9th April, 1954
She said to me today as I was leaving: “And now my dear, when are you going to start writing again?” I might have said, of course, that all this time I’ve been scribbling off and on in the notebooks but that is not what she meant. I said: “Very likely never.” She made an impatient, almost irritable gesture; she looked vexed, like a housewife whose plans have gone wrong—the gesture was genuine, not one of the smiles, or nods, or shakes of the head, or impatient clicks of the tongue that she uses to conduct a session. “Why can’t you understand that,” I said, really wanting to make her understand, “that I can’t pick up a newspaper without what’s in it seeming so overwhelmingly terrible that nothing I could write would seem to have any point at all?” “Then you shouldn’t read the newspapers.” I laughed. After a while she smiled with me.
15th April, 1954
I have had several dreams, all to do with Michael’s leaving me. It was from my dreams that I knew he soon would; he soon will. In my sleep I watch these scenes of parting. Without emotion. In my life I am desperately, vividly unhappy; asleep I am unmoved. Mrs Marks asked me today: “If I were to ask you to say in a phrase what you have learned from me, what would you reply?” “That you have taught me to cry,” I said, not without dryness. She smiled, accepting the dryness. “And so?” “And I’m a hundred times more vulnerable than I was.” “And so? Is that all?” “You mean, I am also a hundred times stronger? I don’t know. I don’t know at all. I hope so.” “I know,” she said, with emphasis. “You are very much stronger. And you will write of this experience.” A quick firm nod; then she said: “You will see. In a few months’ time, perhaps a few years’ time.” I shrugged. We made an appointment for next week; it will be the last appointment.
23rd April
I had a dream for my last appointment. I took it to Mrs Marks. I dreamed I held a kind of casket in my hands, and inside it was something very precious. I was walking up a long room, like an art gallery or a lecture hall, full of dead pictures and statues. (When I used the word dead, Mrs Marks smiled, ironically.) There was a small crowd of people waiting at the end of the hall on a kind of platform. They were waiting for me to hand them the casket. I was incredibly happy that at last I could give them this precious object. But when I handed it over, I saw suddenly they were all businessmen, brokers, something like that. They did not open the box, but started handing me large sums of money. I began to cry. I shouted: “Open the box, open the box,” but they couldn’t hear me, or wouldn’t listen. Suddenly I saw they were all characters in some film or play, and that I had written it, and was ashamed of it. It all turned into farce, flickering and grotesque, I was a character in my own play. I opened the box and forced them to look. But instead of a beautiful thing, which I thought would be there, there was a mass of fragments, and pieces. Not a whole thing, broken into fragments, but bits and pieces from everywhere, all over the world—I recognised a lump of red earth that I knew came from Africa, and then a bit of metal that came off a gun from Indo-China, and then everything was horrible, bits of flesh from people killed in the Korean War and a communist party badge off someone who died in a Soviet prison. This, looking at the mass of ugly fragments, was so painful that I couldn’t look, and I shut the box. But the group of businessmen or money-people hadn’t noticed. They took the box from me and opened it. I turned away so as not to see, but they were delighted. At last I looked and I saw that there was something in the box. It was a small green crocodile with a winking sardonic snout. I thought it was the image of a crocodile, made of jade, or emeralds, then I saw it was alive, for large frozen tears rolled down its cheeks and turned into diamonds. I laughed out loud when I saw how I had cheated the businessmen and I woke up. Mrs Marks listened to this dream without comment, she seemed uninterested. We said good-bye with affection, but she has already turned away, inwardly, as I have. She said I must “drop in to see her” if I needed her. I thought, how can I need you when you have bequeathed to me your image; I know perfectly well I shall dream of that large maternal witch every time I am in trouble. (Mrs Marks is a very small wiry, energetic woman, yet I have always dreamed of her as large and powerful.) I went out of that darkened, solemn room in which I have spent so many hours half-in, half-out, of fantasy and dream, the room which is like a shrine to art, and I reached the cold ugly pavement. I saw myself in a shop window: a small, rather pale, dry, spiky woman, and there was a wry look on my face which I recognised as the grin on the snout of that malicious little green crocodile in the crystal casket of my dream.
Free Women: 2
TWO VISITS, SOME TELEPHONE CALLS AND A TRAGEDY
The telephone rang just as Anna was tiptoeing from the child’s room. Janet started up again, and said on a satisfied grumbling note: “That’s Molly, I expect, and you’ll be talking for hours and hours.” “Shhhh,” said Anna; and went to the telephone thinking: For children like Janet the fabric of security is woven, not of grandparents, cousins, a settled home; but that friends telephone every day, and certain words are spoken.
“Janet is just going to sleep and she sends her love,” she said loudly into the instrument; and Molly replied, playing her part: “Send my love to Janet and say she must go to sleep at once.”
“Molly says you must go to sleep, she says good night,” said Anna loudly into the darkened room. Janet said: “How can I go to sleep when now you two are going to talk for hours and hours?” The quality of the silence from Janet’s room, however, told Anna that the child was going to sleep, satisfied; and she lowered her voice and said: “All right. How are you?”
Molly said, over-casual: “Anna, is Tommy with you?”
“No, why should he be?”
“Oh, I just wondered…If he knew I was worrying he’d be furious, of course.”
For the last month, Molly’s daily bulletins from the house half a mile away had consisted of nothing but Tommy; who was sitting hour after hour in his room, alone, not moving, apparently not even thinking.
Now Molly abandoned the topic of her son, and gave Anna a long, humorous, grumbling account of the dinner she had had the night before with some old flame from America. Anna listened, hearing the under-current of hysteria in her friend’s voice, waiting for her to conclude: “Well anyway, I looked at that pompous middle-aged slob sitting there, and I thought of what he used to be like—well, I expect he was thinking, what a pity Molly’s turned out the way she has—but why do I criticise everyone so? There isn’t anyone good enough for me ever? And it isn’t even as if I can compare present offerings with some beautiful past experience, because I can’t remember ever being really satisfied, I’ve never said: Yes, this is it. But I’ve been remembering Sam for years ever so nostalgically, as the best of the bunch, and even wondering why I was such a fool to turn him down, and today I was remembering how much he bored me even then—what are you going to do when Janet is asleep? Are you going out?”
“No. I’m staying in.”
“I’ve got to dash to the theatre. I’m late as it is. Anna would you telephone Tommy here, in about an hour—make some excuse or other.”
“What’s worrying you?”
“Tommy went down to Richard’s office this afternoon. Yes, I know, you could have knocked me down with a feather. Richard rang me and said: ‘I insist Tommy comes to see me at once.’ So I said to Tommy: ‘Your father insists you go to see him at once.’ Tommy said, ‘All right mother,’ and got up and went. Just like that. To humour me. I got the feeling if I’d said, Jump out of the window, he’d have jumped.”
“Has Richard said anything?”
“He rang about three hours ago, ever so sarcastic and superior, saying I didn’t understand Tommy. I said I was glad he did, at least. But he said Tommy had just left. But he hasn’t come home. I went up to Tommy’s room and he’s got half a dozen books on psychology from the library on his bed. He’s been reading them all at once from the look of it…I must rush, Anna, it takes me half an hour to make up for this part—blo
ody stupid play, why did I ever say I’d be in it? Well, good night.”
Ten minutes later Anna was standing by her trestle table, preparing to work on her blue notebook, when Molly rang again. “I’ve just had a call from Marion. Can you believe it?—Tommy went down to see her. He must have taken the first train after leaving Richard’s office. He stayed twenty minutes and then left again. Marion said he was very quiet. And he hasn’t been there for ages. Anna, don’t you think it’s odd?”
“He was very quiet?”
“Well, Marion was drunk again. Of course Richard hadn’t come. He’s never home before midnight these days—there’s that girl in his office. Marion went on and on about it. She was probably going on and on to Tommy too. She was talking about you—she’s got it in for you all right. So I suppose Richard must have told her he had been having a thing with you.”
“But we didn’t.”
“Have you seen him again?”
“No. Nor Marion either.”
The two women stood by their respective telephones, silent; if they had been in the same room they would have exchanged wry glances or smiles. Suddenly Anna heard: “I’m terrified, Anna. Something awful is happening, I’m sure of it. Oh God, I don’t know what to do, and I must rush—I’ll have to take a taxi now. Good-bye.”
Usually, at the sound of feet on the stairs, Anna removed herself from the part of the big room where she would be forced into an unnecessary exchange of greetings with the young man from Wales. This time she looked sharply around and only just prevented an exclamation of relief as the footsteps turned out to be Tommy’s. His smile acknowledged her, her room, the pencil in her hand, and her spread notebooks, as a scene he had expected to see. But having smiled, his dark eyes focused inwards again, and his face set solemn. Anna had instinctively reached for the telephone, and checked herself, thinking she should make an excuse to go upstairs and telephone from there. But Tommy said: “I suppose you are thinking you must telephone my mother?” “Yes. She has just rung me.” “Then go upstairs if you want, I don’t mind.” This was kindly, to set her at ease. “No, I’ll ring from here.” “I suppose she’s been snooping in my room and she’s upset because of all those madness books.”
At the word madness, Anna felt her face tighten in shock; saw Tommy notice it; then exclaimed, with energy: “Tommy, sit down. I’ve got to talk to you. But first I must ring Molly.” Tommy showed no surprise at her sudden decisiveness.
He sat down, arranged himself neatly, legs together, arms before him on the chair-arms, and watched Anna as she telephoned. But Molly had already left. Anna sat on her bed, frowning with annoyance: she had become convinced that Tommy was enjoying frightening them all. Tommy remarked: “Anna, your bed’s just like a coffin.” Anna saw herself, small, pale, neat, wearing black trousers and a black shirt, squatting cross-legged on the narrow black-draped bed. “Then it’s like a coffin,” she said; but she got off the bed and sat opposite him in a chair. His eyes were now moving, slow and careful, from object to object around the room, giving Anna exactly the same allowance of attention as chair, books, fireplace, a picture.
“I hear you went to see your father?”
“Yes.”
“What did he want you for?”
“You were going to say, If you don’t mind my asking—” he said. Then he giggled. The giggle was new—harsh, uncontrolled, and malicious. At the sound Anna felt rise in her a wave of panic. She even felt a desire to giggle herself. She calmed herself, thinking: He hasn’t been here five minutes, but his hysteria’s infecting me already. Be careful.
She said, smiling: “I was going to say it, but I stopped myself.”
“What’s the point of that? I know you and my mother discuss me all the time. You’re worried about me.” Again he was calmly but triumphantly malicious. Anna had never associated malice or spite with Tommy; and she felt as if there were a stranger in her room. He even looked strange, for his blunt dark obstinate face was twisted into a mask of smiling spite: he was looking upwards at her from slitted spiteful eyes and smiling.
“What did your father want?”
“He said that one of the firms his firm controls is building a dam in Ghana. He said would I like to go out and take a job looking after the Africans—welfare work.”
“You said no?”
“I said I didn’t see the point—I mean, the point of them is being cheap labour for him. So even if I did make them a bit healthier and feed them better and that kind of thing, or even get schools for the children, it wouldn’t be the point at all. So he said another of his company’s companies is doing some engineering job in North Canada, and he offered me a welfare job there.”
He waited, looking at Anna. The malicious stranger had vanished from the room; Tommy was himself, frowning, thoughtful, puzzled. He said unexpectedly: “You know, he’s not stupid at all.”
“I don’t think we’ve said he is.”
Tommy smiled patiently, saying: You’re dishonest. He said aloud: “When I said I didn’t want those jobs he asked why, and I told him, and he said, I reacted like that because of the influence of the communist party.”
Anna laughed: I told you so; and said: “He means your mother and me.”
Tommy waited for her to have finished saying what he had expected her to say, and said: “There you are. That’s not what he meant. No wonder you all think each other stupid; you expect each other to be. When I see my father and my mother together, I don’t recognise them, they’re so stupid. And you too, when you are with Richard.”
“Well what did he mean, then?”
“He said that what I replied to his offers summed up the real influence of the communist parties on the West. He said that anyone who has been, or is, in the C.P., or who has had anything to do with it is a megalomaniac. He said that if he was Chief of Police trying to root out communists somewhere, he’d ask one question: Would you go to an undeveloped country and run a country clinic for fifty people? All the Reds would answer: “No, because what’s the point of improving the health of fifty people when the basic organisation of society is unchanged.” He leaned forward, confronting her, and insisted: “Well, Anna?” She smiled and nodded: All right; but it was not enough. She said: “No, that’s not stupid at all.”
“No.” He leaned back, relieved. But having rescued his father, so to speak, from Molly’s and Anna’s scorn, he now paid them their due: “But I said to him, that test wouldn’t rule you or my mother out, because both of you would go to that clinic, wouldn’t you?” It was important to him that she should say yes; but Anna insisted on honesty, for her own sake. “Yes, I would, but he’s right. That’s exactly how I’d feel.”
“But you’d go?”
“Yes.”
“I wonder if you would? Because I don’t think I would. I mean, I’m not taking either of these jobs so that proves it. And I haven’t even been a communist—I’ve just seen you and my mother and your friends at it, and it’s influenced me. I’m suffering from a paralysis of the will.”
“Richard used the words, paralysis of the will?” said Anna, disbelieving.
“No. It’s what he meant. I found the words in one of the madness books. What he actually said was, the result of the communist countries on Europe is that people can’t be bothered. Because everyone’s got used to the idea of whole countries changing completely in about three years—like China or Russia. And if they can’t see a complete change ahead, they can’t be bothered…do you think that’s true?”
“It’s partly true. It’s true of people who have been inside the communist myth.”
“Not so long ago you were a communist and now you use words like communist myth.”
“Sometimes I get the impression you blame me and your mother and the rest of us for not still being communists.”
Tommy lowered his head, sat frowning. “Well I remember when you used to be so active, rushing around doing things. You don’t now.”
“Any activity being better than none?”
>
He raised his head and said sharply, accusing: “You know what I mean.”
“Yes of course I do.”
“Do you know what I said to my father? I said if I went out to do his dishonest welfare work I’d start organising revolutionary groups among the workers. He wasn’t angry at all. He said revolutions were a primary risk of big business these days and he’d be careful to take out an insurance policy against the revolution I’d stir up.” Anna said nothing and Tommy said: “It was a joke, do you see?”
The Golden Notebook Page 31