Brief Lives (3 page)

Those innocent films of the late 30s and early 40s influenced the outlook and the behaviour of a generation or two of young men and women. Girls with no experience whatever learned to be provocative, and boys, with even less experience, to be dashing. In reality they were fledglings, playing at desire, and finding the game delightful, arguably more delightful than the real thing, which they learned about much later, sometimes with bitterness, sometimes for life—for divorce was thought to be a disgrace, something not even to be contemplated—and without any sign of
singing
or dancing. Women with small children always appeared to me to be middle-aged when I was a child, while the cinema was the world of eternal youth. I learned, when I grew older, that eternal youth is too precious a delusion ever to be relinquished: it has to find a place somewhere, be enshrined in a myth, an ideal, even a fantasy. In those days before the war we lived a dream of innocence that the war years did not entirely shatter, even when we had seen sights which should never be seen by anyone, man or woman. It seems to me now, looking back, that one’s chances of happiness pertained only to youth, that one avoided adulthood for as long as possible. Adulthood came abruptly with marriage, and middle age with children. People rarely seemed to be as happy as they had hoped to be, before they grew up.

I dare say it is all different now. The young people I meet, the daughters and sons of friends, seem incredibly experienced, although their faces are still tender. Studying these sons and daughters, all hard work and practical endeavour, all high standards and high achievement, and thinking back
to my own young days I see myself, when I was their age, as totally unawakened, and not only unawakened but protected. I had no conception of worldliness other than what I saw on the screen or read about in Mother’s library books. Worldliness was quite simply for other people. Except that in the cinema one could gain one’s heart’s desire (without losing one’s head, of course) simply by possessing a pair of dancing feet or a pretty singing voice. Mother’s ambition for me was born in those early days, and although I should have been happier sitting under the elderberry tree, dreaming, or bouncing a ball against the side of the house, I was made to learn the piano, to take dancing lessons, and, when, to my mother’s disappointment, I revealed myself to be lacking in the sort of petulance and spirit then thought necessary in a dancer, to learn to sing, under the direction of Mme Mojeska, who was a real Polish lady, of some distinction, living on a small pension of mysterious origin and the fees of a few stolid little English girls, and probably the greatest stroke of luck I ever had in my young life. She taught me to sing, and not only to sing but to breathe and to hold myself properly: I learned to walk tall and to strengthen my chest and diaphragm, which is probably why I kept my figure for so long.

In addition to being a cinema manager, my father was a Freemason and a poker player, which I thought enormously sophisticated of him. Throughout my childhood my father was a hero to me: did he not wear evening dress? I see now that he was an easy-going sort of man, indulgent, cheery, probably undistinguished. He had a sort of
bonhomie
that I have always appreciated in a man, an ability to put himself and others at ease, to impart a feeling of goodwill and whole-heartedness. Amiability: too few men possess the gift. I realize now that this amiability compensated for a
certain weakness of character, and then I remind myself that even his weaknesses were amiable. No women in his life except my mother; only cards, and a certain amount of drink. Mother grew agitated when she saw him sitting in his shirt sleeves and braces, a glass of beer to hand, the dinner jacket discarded until the following evening. She always had more ambition than he had, more desire, I should now say, although it was a desire that was never satisfied. Father was too amiable to feel desire: what he wanted was an easy life, without challenges or impossible dreams, and with a certain provision of popularity and entertainment. Standing in the foyer, greeting patrons with a dignified and welcoming smile, he was a far more impressive figure than the man who later sat in his shirt sleeves and braces, wiping the froth of the beer from his brown moustache. Mother would hiss at him to put his jacket back on: he would simply pour himself another glass of beer. Sometimes Mother would leave the room in a huff; sometimes there would be tears as she saw the prospect of the modern flat in Finchley or Acton receding, saw herself condemned to pressing her husband’s evening trousers at the ironing board in the dark scullery for the rest of her life. And no lift, no jazzy carpet, no landscaped forecourt to compensate her for her labours. She grew haggard even in my lifetime as a child. But always dutiful, always obedient, a good wife. This was all the more remarkable since they were not very well matched. My mother should have had a chance at a more glamorous existence, not the harassed timid routines she repeated in our house. She was a fine looking woman, with great dark eyes, but she lost her looks too soon, when she was still young, although I never thought of her as young. She was simply my mother, who needed my protection when she went to the cinema, in case anyone should grow bold
enough to speak to her; she was the woman who scolded my father, whose side, of course, I took; the woman who walked me to my singing lessons and waited for me so that she could walk me home after them. Something in her was appeased by those lessons. She seemed softer, quieter, as we strolled back, through the modest streets, looking at the modest shops. ‘Stop a minute, Fay,’ she would say. ‘I’ll just get one of those brown loaves for Father. He does so enjoy fresh bread.’ I loved her all the more at those times.

I wanted my parents to love each other, as I dare say all children do, but really I loved my father best. I wanted him to go out and enjoy himself, even when Mother raised objections. The Freemasons were just about all right, although she felt nothing but contempt for the mysteries men got up to among themselves. I think she felt that men had no business to exclude or ignore women. But the Freemasons did good work, supported hospitals and schools, which in part satisfied her sense of propriety. What she could not stand were the all-night card games, which was why they never took place in our house. My father had a number of cronies who were keen poker players, and on a Saturday night he would change his evening clothes for a pair of grey flannels, a clean shirt, and a pullover, kiss my mother goodnight and go to the pub, where, because one of his partners was the publican, and because the publican’s wife was an easy-going sort of woman, he would join up with Harry and Joe and Paddy in a back room and stay there after hours, playing poker and drinking beer, until about three o’clock in the morning. On Sundays he rarely got up before noon. But he was a careful man, and I never saw him neglected or shabby, and he was always good-humoured. He loved my mother without ever understanding her, while I was the pride of his life. And whatever Mother had against his
card-playing friends it was through the good offices of one of them, Harry, a small-time theatrical agent, that I got my first engagement. But this is to look into the future, and to the times that were beginning to be more grown-up, when what I like to remember is the golden days when we were a family, and, despite everything, loved each other so much.

I grew up thinking that the world could be won with a pair of dancing feet or a pretty singing voice, and that all one had to do was to keep one’s white collars fresh and one’s hair regularly shampooed. And so it proved for me. But that came later; later too came information of a more unwelcome kind. What I remember, and what influenced me for so long, was the ritual that was enacted on Sunday afternoons in that narrow house, which now, I suppose, belongs to someone far wealthier than my parents ever dreamed of being. On Sundays, in the dying afternoon, we were at peace. Mother would have changed into one of her nice dresses—she was always well-dressed—and Father would fold up his newspaper and lay it aside with a sigh of contentment. ‘My girls,’ he would say. ‘My two beauties.’ Mother would briefly smile, her irritations forgotten. When I went to Paris on my honeymoon I saw that Mother was one of nature’s Frenchwomen, restless and active, with high social aspirations and a sense of style, both available and potential, and not much given to relaxation. But on Sunday afternoons we seemed to blend into one another, to form one dreaming unit, while the light faded outside and the fire shifted in the grate. I would sit on a stool at Father’s feet: Mother would be knitting. Or we would be reading, the simple honest stories which Mother brought home from Boots Lending Library and which were for us a source of endless pleasure, an integral part of Sunday, with nothing harsh or disturbing to tell us, and always a happy ending.
Few people nowadays would be content with such diversions, yet that interval before it got too dark to read seemed to me—still seems to me—magical. I could not recreate it now, no matter how hard I tried, and part of the desolation of my last days will stem from the knowledge that I have never managed to replace it with anything of equal weight. But I was never destined for a happy ending, although I was so very happy at the beginning. I still wonder how this came about, although I am now in full possession of the facts.

They wanted me to be happy, to be admired, to be a success. And I suppose they wanted me to be married, although they hoped that this would be in the far distant future. They never spoke of grandchildren: I was enough for them. And they were so good to me. There was no fuss when I moved out, into the little flat in Foubert’s Place which I shared with a girl I met when I was working with the orchestra. We broadcast in the mornings at eleven o’clock: Millie was the mezzo and I was the lyric soprano, and we sang on alternate programmes. I’ve kept in touch with her, although we see each other only rarely; she lives in the country now, a widow like myself. She comes to town to do her Christmas shopping and we meet for lunch. She is much heavier now, but still sweet-natured, still smiling. She was a lovely girl, older and more experienced than I was, and very kind. The kindness of Millie prolonged my innocence for even longer than was natural, I suppose, although it seemed natural to me. She was out nearly every night, and I was happy to wake her the following morning with a cup of tea. Mother was pleased for me: she felt that her ambitions had been fulfilled when she had a daughter living in the West End, sharing a flat as bachelor girls were supposed to do, and being busy and bonny and hopeful. She never missed one of our programmes. And Father would forgo his
Sunday morning rest to bring over some of the good china that Mother never used and some new pots and pans. Which was silly, when I come to think of it, because I always went home on Sunday afternoons and could have brought them back myself. But really he wanted to see how we were living and whether we were keeping the flat clean and tidy. Mother came too, but not on the same day. This was an enormous adventure for her; she hated to go out. She would bring a cake and I would make tea for her, and afterwards I would show her the shops in Regent Street and walk her to the bus stop. ‘Wait a bit, Fay,’ she would say. ‘Is there a shop where I could buy something for Father? A little loaf, perhaps?’

My father collapsed in the foyer of his cinema one night in early December. An ambulance was called, although it was quite obvious that he was dead: it was unthinkable that he should be found on the premises. Mother had him brought home, and the following day I was sent for. I remember standing at the window, looking out at the black skeletal trees, and wondering how such sadness was to be borne. My grief was literally painful to me: I could hardly breathe. I have had other sorrows since then, and maybe the virtue of growing older is that one is more stoical; one accepts the burden of life, knowing that the alternative is simply death, non-existence, non-feeling. And it is inherent in the organism to want to endure for as long as possible, even for ever, so that one becomes willing to take on all the mishaps, all the tragedies, if they are the price to be paid. But I only learned this much later, and even now I have to learn the lesson every day. At that time, looking out of the window at the bare frightening leafless trees, I simply wondered if life could ever be the same again. And it never was; time had passed over it, and change was now the rule.

I laugh at people who tell me, now, that life will never be the same: perhaps I am too cheerful with the widows I meet. And, as I say, I have had other sorrows since then. But life never was the same after that. I was young; I recovered. Mother never did. Immediately after the funeral she lost the will to live. She had been intermittently furious with my father for as long as I could remember, but now that his chair was empty her agitation disappeared, and she sat for hours, unwilling to move, her eyes full of fear. Even with me she was fearful. Her only brave reaction was to send me back to the flat and to Millie, although I wanted to stay with her. ‘You’re no good to me here,’ she said. ‘I’ll manage. There’s not much to do. And I’m not going to let you ruin your life for me. I’ll manage,’ she repeated. ‘He’s with me all the time, Fay. I feel him near me. You go, dear. My place is here. Not yours.’ I thought that magnificent of her, but I left only because I felt myself to be excluded, knowing nothing then of the nature of married love. I left, and took a taxi back to Foubert’s Place, where Millie was waiting for me with hot tea. She was such a good friend to me, and Mother had been so impressive, so dignified, that I felt very lucky and was soon myself again. So I think now. But then it was different, in the long dark days of that winter. There was a place in my heart that could never be filled, and I felt the pain of it for many years, years in which I enjoyed an apparently happy and successful existence, years in which, gradually, my heart died, until at last it was brought to life again.

LAVINIA LANGDON
, the woman who was to become my mother-in-law, instructed me to address her as Vinnie at our first meeting, which took place in her flat in Swan Court, Chelsea Manor Street, on an unnaturally hot spring day in late April. I remember being dazzled by the many cut glass mirrors and decanters in her tiny over-furnished sitting-room, but not too dazzled to notice a fine bloom of dust. Vinnie herself had something of the same glitter and dustiness. She was a small, very thin woman with a blatantly made-up face; lustreless dark curls were confined under one of those little spotted veils which were so fashionable in the 50s, and lipstick seeped from her pursed mouth to the deep, bitterly indented lines at the corners. The eyes were fine, dark and haunted, set in a landscape of blue shadow and ornamented with quill-like lashes. She was wearing a pink tweed suit which looked as if it had been made for a child; even so it seemed too big for her, but the effect was deliberate, for it showed off her slim and astonishingly girlish legs,
of which she was obviously proud, for she habitually crossed and uncrossed them, and made as if to pull down the skirt with a freckled hand loaded with rings.