A Notable Woman Page 2

  How to sum up a life’s work? Certainly we may regard it as forward-thinking. She was clearly not the first notable woman to engage with the apparently mutually exclusive possibilities of spousal duty and career, but her modernity singled her out from her parents and the herd. She is not always the most humorous of companions, and her mood swings are often extreme (she doesn’t write when she is feeling really low). But her self-effacement more than compensates (and she is often funny without signalling the fact; she was aware of the Grossmiths’ The Diary of a Nobody, and occasionally I wonder if she is not extending the parody). At times her yearning for spiritual guidance leads her up some woody paths, but on other occasions she champions the principles of mindfulness long before it found a name. I admired her willingness to offend, although her wicked intentions never materialise beyond the page. But most of all I admired her candidacy, the raising of her hand. This is an exposing memoir, an open-heart operation. One reads it, I think, with a deep appreciation of her belief in us.

  The dual responsibility (to Jean and her new readers) to deliver a volume that was both manageable in length and true to her daily experience – that is, something both piecemeal and cohesive – has resulted in a book incorporating only about one-sixth of her written material. Shaping her writing was a unique pleasure, but losing so much of it was not, not least because even the most inconsequential passages were refined with ardent beauty. In February 1954, for example, she looks from the window of her cottage. ‘Our world is frost-bound. Hard, hard, everything tight and solid with frost. I keep fires going in sitting room and kitchen, all doors closed. I fear there will be terrible mortality in the garden.’ Unremarkable in content, the words carry a heady poetic potency, the fine-tuned wonder of ephemeral thought. You will find a thousand similarly weighted reflections in the following pages, the work of a soul singing through time.

  Looking for love all her life (from friends, from men, from pets, from teachers, from customers), Jean Pratt may have found her fondest devotees only now, among us, her fortunate readers. A quiet life remembered, a life’s work rewarded; Jean would have blushed at the attention. And then she would have crept away to write about it.

  Dramatis Personae et Dramatis Feles

  (in order of significant appearance)

  Family:

  Jean Lucey Pratt, a reliable narrator, 1909–1986

  George Percy Pratt, Jean’s father, an architect

  Sarah Jane Pratt (née Lucey), Jean’s mother, a concert pianist, died in 1922 when Jean was thirteen

  Leslie Vernon Pratt, her brother, born 1901, engineer with Cable & Wireless

  Ethel Mary Watson, later Pratt, her stepmother

  Prince, the family Airedale

  The Joliffe family: Aunt N. is Jean’s father’s sister, Joyce is her cousin

  Margaret (Maggie) Royan, one of Ethel’s sisters, Jean’s first cousin

  Elsie Watson, Jean’s other step-aunt

  Aunt Jane, on her father’s side, an early loss

  Ivy, Leslie’s wife

  Ethel Lucey Pratt (Babs), now Everett, daughter of Leslie and Ivy

  Martin Pratt, a cousin, a touring companion, RAF

  Friends and acquaintances from youth, university and early travels:

  Arthur Ainsworth, ex-Boys’ Brigade, kissed Jean’s hair

  Jean Rotherham, an early crush

  Lavender Norris, another early crush, an early tragedy

  Miss Wilmott (A.W.), a significant teacher, another early crush

  Joyce Coates, a lasting friend from architecture school

  Harold Dagley, a disappointing young man

  Lugi/Luigi, real name Dorothy Cargill, another friend from architecture class

  Valerie Honour, née Buck, friend from Wembley, (much) better than Jean at tennis, wife to Jack

  Gus, also known as Peter, real name Geoffrey Harris, significant long-term friend, actor/writer/interior decorator, pen name Heron Carvic, flamboyant

  Phyllis Terry, his actress companion, part of the Terry thespian dynasty

  Roy Gornold, delicate and opinionated family friend, artistic tendencies

  Joan Bulbulion, a confidant since architecture days

  Vahan Bulbulion, her architect husband, Armenian, increasingly annoying

  Constance Oliver, artist friend, free spirit, casualty of war

  Olive Briggs, tragedian

  Eva May Glanville (Mary Kate), university friend

  David Aberdeen, architecture student, another fleeting fancy, later famous in his field

  Chris Naude, horny South African diplomat on trip to Russia

  Mr Wildman, the stand-in vicar

  Hugh Patrick (Bill), possible Jamaican hook-up, wife in Truro

  Neville, cabin dweller, advantage taker

  Marjorie ‘Nockie/Nicola’ Nockolds, latterly just ‘N.’, enduring friend from journalism course, complicated friendship

  Colin Wintle (sometimes Winkle), marriage material in Bath

  Dick Sheppard, successful architect, favoured rebel, disabled

  Gwen Silvester, ballroom dancing teacher, sister of dancer/bandleader Victor

  Charles Scrimshaw, possible beau, good at glancing

  Alan Devereaux, appalling marriage material, ‘conventionally unconventional’, lusts for cream cakes

  Monica Haddow, friend, possibly addicted to masturbation, fellow visitor to …

  Gordon Howe, influential Harley Street psychotherapist

  Friends and acquaintances from Wee Cottage, the war and beyond:

  Josephine Norris, friend, hypochondriac, ghost-like lover of the actor Leslie Howard

  Lady Spicer, generous next-door neighbour

  Kathleen Moneypenny, owner of Wee Cottage

  D.F., or Francis, good sense of humour, bad nails, goes all the way

  Tommy Hughes, a fellow aluminium worker, a lover, a doctor

  Jean Macfarlane, an old school chum, legal father

  Mac (also M., or Mellas or Alan), Jean’s obsession, married and unpredictable, bit of a shit

  Hugh Laming, soldier, journalist, friend from Malta, lover of Lillian Gish, lover of Jean, great letter writer

  Maritza, his Greek wife

  Lydia, a work colleague, a decorator, fellow Mac user

  Michael Sadleir, a novelist

  Thomas Sadleir, a genealogist, a mentor

  Peggy Denny (P.D.), formerly Penny Harding, wife of architect Valentine Harding, fellow Liberal campaigner, dresses like autumn

  Clinton G.F., a despised post-war suitor

  D.B., another post-war suitor, met on return journey from Portugal

  R.W., a girlfriend at the alloys company, reliable source of gossip

  Lady B.P., a large, opinionated local friend, often annoying

  Miss Drumm, a property owner, a benefactor

  Ralph L., an attractive art teacher

  Angela, a lanky young shop assistant

  N.G., a picture framer, Angela’s pash

  Lizzie, adventurous painter friend

  Mrs V.N., worried about Liz’s mental health

  Alison Uttley, obliging children’s author

  Rolf Harris, unnaturally popular at Jean’s book stall

  The cars, in order of rusting:

  A Fiat, circa 1925, father’s, once made it to Cornwall

  1947 Ford Prefect, cost £40, known as Freddie, rust bucket, got her to Slough and back (ten miles total)

  1954 Ford Anglia, bought in 1965. ‘Astounding bargain.’

  1964 Morris 1000 Traveller, known as Jolly Morris when it worked, purchased late 1969

  1964 Singer Vogue, £150 in 1972, tricky switches

  Mini Morris Traveller G. reg., purchased 1976; rusted

  Suzie Min, Mini Traveller, purchased 1979, radiator collapses soon after

  Standard Mini, purchased 1981, got her to Wexham hospital

  The cats, in memoriam:

  Cheeta, Dinah, Ginger Tom (visitor), Suzie, Little Titch, The Kittyhawk, Ping, Pong, Twinkle, Joey,
Squib, Pepper, Walrus, Pharaoh (formerly Tom-Tit), Starlet, The Damned Spot, Pinkie, Pewter Puss, The Senator, Walter, Nicky, Pye, Bumphrey (Bum), Pinnie, Priss, MaryAnne, Buster, George, Tweezle, Mitzie, Jubie.

  Frontispiece

  This document is strictly private. All that is written herein being the exact thoughts, feelings, deeds and words of Miss J.L. Pratt and not to be read thereby by anyone whatsoever until after the said Miss J.L.P.’s death, be she married or single at the date of that event. Miss Pratt will, if she be in good state of mind and body, doubtless leave instructions as to the disposal of this document after her decease. Should any unforeseen accident occur before she is thus able to leave instructions, it is her earnest desire that these pages should be first perused by the member of her family whom she holds most dear that will still be living and to whom the pages may be of interest.

  Signed: J.L. Pratt 19261

  1.

  Into a Cow

  Saturday, 18 April 1925 (aged fifteen)

  I have decided to write a journal. I mean to go on writing this for years and years, and it’ll be awfully amusing to read over later.

  We’re going to Torquay next week. I feel so thrilled! We start on Tuesday and drive all the way down in our own car. We only got it at Xmas, and Daddy has only just learnt to drive. It’ll be rather fun I think. It’s a Fiat by make. I’ve always longed for a car. I’m going to learn to drive it when I’m 16.

  Do you remember Arthur Ainsworth, Jean? Funny bloke – he used to be in the Church Lads Brigade when Leslie was Lieutenant.2 He used to be my ‘beau’ then. He used to come and have Morse lessons with Leslie. He used to put his arm round me when he was learning – I could only have been 8 then! And we used to play grandmother’s footsteps in the garden and he tried to kiss me – he did kiss my hair. I was quite thrilled – but not overmuch. He used to be sort of Churchwarden at the Children’s Service on Sunday afternoon and I used to giggle all the time – even though Mummy was there. I think she knew! She didn’t say anything though, the darling – oh how I miss her. I wish she were here now. I’d have been all I could to her.

  Anyway, who was my next beau? I can’t remember. I think it was Gilbert Dodds. I’ve got them all down in secret code in my last year’s diary. Let’s go and fetch it.

  Yes, here it is – I’ve got it down like this:

  PR (past romances)

  1. A.A.

  2. G.D.

  3. T.M.

  4. K.L.

  5. C.B.

  6. R.

  Gilbert Dodds was the 2nd. He was awfully good looking. He lived at Ealing. The 3rd was Tony Morgan. I hated him, but in my extreme youth I used to go to school with him and I used to go to tea etc. Daddy once suggested he should be my dance partner – was furiously flattered in a way – but I always blushed when he was mentioned. I have an awful habit of blushing, it’s most annoying. They’ve left Wembley now thank goodness. Mr Morgan ran away or something. I couldn’t bear Mr Morgan either. He sniffed and always insisted on kissing me. He had a toothbrush moustache and it tickled and oh I hated it. I hid behind the dining room door once till he’d gone.

  The next one was a waiter. It was at the Burlington at Worthing and he used to gaze at me so sentimentally. He used to get so nervous when he waited at our table. I never spoke to him – it’s much nicer not to speak. The next one was a choir boy at St Peter’s. I used to make eyes at him each Sunday and we used to giggle like mad. He was quite good looking with fair hair and pale, rather deceitful blue eyes. At the beginning of the September term I suddenly realised how idiotic it was so I left off looking at him. He was rather hurt at first I think, but he soon recovered and he makes eyes at Barbara Tox and Gwen Smith now.

  But in the summer holidays last year I met Ronald. We were all on the Broads for a fortnight. It was at Oulton, and we were moored alongside a funny little houseboat where an old bachelor spent most of his time. Ronald was his sort of manservant. He was quite a common sort of youth, but rather good-looking. I’m sorry to say I went quite dippy over him and gave Daddy some chocolate to give to him. I wonder if he liked me? He noticed me I know – he used to watch me! Another romance where I never said a word. Perhaps it’s just as well – he was only a fisher lad – but my heart just ached and ached when he went away. I wish I had a brother about Ronald’s age. Leslie’s a dear but he’s 24 now, and what is the use of a brother the other end of the world? All that day I felt pretty miserable and when we moored just outside Reedham I went for a long, long walk all by myself along the riverbank, and thought things out and finally conquered. I came back because it began to rain. I’d been out an awful long time and they were getting anxious and had come to find me. They were awfully cross and rather annoyed they hadn’t found me drowned in a dyke or something – no Jean, that was horrid of you. I think I cried in bed that night and I know I prayed for Ronald.

  I determined not to have any more weak flirtations like that. I’m awfully weak and silly, I’ve been told that numbers of times. That was the 6th. I wonder who’ll be the 7th? No, I won’t even write what I think this time – but he goes to Cambridge and Margaret says he’s growing a moustache – and oh Jean be quiet, you did fight that down once, don’t bring it up again. Oh, I do hope nobody reads this – I should die if they did.

  What shall I write about now? I know – my past cracks. It was when I was a queer little day-girl in Upper III when I first noticed Lavender Norris. Oh she was sweet! I went absolutely mad about her. She was awfully pretty with long wavy dark hair with little gold bits in it, and dark eyes. Peggy Saunders was gone on her too. I found a hanky of hers once underneath my desk. I gave it back to her and was coldly thanked – she was talking to Miss Prain at the time. One Xmas I sent Lavender some scent of her own name and she wrote back such a sweet letter. We were getting on famously when the next term she got ’flu and a whole crowd of us wrote to her and someone said I was pining away for her. I did write to her again in the Spring hols but she never answered.

  She left in the Summer term 1923. Peggy used to write to her and once she told her about Mummy’s death and Lavender wrote back and said how sorry she was and sent me her love. Angel! I see her sometimes when she comes back as an Old Girl but that is all. If she was to come back again I should still be mad about her I’m sure – but at present Miss Wilmott (A.W.) claims my affections. Everybody knows I’m gone on her and grins knowingly at me and I hate it. I’ve walked with her too – I and Veronica – but on one awful walk I shall never forget Veronica did all the talking and I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. I came home feeling so utterly depressed that I could have howled. I remember some agonising meal times too that term, sitting next to A.W. They are too agonising ever to write here.

  She smiled at me once, quite of her own accord. It was the 2nd of June and we had to go for walks. We were waiting by the gate when I looked up quickly and she was looking at me rather funnily and then she just smiled! I nearly died. She’s never done it since – except once, again that term, when I held the door open for her. I went into ecstasies in the dorm. That term was glorious all through.

  Sunday, 19 April

  Yesterday afternoon Daddy and I went and fetched the car from Harris’s. It had been there to get mended. Daddy and I were going to Marlow and Daddy backed into the tree and bent the front axle and crumpled the mudguard to nothing. Harris came down to fetch it on Tuesday and promised it us on Saturday, but when we got there the mudguard hadn’t come back from the makers, so we took it without. It does look funny but the car goes all right. I do love going out in it so – being able to go and see one’s relations and friends.

  Thursday, 23 April

  We’re down at Torquay at last! Glorious place! We started on Tuesday morning about 9 a.m. and after fetching Miss Watson we carried on till Andover, where we stayed for lunch. Andover is in Hampshire. Daddy drives awfully well!

  After we left Andover we went on to Yeovil in Somerset. We meant to stay the night there but everywhere wa
s full up so we went on to Crewkerne. The hills were something awful for the car, but oh the view from the tops was so lovely. Just after we left Newton Abbot something went wrong with the car.

  Monday, 27 April

  Home again. Such a lot has happened. I shall never forget this trip as long as I live – never.

  Daddy has always addressed Miss Watson with more than usual politeness and kindness. I have wondered often if he meant anything. And when we started on this trip my heart grew very heavy. He seemed so, so, I don’t know how to call it – so very nice to E.W., and I began to think thoughts, thoughts I could not get out of my mind, unbearable thoughts. Oh Mother dearest! My heart grew heavy for you, darling one – it seemed too grotesquely untrue that Daddy could be forgetting you so soon. Jesus alone knows my heartache when Daddy lingered over saying goodnight to her at Crewkerne in the semi-dusk, and tears would come when I got into bed. I was jealous too – I thought, oh Daddy might not love me so much now. And then it rankled a bit to think of her coming into our home and taking your place.

  The next day we arrived at Torquay and we went to see M. Beaucaire (the film) in the evening, and it was glorious and Daddy was so nice and dear to me after and I was so much happier.3

  And then the next day little things cropped up all day – things he said to her, looks they exchanged. I grew sad again until Ethel – yes, I shall call her that – changed quite early for dinner. Just before 6.30 Daddy came in and sat down. In my heart of hearts I knew what was coming. (I had pictured a sort of scene to myself, something like this: Dad comes to me and says, ‘Jean darling, we shall have someone to look after us at last. Ethel has promised to marry me,’ or words to that effect. I knew tears would come and he might say, ‘Why Jean, aren’t you pleased?’ Perhaps then I’d say, bravely gulping down the tears and smiling, ‘Oh yes Daddy, I’m very pleased, but Daddy, have you forgotten mother so soon?’)