The Means of Escape was written during the concentrated struggle to perfect The Blue Flower. It is rich enough to have become the vicarage novel that Penelope was perhaps always on the verge of writing. The story is characterised by a black humour. Evil uncomprehended by innocence flickers through it – a stench, a hood, an elected silence. The shameless may escape, the dutiful never.
The Likeness was to have been a novel based on the Ionides family from Burne-Jones. It is now a romantic high comedy, based on misunderstanding. The Axe, Penelope’s first published fiction, from 1975, is both a memorably chilling ghost story in its own right and a brilliant ‘take’ on Melville’s Bartleby the Scrivener. At Hiruharama is an example of the anecdote or tall tale, which evades the narrator as it assumes a moral and pictorial solidity of its own. The Prescription is a violent fable about dishonesty. Not Shown hints at an English murder.
Penelope’s three great last stories were written and published in 1997 and 1998. They are absolutely ambiguous; yet there is an urgency to be understood in them. They seem to be about inspiration at different stages of life: the human cost of joy. Desideratus sees a resourceful boy wrest the coin he has been given from the pallid ghost of his weaker self. He must earn his talent through travail. The Red-Haired Girl, unwilling model to an uncomprehending painter, tells him, before she disappears, what he’s missed in his search for the picturesque: ‘You don’t know what I want and you don’t know what I feel.’ In Beehernz, a famous conductor who has become a hermit to block out the noisy music of the world, hears a young woman sing a folk setting of Goethe’s Gefunden: ‘I went in the woodland/Nothing to find’ but it goes on ‘I saw in the shadow/A stone-flax stay’. Too long a prisoner of his mute keyboard, he has recaptured his visionary sense, symbolised by a blue wayside flower, the linseed.
Though all attempts to describe and define a life are doomed to failure, it is tempting to see Penelope’s as describing a dramatic arc from dazzling early success, a promising career as literary editor, a comfortable, if hubristic, establishment in Hampstead, down to destitution and humiliation, the half-way house for the homeless, and thence ever upwards, by dint of hard work, study and inspiration, until at eighty she was at the peak of her achievement, reputation and earnings, passing for the first time, as she ruefully remarks in the letters, into a higher tax bracket. Her one final ambition was to see in the new Millennium. This also she achieved. Several of the series of letters follow her right up to the days before her first stroke, when she was eighty-three, busier than ever, reviewing for papers on both sides of the Atlantic, judging a prize, preparing a new American edition of The Knox Brothers (a family of which she was by now the most remarkable member) and proof-reading her stories, The Means of Escape, for publication by Flamingo and Houghton Mifflin. She survived a month longer, able to talk a little to her children, until she suffered two further strokes and died on 28 April 2000. She is buried in the churchyard of St Mary’s, Hampstead.
It occurred to me, during my researches for this book, to wonder where she worshipped when, at her lowest point, she lived offshore on Grace. The boat is described in the book as being moored on Battersea Reach; in reality it had been moored at Dakin’s yard, World’s End, but directly opposite St Mary’s Battersea. Inside that lovely eighteenth-century church, the first thing that one sees, among a wonderful collection of modern stained-glass windows, Blake and the grain of sand, Turner, Franklin and the promise of happiness, on the left side of the door is a large and beautiful blue flower.
Terence Dooley
A NOTE ON THE TEXT
Penelope’s handwriting is clear, graceful and original, her own creation. In her youth it was a simplified italic, each letter carefully formed and rarely joined up to the next. Later, the characters connect more often, though never for a complete word; it gives an artistic impression. It is a pleasure to read and transcribe, because there is never any doubt about what she has written.
Her punctuation has been preserved, with its occasional inconsistencies, or survivals from an earlier era (Mrs: for Mrs), its underlinings for emphasis or titles, its capitals for jokes. The ampersands, which looked so well in the blue ink italic, look like so many snails in black print, therefore they are now and. She wrote thankyou as one word, and I have not altered this.
Individual letters haven’t been cut, save in one or two cases where the fun being had at someone’s expense would never have been intended to be read by that person. She sometimes misspelt names; these have been corrected where possible.
I have kept the correspondences separate, in this way the nuances of the different relationships and the tone of voice may be better appreciated. A rough chronology has been followed in both sections. Penelope rarely included the year in her dates, so internal ordering has been more than usually difficult. It is now as accurate as we can get it, relying on family knowledge and internal evidence.
I.
FAMILY AND FRIENDS
Hugh Lee (’Ham’)*
27a Bishop’s Road
London, N6
21 February [c.1990]
Dearest Ham – No-one but you – absolutely no-one – would find any old letters in a suitcase of their father-in-law’s at the bottom of the carcase of an old freezer. You’re someone to whom things happen.
It’s kind of you to suggest that I might write my autobiography but I shan’t do that as I’ve written something about my family already and also about what (in the tedious little talks I sometimes give) I call my work experience – I used to regret that all the letters and photographs we had went down to the bottom of the Thames, but I see now I’m better off without them. The reason is that as my step-mother gets more and more hazy in her nursing-home (but this is a blessing to her, I truly think, because she doesn’t worry as much as she used to do) we’ve brought home all the old papers from her flat and I’m beginning to go through them, and it’s such a sad business, so many forgotten names, so much wasted effort, that I’ve decided I simply mustn’t leave my children to go through what I’ve accumulated, I must give them to the NSPCC who bring a green bag round every week to collect the waste paper.
I don’t know why I’m rambling on like this,
love to you both. – Mops.
I had to change my handwriting because the bank wouldn’t accept my signature
‘PUNCH’
10 Bouverie Street
London, EC4
5 October [1939]
Dear Ham,
I spiritually drank your health the other day by ringing the bell (this is a very well-appointed office) and sending for all the books on ballet from the Art Room and a lettuce sandwich – I read them all through and could now maintain a conversation on the subject with almost anyone – but perhaps as a result of this indulgence I caught ‘flu, and had to take a sinister lightning cold cure which has made me very hazy, and rather the colour of a cream cheese. On the other hand I feel even more sympathetic about your toothache, and about Yorkshire too, I am told the wildernesses literally howl there.
I am waiting in agonies for the reports of Hitler’s speech, as any reference to unknown weapons will hypnotize me with fear. The sub-editor from Lowestoft, who is sitting opposite me, has a permanent flush this morning, and is even glowering.
Putting aside the idea that he has been drinking, I think he has heard something to my discredit, or perhaps suspects me of making advances to him. I have discovered that he is a gadget fiend, and has made a penknife and magnifying glass combined, out of old razor-blades. A magneto would be nothing to him. He is now with angry gestures filling his pipe with tobacco, and I can’t make up my mind whether to warn him that this will make me feel sick – owing to the lightning cold cure – or whether to collapse suddenly on the floor later on, which should teach him a sharp lesson, and prevent his smoking Craven Mixture for some time to come.
In spite of the somewhat ominous news I am in one of my optimistic moods, in which I feel that it will be a short war. Please concentrate on
agreeing with this,
love,
Mops.
16 Avenue Close*
Avenue Road, NW8
13 October [1939]
Dear Ham,
This is another letter which you needn’t read if you don’t care to as it only expresses the fact that I am melancholy and terrified of the celebrated Blitzkrieg. I start at noises in the street, sleep with my head under the bedclothes, and listen to the owls hooting – they really do hoot around this block of flats – with gloomy relish. When I get as depressed as this though, I must get better soon, it’s a law of nature – but the really annoying thing is my fondness for doughnuts. An organisation called the British Doughnut Association has sent us a pamphlet announcing that a representative will call at the office with some samples of the new type of doughnut to get our opinion – now this was 3 days ago, and I suspect that the doughnuts have been intercepted either by the Advertising Department or by the publishers, or by the sub-editor from Lowestoft, who is something of a gross feeder – at all events I have seen nothing of them, and I have an unfortunate tendency to pin my hopes to small things.
I haven’t seen Oliver,** for he has departed to Cambridge, I think on a bicycle. I admire, and always have admired, the way he quarters the countryside. He ought to be a Transport Officer really,
love,
Mops.
16 Avenue Close, NW8
[1939]
My dear Ham,
I hear you are being visited by Mrs Breakwell, which I suppose is a refresher course in itself. She went flying down to Devon on full sail with the bomb bags trailing after her. I should very much like a list of the objects these bags contain.
Here is a photo of Oliver, Mrs B., Kate and me entertaining the famous French soldiers at an al fresco meal in Hyde Park. They ate cakes and drank lemonade which one of them declared, with a forced smile, was the champagne of England.
Oliver has become very wild and spends his time disappearing in a cloud of dust on his motor-bicycle and reappearing with a headache next day after an evening at The Nuthouse. The Nuthouse is a night-club, and I should say what the Daily Mirror calls a haunt. You frequent haunts, and Oliver accordingly frequents the Nuthouse.
The mulberry tree at the back of the flats has suddenly produced a large crop of fruits which, though you live in the country and don’t realise it, is a very pleasant surprise in London, so we have made quantities of jam and jelly.
On second thoughts this seems a remarkably dull bit of news, so perhaps if I have sunk to this level I had better stop.
There seem to be rather too many bombers over your part of the island, so you might learn to dodge,
love,
Mops.
‘PUNCH’
10 Bouverie Street
London, EC4
30 October [1939]
My dear Ham,
I don’t know if you are still in Yorkshire. I can’t believe that you are, everybody seems to be so mobile nowadays, and to flash to and fro past or through the metropolis leaving me glued to my desk. There is something to be said for remaining static, however, for it gives one an illusion of being nailed to the mast, or steadfast at the post. A message has just come through from the censor forbidding us to mention the state of the weather in any part of the country – the proprietor apparently takes this seriously and has qualms about the only too familiar snow scene which is appearing on the cover of the Christmas number. – The sub-editor from Lowestoft has lost a good deal of his timidity since he came into the office during a thunderstorm (did you have one in Yorkshire, presuming that you are in Yorkshire?) and found me crouching under the desk among the back numbers. Further, he actually came to dinner and made several independent, though not original remarks, until he was silenced by a large cigar which my father gave him. Though he draws a considerable salary he only has bread and cheese for lunch, and lives in Fleet Street to save tube fares – what can he be saving up for? I believe he is a Gauguin at heart and yearns for the South Seas, but isn’t quite abandoned enough to go there until he has got enough for a return ticket.
I have no news at all, for I haven’t seen Oliver and I missed Janet* on her last leave, though I believe she is going to abandon the Air Force if she can. I have a practicable idea however, which is to exchange the Magna Carta for all these aeroplanes instead of paying cash. It’s at New York anyway, and the Americans seem to be fonder of it than we are,
love,
Mops.
Punch Office
10 Bouverie Street
27 November 1939
My dear Ham,
I can’t bear to think of you being so uncomfortable. You ought to curl up on silk cushions like a cat and exist against a luxurious background. The only thing I can say from my brother’s experience in camp, is that it gets better – that is, the discomfort – not worse, but I suppose this is due to a gradual dulling of the faculties, known as merciful oblivion. As everything is so horrid, I can think of nothing consoling to say, except that I am glad you are not in the Navy, and being sunk every day. Sean and Oliver and I were at the ballet the other night and very much regretted your absence, especially when the Lac des Cygnes was danced in a highly kitchy manner with clouds of dust and reverberating thuds.
Lowestoft sits opposite, basking in the warmth and sucking his pipe. I am getting very fond of him as we have a kind of tacit arrangement by which I hold him responsible for the bad news in the paper every morning, and he leads me to look on the brighter side of things. ‘It is no good’ he says ‘being pessimistic.’ With that, and a piece of chocolate, I am able to face the morning.
Please forgive this odious piece of paper. I love apologising for the quality of the paper and ink when writing a letter, as it is so perfectly pointless.
love,
Mops.
‘PUNCH’
10 Bouverie Street
London, EC4
1 January 1940
My dear Ham,
Happy new year (the Sergeant Major here actually says ‘the compliments of the season’, but I never met anyone else who did). I think the gramophone records are wonderful, I didn’t know either of them before, due to my ignorance, but I took to them like a duck to water and play them all day, and even try to sing them in the bath, which is disastrous of course, and it was better when I stuck to ‘Run, rabbit, run’ with my own variations; only I do love the records and it is now one of my premier ambitions to go to hear Otello in the flesh.
I went to an alarming dinner party at the Hoods the other night. For want of other conversation I told Mrs H. (quite accurately) that I couldn’t abide bulldogs, and insulted the horrid but apparently precious specimen which she keeps. Now she is stalking up and down and saying that intelligence is all very well but other things are more important. I was terrified of Sinclair too. He looks so dry I want to wash him; but this may be my feline instincts coming to the top. Oliver was kind and covered up my social errors as well as he could. Jean is up in London today and we are all going to the Toy Symphony with Kenneth Clark conducting.
I gather a lot of rum was issued to the troops at Christmas, so I hope that if you didn’t get leave you at least passed the time in a vaguely pleasurable daze. I was at Oundle, where I had to appear in a charade as a British slave dressed in a bathing suit and Mrs Fisher’s fur coat, which, it seems, disgusted and appalled the audience. I am back at the office now and have made the room so hot, by the simple process of shutting all the windows, that Mallet has fallen fast asleep,
love, Mops.
Ministry of Food
Great Westminster House
Horseferry Road
London, sw1
11 June 1940
My dear Ham,
Thankyou very much for writing – I wish I could have come down last Sunday but I had to stay here and draft a message for the Minister to send to the National Association of Bee-Keepers – and though I have applied all the brains and training I have to the question I am unable to thin
k of anything, though I am very fond of honey in the comb. I’ve got a new straw hat, such a one, with red roses, which seems vaguely connected with the subject somehow.
My ideas of Officers’ Messes are based on lurid films and novels by P. C. Wren which I read under the bedclothes at school. They include quarrels of honour, with cards and glasses all over the floor, and horses jumping on, and off, the table, and also jackboots and being roasted alive by Roundheads. I do hope you are enjoying yourself. I suppose, however good and broadminded you are, there is some satisfaction in being an officer and superior by profession to so many people. Have you a comic batman, I wonder?
You will be pleased to hear that I haven’t been to any films at all lately as I have a vague feeling that it is wicked, and I expect I shall gradually lose the habit and be able to despise films as you do, though I suppose not with the same fine scornful profile.
Rawle* is coming up to London on Saturday to get made into an officer – then we shall have to go through this saluting trouble all over again – but I believe I am a 2nd lieutenant now too as we have our own tasteless rifle corps to defend the Ministry against assaults and I seem to be embodied in it,
much love,
Mops.
Ministry of Food
Great Westminster House
Horseferry Road
London, sw1
29 June [1940]
My dear Ham,
So I Have Thought of You Page 5