A Notable Woman Read online

  I am so lonely, yet who am I to complain? You are tired Jean. But stand up to these pinpricks, grit your teeth, grin and go on, so that when the blows come with God’s help you won’t go under. Poor little lonely soul. If I could give you back your mother I would. But hold up your head and never let the world know. It doesn’t want to know. You are of no consequence to it, so why should it bother?

  Monday, 17 January

  On Thursday I go back to the work and the weariness and the routine, the fun and the laughter and the dread of failure. Exams! That will prove if my last term’s victory was worthwhile, was sincere. It will seem just impossible to think that someday there will be no returning, that I shall have to say farewell to the place which has played the biggest part in my life so far. And after that? The office with Daddy to see what architecture tastes like, and then perhaps more work and exams and a career … when my soul cries out for dancing and film work. I think that after a while you would grow very tired of dancing, and as to films it means very hard work and a lot of pushing.

  Yet again if I did take up architecture for a career – and I should never dare to do so unless I was sure I could make a success of it, for Daddy’s sake – there’ll come a time when I’ll have to toss up between that and a home and babies. It’ll be mighty difficult, but time and these pages will see.

  The smell of eucalyptus, the fluttering of the fire, the ticking of the clock, the occasional rustle of the paper as Ethel turns to read it, her spasmodic conversation, sometimes the dog asleep beneath the table – home and nothing to do. Life would be awful like that.

  Monday, 7 February

  I have come to the conclusion that I am rapidly ‘growing out’ of school. This routine, these petty little rules, this kind captivity. But as H.P. pointed out yesterday it is like climbing a hill. You are dying to get to the top but there’s still a long way to go. The only thing is to climb – so one climbs.

  Sunday, 27 March

  Sometimes I hate everyone, everything. Last night I loathed the thought of the life I’ve got to live: inconspicuous, complacent. I want to do great things, to be great. I can’t bear to think of that office, to pass my years insignificantly as an unsuccessful architect. Why won’t Daddy see these things? I want to do everything people think me incapable of.

  Saturday, 9 April

  I am home again. This term’s report is a simply amazing one. Miss Harris said to me when I was going, ‘Hope you have very jolly holidays Jean – you deserve them.’ My English has developed amazingly – that essay on ‘Night’ was rather a hit. I wonder if I could get Matric?7 It would be such a splendid triumph.

  Last night at half past ten Leslie took me for an hour’s run in Pipsqueak.8 Somewhere out Edgware way. As we sped along some straight wide road Leslie murmured, ‘The road is a river of moonlight/Over the dusky moor.’

  It was rather like that – all the flat uninteresting country on either side hidden by a misty darkness, only the moon and the white stars in a clear hard sky. The thrill of the hour, of speeding through places made totally unfamiliar by the night, passing alone with my brother at midnight. Such things are stored in gold in my memory.

  Tuesday, 24 May

  I said goodbye to Leslie over a week ago. We all got up very early, and Daddy and I went to see him off at Euston. I put on my holiday clothes to see him off. I wonder if he saw the tears in my eyes when I kissed him goodbye. He was standing at the back of the carriage in the shadow – silent – and the train slowly, heartlessly, took him away. All those golden weeks were over. Three whole years, and the most terrible time in front of me.

  Saturday, 28 May

  We played Luckley this afternoon – cricket 2nd XI. Theirs was more or less an A team. Anyway they won 80–74. I made 9 runs, caught one person out, and took one wicket.

  Saturday, 11 June

  Today I went home. There were cherries, strawberries, tall blue lupins, white foxgloves, geraniums, early roses. There was the newly painted kitchen, but Leslie’s room was empty and silent and a white dust sheet covered the bed. Things he had left behind – magazines, ashtrays, the fencing foils, an old coat – were scattered about my room waiting to be cleared away.

  Then I came back to school again, and the Junior party was simply wonderful. They acted Peter Rabbit and Benjamin Bunny, then we made handkerchief animals, each form competing. Then we had light refreshments! There were scenes from Wind in the Willows, then hide and seek.

  There is only one more week before the exams. French oral is on Weds.

  Sunday, 12 June

  I am in a most amusing and entertaining position at the moment. I think I may safely say that I have no attachments to particular people to consider. I stand a little apart, alone yet never really lonely. There are always plenty of people who are quite pleased to have me if I want to come: Laura, Phyllis Yeld, Rosemary G., Doreen Grove, Phyllis Stephenson and Betty Andrews. The latter I like most of all, yet I don’t feel pledged to her in any way.

  Then there is Gwyneth and Dorothy. There is only one way to deal with Gwyneth. That is to elude her for a time. I am not strong enough to dominate her or to keep her as my friend. You have to make her run after you. It is a deadly mistake to run after Gwyneth. Gwyneth is an incorrigible gossip – you never know what she might be saying about you behind your back. Today we were in the garden and we could see Laura P. and Phyllis taking each other’s photos, and Gwyneth made some unwholesome remarks about them. They couldn’t possibly have heard from where they were, but after supper I was sitting with Yeld, Prideaux and Grissell, and during a discussion about people generally Gwyneth and Dorothy were mentioned. ‘I always feel,’ said Yeld to me, ‘that those two are watching us. When Laura and I were taking photos of each other in the garden I was sure they were talking of us.’ I chuckled inwardly.

  Thursday, 23 June

  The worst of them are over – finished. Arithmetic, History, Geometry, French, Algebra and English. I have washed them away in my bath tonight and now I am between clean sheets and in clean pyjamas.

  I do not think I have got Matric. I wrote a fairly decent essay on Modern Communication. The Grammar I think I did fairly well on too, perhaps I have got Credit. The Set Books I am not so sure about. Algebra – of course that was unspeakable. I have obviously failed in that. The French was better than I expected. The Geom was better in comparison to the Algebra. History of course – well, I cannot say. Miss Stapley said I was her ‘hope’ just before I went in. One question we have all done wrong: the Civil War of 1649 we all took to be the First Civil War, 1642–46. The Arithmetic was amazingly easy – too easy I think. I have yet to pass in Drawing and Botany, which I think I shall do.

  Although it has been a very long week, this week has been by far the nicest. The free half-hour in the garden before the exams, swinging high up level with the gym windows and the wind in your hair, the scent and colour of the herbaceous border, the thrill of being a candidate – the privileges and prestige! It is all over now and the days will never be the same.

  Tuesday, 28 June

  I had thought there was no heart left in me and I had killed that wayward passion for Miss Wilmott long ago. But tonight as I came in late from the garden at 8.45 she came in through the doors into the Back Hall. There was no one there but she and I and I was in a hurry, but as I dashed around the corner of the stairs I said ‘goodnight’ as she passed. The light was dim and the shadows long, but she turned her head and I think she may have smiled as she said ‘Goodnight Jean’ in the way she used to do two years ago. I knew in that moment I could have died for her and that I shall never be able to forget. ‘Those who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night.’9 I believe that she may grow to care more than I have ever cared to hope. What can I do? She lives in a world of games and speed and swift thought – hard practical ideas – and straight, slim eager girls who love to do difficult and complicated things on ropes and bars and things and who scorn such lazy ones as I.
She said, ‘So long as you try I will help you – I will help you for ever if only you’ll try.’

  Monday, 25 July

  It has come, that dreamed-of long-dreaded hour when I sit alone for the last time in my room at PHC.10 Miss Parker has made me an Old Girl. I shall be able to come back next term and see those who are not leaving. I cannot believe that it is all over. I have not been able to see or speak to A.W. But at least I can write.

  Wednesday, 27 July

  And now I am home again. It is half-past six in the morning and I am going to get up soon and make the tea. It is raining.

  3.

  Such a Long Way Down

  Saturday, 13 August 1927

  I just loathe Ethel when she begins making subtle remarks about my future prospects. I hate it. I don’t want to get married. She thinks she’ll get all the sugar when I’ve chosen a husband. She shan’t. I shall run away – anywhere. She shall have nothing to do with my babies if I ever have any. Mother had all the hard work, and Ethel will get all the ‘juicy bits’ of being a grandmother. There’ll be a bust-up one of these days, such a bust-up. They are both on the landing and Daddy tried the door just now. I am doing ‘very private work’.

  Sunday, 14 August

  I think I must tell you about my farewell to A.W. For the very last few days of term Miss Hawkes had been taking roll-call, but on Tuesday morning (the last day) she went with the Irish mail. I made a rapid calculation that it was 10–1 A.W. might be taking her place. When the 7.40 bell went I prayed it might be so I went to investigate. And she was there, standing just outside the Big Hall watching us drift downstairs. It was my one and only chance and I grabbed it.

  ‘You’ll be going directly after breakfast, won’t you Miss Wilmott,’ I said. ‘Well I don’t expect I shall see you so I’ll say goodbye now.’ She shook hands with me. There was a wonderful light in her eyes and she smiled and said goodbye and then waited … I believe she knew I might say something else. Then it was like plunging into a cold bath or stepping into the sea. ‘Miss W.,’ I went on, turning puce, ‘I’m awfully sorry I haven’t been able to get to know you better here.’ We moved a little aside out of the way of people coming downstairs. ‘Well Jean,’ she said softly, ‘there hasn’t been much time has there?’ ‘And,’ I hesitated, pulling at the banister with nervous fingers. ‘Yes?’ she said kindly. ‘I may go on writing to you, mayn’t I?’ ‘Oh yes, rather!’ she laughed. We moved towards the door, ‘Yes Jean, do write. I shall be pleased to hear …’ Then somehow it was all over. It was wonderful. I am so glad I did it. My school career ended gloriously.

  I did just about what I expected in the exams. I failed in Maths, passed in History, Arithmetic, French. I only got a credit for Botany and passed in Drawing. And I got credit in English.

  Sunday, 21 August

  Ethel and I have talked together about the bigger things. But I cannot say what I feel, what I know. I was surprised to find out how very simple was her nature, how little she seemed to know of life. God has given me a far-seeing vision and a certain amount of understanding – I have an imagination. It is my most precious possession. And it is what Ethel lacks. Her hard practical character is redeemed by a very deep and broad sense of humour which enables her to see things from a wide point of view, but she hasn’t yet learnt to dream by day. I don’t think she ever will. She is inclined to laugh at all that I hold dear.

  Tuesday, 23 August

  This morning I took Daddy in Pipsqueak over to Acton and we went to Eastman’s [garage]. I came back by myself and all was going swimmingly until I tried to get into the garage. For the second time I nearly knocked down the gatepost, only it was the other one this time and the gate is unhinged. What will Daddy say? These sort of things just crush the spirit out of you. I wanted to creep away somewhere like an ashamed dog and howl. Why can’t I steer straight?11

  There’s no getting away from it – it is my eyes. I must see Mr Roberts this week. I called in on Harris’s on the way back about the valves and the reverse gear, the latter being mighty difficult to engage. Of course when he did it it went beautifully and he only laughed.

  Sunday, 11 September

  I went to Mr Roberts and I have over-strained my eyes. It was part of the price of the Schools Cert. In consequence I am not able to do any of the things I like best, i.e. reading, writing and driving. Also sewing. I shall probably be going to a specialist in the future. I don’t think I had better write any more now.

  Sunday, 18 September

  Do you know a month from today I shall be 18 and I shall be allowed to smoke! O glorious day.

  Tuesday, 20 September

  Retrospect:

  Tipping up in a perambulator left in the conservatory while the others were having dinner. Green peas. Golden curls and blue ribbons. Making houses with the bedclothes before breakfast. Running about naked and thrilling with the feel of it. A white silk frock and a big blue sash and dancing slippers. Dancing lessons. The polka with Noreen. Buddy’s cousin. Swinging at the bottom of the garden. Summer days and the smell of citronella to keep away the gnats. Bare legs and the wonderful silver fountain of the hose. Daddy in a white sweater. School. Very small, very shy. The afternoon in May – taken by mother to Penrhyn. Learning how to write the letters of the alphabet. A beautiful clean exercise book and a new pencil. Miss Wade at the head of the dining room table and me at her right. Choking tears because of youth’s cruelty. Leslie as a cadet in khakis. Wartime. Air raids. Mother white-faced and fearful. Mummy and Daddy who were ‘lovers still’. Youth’s sudden fierce resentment. Lavender, Peggy, Veronica and I. The Xmas when Mummy wasn’t there. Mummy white-faced and old eyes grown tired with suffering yet dimly alight with that courage which never quite died. The sudden night-fears. The long lonely nights that ended and she was home again. Hot days when she sat in the garden. Nurse Petersson. Darkness in her bedroom. The electric fan and ice to keep it cool. Leslie suddenly brought home to see his mother for the last time. An afternoon in late July when we all came into her room and she prayed for us. Realisation that my fears were true. Tears. Tears. A dull sudden despair. Tennis and laughter. Boarding school next term at PHC! Thrills of the new life before me. Clothes. Mummy’s last kiss on my lips and my eyes dim with tears. Two shillings in my hand. Gwyneth as a new girl next to me. Bells, bells. Nights spent praying. The Tuesday morning French lesson. Boredom itself. Miss Rodger’s face round the door. ‘May Jean Pratt go to Miss Parker.’ The absurd consciousness of having on my lavender jumper. The swing doors and Miss Parker beyond. ‘Your father is in the drawing room my dear, he has something to say to you.’ The sudden knowledge of the end of all things. Daddy red-eyed and tired with open arms and only a sob to tell me everything. Tears. Tears and unbearable heartache. Home for the day. Aunt Edith outside in their car waiting for me. Workmen that stopped to stare. A silence that greeted me as I stepped inside the house. Mother was dead. A sudden fierce desire to turn round and run away. Anywhere. ‘She will be very still.’ The peace that smoothed away the suffering from her face. And her forehead so cold when I kissed it. The gold of the sunshine outside. Back to school. Feeling paralysed. Pleased with sudden elevation of position the simple tragedy had placed me in. The weekend and the flowers. White lilies that I threw after the coffin. It seemed such a long way down. We left her under the yew tree covered with flowers.

  The term went by and the holidays came as all holidays will. Daddy alone. So he worked to save himself from dying of a broken heart. And so the years went by. And Ethel came. And life became what it is now.

  Sunday, 9 October

  I am beginning to live again – at last! But there is still something lacking – just a boy. To take me to the pictures, to be teased about, to write me letters, to dance with me, to sort of fill Leslie’s place. But I must be patient. I know it’s my glasses, always has been. Leslie said once, ‘I suppose you’ve got to wear glasses? You know, without pulling your leg, you’re a pretty girl.’

  And I, fool that I was, a
nswered ‘I know!’ I didn’t mean to leave it at that. I had meant to add that ‘my glasses don’t improve my looks,’ but somehow I couldn’t get it out, and he’s gone away thinking perhaps I’m conceited. Perhaps he’s right.

  I have asked Miss Wilmott to tea! Daddy suggested it. I’ve asked her!

  I love the work at the office. I am learning shorthand and typewriting at the moment.

  Thursday, 20 October

  The dreamed-of has happened. SHE has sat in the drawing room and drunk our tea. I have talked with her and walked with her, as I sighed for long ago. But the things we spoke about were very ordinary, everyday things. I was nervous at first and felt frightfully sick, but by tea-time I gradually calmed down. She was very sweet. Nothing embarrassing happened. Ethel is in bed with a frightful cold and Daddy couldn’t get home, so it was just she and I, a whimsical trick of fate. How extraordinary life is. And yet I’m not as thrilled as I dreamed of being. Sentimental relationships are always embarrassing.

  And I’m eighteen! The time one longs for comes around at last. This evening when Daddy came in I was smoking a State Express and neither of us remarked on it.

  Saturday, 22 October

  It is a miserable day and Leslie has forgotten my birthday.

  Thursday, 1 December

  I was half awake this morning when the clock struck 8. Then Daddy came in with two letters. One he gave to me – it was only my dividend and he waited till I read it. There was something strained in his attitude. I knew before he told me that he had some sort of bad news. But I knew it couldn’t be Ethel. It was Leslie. I had to hold my hand over my heart very tightly to stop it beating before I could open the Company’s letter. He has diphtheria. A mild attack they say. He is lying ill now, now as I write this, and we cannot do anything because of the miles that separate us, the miles of this ‘small’ world. But he is in Montevideo. The Company will let us know how he gets on. But I cannot help thinking of the things that might happen.