. He asked me a funny thing: ‘Gran,’ he said, ‘will they hate each other always?’ I said quickly that, so far as I knew, they did not hate each other now and never would, they just found it hard to live together. Daniel said he knew that, about not liking living together any more, but that, if that was not because they hated each other, what other reason could there be. I said he would have to ask his parents. ‘I don’t like to ask them anything,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to hear the answers.’ He was too old to take on my knee but not too old, not quite, to embrace. I put my arms round him and told him he must not take his parents’ problems on his own shoulders, that it would not help anyone. I said I was not going to pretend it was not a terrible blow, because it was, but that it was not as bad as it seemed, he must just make the best of it. Cruel words to a thirteen year old. He unnerved me again by asking ‘Whose side are you on, Gran? Is Mum right or is Dad?’ And I disappointed him by giving the predictable answer. But afterwards, when Emily had found a flat, I saw Daniel withdrawing visibly from the family life with which he had seemed so happy. It was harder for me to reach him. Of course, things would have changed anyway as he —

  *

  This is sickening. And sickly. I don’t believe it. ‘Whose side are you on, Gran?’ – never. Daniel would never have said that, absolutely impossible. Mother has put those words into his mouth. That’s what she would have liked him to say.

  My memory is that Daniel made no comment about his parents’ divorce, ever. He would have found it deeply embarrassing to do so, it would have been against his code, and, even when he was very young, he had his own code. Mother might say he would talk to her when he would not talk to me, but I doubt it. Daniel liked to make people happy. He was expert at realizing the role people wanted him to play, and he tried to oblige, so long as what was required of him did not actually offend him. He knew Mother wanted him to confide in her, that she saw herself as a cosy white-haired Gran against whose ample lavender-scented bosom he could press his curly head, while he unburdened himself. She would set up those questions and the answers, and Daniel, being smart, would spot them. He would give her what she wanted, more or less, so that now she’s convinced herself he spoke like that of his own volition. But he wouldn’t have done, I swear.

  *

  — approached puberty. I would not have expected to retain the same place in his life as a fount of wisdom and comfort. But the divorce accelerated the growing-away process and I felt curiously ashamed of how I had failed him. Later, when he was a young adult, we did re-establish some real contact, but many years had been lost when I might have been of use in helping him understand. To leave him to tussle with Emily alone, as he tried to understand and bear with her, was cowardly. I could have been a refuge and was not.

  For Vanessa I was, but then that was different. When her parents divorced she cried bitterly but it was easy to hug and kiss and coax her out of her tears. Mark rang her every single day and visited her at least three times a week. He had both his children every weekend and was not the sort of father to fill time by taking them to the pictures, or suchlike. His own house became a true home to them and they slotted in and out with a remarkable lack of fuss. I suppose Mark had lady friends but, if so, they never impinged on the children’s lives and he did not marry again until last year. I admired him tremendously after the divorce. He came with the children to see me very regularly indeed and we struck up a new and surprising friendship, which quite startled Emily who —

  *

  Who hated it. Mother had never had any time for Mark and now there she was, becoming his best friend. Em resented it bitterly. As she explained to me, it wasn’t that she wanted Mother to take sides, or anything so crass, but, on the other hand, she didn’t want her to go out of her way to woo Mark, and that was what she seemed to do. Em said she felt disapproved of. Mark’s behaviour was constantly praised and she got tired of this. When Mother told her all the time how well she thought Mark was coping, Em flared up and said what on earth was so praiseworthy about that? He was just behaving as he had always behaved, being diligent and methodical and organized. It was no effort for him. Everything ticked over and he could hardly claim credit for a way of life that was second nature to him. She, on the other hand, had a tough time.

  Emily had always wanted to be a dancer, right from a little kid. She went through all the ballet-classes-in-dusty-church-halls stuff but it wasn’t that kind of dancing she liked. It would’ve been easier if she had: Mother would’ve adored a daughter who had got into the Royal Ballet School or Sadler’s Wells, or wherever it is that the great ballerinas start off. But Emily didn’t want that. She liked modern dancing. She kept telling Mother this but Mother didn’t know what the hell she was talking about – ‘You mean quicksteps, tangos, that kind of thing?’ she asked. No, Em did not. She meant jazz danci
ng, all loud music and flashy clothes. Her ambition, at sixteen, was to dance in West Side Story. Fat chance once she’d got married and stuck herself in Surrey. All her ambition drained away into motherhood, or seemed to. She kept dancing but I always thought there was something unbearably pathetic about Emily trying to keep up her former passion in those circumstances. She didn’t even have a room where she could move more than four steps.

  Well, at thirty-two, after she’d divorced Mark, Emily certainly wasn’t going to find a big future as a dancer. She had no training, she was much too old, and she hadn’t danced in any performance since school. Mother was always reminiscing about Emily’s Last Great Performance and how ‘utterly charming’ it had been. She was right, it was. She and three others made up this dance sequence, with them all dressed in Charlie Chaplin type gear – oh, how lovely Em looked, spotlit, twirling her stick, stepping so lightly through the intricate little routine she’d devised. But she’d missed that particular boat a long time ago. No more spotlights ever since, nor ever likely to be. The only option open to her, which she was sensible enough to realize, was teaching.

  She was lucky, for once. The great boom in dance and exercises was just beginning here and Em was able to offer what people wanted. It didn’t happen without effort. Em spent hours and hours working out what she was going to teach. At first, she came to my flat because I had a large studio room. She practised assiduously. I thought she might not like me to watch but, on the contrary, she craved any audience. I watched at first with a smirk, but ended up applauding and amazed. How could anyone with no training at all look so bloody professional? She looked so good, so supple and fit. Christ, what an old slag I felt sitting on my arse all slumped and unhealthy. She had on bright yellow cotton pants and white leg warmers and a glittery silver strapless top, and her hair was caught up in a red-spotted chiffon scarf. She looked glowing and terribly impressive. I couldn’t think where all the energy came from (she said ‘From healthy eating and exercise.’ My God.).

  I still didn’t see all this as any more than playing. I couldn’t imagine how Em could move on to earning a living. But, of course, I’d forgotten one vital factor: Emily, alone of the three of us, still had her inheritance. It was salted away. Good, virtuous Mark had refused to touch a penny of it. He said it was her independence – wonderfully ironic – and wouldn’t let her put it into their joint account, as she wished to do. After the divorce, Em was able to buy a small flat and still have something left. Mark had seen to it that her original ten thousand was wisely invested, so it had trebled. It was enough to make anyone sick. When the bright lights called, Em rented a studio. She gave something called Funky Disco Exercises twice a week. I was staggered at her nerve. How come Mother didn’t admire it?

  Mother found Emily’s brilliant new career ‘embarrassing’. She thought Em was too old for such childish things, that it wasn’t ‘appropriate’. The more successful Emily became, the more disapproving Mother seemed to be. After two years of this, by which time Em was well established and had moved into Covent Garden, I took Mother along to watch her. Emily thought Mother might be won over when she saw how hard she was working. She ought to have known better. Mother has always been susceptible to atmosphere – the desire to have everything ‘nice’ is deeply embedded in her character – and the atmosphere of the Pineapple Studios in Covent Garden was abhorrent to her. She was flinching from the minute we turned into Langley Street and heard the raucous music coming out of the warehouse windows. As far as Mother was concerned, we could’ve been walking into a den of vice. She was wretchedly uncomfortable as we fought our way through crowds of dancers to find Emily’s studio. I felt pretty awkward myself. It was like going into a club where you know you don’t belong, and never will. The people thronging the narrow corridors and staircases placed such emphasis on bodies, the look of them, the feel of them, the functioning of them. I shrank into my loose, dark, baggy clothes and shuddered as much as Mother did, encased in her well-cut navy blue suit. We couldn’t stop ourselves recoiling from all those beautiful bare limbs, glistening with sweat, and from the joyous, animal vitality unleashed all around us. It took us so long to find the right studio that Em had started her class and didn’t notice us peering through the glass panel of the door. Probably as well. We only stayed five minutes. Mother watched Em going through her routine without comment. Her eyes ran over the room, over its bare wooden floor, over the wall of mirrors, and found nothing to please them. Em danced in front of the mirrors and her class copied her. All their movements seemed designed to alarm: contortions, exaggerated and ugly, rather than steps. In short, neither Mother nor I could identify or appreciate any skill.

  ‘All that matters,’ I said, as we walked back to the car, ‘is that Em is happy doing that.’ And I believed myself. Mother never said a word. She was at her most infuriatingly sad.

  June 17th

  ONLY EMILY FOR lunch. Weeks and weeks since she has deigned to come. Perhaps she knew Celia and Rosemary would not be here. Felt nervous. Fussed about all morning quite unnecessarily. When was I last at ease with Emily? I am afraid of her misery. Every word I say seems hearty or unfeeling. But at the same time I so desperately wanted to see her. Knew that what I wanted even more desperately was to see her happy, without problems, the old Emily. At least she looked a little brighter. She can never quite abandon interest in her own appearance, like Rosemary can, she can never not brush her hair. And she smiled hello, head up instead of down. At least she was trying. We talked about Vanessa. I praised her extravagantly, her warmth and vitality. Emily shrugged. She looked straight at me and said that I knew, didn’t I, that sometimes children were just incompatible with a parent, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, fault didn’t come into it. She and Vanessa were incompatible. I lowered my head, gazed steadfastly at the tablecloth. It was so cruel. Sweet, kind, happy Vanessa, discarded as incompatible. What did I say? Already I do not remember. Probably because I don’t want to. Something evasive, some muttered banality. I was terrified of what she might say next. Jumped up, got the fruit salad, ate distractedly. Emily said, ‘Why does the truth always upset you?’ I said because it wasn’t necessarily the truth, and, even if it was, that didn’t prevent it from being upsetting. It’s no good having children and then saying one is incompatible with them. Emily said Vanessa was grown up, not a child, that facts had to be faced: she and Vanessa did not get on. But it isn’t like a friend, like falling out with a friend, like not getting on with a neighbour – ‘getting on’ should not come into it. I couldn’t argue with Emily. I couldn’t ask her how she had come to hold these extraordinary ideas. She was not brought up with them.

  *

  I am exhausted. But I’m also nearly at the end. Only an inch or so of paper left. I’m tempted to read all night and have done with it but I don’t think I can. There’s too much to digest. And I want to read about Daniel calmly. I can finish this off in the morning, bright and early, before Mother gets home.

  *

  — how Daniel became a soldier is more than a mystery to me, it is an insoluble puzzle. No child could have been less soldier-like or more removed from military influences. Nor will it do to say that perhaps he was reacting against his own nature and that this forced him into that very profession – I suppose one has to call it a profession – because when he did start soldiering, it was with dedication. I suppose his school had something to do with it. Mark sent him to Dulwich College, to my extreme distress and also of course to Emily’s. It was one of the few subjects on which Emily and I were in complete agreement. It was not only the political implications of this decision, but also that Dulwich College was quite wrong for Daniel. He needed less discipline, not more, and lower sights, not higher ones to strive for. He was always a highly motivated, over-conscientious boy, who took examinations and so forth far too seriously. The lighter aspects of his personality were heavily overshadowed by this deeply ambitious streak in his make-up. He needed a school that would make him more at ease, looser, less
not more competitive. Dulwich College, said Mark, would stretch him and, indeed, for once that educational platitude was accurate. It did stretch him, as tight and taut as an electric wire. He did well right from the beginning, to Mark’s immense gratification, and from the beginning there was confident talk of Open Scholarships to anywhere he should deign to try. I ought to have been proud – as Emily bitterly remarked, scholastic achievement was what I had wanted for her – but I only felt sad. Daniel became greyer and older than his years every time I saw him. He did not need to work as desperately hard as he did, but there appeared to be nothing else in his life, and he went at his studies as though the hounds of hell were after him. When he stayed with me at the weekend he spent three, sometimes four hours an evening working. It seemed so pathetic to me for a fifteen year old boy, and not all the A grades at ‘O’ Level in the world were worth this single-minded, narrow commitment.

  At Dulwich, Daniel joined the Combined Cadet Force, an amazing thing in itself. So far as I know, it was an entirely independent decision. No one, neither parent nor teacher nor friend, suggested it. He did it by himself and was not a bit put out by the derision with which the news was greeted. Emily went wild when he first decked himself out in that awful uniform and began cleaning those absurd boots and making his buttons gleam. She screamed at him just to look at himself and think what he was doing. Mark did not like it either, being an intensely peace-loving man. And when Daniel said to me, ‘You don’t approve, Grandma, do you?’ I was quick to say no and to give him reasons why. He listened carefully, as he always did in that disturbingly don-like way, and then he countered my objections calmly. Daniel’s arguments were all to do with Hobbes and Machiavelli and a host of other political philosophers whom I have never read. He sat there, hands clasped over his uniform belt, looking like a parody of The Young Soldier, and earnestly defended his position. How his dead grandfather, a reluctant soldier himself, would have enjoyed standing up to him (his living one was the only member of the family who was proud of Daniel’s military inclinations). In fact, he brought Oliver into his rationale, saying he felt men like Oliver had died to preserve a certain way of life, and that he felt the same, and knew – because apparently history showed it – that pacifism was not the practical method of dealing with aggression when it occurred. An army must be ready to meet such aggressions. What about the bomb, I asked, but that was a mistake. Daniel was off, at once, on an even longer and more learned lecture about nuclear deterrents.