Bust exercises: 45!
Nose squashing exercises: 5 mins
Love always, Cecily
* * *
Tuesday, 23rd July 1963
Dear Diary
I fear I did not make a good beginning to this journal. There is too much silliness and feeling sorry for oneself in it. I need to show everyone eg Miss Powell, Jeremy, Miranda & others that I am a grown-up young woman, because sadly some people still treat me like I am five years old and when I am dead & they read this I want them to know how wrong they were.
It is a bit like that at our school, but not as bad, because everyone is nearly the same age. I don’t actually mind school, Miranda hates it. I like English, Drama & History. Also I can’t wait to see Miss Powell again in September because she treats you like a person. However I am also dreading having to listen to awful Annabel Taylor’s descriptions of her ghastly family’s holiday in St Tropez or wherever it will be. She is such a show-off. Miss Powell says one should never advertise one’s wealth or status & I agree. I don’t go around school boasting that my father is an OBE & writes extremely important books, & lectures at the Sorbonne, & that my mother has had an exhibition at the Royal Academy in London, do I? No, I do not. AT is so vulgar too. What matters to her is how blonde your hair is, or whether you have a tennis court at home & are allowed to drink champagne by your family. She calls me & Miranda names, too, because of the fact our skin is darker than hers. She has thick, dark blonde beautiful hair & huge green eyes with thick black lashes & pink cheeks & sweet little freckles, it’s fine for her at a school like ours.
AT really is horrible. I shall refer to her as 21 (A is 1st letter of alphabet, T is 20th, add them together.) through the rest of this diary, bc I can’t bear to write her name.
And there is a secret about her & even though we row terribly, the Kapoor sisters do stick together about some things:
Miranda is in awful trouble because of 21. Mummy & Dad don’t know it, but Miranda nearly got expelled this term because of 21. She lost her rag with her, two weeks before we broke up. Miranda was changing the water for the flowers, it was her turn. We had just heard from Mummy in a letter that these two strange boys would be coming to stay at Summercove & we were giggling about them, talking about the holidays, for once having a good old chat. ‘Maybe one of us will marry one of them and be very rich & have lots of children,’ Miranda said. 21 walked past & heard Miranda. She called her a horrible name again & said her children would be like monkeys. Out of the blue.
Well Miranda just went potty. It was so strange. She said, ‘I’ve had enough, I’ve had enough.’ She put her (21’s) head in a desk & banged it up & down on her, so hard I honestly thought 21’s skull would crack & her brains spill out onto the floor. 21 was screaming, ‘Stop it, stop it!!’ & Miranda just kept shouting, ‘I don’t care, I don’t care!’ & her teeth were gritted in between speaking. Her eyes were huge, she was flushed, she almost looked like she was enjoying it. 21 had to be in the san. for the night. She had bruises on her cheekbones for weeks. And ringing in her ears.
Miss Stephens, the headmistress, had Miranda in her office for ages. She was going to be expelled, I was sure of it. They said they were going to send M home early but she somehow persuaded Miss Stephens not to. I will never know what she said or how she did it. 21 never bothered her again, she didn’t like people knowing she’d got beaten up like that.
I don’t like thinking about it much, because it scares me. I am glad she did something, I was proud of her in a very strange way. But Miranda scares me, if I’m honest. She has a weird streak. Vicious. And I can say it here but I do think she & Archie are strange, they look like me, but I don’t get them.
When Mum was upstairs working this afternoon I went into the living room & read the Times with no one looking, because I knew from Archie & Jeremy talking about it at breakfast something juicy was happening in the Profumo Scandal case & I am very curious.
This is the trial of Dr Stephen Ward, who they say caused the whole thing. Well I must say I hope I am a broadminded young person but good grief. It uses the word ‘intercourse’ ten times. Every time they ask Christine Keeler if she had intercourse with someone, the answer is always ‘yes’. I’m not even sure what that means, I think sex, but the whole way or just a part of sex? (feels weird to write that word) . . . Darling diary, I wish you could tell me. Dinah Collins at our school has had sex with her boyfriend, in his car at Christmas. She is such a slut. No one talked to her for all of the Spring term when they found out. I don’t know why. I wanted to ask her what it was like, does it hurt, isn’t it embarrassing? It seems such a strange thing to do, when you think about it. People walk along the streets all smart & suave wearing new suits &
yet they do that in the evenings with each other . . . I don’t understand it.
My hand hurts! I have been writing for an hour. The bump on my finger from writing in exam time is coming back. I feel very virtuous. It is supper soon & I should go & change, or at least comb my hair. We are having fish pie for supper; Dad says that’s stupid in July & we should float the pie back out to sea where it belongs.
Bust exercises: 25
Nose squashing exercises: 10 mins
Love always, Cecily
* * *
Wednesday, 24th July 1963
My Darling diary
I reread what I have written so far of this diary once again, & once again it makes me want to blush. I am a horrible person with a base mind. Also, I don’t hate Miranda. Well, some of the time I do. She is just a bit difficult sometimes. She doesn’t really have a weird vicious streak. I was going to tear these pages out & burn them, but I want to be a writer & you have to be truthful. So I will keep them, to remind myself, & then burn them maybe later, because GOSH I WOULD DIE if eg Jeremy knew I loved him or what I have been thinking about. I have nearly filled up these pages. I don’t want to stop now. The boys haven’t arrived yet and I want to write about them, too. It’s exciting. I must get an exercise book from Penzance so I can carry on writing for the rest of the summer.
President Kennedy has signed a nuclear test ban treaty & he has promised to change the US immigration laws – but I don’t know how, I only read the headline because Archie took the paper. I like President Kennedy, & he looks a bit like Jeremy though he is not as handsome as Jeremy (though he is still handsome).
I want to be a better person than I am. I want to look better too. I am so ugly, my nose is too big. I spent a long time in the bathroom yesterday doing my exercises: I squash my nose down so it doesn’t stick out as much. I don’t know if it works, like doing ‘I must increase my bust’ fifty times a day, but I am doing them in case. It is awful to have a small bust. I hate it. Mummy says it will grow, but I hate talking about all that with her. She always wants to, & she is always wanting to have convs. about being a ‘woman’, it makes me want to be sick. Sometimes I think I am a disappointment to her, I don’t ever know what Mummy wants.
Anyway, today I said please could this painting be the last time I sit for you. She said Why? I said Sorry Mummy I just don’t like it very much. She was quite cross. Miss Powell says women should stand alone & fend for themselves, like Elizabeth I, but I’m not good at saying to Mummy what I want. Mummy can stand alone & fend for herself though that’s for sure. ‘Though I have the body of a weak & feeble woman, I have the heart of a king, & a king of England too.’ Miss P made us declaim this at school this summer. I absolutely love it. Here are my top ten list of favourite pieces to read out loud:
10. ‘Make me a willow cabin at your gate’ from 12th Night
9.
8.
7.
Thursday, 25th July 1963
Dear diary
Sorry I was called for tea & then we played games. I will finish the list soon.
Today was a funny day. Frank and Guy Leighton are here now and everything feels different. I don’t know why. Because I feel confused. Louisa said something on the way to Penzance to get the
m. She said my brother is a peeping Tom. He watches her get undressed. I’m sure it’s not true. It’s disgusting if it is true. I don’t know . . .
But I am racing ahead and I should tell the day as it happened. In the morning I sat for Mummy & we talked about Profumo. I went into Penzance with Louisa and Jeremy, to pick the boys up. And I bought a new exercise book from Boots, so I can write as much as I please which is good, I’m on the last page as you see!
Silly Cecily. Perhaps this holiday is going to be all right after all, I am glad that the others are here now anyway. Help – I am about to run out of space! I have written far too much already. Now I transfer to my beautiful new bk and I can carry on from there
Love always, Cecily
PART TWO
July 1963
Chapter Twelve
‘So, what time does Louisa’s new boyfriend get here?’
‘He’s not my boyfriend, shut up, Cecily.’
‘He is! You’re going to kiss him on the lips! And Miranda’s never kissed anyone before. Doesn’t that make you feel sick with envy, Miranda?’
‘Honestly, Cecily, you’re such a baby. You’re fifteen. When are you going to grow up?’
‘Poor Wardy. It doesn’t look good for him. Filthy old bugger. I say, Archie, have you read this morning’s Times?’
‘I went straight to that page, naturally. I must say, she’s a real goer, that Keeler girl. No better than . . . Well, anyway. Fruity stuff, isn’t it?’
‘You’re disgusting, Archie.’
‘Louisa, don’t talk about my brother like that.’
‘I will. He’s completely disgusting, and he knows why.’
‘Why, what do you mean? What’s fruity?’
A melodious voice spoke from the end of the table. ‘Jeremy, Archie, please. Not at breakfast.’
‘Sorry, Franty. It’s nothing, Cec. Have you got the lime marmalade? Jolly nice stuff, Franty.’
‘Thank you, Jeremy.’
* * *
I’m going to scream. I’m going to scream. Yes, I am.
Frances Seymour looked around the room, trying to keep calm.
Lately, the old feeling had started to come back. She had kept it at bay for many years now, she had thought the house in Cornwall was the answer, but increasingly it was as if she was not in control: of her children, of her home, of her own mind. She wished she were anywhere but here, presiding over breakfast with this loud, mucky troupe of young people, being the grown-up, sensible one. It was wrong.
There was a lot on. Too much, perhaps. She had a portrait of her youngest daughter, Cecily, to finish, for a big upcoming show in London. She had three teenagers of her own, two more staying with her, and two more on their way at this very minute, as well as a husband who didn’t care whether you looked after him or not; she had once found Arvind absent-mindedly chewing a piece of paper, and when she’d asked him why he’d said, vaguely, ‘I was hungry. I thought I would try the paper. I don’t need it any more.’
The neighbours had just arrived for the summer, she should visit them, and the damn church fete was the week after, and Mary kept asking her what she wanted her to make. Didn’t the woman realise she didn’t care? She simply didn’t bloody care?
Frances pressed a cool hand to her forehead. Then the Mitchells were coming to stay the week after, she’d have to get a fun crowd up for them, lots of booze in, Eliza needed constant entertaining and young men to look at. The crowds were descending; only a few days before the children came back from school she’d just said goodbye to a huge party, some old friends from art college, Arvind’s publisher and two couples from the old Redcliffe Square days. She loved entertaining, loved seeing old faces, loved the praise, the company, the conversation, the stimulation – Frances had to be stimulated in order to be able to paint. She couldn’t do it unless there was something burning within her, stoking her thoughts, firing her up.
And yet daily life had to go on too, and she was the one who made it go on. There was Cecily and Miranda’s room to turn out – Cecily had grown so fast this last term, there was plenty the clothes stall could have. She needed to take them both into Penzance, or maybe even Exeter, to get some new clothes; Mary never got it right. Cecily could have Miranda’s cast-offs, but Frances, a younger child herself, always thought it was unfair she never had anything new, she deserved a party frock of her own, some shorts, a few summer shirts.
She frowned again and looked at Miranda, wondering where she’d got that rather nice cream linen top she was wearing; had she seen that before? It suited her; that in itself was unusual, Frances thought, and then felt guilty.
I don’t care about their damn clothes.
There had been a time when she had worn new clothes, put her hair up, slipped into satin heels, nursed a glass of champagne as she laughed with handsome young men at the Chelsea Arts Club, or drank long into the night in some underground shelter, thick with cigarette smoke. There had been a time when she was young, desirable, with the world at her feet, and now . . . She sighed. She had become staid. Boring. Ordinary. A staid wife and mother of three, a painter of staid, boring, repetitive landscapes. And so the old furtive unrest was beginning to creep over her again.
‘Leave me alone!’ Miranda squawked loudly. Frances looked up, startled, as Cecily smirked in triumph at some childishly won point and Miranda slumped back down against the high-backed dining chair. Across the table, Arvind carried on eating his kipper, staring into space as if he were alone.
Frances smiled at him, but he didn’t see. He never saw. That was one of the things for which she had always loved him. Arvind wasn’t suspicious. He wasn’t trusting either. He was just in another world most of the time, and they worked well together because of it. Frances could still remember the first time she saw him, at that concert in the National Gallery, quiet and neat in his tweeds, impervious to everything else around him except the music, his short frame tensing at the swelling rhythm of the piano. She had smiled slowly at him, but he had focused shortly on her and then back on the music again, looking straight through her as if she weren’t there. In years to come, Frances would always wonder if that was when she was hooked: he’d looked past her, not at her. She wasn’t used to that.
She watched him now, her gaze flicking from him to their son Archie, a young Louis Jourdan: beautifully turned out, his hair carefully combed, his shirt immaculate. He made her uneasy though. She didn’t . . . what was it? She didn’t trust him? Her own son? He was peeling his apple, oh so precisely, with a small knife, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt. There was something going on behind that charming smile; Frances didn’t know what. Why was Louisa so furious with him? What had he done this time? Was it the old problem again? Or was it he and Miranda, up to mischief?
Miranda – Frances sighed. Miranda was being particularly vile at the moment, and she didn’t know what to do. She never knew what to do with her.
She had been such a cross baby. She was thin and fed badly, a tiny, hairy thing, feet turned outwards, like a little monkey, her expression always stormy, and from the moment she could walk her posture was almost comical in its teenager-gait: defensive, shoulders hunched, eyes glaring and, years later, she had barely changed at all. The funny thing was that Frances, with her painter’s eye, could see that Miranda had an idiosyncratic kind of beauty all her own. She was gamine, boyish, her eyes were startlingly intense and her dark, beautiful skin glowed. When she laughed her face lit up, but she seldom did, except with her twin Archie.
Since Miranda had got back from her final term at school she’d been even worse than usual, Frances thought. She had no plans, unlike Archie who was staying on at school for an extra term to take his Oxbridge exams. Miranda was trying to drag him down, Frances knew it. She had taken A-levels, but wasn’t expected to make any mark on them. She was always saying how much she loved clothes, and fabrics – Frances was sure it was true, but to what end? That wasn’t a job. The one thing Miranda had expressed any interest in, only the day befo
re, was a finishing school in Switzerland. Should they send her off again, pay some elite establishment to round off her rough edges a bit? She could certainly benefit from it, but Frances loathed the idea, it was so . . . oh, just ghastly. So suburban!
Frances knew her mind wasn’t fully on the twins and it should be. When the show was over, then she’d have more time to think, be a better mother, think about what to do with them both. Soon.
Her eyes drifted round the room, to where her niece and nephew sat at the other end of the table. She stared at them, helplessly; it was unsettling to her, how much they looked like her, like her sister, like their parents. Her own children were Arvind’s children – dark, intense, complicated – and they were moody. Arvind wasn’t moody, neither was she, where did they get it from? Cecily aside, she often thought she could see nothing of herself in her children. But Louisa and Jeremy were blooming, hearty, firm and lithe, like adverts on the side of packets of Force cereal.
Her head buzzing, Frances looked at her watch; it was after nine-thirty. She got up. ‘I’m going up to the studio.’ She looked at Miranda. ‘Darling, can you make sure the table’s cleared?’
‘Oh, why me?’ Miranda sank down into her chair, scowling. ‘I was going to go to the beach.’
‘Because it’s your turn. And besides, the others are going into Penzance,’ Frances said, trying not to scream. But giving two reasons with Miranda was always a mistake. ‘Get Archie to give you a hand.’
‘Why can’t Louisa?’
‘As I said, Louisa is going into Penzance.’ A great weariness swept over her. ‘Oh, my God. I don’t care,’ Frances said crossly, turning away from the table. ‘Tell Mary to save me some chicken salad for lunch.’
‘Do you want someone to bring you up a tray?’ Louisa said, collecting up the plates and putting them on the sideboard. Frances turned to her gratefully. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That would be lovely. Come on, Cecily.’ She looked at her youngest. ‘Off we go.’
Love Always Page 11