A Notable Woman

by Jean Lucey Pratt

  Sunday, 30 January

  I don’t think I shall ‘study’ Eliz Myers. Am re-reading Well Full of Leaves and suffering a sharply critical reaction to my first splurge of enthusiasm. Is she a little too intense, too sure? Was she just a little too wrapped around by dazzled, adoring old philosophers and poets? Why did she so ruthlessly and scornfully reject all the psychologists?220

  Tuesday, 1 February

  What new hare-brained scheme is this? Yesterday Miss B. of the Pet Shop informed me that she was leaving her present premises for a larger store in the village: did I know of anyone who would be interested in taking over her present shop? I immediately saw myself in it – with books. Books, books and perhaps a sideline in high-grade pottery.

  Sluggard, slut, craven and snob in me all shriek, ‘Oh, you can’t! You couldn’t!’ They always do at the first hint of hard work, orderliness, risk and menial labour. At the same time, above or beneath their clamour, another voice counsels prudence. What exactly is involved? How much do you stand to gain or lose by such a venture?

  I had a very brief consultation with the nice, efficient Mr M. across the way in hardware (doing very well too, and his wife next door managing a drapery section). When they had a café in the village they had also a small lending library. There is none now and it is quite a lot wanted. Foyles will provide stock and advice. Miss B.’s shop would be ideal, he said, with a lady to run it needing a little pin money (I said I wanted rather more than just pin money). You could sell a few books too, he said – take orders for Foyles. You wouldn’t need much money: outlay very small, overheads negligible.

  Rent and rates are certainly microscopic (8 shillings a week and £7–£8 a year).

  There’d be lighting, heat and insurance. But would it be worth my while, economically? As an adventure yes, every time – it’s just the sort of part-time job I’d adore. Getting pottery would be exciting too. There’s Lydia’s friend M.T.J., I could start with a few things from her. I’d go to the Odney Potteries at Cookham.221 And then perhaps a second-hand book tray outside.

  Can I face it? All those rich, starchy, atrophying Farnham Common women I see around? They all would be potential customers. And what reaction would there be from the other shopkeepers – any hostility? Rivalry, cut-throat competition? Am I tough enough? Not tough at all, and will probably collapse at first sign of opposition.

  Still, if I could work up a business like this while I hammered away at the writing in my spare time, it might be just the thing. Though when one calculates that 1,000 borrowers a month @ 6d. a book bring in only £25 – and Foyles probably want a large swipe of that – one isn’t fired with enthusiasm on the money side. I can’t see 1,000 borrowers a week in FC somehow.

  And another thing: I should be putting myself right in the limelight, which I should loathe. ‘A bookshop in the village, my dear, run by a dolt of a woman – she’ll never make a success of it …’ Or, ‘That nice Miss Pratt – I’m sure she means well! I wonder if she’d subscribe to our so-and-so, or join this and that …’ Says my horoscope, ‘It is important that you fix something worthwhile for the whole of the year. You can now afford to plan in advance, without much fear of disappointment.’ At what straws do we clutch in our groping uncertainty. In this moment now – scared, tempted, impatient, uncertain, void, hopeful, confident, and slaughtered by doubt.

  Later: I follow with interest Princess Margaret’s Caribbean tour beginning today in Trinidad. The Poohs will all be at the Government House reception tomorrow. A letter from Ivy today says, ‘It is no thrill and pathetic these days to see what goes to Government House. Blacks, Indians, Chinks and what you will.’ That this is my family’s attitude makes me sad. I do not know how I may combat it.

  A pleasing off-the-record story of the Queen given me by Lady S. a little while ago. Lady S.’s lawyer has clients among the Sandringham estate personnel, and was told on one occasion that when the Royal Family were at home en famille and were playing ‘Treasure Hunt’ or some such, the Queen rushed into the kitchen, her hair dishevelled and shrieking her head off with laughter.

  Wednesday, 2 February

  My hope and confidence mount, and the imagination flies off into realms of ecstasy. I long now to get cracking. Life is heavenly at this moment, and I mean that; heaven here, within me. I feel I can not only do this job, but make a moderate success of it.

  44.

  Hags and Bitches

  Friday, 4 February 1955 (aged forty-five)

  I know exactly how I want it, and have it worked out almost to the last detail. ‘The Little Bookshop and Lending Library’. Paintwork in black, picked out with lemon, walls within pale lemon, steel shelves for the books, a narrow long table down one wall, hung one side with a curtain (a tasteful modern design in lemon and black). I can lacquer an old chair black, cover a cushion in the curtain material, and have one little stool for the odd customer who wants to sit or for me to reach higher shelves. Little display stands in the window. Oh dear, I still can’t believe it will happen! If it does, I am the luckiest of women.

  The shape of it, on plan, is something like this:

  These proportions are all wrong. But No. 1 is a shelf for display just inside the door, beneath the window. Nos. 2, 3 and 4 are the ‘fittings’ I should have to provide, i.e. table and chair, shelves. I’d sit right in the corner (at 3), out of the way, with my cards and rubber stamp and records.

  ‘Drink to Me Only …’ on the radio has just reminded me. Ethel told me at Xmas that my father once tried to get into the D’Oyly Carte company but failed because his voice was not powerful enough. How curious to think what might have happened if he had been accepted.222

  Sunday, 6 February

  A good profile of Stephen Spender in today’s Observer. He is exactly my age, has much the same background, had exactly the same kind of education and opportunities, has the same temperament, the same turn for self-examination and had the same urge to write. He succeeds, I don’t. Why? I think because he has a tougher psychological constitution. He is not only poet and writer, but is able to lecture, to be a conference delegate and an editor. He is, in short, able to talk.

  Well never mind. Am trying to possess my soul until I see Foyles rep.

  I am now going to wash my ‘smalls’.

  Monday, 7 February

  Mrs B.’s landlord is pleased as Punch to have a new tenant waiting to take her place, and will redecorate for me – but, as I feared, to his own atrocious colour scheme: paintwork the colour of chocolate blancmange, walls custard cream.

  I’ve been studying the Encyclopaedia Britannica on subject of bookselling.

  Monday, Valentine’s Day

  I have been full of hatred all day. Hatred for east wind, leaden sky, Monday morning and all the things that choke one’s path.

  Was in town on Friday and penetrated the rambling, monster premises of Foyles, to their lending library department. My letter had not reached them, ‘lost among W.G.’s mail’ said the head – charming, apologetic and helpful until he heard I was thinking of selling new books also.223 This turned him frosty and discouraging, so that I felt like a schoolgirl making some hideous gaffe, and all around that end of Oxford Street I could hear the roar of the jungle powers that rule and fight for dominance, laying snares for the unwary, living on man’s credulity and ignorance, and crushing with a flick of contemptuous paw any solitary person that stands in their way and dares to challenge them. Small, alone and scared, I crept away.

  My 2nd correspondence course assignment exercises on short stories, these seem to be complete balderdash. I enjoyed the first exercises (on article writing) but have not heard from the school a word about them and I wonder now if they too have gone astray. The no-time-limit bait cuts both ways, obviously.

  Sunday, 20 February

  I have the books I need now on the subject of bookselling and questionnaire for completion from the Publishers’ Association (formal application for trade recognition to be sent with £2 2s.).

&nb
sp; I heard from friend clockmaker Vicary (on whom I called quite by chance the other day because snow prevented me from bicycling and I was walking past his shop) that the cleaners next door but one to him have been having the same idea about a lending library. The proprietor has been negotiating with Foyles and has a stock of their library books already in his shop. They were intended originally for the little store which Miss B. is now taking over – he had taken it for his daughter who was going to do knitting orders there and run a Foyles library on the sideline. He still has the books, and Vicary is trying to find out for me what he intends to do with them. I am touched by V.’s consideration. He is a genuine Liberal and believes, says he, that we must all help each other and not try to cut each other’s throats.

  Saturday, 26 February

  Bliss, bliss, bliss. Ever since I left it this morning I have thought of bed with longing. Now here I am at last, with two h.w. bottles, bathed and smelling of Vapex. Cats come and go, mystified. It’s nice sometimes to be just ill enough to enjoy this indulgence, able to get oneself organised for it, the coals in, kitchen fire stoked.

  The more the news of my proposed bookshop venture spreads, the more encouragement I receive. Village folk are movingly interested and helpful; tobacconist is putting a notice in his window for me. The poor cleaner man is no rival. His books have been collected again by the Foyles agent, with whom I have now spoken by phone. She sounds exceedingly nice.

  Friday, 1 April

  What a long interval. Life has been too full, exciting, exacting for words here.

  The Little Bookshop was launched on Friday, March 18th. During the 10 days that preceded I hardly had time to eat or sleep. Only the library and pottery are started. I started the National Book Agreement only last week and am now a recognised bookseller. It is quite a thrill. But I have to get more shelves and the shop re-organised for new stock. I started with two steel stands, but they take up too much space and are the wrong colour.224 Everyone has been so kind, things have fallen my way so miraculously I dare not boast about it yet.

  It Couldn’t Be True was sent to Fred Muller last Monday.225 We have had wonderfully encouraging reactions from the few people who have so far read it in script – including Mrs K.R. Williams (the Siamese judge and breeder).

  Saturday, 2 April

  Hags and bitches … hags and bitches! I find myself pitched into a Reading Deposits battle. Mr M. (now Hardware) found that he had to change from the simple ‘2s. 6d. deposit and take as many books as you like’ to ‘2s. 6d. deposit for each book borrowed’. He was losing too many books, and warned me to insist on the 2s. 6d. per book scheme also. Most people accept this, but every now and then there is trouble. I lost my innocence a fortnight ago at 10 a.m., when a bitter-eyed old woman stormed out of the shop muttering, ‘Absurd! Absurd!’ Now I am getting people who declare, ‘Oh, but Mr M. didn’t!’ Hags and bitches …

  I have to learn to be firm, kind, polite I suppose (to know fear without being afraid). I am having now to accept what I have in the past rejected – the discomfort occasioned by differences in opinion.

  Saturday, 9 April

  ICBT has come back from Muller’s with the usual formal apologies and scrape, and not a word of explanation. Oh, I am sick and numb to the core of manuscripts being thrown back at me. Four books now written since the end of the war, only one of these accepted, and that has not kept me in cigarettes for more than six months. People are still reading Peg, and telling me how much they enjoy it. If only it had led to something better, had been a beginning rather than a dead end.

  If one could only understand the policies and mentality of publishers! I am sure there is a big cat-reading public who would admire ICBT and buy it eagerly. I’ve just no idea at the moment where it should go next. There is one advantage of being in the Trade: I am getting publishers’ lists and the trade papers, and finding out the kind of books each firm goes in for. Their ads and prelim publicity are more revealing than statements in Writers & Artists Year Book.

  Tuesday, 3 May

  I’ve had no time to do anything more about ICBT – except to send it to Hart Davies, who returned it immediately saying it was a ‘charming book’ but just not their kind. Well that was something.

  I seem to get nowhere with the shop. Unable to find a wholesaler (the one I’m in contact with now seems laggard), unable to make up list for the initial stock. My first lot of Penguins displayed on Saturday, but not one sold.

  I am really tired though wonderfully well – now living on a Hauser diet. I can’t speak highly enough of this system, the most sensible and logical I’ve come upon.226

  Friday, 3 June

  My panic is the old one regarding money. I must make the Little B. pay. I need to bank between £30–£40 a week. It seems a target I’ll never reach: last week my total takings were about £2 12s. The library is just about paying the rent of books loaned – i.e. the supplier’s charges.

  I shall have to open every day – instead of just Wednesday a.m. and all day Thursday, Friday and Saturday as I have been doing. I’m going to start a ‘Bookseller’s Diary’ and shall make entries daily while at the shop. The idea pleases me mightily – I see it already selling in thousands (what a hope!). Delightful new neighbour Mrs D. (Lady S.’s new housekeeper since January) said, ‘But you don’t panic about money, Miss P.? I shouldn’t have thought you were the type.’

  Sunday, 31 July

  The ‘Bookseller’s Diary’ did not get very far. I couldn’t write it in the shop, and the accounts are the key to the story and are such a bore when recorded. Yet have patience, dear reader. On June 3rd last, total weekly takings were £2 2s. (and that incidentally, was the total for the first month). For the last three weeks the total has averaged £10. Does that not tell an exciting tale? Since Whitsun I have spent just over £100 on new books stock, and I have sold more than half. This is quite apart from the lending library, which is now paying for itself royally. I am more full of confidence than I have ever been about anything. I feel now that if I could find another shop locally just a little bigger and with more conveniences it would be worth the expense of moving and the bigger rent. I daren’t think about it too much (though of course am doing so to exhaustion pitch).

  Monday, 1 August

  I very rarely take purgatives, having had the good fortune to escape the influence of advertising which makes so many people whip their poor bowels into action until they are nearly paralysed. But last night I decided to try two of Heath & Heathers Constipation Pills. Never again. They nearly killed me.

  Tuesday, 2 August

  Sold a Penguin, and loaned out a book to one regular. ICBT has been returned by Michael Joseph and The Harvill Press.

  Saturday, 27 August

  Several people have said within the last few months that I look so much better, and that the life I am now leading – meeting people – must be so much nicer for me, meaning that it is unhealthy or anyway not quite right to live so much in the narrow circumstances that I did. This makes me boil inwardly, and also leaves me sad. What the commentators fail to see is their own terror of loneliness. That anyone can live alone and like it makes them feel uncomfortable. ‘So good for you again to be out meeting people instead of staying at home all the time.’

  Saturday, 15 October

  Babs’s wedding day in Trinidad. The knot must be tied now, 10 p.m. here, 6 p.m. there. Bless the little oddity, Mrs Roy Everett, she was made for marriage and motherhood. And do not prate, dear reader, that so are all women. In my generation there were 3 million too many.

  Tomorrow E.D. comes for the day, about the Christmas cards we’re trying to produce for sale this season. She’s about the only person I’ve seen this summer of my London friends. I do miss them. I miss my leisured days very much. That sort of freedom is precious beyond measure. My only hope is to work hard at my business until I can engage a regular part-time assistant. I will not let myself be submerged, if I can help it, in this repellent race for enough lolly to keep oneself
alive.

  Monday, 5 December

  Can think only in terms of filthy lucre. Can I take £100 between now and Christmas? Saturday was the best day I’ve had yet – nearly £9, as much as I’ve taken in a week formerly. If this could but be the turning point, and that I might average £5 a day until next year begins! Trade has been very slack for many of us this last month since the budget. Cost of living is so terrifying that people cut down on everything but food.

  By strange, devious routes, ICBT is now in the hands of John Murray.

  N. is on leave again and has been with me for a week. Gay, exuberant, warm, generous and as egotistical as ever. Giving abundantly with one hand and taking with the other.

  I am in the process of forming a new friendship. Another woman, as unusual, stimulating and alarming as N. B.P. is a large and not unhandsome woman, with very dark, vividly alive eyes. Musically and spiritually she is very highly developed, is married to a local lawyer and has one small son at school. She comes and talks to me often and I enjoy her conversation enormously. I don’t really know what she thinks of me. Every now and then I receive a salutary shock, e.g. her surprise that I actually selected the better-class books in the library (she had thought that I just took, lamely, what was handed to me). She asked to read ‘Peg’ and I have lent her a copy. When she came in this morning I was hoping to hear some favourable comments, but she was full of the new Jennings book she bought off me on Friday. How good all this is for my ego.

  God, oh God – and I am, what, 47 now? And still looking for security, reassurance, the spiritual or psychological anchor of the mind and longing heart which just doesn’t exist. If one could only realise that. Prayers and meditation and study are unavailing.

  Monday, 27 February 1956

  Something does lift or drain away after a session here. An easing of tensions, a releasing of inner tides. I want often and often to turn to it, but there is no time, I am too tired, too distracted or burdened with other things.