A Notable Woman

by Jean Lucey Pratt

  Last day of the old year … An undisciplined, lumber-filled mind is a great, exhausting strain. I never have any real rest. Lying in bed with all the morning before me free, walking the country, sitting in the pure golden light of the winter sun – wanting to relax and think of nothing – I can never, never do it. Am followed every waking moment by a zooming swarm of thoughts, a swarm for each subject, all hived away somewhere in my mind, and as soon as I am still and with nothing else to keep them back, out they come like hosts of flies on a summer’s day.

  Sunday, 13 January 1946

  Life full and interesting, lacking only some one particular person to share it with.

  I phoned T.H. this morning when I was in Hampstead, as I promised to do. His eagerness to see me again appears to be very genuine and is excessively flattering. It is largely I know that he wants to hear all the latest HDA news. I must beware, beware, beware.

  32.

  Of Course He Stayed

  Thursday, 24 January 1946 (aged thirty-six)

  M. in Slough again today. I sit now near a partition which divides our offices from the main office corridor – and I heard his voice late this evening. A few minutes afterwards in comes D.H. red in the face and all secret dimples. I know that expression. I know what she was feeling. He had said something extremely flattering, highly provocative. She is only 18, very pretty and just spoiling for experience. A very succulent young virgin. I could have knifed him.

  Sunday, 11 February

  Only two more weeks at HDA now. Yorkie yesterday pronounced it a ‘sinking ship’ and maliciously I hope it is, because then one feels one is losing nothing by leaving it, just one of the rats.

  It was real delight to be with Tommie again. He was so insistent on my making a date as soon as I could that I suspected some ulterior motive – to borrow money or something. But it seemed that he really did want to see me again for myself alone! He evidently feels quite emotionally ‘safe’ with me now. We had a terrific conversational evening. I took him to see Joan and he talked communism solidly for over two hours – besides hearing all I had to tell him of HDA and discussing at length my future plans. ‘It’s a cure for sore eyes to see you again!’ he said and noticed at once my hair was shorter, liked it, said I was looking well and two years younger – Dear Thomas! It seems that what we wanted yesterday we get today when we have ceased to want it. When I know them well and am not ‘in love’ with them I get on with men extremely well. In fact I think there is much to be said for women like me marrying someone they are not in love with.

  I may not have done much work at HDA that has shown solid, satisfactory results – but I leave it richer – in experience, friends, understanding, confidence. I feel a little scared about my future but also blandly optimistic.

  Sunday, 17 February

  I have a ring which was my mother’s. I believe it is what was once called a mourning ring – it is of plain gold, the width of a narrow wedding ring and ¾ of the way round it a band of plaited hair (now black with age) is inset – the edges on either side of the space in the remaining quarter on which are the initials ‘S.J.L.’. These were the initials of my mother and my grandmother – I have a hazy recollection that my mother once told me that grandfather had it made after grandmother’s death and wore it until his death. It fits my third finger and I sometimes wear it on my right hand. When the initial part is turned palm-wards it has the look of a wedding ring and pleases my silly vanity. But today I have decided to wear it permanently as a symbol of my bondage to my work – a bondage bequeathed me by my mother.

  Tuesday, 19 February

  Three more days now. I dread the ‘farewells’ and final clearing up. Feel full of the resentment and bitterness and impatience though of course no one would suspect it. But let it be recorded that this amiable-seeming, adaptable obliging creative is a volcano of wrath beneath. No one ever believes it – never never.

  Friday, 22 February

  Have written a detailed account of last day at office in Mass Observation diary, but of course much has been omitted. It’s all over, finished. Don’t cling to dead things. Don’t listen to a ghost’s alluring whispers. I’d have liked a last encounter with M., though it would not have been anything like what I’d have wanted it to be: ‘Nothing but a common little cheat – I’m a human being, I’m not made of cast iron – I have feelings that can be hurt. You’re a spoilt child – stealing the icing off the cake, that was all you wanted – you wouldn’t even eat the cake …’ But perhaps not.

  Monday, 25 February

  They’ll just be finishing lunch in the canteen. The foremen in the corner still concentrating on their chess game. Groups still at their tables smoking, talking over the last drops of coffee. Outside in the cold works yard, people returning from lunch to shops and offices. No hammer to make the buildings shudder now – no flames in what was once the foundry. The estate steam train will give a whistle and puff its way slowly through our opened gates and along the track that runs through the yard and out the other side.

  Remembered this morning, acutely, the interview with Miss White at school, in which she told me gently but firmly that she felt I had ‘no backbone.’ I was a silly little thing, easily influenced, much given to giggling. Now my physical backbone aches cruelly and I still doubt if I have much of the other kind, even now. ‘Jelly where it should be diamond.’ How does one achieve hardness without becoming brittle? Of course! Submit – let the flames consume you – accept the hammer blows. To the outsider they may appear trivial – not being able to defend an idea in conversation, for instance, or losing one’s heart to a worthless man. A shrinking away from anything that might cause discomfort or pain.

  8.30 p.m. Have just listened to a Family Relationships broadcast of great interest. It was called ‘Asking for Trouble’. No names given in Radio Times of who the people are discussing these problems, but think the Marriage Guidance Council is behind the series. A very pleasant Scots voice seems to be the Master of Ceremonies and there are one or two pleasant women’s voices. The Church is always well represented. They discussed tonight the reasons why people married and concluded that any but the right reason was ‘asking for trouble.’ They made a big effort to discuss the sex aspect as frankly as possible. Church was at first revoltingly sanctimonious and narrow about it but the MC and a woman came out boldly. Woman thought that the sex drive was so overpowering no couple should embark on marriage without cohabiting first – to marry only because of physical attraction is a great mistake and invariably led to trouble. The broadminded and intelligent view in this discussion did not condemn sex relationships outside marriage. Church was allowed the last word: said that while it held definite views and regarded such behaviour as sin, it did not consider it the only or even a priority sin.

  An encouraging pointer of the way public thinking is now moving. Sex is actually allowed to be spoken of on the BBC! MC spoke of the Church’s influence very emphatically – said he felt it had done a great deal of harm with regard sex problems.

  I never have felt any guilt about my ‘experiments’ and I shall go on experimenting if I feel like it. But I hope and shall go on hoping that I shall marry – must try to soften this feeling of resentment that I haven’t and may never. I want to be loved! I stamp my feet and whine that I deserve it, I’m a very marriageable person! I want to be loved, I want to be loved!

  Friday, 1 March

  I don’t know how I can say what needs to be said. It was a lovely day yesterday. Went into Slough and Windsor and then to see The Seventh Veil. I fell for some very pretty shoes in Caleys – shouldn’t have spent the coupons but they’ve gone now. After the pictures had to collect glasses which were being repaired and was not home until nearly 7 p.m. Was preparing a meal about 8 p.m. when the phone rang again.

  Yes, it was my M. I shut the door on him and he climbs in through the window when I’m not looking. He said he had phoned earlier and been round in daylight to find out if I were in and left a footprint in the snow t
o prove it and then tried again. At first I had pretended I did not know who was speaking and kept it up well. He came round about 9.15.

  Again I said none of the things that I’ve written here and thought that I wanted to say. He seems to put up a barrier instinctively. Of course he stayed. I could not love him more with my body. My body is all his, every inch of it, willingly, joyously. Katherine Mansfield, in one of her stories, speaks of the French phrase ‘in need of a bed’ – this is so strong when we are together I can not think clearly about anything else. And then, of course, he has to go when we are both tired and beyond talking. My darling, I do love you so … please let me love you with more than my body … don’t be afraid of it … come and talk to me, come and relax here and learn to enjoy just being together. I daren’t let myself think that it might ever happen.

  I told him I hated the name ‘Mac’ and I am to call him ‘Alan’ now. Unfortunate that I know another one (Alan Dene). He said that when we met in the canteen or corridor at HDA his heart went ‘thrrrump’. As he says, we ‘click’ every time. There is definitely something, but why, we don’t know.

  I believe that he has really, a very strong sense of duty to his wife and family, and because of that he does not want to take any other woman seriously – for fear of the upset it would cause at home. And what I want to try and make him understand is that he can, if he wants to, take me more seriously than he might other women who would demand more, without my ever trying to interfere with his domestic obligations. Or is that priggish of me? All I know is that my body adores him and is adored by his – oh it MUST mean something! I must accept him as he is and take what comes.

  He said, ‘Bless you! I won’t fail you …’

  Monday, 4 March

  Weekend with Ethel, recuperating. Two things emerge. His casual behaviour, apparent neglect and suspected infidelities during the long intervals between his visits to me are excellent discipline for my sentimentality. His physical love and respect for me are real enough when we are together but though this sends me waltzing in clouds of rapture am brought sharply to earth again quite soon by wondering where he is and what he’s doing and why I don’t hear from him.

  Secondly, it is more essential than ever that I continue to make my own life, that I have independent, satisfying interests and work. I must go ahead with my writing and resist the temptation to daydream which is stronger than ever now.

  Wednesday/Thursday, 6–7 March, 4 a.m.

  Woke this morning with sore spot on my behind – logic and experience tell me it’s probably a little sore of the kind I have had before but my whole being has been in a state of panic all day. Looked up all the literature I have on VD and can see N.’s wagging finger. Phoned T. late tonight to see if he could come here on Sunday and learned that he will be in Slough tomorrow driving for the Communists in local elections, and had intended to phone me. He has promised to come though may be late. I must talk to him frankly and get him to tell me all he can about VD, its prevention and cure. It is no use my trusting sentimentally in A., knowing what I do about him, although my heart wants to believe that he couldn’t be so criminally stupid and selfish as to visit women (of any type) knowing he was infected. I should find it most terribly difficult to consult my doctor, as they urge you to do, and am so thankful that I know someone like T. in the medical world that I feel I can trust, talk to.

  Friday, 8 March

  Really I think T. is one of the nicest boyfriends I have. He was most sympathetic, kind and helpful and has allayed my fears – and is going to examine me again towards the end of next week. He stayed until it was time to catch the last bus, talking politics, and then discussing my possible work and has given me some really useful ideas. It’s up to me what I do with them.

  This silly business has shaken me badly. T.’s behaviour and help to me does more towards converting me to Communism than hours and hours of his talk.

  Saturday, 9 March

  Dying different sorts of deaths today. The thought of digging myself out and meeting new people leaves me half dead with terror. T. suggests I go around collecting information on the new Health Centre and Nursery Schools. A really excellent and sane suggestion, and he had given me a first contact. But I don’t want to do it … I am a silly woman. Want comfort and security and sentimental love, a placid, domestic existence with no intellectual strain, no forcing myself into intelligent left-wing circles where my shortcomings will be so apparent. God, I can’t do it, I can’t! I don’t feel well, I am tired, I have a sore throat – and am imagining more evils than ever. Feeble, feeble little coward. Run back to mother, whine for father’s affection. Silly, sentimental, back-boneless child. That’s how I feel tonight.

  Trouble is I still feel so desperately alone. That’s why I go on writing these journals – the strain is a little relieved, I have at least said something somewhere of what I feel.

  Saturday, 16 March

  Shall not forget T.’s courtesy and kindness. He has treated this silly scare of mine exactly as a doctor should – no personal questions, no sign of curiosity to know more of the story, although he must have been intrigued and amused. His student friend whom he called in as a ‘second opinion’ behaved in the same professional way.

  Have arranged to meet his friend Bee Serota (who ‘knows all about me and has always wanted to meet me!’ – acutely unnerving) on Tuesday.

  Wednesday, 20 March

  Bee Serota very pleasant. Felt immediately at home with her – as though we had met before. She is an LSE B.Sc. (Econ.) works as a Labour member for Hampstead Borough Council, and is having a baby in 5 weeks time. Lives in delightful small old Hampstead house. Is going to get me an interview with a Mrs D. of the new St Leonard’s Nursery School Committee.154

  Wednesday, 27 March

  Yesterday an interview with Bee’s Mrs D. which was highly satisfactory.

  Another current popular song, ‘I dream of you more than you dream I do … you’re mean to me more than you mean to be … I want you so …’ And so on. How they do get to the point these popular songs.

  Monday, 1 April

  The most astonishing piece of information concerning the Pratt family has just come my way. Ethel phoned to say my cousin Martin had been asking for ‘Uncle Percy’s diaries’, i.e. my father’s ‘diaries’. She did not know what he was talking about – nor did I, so I phoned Martin. He and his wife are living at Marlow now. He tells me that the Pratts are related to a Lord Camden who was Lord Chief Justice in the eighteenth century. But that one of the Camden Pratts was attached to the British Consulate in Paris during the French Revolution and had left some calf-bound diaries of that period which were at one time actually in my own father’s possession, as Martin remembers seeing them once when he was a little boy, together with the original Book of Hours belonging to Marie Antoinette. These books were, says Martin, in our dining room bookcase. But I remember them not at all and am sure I should have noticed such interesting relics as I grew older, and particularly when we moved from Homefield. I think they must have passed out of our hands long ago – most tantalising. And most surprising to hear we have aristocratic ancestors. The idea flatters me enormously.

  Thursday, 4 April

  It is like midsummer. Too hot, too vivid to do anything this afternoon. Saw Hugh again on Tuesday. He told me one of his shocking stories of a little 22-year-old blouse who lives, I think, in the same block of flats as himself and his wife. She was a BBC engineer (so Hugh says) but found it more profitable to be the mistress of two wealthy business men, keeping the two apart of course. An empty headed little thing, said Hugh, but attractive. Fell for Hugh, who introduced her to an Australian friend who was staying with Hugh in the spare room of the flat. One night she went to bed with the Australian and early next morning (a Sunday) Hugh was roused by an irate ‘real rat of a man’ demanding to see the girl. Hugh went in to the bedroom where they were both asleep and woke the Australian. The Aussie came out clad only in pyjama trousers, socked the rat under t
he jaw, knocking him down the stairs, broke his arm, packed him into waiting car, knocked him unconscious to keep him quiet, and drove, still clad as he was in pyjama trousers only, somewhere along the Finchley Road, left him and car and walked back.

  What people! What an age!

  Wednesday, 8 May

  The cleaning is done. The cottage is cleaner, tidier than it has been for years. All set for new scenes, for changes if need be – Oh, I am very pleased with myself this afternoon!

  My plans now take this shape. To convert the front room upstairs into a double with camp and ARP beds, the back into a bedsit for myself and to take in couples for holidays throughout the summer. Feed them morning and night, pack them sandwiches and let them explore Bucks, Berks and the Thames Valley. It’s a good centre. There is no reason why I shouldn’t do this, and do it well.

  If only A.M. would visit me more often I should be happier than I have ever been in my life! If I could only make him come, say, once a month. Surely he could manage that.

  Friday, 24 May

  Josephine has been with me for a week. A little while ago she went with me and N. to a spiritualist service in Hampstead and the medium there gave a message from a Doctor who works through him, that was something like this: ‘You suffer a lot don’t you, from bad health? I think that some of these ills are unnecessary – you could throw them off if you wanted to.’ I have thought on these lines for a long time and N. had come to much the same conclusion.

  We don’t know. Her way of life may be right for her. She is a very good and sweet-natured person. But I could not live with her (is there anyone I could live with?). Living with her is like living in a mausoleum. She likes going to bed early between 9–10 p.m. Is extremely sensitive to every sound and wakes at the least noise. Curtains are tightly drawn to keep out the morning light. Does not get up until about 9.30 a.m. Cannot do much walking on account of heart trouble. Finds a day out sightseeing too exhausting and prefers to stay in with short rambles in the woods between meals. One feels extremely sorry for her, but also extremely irritated. I kept myself at ‘low’ throughout the week and I hope remained amiable, but as I did nothing during the day I could not sleep at night. It seems to me all wrong that anyone at her age should be living like a spent-out woman of 70. Of course I do not think her illnesses are ‘all imagination’, nor was it ever suggested that she did not put up a fight. She seems to enjoy her illnesses – and they are real enough, she makes them real – she certainly enjoys talking about them. She has now abandoned her earthly ‘Ghostly Lovers’ – and she had as I did, several, and has now taken a spiritual one in the form of Leslie Howard.