by Diana Athill
MIDSUMMER NIGHT IN THE
WORKHOUSE
by
DIANA ATHILL
with a new preface by
THE AUTHOR
Copyright © 2011 Diana Athill
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LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION
Athill, Diana
Midsummer night in the workhouse / Diana Athill.
Short stories.
eISBN 978-1-77089-064-0
I. Title.
PR6051.T43M54 2011 823'.914 C2011-903976-1
Library of Congress Control Number: 2011929923
Cover design: Alysia Shewchuk
Cover art: V&A Images
We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund.
PREFACE
I can remember in detail being hit by my first story one January morning in 1958. Until that moment I had been hand-maiden, as editor, to other people’s writing, without ever dreaming of myself as a writer. Then, at nine o’clock one sunny morning, I was taking my Pekinese across the Outer Circle of Regent’s Park when a car pulled up and its driver beckoned. I thought he was going to ask the way somewhere, but what he said was: ‘I am Mustafa Ali from Istanbul – will you come and have coffee with me?’ At nine in the morning – what an optimist! I thought as I went on my way, laughing; and how odd that someone who looked so very like a man I’d once known, a diamond merchant from Cape Town called Marcel, should behave in such a Marcellish way. And I began to remember Marcel.
All through that day Marcel kept popping up in my head, and with him came an oddly gleeful sensation of energy. When I got home from the office I thought: ‘I know what – I’m going to write a story about him,’ and down I sat at my typewriter. Soon, however, it became obvious that a story about Marcel would be have to be set in the diamond trade, about which I knew too little, so that idea was no good . . . but the energy sensation was still strongly there. And then, suddenly, another man from the past loomed up, and I knew for certain that he was the one, and that I was going to get him down exactly as he was. Which I did, and the story is ‘An Unavoidable Delay’.
As soon as that story was finished, another one began, and by the end of the year I had written nine. I did not think about them in advance: a feeling would brew up, a first sentence would occur to me, and then the story would come, as though it had been there all the time. Sometimes it would turn into ‘work’ halfway through and I would have to cast about for the conclusion to which the story must be brought, but more often it finished itself. Some of them connected very closely with my own experience, some of them, to my astonishment, depended on it so slightly that they might almost have been ‘invented’ (the ‘invented’ ones were the ones of which I felt most proud, but, with one exception, the others were better).
Although the first story, ‘An Unavoidable Delay’, was excit- ing to write, it was not to be my thunder-clap one. That role was to be played by the third of the nine I wrote in quick succession before coming to the end of them. At the start of 1958, the Observer announced a prize to be given for a story called ‘The Return’, 3000 words long. My third story was to be called something else, but ‘The Return’ would fit it fairly well. It was a hundred words too long, but one of the things editing had taught me is that you can always cut, so chop-chop, change the title, and off it went under the required pseudonym for which I chose ‘Mister What’, having just won a fiver on a horse of that name in the Grand National. That story won First Prize.
This would have been stunning however it had happened, and was made almost unbearably blissful by the fact that in the eight months between submitting it and hearing the news I had forgotten all about it, and that when the prize (£500, big money in those days) was handed over, they told me there had been 2000 entries.
You do not look up because you know that you cannot climb the tree. You have forgotten, by now, that there is fruit hidden among its leaves. Then, suddenly, without a puff of wind, a great velvety peach falls plump into your hand. It happens to other people, perhaps; it never happens to oneself . . . I am still licking peach juice off my fingers. . . . Bury me, dear friends, with a copy of the Observer folded under my head, for it was the Observer’s prize that woke me up to the fact that I could write and had become happy.
In André Deutsch Ltd, our publishing firm, the belief that short stories by unknown writers were publishing poison was so deeply entrenched that I never thought of offering my stories to a British publisher. Some of them did get into magazines, and into an anthology, but the best thing that happened to them was that a dear man called Ken, a director of Doubleday’s in New York whose surname has been lost through a hole in my geriatric head, fell in love with them. I assumed that his colleagues allowed Ken a folly every now and then, and that publishing my stories was one of them: certainly they never earned their very modest advance. They caused no stir (even that prize seemed to be noticed by very few people apart from my friends) so seeing them here, charmingly presented by Persephone, amazes as much as it delights me.
Do they deserve this honour? Reading them now I enjoy them, but that may well be because they recall the special flavour of the thrill you experience when first you make things happen with words on paper: the discovery that I could write changed my life for the better in a very profound way, so they mean a great deal to me. How I hope they will give pleasure to those who meet them for the first time in their new and elegant dress.
Diana Athill
Highgate, 2010
THE REAL THING
I went to the dance with Thomas Toofat. It’s Toogood really, but he is too fat, with frizzy hair and flat feet. We never meant to let him know we call him that, but the week before, at the Turners’ picnic, Sally said without thinking, ‘And this is Thomas Toofat. . . .’ Oh, it was utterly withering.
On the night of the dance, no sooner had he come than he said might he go upstairs to wash his hands – he would. My father is always talking about putting in a lavatory down- stairs and I shall die if he doesn’t – we’re the only people without one – but I’m sure he never will. Sally and Richard had arrived first and we were standing about in the drawing- room, and I began to wish it wasn’t happening, it was such a let-down after the bliss of getting dressed. But when old Toofat came back into the room it got better again because he looked better than usual in his dinner jacket (his own, not his father’s). And at least he is old enough to drive a car.
Although Sally and Richard are brother and sister they like dancing together. They are so good, now, from practising, that they despise dancing with other people and that’s why Toofat was mostly mine that evening. I had never been to a dance with a man in a dinner jacket. Nine till two, it was, and my latest until then had been eight till t
welve.
‘Come on children,’ said my mother. ‘We must start dinner if you don’t want to be late.’
She had put candles on the dining-room table, and the little silver dishes for chocolates afterwards, but when I had asked if we could have sherry first she had just laughed. It was utterly mortifying. Toofat’s only been at Cambridge for two terms, but he must have thought it positively nursery to be offered no drink at all.
‘You look very smashing,’ said my father. ‘Sally and Lucinda will be the belles of the ball.’ He doesn’t usually speak in a hearty voice but he seemed to think he ought to then. There’s nothing more withering than dinner with grown-ups before a dance, I couldn’t look at them and I couldn’t look at Toofat or Richard either. Sally was wonderful, she talked to my parents about a million things, and Richard talked to my father about sailing and Toofat held forth about being at Cambridge – he’s very pompous since he’s been there even though he is only a medical student and Sally and I have decided that they don’t count as proper undergraduates.
It was easy for the others to behave normally, it wasn’t their parents – I’m quite good with Sally’s, come to that. But if I talk naturally to my friends in front of my mother and father it doesn’t sound natural to my mother and father. ‘No one likes an affected girl,’ my mother said the other day (‘affected’ is her worst word) – and I hadn’t been, I’d only forgotten for a minute that she was there and told someone I’d rather die than read Proust in translation (and I would, too. I know I got stuck in the first volume, but after I have been to France I shall be able to do it).
Anyway, dinner was hateful but I had known it would be. I just sat and felt my skirt round my legs and my hair on my bare shoulders, and waited for the dance. The truth is I wouldn’t mind going to a dance with a baboon. Once the lights and music and dancing begin it’s so fabulous that you don’t need anything extra, though now I rather think I shall when I fall in love.
They made us go in our car because Toofat’s looks fast though it isn’t really, it would fall to pieces if it went over sixty. And there was a lot of fuss about ‘Drive carefully’ and ‘Don’t be too late’, but we got away at last and Sally and Richard and I started singing in close harmony like we do. If I hadn’t known them so well and if the other man hadn’t been Toofat it would have been like doing something that other people do, and perhaps as we drove through villages the people who saw us thought we were other people: just a flash of black and white they’d have seen of the boys, and Sally and me with our chiffon stoles over our heads and the roses my father had cut for us pinned to our shoulder straps (because we’d taken off our coats once we were out of sight). By the time we got there I was beginning to feel it myself.
A long time ago, when I was twelve, I heard my mother and Aunt Molly saying how glad they were that they had got out of going to some dance. At that time I only thought it was a bit odd but now I think it was the most tragic thing I ever heard, because if you’re so old that you don’t even want to dance I can’t see that you can want to do anything; and if you don’t want to do anything you might as well be dead. I told Sally about it while we were putting on lipstick (her mother won’t let her use it so I agreed not to use mine either until we got there, so that she wouldn’t feel silly at dinner. Mine lets me, for parties). We agreed that we would pray to God to let us die before we got as old as that.
Toofat just shuffles from side to side and turns at the corners, but in spite of his flat feet he has a good sense of rhythm – it’s not exciting to dance with him but it’s not withering – and when we had been twice round the floor he said in his patronising voice, ‘You dance very well.’ Luckily he’s taller than I am. It was easy to look down and hide the fact that I blushed, which of course I did at once. I wasn’t blushing because I’d had a compliment. I was doing it because as soon as I have a compliment I think quickly, ‘I mustn’t blush,’ and that makes me. I have always thought that I shall die if I don’t grow out of it soon, but later that evening something happened which changed things.
There were plenty of people there who Sally and Richard knew, and Toofat as well, of course, because he gets asked to lots of parties, being a spare man. I knew them too, in a way, but they hadn’t got round to thinking of me as someone to meet at a grown-up dance. When we began to mix in with them I could feel sometimes that boys asked me to dance because they felt they had to. They did ask me, though, and I didn’t mind much who they were or what they were thinking so long as they danced well, which some of them did. I was in a sort of dream, almost, because it was so beautiful. I danced several times with Toofat, and twice with Richard, and about five times with other people, and then I somehow got attached to the party which the Morgans had brought and somebody introduced me to this extraordinary man.
I didn’t hear his name. He was quite old and he came from London. It wasn’t so much that he was good-looking, but he had light grey eyes with very black lashes and his nose was thin and crooked so that he looked witty – I thought the minute I saw him that he was probably the most intelligent person there besides me, but because he was so much older I couldn’t see how to show him that I was intelligent too. When we began dancing he said: ‘Do you like to talk when you dance, or do you prefer to keep it for afterwards?’ which was a great relief. Of course I said afterwards. We had a fabulous dance – one of those when my feet can do all kinds of things I didn’t know they knew: a floating dance. Afterwards he got me an ice and we sat on a sofa and he said: ‘Now. Do you prefer to be flattered, or amused, or disconcerted?’
I was disconcerted, of course, but I didn’t show it. What I said – and I still think it was very good – was: ‘What I really like best is to be enraptured.’
‘That’s a tall order,’ he said. ‘You must give me a clue to what sort of thing enraptures you – traveller’s tales? Poetry? This season’s collections? Visions of eternity?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘not visions of eternity, because as a matter of fact I’m an atheist’ – and I had never told anyone that before, not even Sally, but the way he danced and the way he looked had made me feel very odd.
‘A real, thorough-paced atheist?’ he asked. ‘Not just an agnostic?’
‘I think I’m a real atheist,’ I said.
‘That’s pretty dashing,’ he said, and then I saw that he was laughing at me but to my great surprise I didn’t mind at all.
‘And I’m a Socialist too,’ I told him. ‘It’s not at all easy to be an atheist and a Socialist where I live, everyone else is fabulously conventional.’
‘What are you going to do about it?’ he asked. ‘Have a one- girl revolution?’
So I told him about going to Oxford when I get back from France, and it turned out that he had been there too, ages ago, about five years I think. He said that the smart thing now was to be a Young Conservative and a Catholic, but he was teasing, and then he told me things I would do at Oxford, quite different from the things Miss Montague told me when she was coaching me for the entrance exam, and much more the kind of things I would like. He said I would go to tea with a different man every day of the week and be a nervous wreck at the end of each term, trying to decide which of them to be seduced by.
Now when he said that about being seduced I was not at all shocked – of course I shall be seduced (only that’s a silly word) as soon as I want to be – but the word sort of startled me, in connection with myself, and what did I do but start to blush, a really bad one right to the top of my head. I thought it was going to be the most withering moment in my whole life. But instead of pretending not to notice, which is what most people do, this man said in an ordinary voice: ‘Do yon find that you blush very easily at nothing? I used to do it too and it was utter misery.’
It was an enormous relief to hear him say that, in such a natural way, and I felt better at once. I told him all about what a terrible mortification my blushing is to me.
‘It will stop quite suddenly,’ he said. ‘Mine did.’
‘How old were you when it stopped?’ I asked, being naturally very interested.
‘I suppose I was about nineteen and a half,’ he said.
‘Help!’ I said. ‘That means I’ve still got nearly three more years of it.’ (Which was the silliest thing to say, because I look quite nineteen in that frock and I didn’t want him to know I wasn’t.)
‘But I don’t see why you worry,’ he said.
‘You’ve just said yourself how much you hated it.’
‘Yes, but I was a gawky boy and you’re a very pretty girl. If a girl is very pretty she can carry off anything, even blushing. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that you look enchanting when your face is pink?’
For about one second I didn’t take it in, I truly didn’t, but then it dawned on me that I’d just had the most fabulous compliment of my whole life. Of course my parents some- times say, ‘You look pretty in that colour,’ and people have told me I dance well, and a boy said to me last year that he liked my hair, and I can see for myself that I haven’t got a face like an old boot, but this was different. When I was much younger I used to imagine myself becoming a new person when I grew up – a raving beauty with chestnut-coloured hair – but I realised long ago that people don’t change all that much, and since then I’ve just supposed that I was all right. I never thought that I was very pretty. I was so astounded to hear him say it that I didn’t blush again, in fact I think I may even have gone pale.
‘Did you actually mean that?’ I asked, and he told me he did. Then he said: ‘Bother. There’s my next partner adrift by the door – I must go and do my stuff. We must dance again later,’ and he looked at me and crinkled his eyes and went off to dance with someone beautiful in a black dress. As a matter of fact I think they were in love with each other because I saw them later dancing with their cheeks touching and their eyes shut, and he didn’t ask me again, but after that wonderful conversation I could hardly expect any more.