And Louisa is always hanging round pretending she’s busy & being all bossy trying to organise things whereas in fact I know she just wants BH to go for a walk with her. Is that what being in love is like? Hanging around for someone? Seems rubbish to me.
Dad answers questions, but he never asks them. He is like a piece on a backgammon board: he will be moved around by you, but according to his own rules. He comes for meals & then goes back to his study, & I used to think what a fraud it is, that he is a philosopher who writes about people, & yet he must exchange less than 10 words to the 9 other people in the house.
I have been noticing things since I started writing this diary, one of them is that I don’t mention Dad much. I don’t talk to him. He’s just there. Today after breakfast I asked if we could play backgammon again. He said ‘Yes, with pleasure, Cecily.’
When Mummy said, ‘But you’re sitting for me this morning,’ I said, ‘Please Mummy, just for today,’ & she looked at Dad & at me & she said, ‘Oh, all right then.’
I like Dad’s study but I never go in there. It is filled with books as you would expect, but it is not too much like a library, there are lots of blue Pelicans & books on Indian art & paintings in there, & a low, comfortable chair for me to sit in. It smells nice too, Dad told me it is sandalwood, & he gets it when he’s in London, because the smell helps him to work.
He won best of 3 & then I noticed the piles of paper at the side of the board for the first time, & the old typewriter, which Mrs Randall uses when she comes to type things up for him, & I wonder (because I’ve been away for two months at school) how long it’s been since Mrs Randall came here so I asked him how the new book was about, which I never have before.
I’m so curious about what he’s been working on all these years but I know this question really really annoys writers. So I tried to think of a subtle way to ask but I couldn’t.
Me: So what’s the next book about?
Dad: Do you know the story of the Koh-i-Noor diamond?
Me: (pleased as never know answers to questions like this normally) Yes, it’s the one in the Queen’s crown.
Dad: (smiles to himself) Not quite. The Empress of India’s crown. Now the Queen Mother’s crown. It is not the largest, nor the most beautiful diamond in the world, but it is the most famous.
Me: (anxious to prove have some knowledge): Yes, we learned about it at school, when we did the Great Exhibition in 1851. It was presented to the British by the Indians & I saw it when we went to the Tower of London last year.
‘“Presented to the British”,’ Dad smiles. ‘Very interesting. Do you know what Koh-i-Noor means?’
It is v hot in Dad’s study. I remember that even in winter & today in the heat it was baking.
Me: No.
Dad: It is called “The Mountain of Light”.
Me (slightly dim): That’s what your book’s called! So you’re writing about the diamond?
Dad wags his head, 1/2 nodding, half disagreeing: You know the man who gave it away to the British? He was called Duleep Singh. The British brought him to England. He was only 6, a little boy. Maharaja. Maharajah. He never went back to the Punjab. He had given away their greatest treasure. When 2 of his daughters returned to Lahore, the Twenties, I remember it, people were fascinated. They were the daughters of the last King of the Punjab, the crowds went wild. But they couldn’t talk to them. The girls had never learned to speak Punjabi.
Me: That is sad.
Dad: Not really. You are my daughter, you can’t speak Punjabi.
Me (looking to see if he’s upset about it but I don’t think he is, I don’t know): No I can’t.
Dad: The diamond is in the Tower of London. You can go whenever you want. So perhaps it is best left where it is, where many people can see it.
Me: But it belonged to the Maharajah. It should be back in India, shouldn’t it?
Dad: Maharajah Duleep Singh was from Lahore. It’s not part of India any more.
There’s a bit of a silence.
Me: Will you go back? You never have, have you? Dad shakes his head & looks down: No. It is a very different place.
Me: But you could now.
Dad: Maybe I will.
Me: Can I come with you?
Dad nods and smiles. Would you like to?
Me: Yes please!
Dad shakes my hand: Well, we will shake on it. This is our pact. When you are grown up, we will go together. I will show you my school, the bazaars, the Shalimar Gardens, Lahore Fort, built by the great Akbar. It is a very beautiful city, Lahore.
I feel sad then, that Dad has lived most of his life in another country. It’s a part of me, and I don’t know it.
Me: Do you miss it?
D: I miss my father, & my brothers. But they’re dead.
Me: How did they die?
D: They were killed, after Partition. Many, many people died then. It was a terrible time.
Me: Who killed them?
Dad is silent, then he says: Ignorant men. They slit their throats. While my brothers slept. They killed my father when he tried to run away, in the night.
I’ve been trying to remember everything as accurately as possible as he said it, because I don’t know any of this and I’d like to record it properly. But all I remember really clearly is his face as he said this. Awful. I just stared at him.
Me: I never knew that. Honestly?
Dad smiles: Honestly. My cousin wrote to me of it.
I was in London, in Spring. You were a few months old. I saw the letter . . . very old it was, battered & the address was faint, the ink had run . . . And I knew. I had been reading the papers, I had tried to get messages to them, to telephone the old school, the Post Office where Govind (think that’s how he said it) worked . . . then that letter came. I remember walking to the door. It was on the wooden floor. Staring up at me. I knew what was in it. I knew they had been killed. My cousin wrote about the many trains pulling into Lahore Station. Filled with bodies. Hundreds, thousands of them, slaughtered on the way up. Blood dripping onto the tracks. The smell of it, in the heat.
Diary it was so awful just hearing his voice, monotone, saying these terrible things, in this warm, quiet room with green outside the window, blue sea in the distance.
Me: It must seem a very long way away.
Dad looks round the study, out of the window: It’s a very long way away. I do not know if I could even go back to Lahore, now. But we could certainly go to the Punjab in India. To Amritsar, the Holy City of the Sikhs, & the Golden Temple. Would you like that?
Me: Yes, I’d love that. When shall we go?
Dad: When you leave school, my little child. We will go then.
We talked for a long time. I looked down & saw the Times on Dad’s desk. Odd to think they started the summing up in the Stephen Ward trial today. It seems so silly, so gossipy & . . . tawdry. When I looked at my watch it was one-thirty, & no one had rung the bell for lunch.
‘Alas, you cannot hear the bell in here,’ Dad said, which I thought was pretty funny. That’s why he’s always late.
In the afternoon the others were playing tennis and going for a swim but I went for a walk along the coast by myself. I felt all sort of churned up, at what Dad said, about his brothers, my uncles, how they died. That is a part of me, & I know nothing about it. It seems we never discuss it, not because it is something bad, but because we are so complete in our world here, I always thought.
We have a lovely house, we have money, we have Mummy & Dad, the sea & the knowledge that we are well-off & intellectually satisfied with our lot.
We have made our own way of life, the Kapoors. As I walked along the cliffs, with the wind blowing my hair so it turned into little fluffy knots, I wondered then, WHY? Why does it feel like there is something missing, something wrong. There’s Dad, in his study, so remote he can’t hear the bell for lunch, and there’s Mummy, in her studio, for hours on end. I don’t think either of them looks out of the window. They don’t go for walks on the be
ach or swim in the sea.
Later.
In the evening Mummy went to bed early with a headache, & Louisa helped Mary, she made chicken mousse, with salad & greengage tart & clotted cream for pudding. It was delicious. Dear Louisa looked really pleased, we were all begging for more, & even Miranda said, involuntarily, ‘This is absolutely gorgeous, Louisa, thanks a lot.’
Doesn’t sound much but gosh dear Diary, that is a lot coming from her at the moment. They smiled at each other & suddenly everything seemed a bit less . . . I don’t know, again. I wish I wasn’t so stupid & could find the words to describe it. But it’s beyond me, obviously. Goodnight DD, I am finding you so helpful.
Love always, Cecily
* * *
Wednesday, 31st July 1963
After our long conversation, I dreamt I was with Dad, only he was a young man, in Lahore. We were walking through a bazaar together & it was very hot. I could smell sandalwood, incense, rich beautiful perfumes, & we were pushing red, pink, burgundy silk rugs & carpets out of the way as we walked. Then I woke up, & it is funny, for the first time I can remember I was disappointed to be here, in Summercove. Normally it is the place I long to be at most, my home, I dream about it when I’m at school endlessly, & when I wake up & I’m in my horrible dorm smelling of damp & Margaret snoring, I could cry. Like when you wake up thinking it’s the weekend & then realise it’s only Tuesday.
Today, me, Guy & Louisa went with Mummy to St Ives to see her dealer. She tried to get the others to come along, & they were being too lazy & wouldn’t go. Bowler Hat was going to come, but he was very irritating, Uhming and Aahing about whether to, & in the end he dropped out. He wanted to sunbathe, which I suppose if I am being charitable is fair enough, it was boiling hot, but why does he have to take an hour to decide?
We were late to leave because something funny happened. Mummy was holding the door open for us as we scooted in, like an air hostess, & when the Bowler Hat finally made up his mind at the last minute not to come (I think he saw how cramped the car would be), she sort of swiped at him, like Scarlett O’Hara, only she stumbled a bit on the gravel (drive v uneven) & it was awful, she trod on his foot with her little heel. Nearly gave him a stigmata, Archie said. (Archie found the whole episode hilarious – but he loves pain & suffering, he is a fairly Base Person). He was hopping around in agony, & we had to give him a bandage. Mummy was so mortified, it was quite funny to see her embarrassed, normally she never loses her cool, ever.
She drove like a lunatic to St Ives, I think it shook her up. But Louisa was wonderful, talking to her nicely about her show, though it only seemed to make Mummy crosser, somehow, oh ARTISTS. I talked to Guy, which is, DD, becoming one of my favourite things about this holiday. I feel like I could talk to him all day & night & never run out of things to say. I told him about my chat with Daddy yesterday, about going to India, about the Koh-iNoor diamond.
Guy said: I saw it at prep school. We came up on a charabanc, we went to the Tower. I wore some chain mail. It was v exciting. When you’re next up in town, we should go together & have a look at it if you’d like.
People are stupid sometimes. I said: Guy, I’m at school. In Devon. I don’t go up to town, ever.
He looked embarrassed as if he hadn’t really thought about it properly: Oh. Maybe in the holidays.
Me: Yes, that’d be lovely . . .
Actually I don’t ever go off to London in the holidays, unless we all go to visit Aunt Pamela. But I felt I can be honest with Guy. So I said, ‘Really Guy if I were to go out by myself in London, I should want to go to Soho, to sit in a bar & drink Café Cremes (or is that a cigarette? Can’t remember), not amble around with hundreds of tourists looking at the Crown Jewels.’
Guy started to laugh, & he laughed so hard Louisa & Mummy asked what we were talking about. He held my hand up, like boxers do in the papers when they’ve won, & he squeezed it. ‘You win again,’ he said, & he kissed my hand, & then nudged me.
I sometimes think with Guy that It’s a bit of a bunfight, getting into the town, now more & more people have cars. There’s a queue everywhere. It was annoying, & Mummy still had the roof down & we were in all the back streets & people were staring at us & I didn’t like it. Stupid red-faced day trippers with ices, staring at us, because of the big cream car & because Mummy looks like someone famous with her headscarf and big dark glasses. Suppose she is famous. But I felt like Little Lord Fauntleroy.
Mummy’s dealer at her gallery is French, with a funny name – Didier & he is very nice. However his father was there too, a famous dealer from London who runs the gallery where Mummy’s show will be. He is called Louis de something, & he was far too over the top, he kissed Mummy’s hand too. He spoke to her in a very funny way. ‘Dear Madam,’ he called her. ‘Dearest lady, you who shine brighter than any other.’ Etc etc.
On the way back we stopped for petrol & heard on the radio that Stephen Ward has taken an overdose this morning. The judge began summing up the trial yesterday. He is in a coma. I feel sorry for him. But some of the things . . . ! Archie whispers ‘Vickie Barrett’, whenever I go into a room, as she is the girl who said there were whips & chains & contraceptives lying around Stephen Ward’s flat. Don’t believe it but it’s most alarming to think of.
Dear Diary, we had a lovely evening when we got back, quiche Lorraine & salad & ratatouille except that Miranda flirted with Bowler Hat all evening, and it was pathetic. Why it was pathetic is because Miranda just gets hysterical, not sophisticated, and says racy things to him. It’s not impressive, it’s embarrassing, like Judith Fairfax at school who no one talks to & when you do she gets all silly and overexcited and starts being embarrassing and childish. Even the BH was looking a bit perturbed. Louisa couldn’t really do anything. Louisa is sort of diminished this holiday. I used to want to be her so much. She was so strong & Hail Fellow Well Met-ish, the blonde, beautiful, friendly Head Girl.
Now she’s just . . . hopeful. Smiling brightly, wearing a nice expression in case BH turns to notice her. Dear God, I really don’t like him. Perhaps I should try & have a word with Miranda . . . She is downstairs still, outside, I can hear her laughing with someone.
She is coming. I will put the diary away now.
* * *
Thursday, 1st August 1963
Yes, I did have a terrible row with Miranda. I wish I hadn’t. Oh God, DD, I wish I hadn’t. I accused her of terrible things and she did too, she was horrible. I shouldn’t have started it, but she is so mad at the moment. Esp now she has found her Beauty.
She came in last night after I put the book away & she smelt of cigarettes. I will try & write it down briefly.
Me: Were you out with BH?
Her: MYOB.
Me: You’re hurting Louisa you know.
Her: Shut up.
She hit me on the cheek. I knelt up on bed & hit her back. I caught her by the hair & scratched her, I enjoyed it. I really did. It’s awful. I could feel a bloodlust in me. It was strange. I felt my fingers digging into her scalp, she did the same to me. Then she let go. She said: I’m not doing anything wrong.
Me: Yes you are.
Her: Cecily, you are a child, you know nothing what so ever & I wish you’d keep out of it. One day you’ll realise. You are a little girl. A hairy, ugly, silly little girl.
I wanted to hurt her too – the scratch on my cheek was throbbing a lot. I said, ‘At least I’ve got a brain and a future. & people like me. Mummy & Dad like me more than you. Everyone does. Apart from the Bowler Hat, because you’re letting him finger you.’
(Fingering is sort of the worst thing I’ve heard someone let a boy do to them at school apart from intercourse, by the way.)
But as I was saying it it felt stupid. And now the words are out there & you can’t take them back once they’ve been said.
Miranda said, ‘Tell me something I don’t know.’ And then she got into bed, didn’t wash her face or take her clothes off. Just got into bed & turned her light off.
&nb
sp; They found Stephen Ward guilty. But he is still in a coma, & he has no idea. Archie was pouring over it at breakfast, & I was trying to read over his shoulder, instead of The Lady, which is awfully dull. It has adverts in it like ‘Are you fond of Old People? Would you like to take an active part in their care?’ or ‘A Doctor Explains How it is possible to grow an entirely Fresh New Skin’. No no no & no.
Miranda went out early this morning with Archie & I didn’t see them all day. I felt bad. I tried to explain to Mum in our sitting, how nasty I’d been (not all of it obviously). But she was annoying. She didn’t really listen. I wanted her to tell me I’d been horrible and wrong & should say sorry. But she just sat there, painting away, the only sounds the slap of the wet paint on the canvas, scratching sounds as she blends it in, the sizzle as she draws in the smoke from her cigarette. I can only see the side of her head and shoulder. Oh Mum, be a mum, sometimes, please. Don’t be the person Miranda says you are, who tries on our clothes and hates us for our youth. It’s not true.
I apologised to Miranda that evening. She was asleep when I came in, I was sitting up late with Guy & Jeremy outside, it’s been so hot. I said:
‘I’m sorry I was so horrible & I didn’t mean any of it, I just think sometimes we don’t see things the same way.’
She pretended to be asleep again. But I think she heard me.
* * *
Friday, 2nd August 1963
This morning seems such a long way away, it is so strange, so much has happened. Firstly, Miranda & I are pretending to speak to each other again, we were civil at breakfast, it was fine. I passed her the marmalade, she offered me the butter. I smiled. She sort of did.
Love Always Page 34