any way by his death. But then she never reckoned fathers much. And since she didn’t see why I should take his loss personally, I tried not to. I did cry on the way back to Amen Court and a lady on the bus asked me if anything was the matter and I remember saying, ‘I have no home and now no father.’ Then I cheered up. I had a sense of drama, but could not keep self-pity up for long. On the night train up to St Andrews I took off my black armband and that I thought was that. He shouldn’t have gone and died if he wanted my love. Fatherless—so what was new anyway?
Black armbands—strips of black satin bought at the haberdashers—had become fashionable in the war, replacing the wearing of black clothes to signify a family bereavement, and my mother, as a concession to the event, had bought them for Jane and me to take to university. Our new friends would treat us more tenderly, or perhaps find a useful way of striking up a conversation. Jane—having left school at fourteen and finished the correspondence courses which were to earn her a matriculation certificate—that wonderful document which qualified you to get to University—and now living in a bed-sitting room—set off for Exeter as I set out for St Andrews. I don’t know whether Jane wore her armband, or not. We did not discuss such things, or indeed, ever talk about my mother as if she were not in the room, which precluded discussion of my father’s death. And as Jane went South and I went North, my mother went West, to St Ives in Cornwall, having decided all places under the sun were equal, and St Ives was where the pin struck that she had held over a map of the land, and let it fall. Almost off the map, not quite. Which is why it happened that Jane met her husband Guido the artist in St Ives, and they begat Christopher, Rachel and Benjamin, who begat Alexander, Isobel and Imogen, Nat, Jake and Henrietta—and all of them come to Christmas dinner, long after Guido and Jane are gone. And all live in houses which do not vanish under their noses: we work hard at it and keep the gardens nice.
I remember the armband so vividly. 1949. I stepped aboard the train in England wearing it, and off the train in Scotland without it. I remember the act of will it took to take it off. I felt ungrateful and disobedient, but I meant to be a person without a past, only a future. Of course it is not so easy.
To wear black at all—now the mainstay of most wardrobes, and a symbol of smart practicality—was still seen in the Forties and Fifties as unlucky. (As for white lilies, ‘funeral flowers’—they should never be brought into a house. The association with coffins was too strong, not to mention the white waxiness of the blooms themselves, too like the corpse itself to be countenanced.) The armband was a kind of halfway house, between the excesses of Victorian mourning and today’s way of achieving ‘closure’ as soon as possible, by way of Bereavement Support Groups. It was an explanatory statement to strangers. ‘Forgive me if I’m not as polite or considerate as I should be. If I cry in the street, on the bus, I am not mad. Someone close to me has died.’ It should be revived: I should not have taken it off.
The quad at St Andrews was bleak stone and the green grass formal, and the paths formed like a saltire cross. It was a long way from home but there was no home anyway. Ghosts stalked the town and haunted the long beaches, but we students wore red flannel gowns to keep out the cold, and sat in lecture halls where our predecessors had gathered for five hundred years, bringing sacks of oats to pay for their tuition, and slept as they did from too much wine and debauchery. There were crosses in the cobbles to mark where prelates had been burned to death for their beliefs. All could have recanted and been saved, but they preferred not to. They would rather be right about the transubstantiation of the Virgin Mary. For lack of a family, I daresay, I regained a sense of ‘we’ which has never left me. ‘We’ students, in defiance of our teachers, ‘we’ workers in defiance of the bosses, ‘we’ writers in defiance of the TV moguls, ‘we’ women in defiance of men. And in the meanwhile I found friends and chattered on.
I cried when I was twenty-five rising twenty-six and had run away from what I saw as a bad husband (I think in retrospect I was a worse wife than he ever was husband) with my little boy tucked under my arm. Now I needed to get him into a nursery school, so I could be free to work. The husband, headmaster of a secondary school, married to provide a roof over our heads, was the ‘no wife of mine works’ kind of man, prevalent in the Fifties. I had flung myself into a hostile world with no means of support, not even from the State. My mother was in a sorry state, living as a companion to an elderly woman with whom she did not get on, and had only a single room to her name. I would be no more welcome in that house than my mother had been before I was born, in the hospital where my father, her husband, had found a live-in job as a single man. Lithe single women can be slotted in anywhere, sneak in and out of institutions at night, but not women with children. (No wonder the birth rate falls as women everywhere learn how to look after their own interests.) Somehow, now, I had to earn. Just another runaway Fifties wife, I wept in front of the woman who ran the school, and didn’t want to admit my child and so encourage immorality. That was in August, 1957. I was really low, so sorry for myself. ‘Somewhere to live’, difficult enough today, was even more difficult then, and the State even more reluctant to help.
I was staying with friends, Laura and Stephen Cohen, in Yeoman’s Row, in Knightsbridge, in the flat Laura’s father, Wells Coates, the Bauhaus architect, had designed. They were good to me in the hour of my need, and took me and Nicolas in without a thought for their own convenience, dreadful cold in the nose and all. It was the kind of cold one gets when relieved from a great pressure and strain, and the body allows itself to give up its defences and descends into welcome illness. It was spectacular.
That day at the nursery school I wept, and sneezed, and sneezed and wept, and the headmistress relented, and Nicolas was allowed in her day care centre. Weep and plead, as a woman, and it shall be given to you. I see I have taught Trisha the same sorry lesson. But sometimes one can’t help it: the tears flow unbidden. The first time at the therapist it is normal for the client to cry and cry. The story of one’s life, told by oneself to a sympathetic listener, induces great self-pity and indeed childishness. Afterwards one is ashamed.
As it happened I only sent Nicolas to the centre for a single day. The children were so pale and sad, the weather so cold, little stiff arms pushed into winter coats, the weeping when the mothers departed so distressing. I could see that the idea of childcare was fine in theory but appalling in practice: that the interests of children and parent overlapped but as so often did not coincide, and what was good, and indeed necessary, for the mother was not automatically good for the child. Unless of course the parent is so horrible in the first place—and a few are—that being at a distance from them can only be advantageous. I took Nicolas out of his nursery that evening and never took him back. I wanted my freedom: I wanted to live unobserved and uncriticised, I wanted to be free of husbandly and motherly interference and control, but want, I could see, must be my master for a time yet. I wrote to my mother and asked her if she would leave companioning her old lady and help me with Nicolas and she said she would. Of course she did; I knew she would. We might be back to where we’d been before I had been panicked into marriage with the headmaster but at least times were better. The baby was now a child and easier to look after, and I had the promise of a better-paid job, one more fitting my graduate state, found for me by my lover and mentor, the Dane.
I wept and wept when the Dane, a yachtsman copy writer, author of Bridge That Gap With Cadbury’s Snack and other famous sayings, went on holiday with his wife on money I lent him for the purpose. That was in 1957. How could I refuse? He had found me the job, that of a trainee copy writer, at Crawfords, a proper big time agency situated in High Holborn. It had the Milk Marketing Board account—Drinka Pinta Milka Day—amongst others, and I loved him, and was (minimally) guilty because he was married. 1958, and my mother and I found a flat on the top floor of a house in Earls
