FN
Dick Francis (Richard Stanley Francis)
MRT
Forfeit
Biog
G. Lord, Dick Francis: A Racing Life (1999)
224. P. D. James 1920–
Taming our sleeping tigers.
There is a telling moment in Original Sin (P. D. James’s ninth novel, published 1994) when Adam Dalgliesh, P. D. James’s well-read Scotland Yard detective and published poet, with special responsibility for ‘sensitive’ cases, surveys the study of a deceased and old-fashioned spinster detective novelist. No one likes Esmé Carling’s brand of fiction any more. Her bookshelves Dalgliesh notes (with an uneasy sense of his own superannuation), are dominated by ‘women writers of the Golden Age’:
Surveying the titles so reminiscent of the 1930s, of village policemen cycling to the scene of the murder, tugging their forelocks to the gentry, of autopsies undertaken by eccentric general practitioners after evening surgery and unlikely denouements in the library, he took them out and glanced at them at random. Death by Dancing, apparently set in the world of formation ballroom competitions, Cruising to Murder, Death by Drowning, The Mistletoe Murders. He replaced them carefully, feeling no condescension.
James, seventy-four years old when she published Original Sin, belongs, in terms of years lived, to Esmé Carling’s generation. In terms of the evolution of her genre – the crime novel – she writes very much to the present. Moreover she has taken that genre to levels of literary respectability far beyond those represented by Gladys Mitchell (1901–83), clearly the target of James’s mild satire here (Mitchell, oddly, was Philip Larkin’s favourite crime novelist; for her cosiness, one suspects). Ruth Rendell, James’s coeval in the genre, hails Original Sin as ‘the Middlemarch of crime novels’ – in other words, ‘Literature’.
Phyllis Dorothy James was born in 1920 in Oxford, into a gas-lit world permeated by the ‘distinctive odour of Anglicanism’ – to which she remains faithful. Her father, just back from machine-gunning Germans, worked in the Inland Revenue. Her upbringing, as she recalls it in her autobiography, was glum but not cruel. In a Guardian interview she recalled that ‘My storytelling began very early, certainly well before I was 10. We lived then in Ludlow on the Welsh borders and my younger sister, brother and I slept in one large nursery, a double bed for Monica and myself, and Edward in a single one against the wall. I was expected at night to tell them stories until either I rebelled or they fell asleep. The stories were invariably improbably exciting and mysterious, and the animal hero was called, somewhat unoriginally, Percy Pig.’
She realised, almost as soon as she was capable of realising anything, that she was the child of an unhappy marriage. Her father, an intelligent man, suffered from that post-First World War trauma then called ‘neurasthenia’ – dead emotions. Her mother, a warm, ‘unintelligent’ woman, had a total nervous breakdown and was forcibly institutionalised in an asylum when Phyllis was fourteen. Her memory of the event – one of the most damaging of her life – is ‘blank’, suppressed. The running of the house, and care of Monica and Edward, devolved on her as eldest child. She was, from childhood, eminently capable of taking such things on. Why does this gifted woman choose to write detective stories? Because, she says, she loves ‘structure’ and ‘order’. And – one might impertinently presume – is simultaneously running away from the acute disorder of her childhood. ‘Even as a child,’ she recalls, ‘I had a sense that I was two people; the one who experienced the trauma, the pain, the happiness, and the other who stood aside and watched with a disinterested ironic eye.’
Aged sixteen, she was obliged by the family’s financial difficulties to leave school, where she would have done well, to work at various clerking jobs. While helping out with a festival dramatic production in Cambridge she met and fell in love (not ‘overwhelmingly’) with a medical student, Connor Bantry White. They married in 1941, ‘five days after I came of age’. Everyone was marrying – it was the war. But as with her father, the war did not end with peace. Returning from service abroad in the Royal Army Medical Corps, Connor began to show signs of mental illness and alcoholism. James, meanwhile, had risen in her line of work (the wartime absence of male competition helped) to a professional level. She was, in her thirties, a senior administrator in the health service in London.
Like Trollope, she had long been in the habit of getting up before ‘work’ to write. ‘I think,’ she recalls, ‘I knew that I would be a novelist almost as soon as I was able to read, but for a variety of reasons – including the war, my husband’s illness, the need to find and persevere in a safe career which would provide the necessary weekly cheque – I was a late starter.’ Her debut novel – and Adam Dalgliesh’s – Cover Her Face (the Othello allusion hints at her own desperately unhappy marriage, as does the reversion to her maiden name) appeared in 1962. ‘P. D. James’ was forty-two years old. Her chosen pen name led many readers to assume she was a man. In what D. H. Lawrence called the ‘man’s world’ she was a ‘flier’. She had now moved to the Home Office where, following fast-track promotion, she was placed in charge of the Criminal Policy department. In 1964 her husband, after having spent years in various mental institutions, died at home of an overdose of drink and drugs, leaving two children for his wife to look after alone – he was forty-four years old. It was probably suicide. She thinks of him tenderly every day, she records in her autobiography.
As a civil servant, James was obliged to retire in her sixtieth year, which enabled her to turn her full attention to various good works on committees and writing. They were mainly, but not exclusively, Dalgliesh mysteries, a half a dozen of which appeared over the next fifteen years at two to three-year intervals. Their popularity was hugely boosted by TV adaptations, in which Dalgliesh was played by Roy Marsden as a moustached, taciturn, ruminative character. A radically different work was James’s dystopia, The Children of Men (1992). The point is, there are no children: it is 1994 (not for James a far distant catastrophe) and men’s fertility has plummeted, globally, to zero. No child is born after 1995 – sexual intercourse completes the journey it started with the pill in 1960. It is masturbation à deux. The world has been contracepted – society collapses. The novel was successfully filmed in 2009.
In 1991 James was made a life peer, sitting on the Conservative benches. In 1999, she published her autobiography, Time to Be in Earnest. It divulges relatively little of her private life (Faber wittily chose as its cover illustration half of her youthful portrait), but offers a vivid insight into her mind:
So tomorrow, on 3rd August, I shall write the first entry in a record which I propose to keep for one year, from my seventy-seventh to my seventy-eighth birthday. Will I persist with this effort? Only time will tell. And will I be here at the end of the year? At seventy-seven that is not an irrational question. But then is it irrational at any age? In youth we go forward caparisoned in immortality; it is only, I think, in age that we fully realize the transitoriness of life.
There is much that I remember but which is painful to dwell upon. I see no need to write about these things … Like dangerous and unpredictable beasts they lie curled in the pit of the subconscious…. But then I am a writer … I, a purveyor of popular genre fiction, and that great genius Jane Austen have the same expedient for taming our sleeping tigers.
The novel-writing cure, but not something available, alas, on the NHS. James suffered life-threatening heart failure in 2007. In hospital she devised what, it was said, would be her last (fourteenth) Dalgliesh novel, The Private Patient (2008) – murder in the operating theatre. Dalgliesh would be, by conservative estimate, some ninety years old by this date (still sprightlier than Poirot, who was applying his little grey cells to murders at the age of 130). The critic Peter Kemp identifies the essence of Dalgliesh mysteries as indeterminacy – solutions which remain cloudy: ‘Characteristically at the end of one of her novels the mystery has been solved but all sorts of other quandaries remain. In some cases the victim is more
repulsive than the murderer and you can see why the murderer has done it.’ Often the murderer does it to purge the past – often the very distant past. In James’s 1997 bestseller, A Certain Justice, there is any number of suspects (seven, as I calculate) for Dalgliesh to ponder on when a rising young woman lawyer is killed. It turns out to be the oldest barrister in her chambers, a man in his mid-seventies, avenging a wrong of some thirty years ago.
Beneath the whodunnit plots, and the long evolution of Adam Dalgliesh’s interestingly deviant detective, P. D. James’s novels are obsessed (the word is not too strong) with the generational conflict between young and old professional classes and what one might call ‘the pathos of modernisation’. Her core readership, one suspects, is substantially composed of middle-aged, professional people, like herself, falling behind their time and none too pleased about it.
FN
(Baroness) Phyllis Dorothy James (later White)
MRT
Original Sin
Biog
P. D. James, Time to Be in Earnest: A Fragment of Autobiography (1999)
225. Paul Scott 1920–1978
There is a relation between the hours of our life and the centuries of time. Emerson
‘India’, linguists tell us, originally indicated every far-off country. ‘Raj’ is a word of Sanskrit origin, whose alternative modern form is the German ‘Reich’. Britain’s bloody conflict with the Third Reich in the early 1940s, and its scarcely less bloody struggle to preserve the 400-year-old Raj at the same period, supply the background to Paul Scott’s Raj Quartet. Those few years are, historically, the moment of truth when things fell apart to reveal what had always been at the centre of Empire. Many admirers of Scott will have had a threefold experience of the Quartet. They will have read the novels as they came out, fitfully, between 1966 and 1975, and reread them as a single, coherent, entity. And they will have viewed the twelve-part 1984 Granada Television adaptation, The Jewel in the Crown. The TV narrative was dominated, as is the Quartet, by Ronald Merrick, played by Tim Pigott-Smith. Merrick is a corrupt and brutal police superintendent as we first encounter him; a bemedalled colonel, and ostensibly happily married, as we (and India) take our leave of him in the final instalment.
It is fiendishly difficult to establish any moral line on Merrick. He is no simple villain. It’s complicated by the fact that his background is perplexingly parallel to that of his creator. Of lower-class origins (his father was a corner tobacconist) young Ronald was yanked out of school at fourteen. So too was fourteen-year-old Paul when his father’s business as a commercial artist went bust. An intelligent lad, Merrick had ‘just enough education to scrape into the Indian Police Service’. But not, of course, to hold the King’s Commission, until, that is, the Japanese victories of 1942, when the armed forces were only too happy to use men of his calibre. Merrick was later commissioned in the Indian Army Service Corps (an unsmart branch of the military). He could never have aspired to the promotion in peace-time. Merrick is said, behind his back in the ‘mess’ and the ‘club’, not to be ‘one of us’ – white, that is, but not ‘pukka’. Merrick’s CV is the mirror reflection of the author’s life. Scott was conscripted into the army as a private in 1940 and was shipped out to India three years later as an officer cadet with the scratch army mustered to repel an expected Japanese invasion (including, as it happened, Brian Aldiss). He would be an officer – but not quite a gentleman. ‘Scott’, as his biographer, Hilary Spurling, summarises it, ‘ended up a captain in the Indian Army Service Corps, organising supply lines for the Fourteenth Army’s unexpectedly successful reconquest of Burma’. Grocer to Britain’s frontline heroes, that is.
His uneasy social pedigree means Merrick can never give the ‘right’ answer to that officer-class question ‘and where were you at school, Ronnie?’. But the same déclassé status in the mess gives him a clarity of vision denied his class-blinkered colleagues. ‘Amateurs’, as he contemptuously calls them. He sees colonial India for what it really is. So too, one assumes, did Scott. There are, of course, differences. Merrick is a repressed homosexual and lick-lipping sadist. Scott, for all his life-failings, wasn’t – at least not a sadist, as far as we know. Unlike Merrick, Scott had married in 1941. His wife Penny was a nurse and in later life a novelist herself. They had two daughters, both born after the war.
Demobbed and back in Civvy Street, Scott picked up his pre-war trade of accountant, before joining the firm of what was to become David Higham Associates as a literary agent in 1950 – in which capacity he was mightily vexing to his client, Muriel Spark (who mistakenly thought he was officer-class born and bred). Scott also had literary ambitions of his own – all deriving from his Indian experiences. Johnny Sahib (1952), rejected seventeen times, was the first of half-a-dozen post-colonial fictions. All, as Spurling meaningfully notes, deal with ‘complicated’ male friendship. In 1960 Scott gave up his day job (no small thing – he was now a director of the firm) to write novels. In 1964 ‘he flew back alone to India on a journey which he knew would make or break him as a writer’. It came close to breaking him. He was short of money, chronically unwell with amoebic dysentery, undergoing severe marital problems, and drinking like a fish. None the less, he was able, after a few months in the country, to embark on his great chronicle of the decline and fall of the Anglo-Indian Empire. Paul Scott knew that he had a great literary adversary when he conceived his quartet – namely the author of A Passage to India. ‘Forster’, Scott said, ‘loomed over literary India like a train terminus beyond which no other novelist could be permitted to travel.’ Scott ignored the ban: he was singularly immune to the ‘glamour’ of India which had so gripped Forster.
Quoted more than once in the Quartet is Emerson’s observation that ‘there is a relation between the hours of our life and the centuries of time’. In awarding the Booker Prize in 1977 to the dying Scott, for his tailpiece novel to the Quartet, Philip Larkin paraphrased Emerson: ‘Staying On covers only a few months, but it carries the emotional impact of a lifetime, even a civilisation.’ Scott was not present to hear Larkin’s praise. He died, a few weeks later, in London’s Middlesex Hospital. His wife Penny had begun legal proceedings to end the marriage, but colon cancer got there first.
FN
Paul Mark Scott
MRT
The Raj Quartet
Biog
H. Spurling, Paul Scott: A Life (1990)
226. Patricia Highsmith 1921–1995
I never think about my ‘place’ in literature, and perhaps I have none.
Patricia Highsmith’s achievement was to produce fiction that contrives to be simultaneously repulsive and irresistibly readable. To paraphrase Thoreau, her characters live lives of quiet psychopathy. A Suspension of Mercy (1965) – sometimes the most mysterious things in Highsmith’s mysteries are the titles – is a typical invention. A couple, Sydney and Alicia, are living in rural Suffolk in a condition which, to the outside world, looks idyllic. He is a writer, she is an artist. But the picture-postcard appearance is illusion. The ‘inner’ Sydney and Alicia are ravening beasts:
Sometimes he plotted the murders, the robbery, the blackmail of people he and Alicia knew, though the people themselves knew nothing about it. Alex [his literary collaborator] had died five times at least in Sydney’s imagination. Alicia twenty times. She had died in a burning car, in a wrecked car, in the woods throttled by person or persons unknown, died falling down the stairs at home, drowned in her bath, died falling out the upstairs window while trying to rescue a bird in the eaves drain, died from poisoning that would leave no trace.
Alicia does indeed come to a sticky end.
Homicide is the rational response to the human condition in Highsmith’s moral universe. ‘Murder,’ she believed, ‘is a kind of making love, a kind of possessing.’ On the face of it, such apophthegms look like the bourgeois-offending small-talk of the existentialists, with whose left-bank doctrines Highsmith was infatuated in the late 1940s. There is, however, a difference.
Unlike Meursault (she read The Outsider in 1947), Highsmith’s killers positively relish their killing. It’s as natural as, well, making love. The big difference between the classic Hitchcock movie Strangers on a Train (1951) and its source novel is that in Highsmith’s version Guy (literally a nice guy) does actually kill Bruno’s father, honouring the exchange of murder forged, over highballs, in the private compartment thundering across the Texas plains. Hitchcock’s targeted audience was not up for that. At least, not in 1951.
Crime and Punishment was one of Highsmith’s favourite novels (she actually read it a couple of months before beginning Strangers on a Train), but her Raskolnikovs routinely escape the afflictions of law and conscience – and sometimes even punishment. In The Glass Cell (1964) the hero, Philip Carter, is wrongfully convicted and, in prison, strung up by the thumbs by sadistic guards. Mutilated and forcibly addicted to morphine by a homosexual prison doctor, he contrives to kill his torturer and, on his release, kill his faithful/faithless wife’s lover, before settling down happily to carry on where he was before he went to prison. The novel ends with an exchange with a detective who knows, but cannot prove, Philip’s guilt:
Lives of the Novelists: A History of Fiction in 294 Lives Page 86