Pagan and Her Parents
‘Arditti has skilfully crafted a compelling novel, ably interweaving seemingly insignificant events and asides into the final denouement, and has created in Leo a charming likeable hero. The scenes with Leo and Pagan are both funny and touching’
Time Out
‘A tale of our times … brilliantly illuminated by Arditti, who uses his pen like the brush of a pointillist for his effects, the children being especially real’
Attitude
‘Pagan and her Parents is one of those rare things: a page-turner of a novel with a strong political heart’
The Pink Paper
‘Arditti is unusually deft in his manipulation of the way a narrative unfolds’
Independent
‘Arditti is a literary Hogarth, savaging modern England on many levels. Like Hogarth, Arditti is a moralist. He never accepts the conventional values of the patriarchs but looks to a new extended family. An astonishingly intelligent, funny and touching book’
Scotsman
‘Caustically funny … a wonderful and completely unsentimental evocation of a small girl. Arditti twists and wrests language like a craftsman. Altogether this novel is extraordinarily moving, involving, intelligent and humane – I feel the better for having read it’
Yorkshire Post
‘Arditti writes exceedingly well and with resonance and he traces the ever-evolving relationship between Leo and Pagan with skill and genuine feeling’
Publisher’s Weekly (US)
‘Pagan and Her Parents is an unexpectedly tender book. Gripping and beautifully written’
Catholic Herald
‘Sardonic wit and keen observation. Emotionally convincing … rich in detail’
Times Literary Supplement
‘Timely, relevant and opportune … gripping and vivid … provocative and stimulating. A novel of tension and intrigue’
Morning Star
‘A compulsive, well-written story that poses questions about who is best qualified to bring up a child’
Good Housekeeping [Book of the Month]
‘Pagan and her Parents will split opinion. It tackles taboos that society hardly wants to consider. It is brave, witty and stimulating’
Jewish Chronicle
‘Finely crafted, thought-provoking and topical. Arditti argues the case against prejudice and for civil liberties in an eloquent and entertaining way, and he offers hope for a future based on real humanity’
Gay News
‘A fabulously spell-binding effort. He handles his explosive subject with great tact and humour … A rare, first-rate marriage of crisp, vivid storytelling and political manifesto’
The Advocate Literary Supplement
‘A real page-turner’
San Francisco Chronicle
Pagan and Her Parents
MICHAEL ARDITTI
For my mother
Contents
Praise
Title Page
Dedication
ONE
1
2
3
4
TWO
1
2
3
4
5
THREE
1
2
3
4
5
FOUR
1
2
Copyright
ONE
First Affidavit of Leonard Peter Young
on behalf of the Respondent
Sworn the 25th day of March 1992
In the Brighton County Court
Case No. 7296
In the matter of Pagan Mulliner
And in the matter of the Children’s Act 1989
Between
Muriel Ellen Mulliner &
Edgar Atkins Mulliner
APPLICANTS
and
Leonard Peter Young
RESPONDENT
I, LEONARD PETER YOUNG, Writer and Broadcaster, of 64 Addison Avenue, London VV11, MAKE OATH and say as follows:-
1. I am the respondent in this matter and I have read what purports to be a true copy of the Affidavit sworn by the Applicants on the 12th day of February 1992 and filed herein. I am 37 years old and am the guardian of Pagan Mulliner (herinafter referred to as Pagan).
2. I accept that paragraph 2 of the Applicants’ Affidavit is true. I began living with Candida Mulliner in Cambridge in the autumn of 1974 and continued to do so up until her death in November of last year.
3. I accept that paragraph 3 of the Applicants’ Affidavit is true.
4. I deny the allegations of inadequacy contained in paragraph 4 of the Applicants’ Affidavit and assert that I am fully able to care for Pagan.
5. As to the Applicants’ own relationship with Candida, I would say that their account of the matter in paragraph 5 of their Affidavit is distorted and I would give my own account of it as follows:-
a. Candida informed me of her antipathy to the Applicants, her adopted parents, at our first encounter in Italy in the summer of 1973. It is my belief that her obsessive search for her natural parents sprang entirely from this.
b. It is utterly untrue that I alienated Candida from the Applicants. On the contrary, for years I urged a reconciliation and, on several occasions before her death, suggested that she write to them.
c. My own relationship with my parents is an excellent one; I am in regular contact with my mother, who regards Pagan as a granddaughter.
d. The poster in the Maid’s Causeway kitchen was Candida’s and not mine.
e. I was unaware of the incident said to have occurred on July 30th 1986; but, in view of the Applicants’ response to Candida’s pregnancy, it is no surprise to learn that she gave orders for her mother to be refused entry to the maternity ward.
6. As to the assertions in paragraph 6 of the Applicants’ Affidavit, I would like to comment as follows:-
a. Although my relationship with Candida Mulliner was not a conventional one, it was a perfectly natural one. We enjoyed a loving friendship for over eighteen years, which was the focus of both our lives. It was never exclusive and allowed for the existence of other friendships and other loves.
b. Candida saw sexuality as a means of communication not confinement. She was faithful but not monogamous. She had several lovers at the time of Pagan’s conception and resolutely refused to name the father; I sometimes doubt whether she knew.
c. I have never claimed that Pagan was my daughter by birth. To me the issue is immaterial. Fatherhood is in the love, not the blood.
7. As to the assertion in paragraph 7 of the Applicants’ Affidavit that they are best equipped to care for Pagan, I would like:–
a. to repeat my paragraph 6c.
b. to refer to Candida Mulliner’s express wish in both her sworn statement of 11th September 1988, exhibited to this Affidavit and marked LPY 1, and in her last will and testament, exhibited to this Affidavit and marked LPY 2, in which she asserts that, in the event of her death, the Applicants should have no access to her daughter.
8. I dispute the assertion in paragraph 8 of the Applicants’ Affidavit that, as a man, I am unfit to bring up a girl, and ask whether they would have made such a claim in the case of a biological father. I would add that:–
a. I employ a full-time nanny, Susan Redding, who has lived with us since August 1989. Her relationship with both Pagan and myself is excellent. She has declared her intention to continue in the position for the foreseeable future.
b. Pagan is a lively, intelligent girl with many interests. Since last autumn she has been attending school in Cottesmore Gardens, where her form teacher describes her as ‘ima
ginative, eager to learn, happy in herself and with others’. She is developing a wide social circle, both among her schoolmates and the children of our friends. She goes to riding and ballet classes in the neighbourhood and takes leading rein lessons on Saturday mornings in Hyde Park; these would be seriously disrupted were she to move to Hove.
c. She will not lack for female influence. We have many close women friends who have pledged their help and support.
d. She is devoted to her cat, Trouble, to which the Applicant expressed a marked aversion during her visit on January 22nd of this year. Her exact words were ‘I don’t know why children need pets; dolls are so much cleaner’.
e. If the mother’s influence is paramount, how does the Applicant explain the breakdown of her relationship with her own daughter?
9a. As to paragraph 9a of the Applicants’ Affidavit, I refute the suggestion that Pagan is in any way miserable. I do however believe that some disturbance in her behaviour is only to be expected after the recent death of her mother. The particular problems on January 22nd were entirely due to her reluctance to see the Applicants.
b. As to Paragraph 9b of the Applicants’ Affidavit, I repeat my paragraph 9a and would add that the tension between Pagan and myself noted on January 22nd reflected her fury at my insistence that she meet the Applicants, towards whom she has inherited her mother’s hostility.
c. As to Paragraph 9c of the Applicants’ Affidavit, I can only suppose that this is a wilful misinterpretation. Pagan was referring to my cooking on a spit, not in spit.
10. I deny the Applicants’ assertion that it is not in Pagan’s best interests to remain with me. On the contrary, I have been the one constant factor in her life. From the start, I took charge of her when her mother was on photographic assignments abroad; indeed, it was a standing joke among our friends that ‘I was left holding the baby’. I have since played a major role in her upbringing and education. I have taken her on several foreign holidays. I have been her father in all but name.
a. During the extended and highly distressing period of her mother’s final illness, it was I who cared for her on a daily basis. I ensured that her world stayed secure in the face of her mother’s slow decay. I respected Candida’s wish to remain at home, both for her own sake and to minimise the disturbance to Pagan. I made sense of her fading senses. I interpreted the basic sentences that she printed out on her screen. More recently, I interpreted her death.
11. I believe that to remove Pagan from my care would cause her incalculable distress and confusion. It would increase her sense of loss after the death of her mother. Besides which, I consider that I am better placed than the Applicants to attend to her emotional, educational and material needs. Despite its pressures, my contract with the BBC allows me considerable latitude; my hours are flexible and my summers free. I would urge therefore that she remain with me. If, however, the Court is to grant residence to the Applicants, I would ask to have regular contact so that I can continue to play a part in her life
Sworn by the above-named
Leonard Peter Young,
At 12 Field Court,
Grays Inn, London WC1R 5EN.
This 25th day of March 1992
Before me,
Arthur Ernest Duff.
Solicitor/Commissioner for Oaths
1
I know now why coffins seem small; it is because people are so much larger than their bodies. When we walk into a room, we don’t just inhabit a space, we change it all around us. And you changed more than a space; you changed my life.
First you changed my name. ‘Leonard,’ you said dubiously. … ‘Yes, but my friends call me Lenny.’ And you no longer bothered to hide your distaste. ‘Leo,’ you said triumphantly; ‘we’ll call you Leo.’ And I was as supine as a baby at a christening. Leo: it fitted me; Leo: it flattered me … a cross between a pop star and a pope.
They pack you away like a ventriloquist’s dummy … the same top-heavy torso, the same token legs. I watch the undertaker leaning over you like a children’s magician: his black coat a treasure-trove of tricks and props. I wait for him to slide out a saw, to slit open the wood and for you to spring up, head and feet at either end: a confusion, an optical illusion, but alive.
He wills me forward; the lid looms ominously; I know that I am supposed to take my leave. I rage at their earth-bound souls … their grave-bound assumptions. I can never take my leave of you; these words are the proof. I gaze inside and search in vain for an identifiable expression – the puckered lip of paradox, the furrowed brow of perversity – your face was only real in the turbulence of emotion; it is not one that I recognise in repose.
They lift the lid and I am seized with panic.
‘Not yet!’ I bend to adjust a perfectly set hair. I need to rescue your face from a photographic memory, the frozen images of the future; I refuse to become dependent on other men’s eyes.
They leave; the house is silent. I yearn for God and the consolations of childhood; but I am lost in an adult black hole. My thoughts are torn between grief and grievance. Ours was a lifelong commitment. I want to grow old with you gratefully, disgracefully, checking each other for signs of senility as we once did for secrets of love. I want us to exit together in a nursing-home blaze, from the flames of the hundred candles on our joint birthday cake. You have no right to die and leave me alone.
But I am not alone, I have Pagan … not the consolations of childhood but of one precious child. I have to ease her around your death as I tried to do around your illness … a mother who could not hold her close, a mother who could not change her clothes, a mother at the mercy of her mutineering muscles, who could move nothing unaided but her bowels. You were at least spared the foulest indignity and we the cruellest irony of seeing your daughter being trained on the potty while you were forced to wear pads.
She never knew you otherwise. She never saw you armed for an assignment, bags of equipment stretched across your back, so heavy that we supposed that the initial pains in your legs were a direct result of photographer’s shoulder, as much of an occupational hazard as housemaid’s knee. But then came the numb thumb and the dropped vase and the jerking and the months of misdiagnosis when trapped nerves were superceded by degeneration of the spine and even the false hope of multiple sclerosis; as your chin was collared and your head strapped, which gave you the prospect – and the prospects – of a prisoner in an electric chair.
I scoured the BBC library, borrowed books and burrowed into reports. I re-ran old programmes and lobbied for new. I spoke to experts and ordered equipment until your bedroom resembled a control-room, with every computerised aid that could be operated first with a nod of the head and then with the flick of an eye. I surrounded you with gadgets the way that lovers had showered you with gifts.
And communication became reduced to a few hundred practical phrases that flashed across your screen; the parameters of your life defined by a software firm in Ohio. And with the same caring cruelty that offers black mastectomy patients white prostheses, they gave you a voice like an overemphatic Swede.
For me that was the hardest loss: that voice, with its assumed huskiness that had become second nature – if I do have bedroom eyes, then you had a bedroom voice – fighting for intelligibility, with vowels white with pain. If I live to be a hundred and I blow out all the candles, alone and afraid, I shall never forget your wail of despair when you first dropped Pagan … the world fallen through your fingers and staring up in shock on the floor. And I stood, locked in horror, unable to reassure you or to rescue her.
She was two years old when the sounds began to muffle and you swallowed your words when you could no longer swallow anything else. How she laughed as you were reduced to a diet of baby foods just as she began to eat everything … except for pizza, which makes her think of blood.
How much does she understand …? For that matter, how much do I? I see her playing quietly at the foot of your bed, until the telephone rings, and she grabs it and lifts it to your e
ar and I feel your frustration as she holds it upside down or too far away. I see her wipe away the spittle which pours onto your chin, as though every breath were an epileptic stutter; and I see you torn between rage at your illness and joy in your nurse. I see her bewilderment as your muscles decay and dwindle to the flutter of an eyelid. Then I see her fear, as your emotions veer out of control even more cruelly than your body and you howl with laughter as she comes to you holding a cut finger, until she runs from the room screaming in incomprehension. And that is when I know that you want to die.
Now she stands before me, back from three days staying with Stephanie. I ask if she enjoyed herself.
‘I’m not going again. Stephanie has to go to bed when she’s not sleepy and her mummy won’t even let us talk. Do you think that’s when bad dreams come – when you go to bed before you’re sleepy?’
‘No. They’re not that clever.’
‘I do. And she kept telling us not to make a noise because it wasn’t the right time to play and she wouldn’t say why. I think people should say why they say something, don’t you?’
My first and only line of defence is breached and a lifetime of euphemism flounders on the floor.
‘And she kept looking at me like I was ill or it was the last day of the holidays. I don’t want to go back.’
She leaps into the house. Consuela stands in the hall with her best Ash Wednesday face and gathers her into the apron that she says smells of onions and heat. She wriggles free and runs into your bedroom and stares at the whiteness of it all: the sheets and blankets and flowers all removed and the mattress ominously airing on the bed.
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