A Very Private Eye: The Diaries, Letters and Notebooks of Barbara Pym

by Barbara Pym

  When I got home I found everyone in the garden, so I washed my hair and dried it in the sun lying on a red blanket on the rockery, of all places. Masses of birds singing – I wish I knew what they were. Gordon would know, Honor said, and I remembered one summer afternoon last year when we were sitting under the beechtree and he told me to look at a spotted flycatcher on the telephone wires. All these things one discovers about people, how nice they are.

  Hilary made a salad for supper and we had it with pilchards and then some rhubarb. We listened to ITMA and then had a long technical conversation about Tampax!

  Earlier in the evening one star came out in the twilight.

  Julian is going to spend the weekend with Gordon – so I must be good and sensible. My stolid little girls Courage and Patience are on either side of me – I will cut out my blue satin nightdress (which was nearly black chiffon) and I am going to embroider it with little sprays of flowers and sentimental bows.

  Weekend 16–17–18 April. Gloriously and unnaturally hot weather. On Friday I went to Avonmouth and sat in the Park during my lunch hour enjoying the sun and reading T chekov. What attitudes we strike!

  I had ironed my dirndl on Friday night, very hopefully, and by Saturday lunchtime it was hot enough to change into it. Hilary and I gardened fiercely – digging buttercups out of the front rockery – so much so that Hilary threatened to make a salad of the leaves, and we dreamed of digging them.

  On Sunday it was again hot – I spent most of the morning scrubbing potatoes and making salad, but I enjoyed it. Surely my spiritual home is in the Coppice back kitchen? After lunch lay in the sun. Honor seemed rather miserable and when I came up with the tea I found her crying. We talked and decided that the burden and continual strain of being ‘splendid’ was sometimes unbearable – sometimes something snaps. Honor said she thought I’d been very good never to have written a word to Gordon. Funnily enough it had never occurred to me that I could – and now of course I’m glad I haven’t. Of course I’ve wanted to – not so much long miserable letters as small darling jokes and funny things. Then Honor told me that a week or two ago Gordon said he had nearly taken a train to Bristol and gone to Mrs Weedy’s in the hope that we might be there. And he had seemed surprised when Honor said we never went there. Oh, darling, how peculiarly insensitive your sex is! Anyway, as far as I was concerned it wasn’t such a bad weekend as I had feared – you wait, says the bat. All right, I know I’m ready. As ready as I can be. What a lot one learns about the technique of misery! We ate an enormous supper, soup, omelette and potatoes, and then to bed. Prue was an adorable film child all the weekend.

  Wednesday 21 April. Felt not exactly low but well damped down all day. Julian came back – I thought Honor looked depressed at tea – perhaps G. has been tearing her to pieces or it may be just not getting a letter from George – one doesn’t like to ask all the time. Anyway after lighting a fire and having soup we felt better. The weather seems colder but all the lilac is out and the chestnuts.

  Thursday 22 April. Up in the Morning Early [a radio keep-fit programme] certainly helps to dispel that feeling of lowness with which one usually starts the day. One gets instead an agonising stiffness in the backs of the legs, so that one feels trembling and doddery.

  Quite a tolerable morning at Avonmouth. I was back in Bristol at lunchtime and bought a utility brassière which makes me look a very fine shape, not at all like ‘this English lady’. The afternoon seemed long. When I got back we had a large late tea – Honor has received a letter from the solicitor to say that G. refuses to divulge the name of the woman or rather the address – Joan Leslie Glover – I shall always think of rows of spring onion seedlings in Honor’s patch when I hear that name, as it was there she told me the name – sometime last week.

  In the evening we listened to Walton’s Belshazzar’s Feast – a fine dramatic work. (Remarkably fine, as dear Henry would have said or might still say!)

  If G. isn’t the best and the real thing, well, I will get it with somebody else. But it’s got to be pretty good, to be better than ‘Sweeney Todd’ and that November afternoon in Christmas Steps and our conversations in the Rocks [Hotel]. No words will describe this wonderful nebulous lover that may one day materialise.

  Friday 23 April. Up in the Morning Early, but still stiff. Honor said how Gordon would laugh at us, and oh dear I could just see him laughing! I was working in Bristol all day and it seemed long and tiring.

  Hilary has gone to the cottage this weekend – so Honor and I are by ourselves. We talked about things – the folly of day-dreaming amongst others. She thinks I ought to have a really good affaire. I quite agree, but OH DEAR.

  Saturday 24 April. Today is an anniversary – I mean six months since my poor darling declared his ill-fated love and started me on this great chunk of misery.

  After breakfast Honor and I went shopping in Clifton and came back with our string bags bulging – treacle and Shredded Wheat and cakes and buns. We discussed the technique of misery on the way back, then had tea in the kitchen. In the afternoon I washed my hair and parted it in the middle again.

  Tuesday 27 April. Went to Avonmouth. The day started brightly but afterwards rained. I had my half day, but Bristol was only half alive with some shops still closed so I came home and did some sewing and gave myself a little concert of Dohnanyi, Brahms and the Classical Symphony. The latter is quite spoilt so I may well count it a dead loss. The nicest lover I never had, and the rest of it and A ring is round but not round enough and The sea’s deep but not deep enough and I will fight for what I want and if I can’t have it, then I will have nothing, but NOTHING!

  The beech trees are out in tender green leaves – the spinster feels like going rushing into the garden and embracing them, crying Thank you, thank you! you at least do what is expected of you and never fail.

  How happy is he born and taught

  That seeketh not another’s will,

  Whose armour is his honest thought

  And simple truth his utmost skill.

  Why that now, I don’t know. I must have many bats (all with broken wings) flying around in my head.

  Wednesday 28 April. Had a most miserable cold day at the office and also had toothache. At 5.30 I went to the dentist and had 2 teeth out – he did it very nicely, but now my jaw is aching. I have a great bloody gap and feel rather pathetic. I got home about 7 to find poor darling Honor very low, though she didn’t say anything, and worried about George. Oh God, if there were something… At the moment the only thing that seems to matter is that he should be all right. She has so much to bear and can’t even have Gordon to comfort her. Tomorrow she goes up to London to sign the petition and ‘discretion’ statement – oh it’s all so beastly, if only it were over.

  Thursday 29 April. Slept until ten and woke with blood on my pillow which very much intrigued Prue. Mary came in bringing a cup of tea and the news that there was a letter for Honor, but of course she had left before the post came. We discussed how we could let her know and eventually Mary sent a telegram to Hilary, as they were meeting for lunch. After tea I did some washing for Honor – this dreary spinster pounced on it joyously – here at last was something! Honor got back about 10 – Hilary hadn’t had the message, so the joy of getting the letter was all new. It was written only a week ago – probably while we were listening to Belshazzar’s Feast – the quickest yet. The visit to the solicitor went off very well – he seems very pleased with everything, but thinks the case won’t come on till October – so that means perhaps a year before it is all through. Oh, what a long time I would have had to wait. I have got a much more calm and sensible state about the whole thing – I can now, after all this time, understand exactly Gordon’s feelings about the affair and why he acted as he did, and how he could hardly have done anything else. This is surely an advance because though I could see it in a way I never really felt it.

  Sunday 2 May. (Much colder). Busy morning making salad, scrubbing potatoes etc. Drank tea with Honor and l
istened to Hubert Foss talking about and playing records of Berlioz’s Fantastic Symphony. Honor crouched on the floor, pounding potatoes in a saucepan. We talked about Gordon’s play. Honor says she is afraid that it is the one he wrote about his breaking off with Anna. One night, in the early stages of their affair, they were at a concert at the Queen’s Hall. Gordon said that the last time he had been there was with Mollie and that if she were to come back again he wouldn’t feel a thing about her. And Anna burst into tears – And he couldn’t understand why. Thought she ought to have been pleased. What a haunting scene for a novel – it could have also taken place in a churchyard where he has been with someone he once loved. And she, the new one, sees it happening again and again. (Oh, of course you would make it all happen in a churchyard – wouldn’t you?) Gordon, if you ever take any other woman to Abbotsleigh, may you never rest peacefully in your grave with the marble chips on top.

  Monday 3 May. I am afraid one of our elderly censors will think me not such a beautiful natured girl after all. This afternoon I was washing, or waiting to wash my hands when I said, ‘I wish people wouldn’t clutter up this basin with flowers.’ And of course they were hers and, worse, she was taking them to an invalid. Oh dear, and perhaps she was a pathetic old governess or a decayed gentlewoman. Now I can never make amends, though I did feebly apologise.

  At teatime Honor and I had one of our long, thorough talks about Gordon and their marriage. And she showed me the petition and it has to be resworn as they left out one of Honor’s names. It is rather a horrifying document, but perhaps faintly comic. Really we have discussed Gordon so much, that one would hardly think there was anything left to love. I seem to know everything bad about him, there surely can’t be much more.

  Tuesday 4 May. Lovely vigorous up in the morning early exercises. A bright cold morning. It got very hot at teatime and I went out on the balcony. Today (or yesterday) I went and put my arms round the broken unicorn who knows everything, all my joy and misery and is always the same.

  Thursday 6 May. Will the tune ‘Dearly Beloved’ always remind me of dreary rides to Avonmouth, and the bus stop at Shirehampton? The cuckoo has started now and it is real Matthew Arnold weather.

  Friday 7 May. Had a rather dreary day at work. Saw a dilapidated pigeon on the balcony with ruffled feathers. In the evening felt very elated, dangerously so. For no special reason. Good News – we are in the suburbs of Tunis. Very loud cuckoo outside and the beech tree so green.

  Saturday 8 May. Heard on 8 o’clock that we have got Tunis and Bizerta. After six months. A wild and stormy day. Icy wind and driving rain – we all got soaked coming back to lunch. I made curry for supper. Late in the evening, cutting dreary sandwiches for work tomorrow, I let myself go for perhaps half an hour. But one always has to pick oneself up again and go on being drearily splendid.

  Sunday 9 May. Worked – a cold miserable day. Shivering and watching the pigeon die, while I ate my sandwiches. Work was intolerably boring. How delightful to come back to tea and a boiled egg and warmth. Listened into various things – high spot was a Stephen Potter poetry programme ending with Latin gender rhymes to a background of Dohnanyi, Variations on a Nursery Tune. Honor said she was going to write to Gordon – I envied her and she said I could write to him if I wanted to. But oh no, I can’t yet. Not till six months at the earliest – unless the giddy heavens fall.

  Monday 10 May. A filthy day, very wet and stormy. But I wore my fur-lined boots and took an extra jersey. Now I can see how people get eccentric. Came home, had tea, ironed etc. Listened to a lovely Louis MacNeice programme The Death of Byron. Today is the tenth anniversary of my first evening with Henry. Wistaria and the Trout. Every detail is imprinted on my mind. How small a part of time.…

  To Henry Harvey in Stockholm

  Bristol

  11 May 1943

  My Dear Henry,

  Of course I should really have written to you yesterday as May 10th is the anniversary of the first time I ever spent an evening with you! What’s more it is the tenth anniversary, a solemn thought! Yes, it was in 1933 and we went to the Trout and played pingpong and ate mixed grill and the wistaria was out.

  Well I will start to tell you my news. The biggest thing is that I have volunteered for the WRNS. I decided that I had been long enough in my present job and that a change would do me good – also practically all young (sic) women, especially single ones are liable to be conscripted now – so I thought I’d rather choose what I went into. The uniform is very becoming but of course this dreary spinster wouldn’t be influenced by considerations like that. But those little hats – You can have no conception what England is like now with so many women in uniform. And elderly women are flocking into Government offices and becoming ‘Temporary Civil Servants’. Our new recruits get older and older. And more and more peculiar. The other day one of them came into the tea room wearing a turban and carrying an umbrella. Well Miss Pym and what about yourself? Were you not seen only yesterday, wearing fur-lined boots in May wrapped in a rug and your head tied up in a scarf? It is the cold and the Government ban on Central Heating that does it. We had a glorious heatwave in April but that has now gone. Still all the lilacs have been out and I can imagine the dear old Banbury Road with the lilacs – no the laburnums and red hawthorn all out. It is a long time since I was in Oxford. It would be almost unbearably nostalgic now. Hilary goes there more often as her husband is stationed quite near there. She says you can still eat at the George and it has the best drink. Which is all one cares about, but all. And now, after that, what an unpleasant person I shall make myself out to be. The Censor [this letter would have been read by a Censor] (probably a woman, too) will not realise that the writer is a woman who will be thirty next month, who reads Coventry Patmore and often lunches off Welsh rarebit in a teashop, run by ladies, called Nell Gwynn – who patches her underwear in the evenings, wears lisle stockings (except for special occasions) and weeps when she hears the old B Minor Tchaikovsky Piano Concerto. And lots of other things. But she (the Censor) will no doubt wonder at the relationship between writer and addressee. ‘Old friends, simply that,’ said Miss Pym, giving the words their full meaning. By the way how nice it would be if this letter could arrive in time for your birthday, which is on May 31st. And you will be thirty two, won’t you?

  I can’t exactly remember what I did tell you in my last letter. Did I tell you that I was in love and that it was all hopeless? I expect so – well if I did you may be interested (and relieved?) to hear that we parted at Christmas and haven’t seen or written to each other since then – a really dramatic Victorian renunciation – the sort of thing I adore in novels, but find extremely painful in real life. Of course we may come together again in the future – time alone will tell (sorry!) but in the meantime he thought it better I should try and find somebody else who can marry me, which he won’t be able to for at least a year – we neither of us wanted any other kind of relationship so a complete break was the only thing. Luckily we both are rather comic people so it isn’t as bad as it sounds. It has been hell being away from him, as he understood so well and we had all the same ridiculous jokes and things together. I haven’t told Jock but I believe you do know something of these things, even if you have never been in a similar situation. My parents didn’t know either – though everyone here did of course. I am quite resigned to it now and can even visualise the possibility of marrying a dashing naval officer – what – at nearly thirty, with lisle stockings and patched underwear?

  Dear Henry, I don’t know why I’m telling you all this – but I have a feeling that as we have known each other so long and you were once so much to me that it doesn’t matter. Like some comfortable chair and everything turned to mild, kindly looks and spectacles. I once wrote something of the kind in a novel which I never finished. I’m afraid I haven’t written anything for ages, though I fully intend to when I have time. And I expect it will be better than any of my early work.

  I was tidying a drawer this evening
and came across a photo of poor Anton Fendrich! I wonder where he is now – also my dear Friedbert. I don’t suppose you ever hear any news of Anton, do you? I imagine that you would be able to write to him, being in a neutral country, though perhaps you hardly could being English. They might think you were a spy. I cannot send any messages through you either, as it is not allowed and, I, even with the lisle stockings and welsh rarebit lunch, might also be a spy.

  Oh dear why did I write all this – most unnecessary and melodramatic. Probably they are dead in Russia – one cannot know and does not like to think. Or taken prisoner by my cousin in Tunisia.

  I have made no comment on the war news, but things do seem to be going well for us at last. It hardly seems three years since Dunkirk. I’m afraid it will be a long time yet though. But you wait till I am in the WRNS.

  Of course this letter is meant for my dear sister Elsie as well as you. I am sure there is nothing in it I would not wish her to see. I hope we shall be meeting again sometime before we are too old to be helping each other into our graves. I’ve chosen a churchyard here or rather my love has – I am going to have marble chips put on top of his grave which he much dislikes.

  Much love to you and Elsie and the child –

  Barbara

  Tuesday 18 May. Got my release form signed so that I can really join the WRNS – also the Admiralty have written to the Censors asking for my character!

  Wednesday 19 May. Rose early and did the exercises – we are now stiff in the waist muscles! Gloriously hot weather. I am firewatching in a cotton dress and in the light. Well, summer’s here now. Spring has not waited…

  Thursday 20 May. Bought my Radio Times which contains a photo of my Gordon at the darts board and the announcement of his play Farewell Helen to be broadcast on Wednesday next. Spent a pleasant, almost happy evening feeling generally at peace with everything. Drank beer. Listened to a very funny ITMA and The Armchair Detective.