by MARY HOCKING
So we both have problems, though of a different kind. Take heart. Although it must sometimes be claustrophobic, it is not given to many people to be so close to another, so much a part of his being that he draws strength and inspiration as you breathe. There are times when I look at Fergus and think, ‘It must be a great disappointment to find yourself married to someone of limited conversation who can’t see further than the privet hedge.’
You’re still writing poetry, I hope? I would like to have seen evidence of that among the delights of your enchanted house. Recently I came across a poem you sent to me some time ago - the one about Abélard’s Héloïse. It pierces my romantic heart and I want it to have fellows. To spur you on, if spur be needed, I’m sending a copy, just in case it has got lost. You’re so negligent about your work.
My love,
Constance
She really lived, Abélard’s Héloïse:
From her window saw light quicken on rain-wet roofs,
Leant across the sill to take the racing pulse of the day,
Applauded its tumult
And ran eagerly into the wind-churned street,
The hem of her gown swirling over damp rushes,
The raised hood billowing about a face mercurial
As an April morning.
Or one might come on her in the orchard
Feeding chicken, or standing by a sun-baked wall
Exchanging idle words on subjects of no great moment;
Heedless of the beauty
Which disturbed the senses in that checkered light,
Creature of transient joy, present delight,
The lover of one man not yet become the world’s wonder,
Unfettered by legend.
But whether the knot be gently loosed
Or severed with a knife, all loving ends in loss:
Her glory faded, she resigned herself to history
And came to Argenteuil
To wear out the remnants of mortality
In the veiled anonymity of the cloister;
And the nuns who had withdrawn from life before it began
Took her without question
But watched, vicariously excited
As they studied her face for some sign of what it was
That could have inspired so immortal and profane a love;
Raking the dead ashes
For a flame where none could be kindled again
And even the pain of scorched flesh was forgotten:
For them, not less than for us, Abélard’s Héloïse
Was long centuries dead.
Ealing
January, 1952
My dear Sheila,
We still have the plague. Chicken-pox is not to be recommended, so stay away. Another letter would be welcome.
Love from your wretched and disfigured Constance
P.S. How good to have news of Harpo, whom I haven’t seen since East Anglia. Miles liked her, you say. I wonder why? How sharp I am become. Men always liked her. She should have married that nice Alan, or was it Andrew? It won’t be so easy for her now that the war is over and men more evenly distributed throughout the population. She is one of those women who fail to grab in a time of scarcity. Yes, I should certainly like to see her, but not now. In a week or two, perhaps.
Constance
Ealing
February, 1952
My dear Sheila,
The Byrnes are free of chicken-pox and I am pregnant again. My mother puts this desire to have a large family down to the fact that even as a child I always had to be different. ‘I knew that when you grew up it would get worse, but I didn’t know what form it would take.’ Miss Tobin, whom I occasionally meet for coffee in the Broadway, commented, ‘You never had sufficient confidence in your intellectual ability.’ My poor children, born of exhibitionism out of inferiority complex!
And speaking of inferiority complex, Harpo came. It was nice to see her, but she did little for my self-esteem. She arrived looking more like her namesake than ever, trailing a naval overcoat several sizes too large for her and wearing bell-bottoms. She achieved instant success with Dominic and Kathleen and is already a favourite aunt - and this without resorting to bribery.
She must be very popular in your household, too. Her knowledge of Miles’s music puts me to shame. She was so enraptured one felt one had shared her experience. Her lips are permanently parted by those sticking-out front teeth, so it is sensible of her to make a virtue of them and be merry. She looked like the spirit of Christmas goodwill overflowing into bleak February as she spoke of something entitled - can it be? - Last Thoughts in the Tuileries Gardens. She told how the violin held the main theme steady on the lawn while the flute and harp sent wisps of regret and longing drifting amid the shrubbery. It was both a salute and a farewell, she sighed, as though briefly the spirit of another age encountered our own and, realising such a meeting could not be, drew apart again. I don’t know how Miles would feel about that interpretation? She also said that although it was tender and sad, it was controlled, economic and impartial. I am not sure one can be sad, tender and impartial. Perhaps musically?
I had forgotten that she is a left-winger. But as soon as she started talking about the announcement that we have produced our very own atom bomb I recalled the day when the Duchess of Kent visited the camp. We were encouraged to line the route and do a bit of spontaneous hand-waving and Harpo shouted, ‘Vote Labour and lead the freer life! I agree with what she says about the atom bomb - as a small gesture I have not sung the first verse of ‘I vow to thee, my country’ since Hiroshima - but I blame the Americans, not our way of carrying on at all. I hope that she isn’t going to become one of those people who run the country down. It is dispiriting to find that not so long after we fought on the beaches we are villains all. I did a bit of flag-waving and pronounced a valediction on King George VI and all he stood for and then went to bed. Fergus and Harpo talked into the early hours. What did they find to say in all that time? My thoughts aren’t of the kind to delay anyone for longer than a few seconds. I see myself wheeling a push-chair through life distributing one-liners as I go.
Perhaps they discussed weaponry. Fergus’s lab has a Ministry of Defence contract, so he is never specific about his work, but I have lately detected signs of waning enthusiasm. In fact, he isn’t as enthusiastic a person as he once was. He doesn’t feel at home socially among the English. ‘What is so special about them that they have to keep buttoned up?’ he asks. ‘Do they have some race memory of dark deeds which might come tumbling out if they relaxed by their own fireside?’ He spends a lot of his spare time working at the Questors Theatre, building sets, which seems to involve considerable consumption of beer. I go along occasionally, but women and children aren’t really welcome.
We must meet soon, please.
Love,
Constance
Bognor,
August, 1952
My dear Sheila,
We came here so that the children could play on the sand and all they have done is quarrel. Fergus says we might as well have stayed at home and taken them to the zoo.
One piece of news will interest you. Joyce Pillinger is staying at the Grand and I met her in the coffee lounge on Saturday morning. She works for a film magnate in Wardour Street and if her appearance is anything to go by, it’s a very well paid job. She has met Hitchcock and Gary Cooper, whom she calls Coop. She asked after you and when I told her about Toby and Linnie and Miles’s music, she made a face and said, ‘Yes, but what about her? I thought she was destined to become Poet Laureate.’
She talked a lot about ‘our productions’ but wasn’t much interested in mine. Dominic is always eager to please but he is formidably aware of the rewards that should be forthcoming. I’m never sure whether the awareness of his rights will direct him to the law or the need for a large stage will draw him to the opera. Joyce behaved as if he and Kathleen were invisible. This inevitably led to tantrums. I went fairly rapidly through the advice g
iven in the books on successful mothering. Ignore didn’t work very well owing to lack of co-operation on the part of the women at the next table. Explain gently and reason patiently didn’t go down at all well with Kathleen, who resents untypical behaviour in her parent. She emitted howls like rending calico. There was nothing for it but retreat. Joyce was already looking for the nearest escape hatch.
I grappled with my young, watched by the women at the next table. The one with purple hair and blue cheeks who looked as if she had been caught by a late frost, said, ‘Of course, it’s the mother I blame.’ Her companion said, ‘And she’s having another. . . .’
As I fought my way past them I said to Dominic, ‘When I get you home I shall thrash you within an inch of your life,’ which is Fergus’s nightly threat to our dog when he runs away on the Common. We left the two women rooting through their handbags for coins for the telephone box.
I am writing this on the beach, Fergus has taken Dominic in search of the sea; I suppose it must be somewhere out there, I have never been to a place where the tide goes out so far, Kathleen is knocking down Dominic’s sand-castle.
Back to Ealing and that cramped flat on Saturday, I suspect myself of becoming a bit of a misery. Forgive me.
Love,
Constance
Ealing
October, 1952
My dear Sheila,
Many thanks for your offer of help, but you mustn’t consider coming here with this recital of Miles’s music in the offing. Anyway, I don’t think there would be room for you as my mother and Aunt Ada feel it their duty to be here much of the time.
Cuillane is meek and quiet and presents fewer challenges than either Dominic or Kathleen. Fergus says this is because she has worked out very quickly how to tell us what she needs. It won’t please Dominic if she is brainy. Kathleen is not a jealous child. She seems able to decide what is her due and leave others their share. She has, however, her father’s well-developed sense of justice and will fight Dominic ferociously when he indulges his piratical instincts. I am amazed how they differ one from another. As I watch them working at their own personality, dragging it free of the general mêlée, I can see how much I missed as an only child.
Perhaps we can arrange a day out together soon. Somewhere with a lot of space; Richmond Park would do, failing the Sahara Desert.
Prayers, Anglican and Catholic, will be offered for the recital.
My love to you all,
Constance
Ealing
March, 1953
Sheila, my lifeline.
Yesterday, standing in the kitchen rolling out pastry, the world went out of focus. It was as if I looked down the wrong end of a telescope and saw a great area of darkness and far, far away, something small and recognisable which was the kitchen dresser, minutely neat as in a doll’s house. The dresser told me that reality as I had known it a few moments ago was intact. The trouble was that I had become separated from it. I shook from head to foot. Sweat poured from me, ruining the pastry. Had it not been for the children I do not know what might have happened; but as I swung this elephantine head around, gazing down the long tunnel of its trunk, I saw Dominic and Kathleen in the garden, tiny figures about to be drowned in a snowstorm. How many women have been saved by the knowledge that a breakdown is out of the question when there are children to be cared for?
By the time Fergus came home I had learnt to grope about in spite of my disabling trunk. He knew something was wrong. If I didn’t say anything about it, his dinner did. He is coming home from work early today; he made some footling excuse, but I know he wants to keep me under observation. He has cancelled his set-building activities for the week. His face has crumpled. I had not realised there is a potential for pain in Fergus. Does he know, has he known longer than I have, that something is wrong with our marriage?
I am become so dull, Sheila. I have no conversation, no interests, not much in the way of thought at all, really. Now, I can barely perform the functions of housewife and mother. I go to bed drained and wake exhausted. Even my kitchen has turned against me, each implement has become a dead weight.
I don’t remember what I did at Christmas. The house was full of people. I suppose I fed them.
Help me!
Constance
Ealing
March, 1953
My dear unsympathetic friend,
I really didn’t expect a telling off. At the least, soothing words seemed called for; at the best, a personal visit, arms outstretched. Instead, a letter beginning, ‘Constance, you silly old thing. . . .’
I was outraged. I continued to be outraged for days. When rage eventually subsided I was surprised to find that I couldn’t remember very clearly what all the fuss was about. The situation you described was so exact in every detail I was persuaded I had been aware of it all the time. Fergus loves me, but not Ealing; he needs more space about him. I like entertaining and Fergus likes company. The children are fractious and Dominic behaves like a wild thing whenever he is loosed on the Common. So why are we still cooped up, in this flat? It’s ridiculous for me to maintain that I need to be near my mother. She has always found close relationships irksome and wouldn’t mind in the least if we moved further away.
The remedy for all our ills is in my hands. It’s time I provided my family with a home.
I gladly accept your suggestion that Cuillane and I should come to you for a few days next month. Dominic and Kathleen are delighted at the prospect of staying with your parents. Fergus, I suspect, will be more than happy left to his own devices for a few days.
Blessings on you,
Constance
Ealing
May, 1953
Sheila, my saviour,
Constance is sane and restored. My days with you did more good than you will ever know.
Rest assured, I found the Druce way of life most agreeable. I have come to realise that I’m not at all averse to disorder in other people’s houses - which leads me to the conclusion that it is really work which I don’t like. Standards aren’t goals to be aimed at, they are crash barriers holding chaos at bay. When I am from home, happy in the knowledge that I shall not be involved in the consequences of their breaching, standards are of no account. I am not one to flinch at the sight of unwashed crockery; dust, unless it makes me sneeze, goes unnoticed; I do not enquire under what conditions the food is cooked; and I regard peeling paint, badly sprung chairs and holes in linoleum as homely signs of occupancy. As for the garden, it seems little short of a miracle that a suburban garden should become a wilderness in which Red Indians may stalk their prey and I confess to a thrill of genuine fear when I was unable to tell from which quarter the attack on the garden shed would come. Dominic and Kathleen would, I am sure, readily exchange the whole of Ealing Common for the Druce savanna.
But when all is said and done, Sheila, there is order in your house, as well you know. Not for you the shrieks and howls of protest which accompany the hours approaching bedtime in Ealing. My heart turns over when I recall those evenings with you: Miles at the piano, you, legs spread beside the harp, Linnie raising the bow to her violin and little Toby fingering his recorder; your faces grave and absorbed, involved in an experience which demands a sharing so complete that all sense of self is lost. This, I would very much like you to know, is my vision of Paradise: a summer evening, windows open on to a garden and music floating into the warm darkness.
Perhaps it has been won at a cost, this closeness that you have as a family. Harpo told me that when she first met you she thought you were going to become so ravishing it might spoil you, the challenging eagerness in your eyes seemed so irresistible that surely nothing could be denied you. You may be pleased to know, however, that far from being spoilt you now have the appearance of having weathered a period of some severity. Harpo sees the need to challenge still strong, but the eagerness replaced by defiance, as though you were no longer so confident that life would fulfil your expectations but intended to go on expecting jus
t the same. Even I, unperceptive as I am, did notice how hard Miles has to work, giving up time to those dough-faced, undistinguished pupils whose parents feel they should have an accomplishment. In my youth, I was such a one. What agony it must be for Miles to have to bear with pupils like me who have cloth ears. If only Fergus could win the Irish sweep, we could buy a house we want instead of one we can afford and Miles wouldn’t need to take pupils.
And talking of winning, we now have the result of Fergus’s interview. He is to be the senior chemist - or is it a senior chemist, so proud am I of him I tend to err - in this big new research lab which was opened recently in Surrey. The pay isn’t all that much better but as far as I can gather the work is to do with health rather than defence. He is a happier man and that is what counts.
This weekend we are house-hunting in Surrey and Sussex. Aunt Ada says that we must make sure we have a vegetable garden. My mother says we must enquire about suitable schools for the children. In Dominic’s case, I think she has in mind some kind of penal institution.
Have you any orders before we set off?
My love and thanks to you all,
Constance
Sussex
September, 1955
My dear Sheila,
Sussex at last, this strange far-away place from which no 65 bus will take me to your doorstep. I promised to write a long letter as soon as we were settled in, but, as my postcards will have intimated, that process took longer than we anticipated. I so longed to talk to you. I did phone once, but got Miles at what was obviously a very inconvenient moment.