Prisoner's Base

by Celia Fremlin

  Prisoner’s Base

  CELIA FREMLIN

  Contents

  Title Page

  Preface to the 2014 Edition

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  Copyright

  Preface to the 2014 Edition

  Celia Fremlin was born in Kingsbury, Middlesex, on 20 June 1914, to Heaver and Margaret Fremlin. Her father was a doctor, and she spent her childhood in Hertfordshire before going on to study at Oxford. Between 1958 and 1994 she published sixteen novels of suspense and three collections of stories, highly acclaimed in their day. Sadly, Fremlin’s work had largely fallen out of print by the time I discovered her for myself in the mid-1990s. But I was captivated by the elegant, razor-sharp quality of her writing and – as often when one finds an author one is passionate about – keen to learn more about the writer’s life. Then, in early 2005, I had the great good fortune of having several conversations with Celia Fremlin’s elder daughter Geraldine Goller. Geraldine was a charming woman and I found our discussions enlightening, helping me to understand Celia Fremlin better and to appreciate why she wrote the kind of books she did.

  One noteworthy thing I gathered from Geraldine was that her mother (highly academic as a young woman, even before she found her vocation in fiction) was invariably to be found immersed in her latest writing project – to the exclusion, at times, of her family. Geraldine also told me that her mother was notorious within the home for embroidering the truth, and was quite often caught out by her family for telling ‘little white lies’. Geraldine, however, read no badness into this trait: she simply put it down to her mother’s creative streak, her ability to fabricate new identities for people – even for herself.

  Who, then, was the real Celia Fremlin? The short biographies in her books tended to state that she was born in Ryarsh, Kent. Geraldine, however, informed me that her mother was raised in Hertfordshire, where – we know for a fact – she was admitted to Berkhamsted School for Girls in 1923; she studied there until 1933. Ryarsh, then, was perhaps one of those minor fabrications on Fremlin’s part. As a fan of hers, was I perturbed by the idea that Fremlin may have practised deceit? Not at all – if anything, it made the author and her works appear even more attractive and labyrinthine. Here was a middle-class woman who seemed to delight in re-inventing herself; and while all writers draw upon their own experiences to some extent, ‘reinvention’ is the key to any artist’s longevity. I can imagine it must have been maddening to live with, but it does suggest Fremlin had a mischievous streak, evident too in her writing. And Fremlin is hardly alone in this habit, even among writers: haven’t we all, at one time or another, ‘embellished’ some part of our lives to make us sound more interesting?

  Even as a girl, Celia Fremlin wrote keenly: a talent perhaps inherited from her mother, Margaret, who had herself enjoyed writing plays. By the age of thirteen Celia was publishing poems in the Chronicle of the Berkhamsted School for Girls, and in 1930 she was awarded the school’s Lady Cooper Prize for ‘Best Original Poem’, her entry entitled, ‘When the World Has Grown Cold’ (which could easily have served for one of her later short stories). In her final year at Berkhamsted she became President of the school’s inaugural Literary and Debating Society.

  She went on to study Classics at Somerville College, Oxford, graduating with a second. Not one to rest on her laurels, she worked concurrently as a charwoman. This youthful experience provided a fascinating lesson for her in studying the class system from different perspectives, and led to her publishing her first non-fiction book, The Seven Chars of Chelsea, in 1940. During the war Fremlin served as an air-raid warden and also became involved in the now celebrated Mass Observation project of popular anthropology, founded in 1937 by Tom Harrisson, Charles Madge and Humphrey Jennings, and committed to the study of the everyday lives of ordinary people. Fremlin collaborated with Tom Harrisson on the book War Factory (1943), recording the experiences and attitudes of women war workers in a factory outside Malmesbury, Wiltshire, which specialised in making radar equipment.

  In 1942, Fremlin married Elia Goller: they would have three children, Nicholas, Geraldine and Sylvia. According to Geraldine, the newlyweds moved to Hampstead, into a ‘tall, old house overlooking the Heath itself’, and this was where Geraldine and her siblings grew up. Fremlin was by now developing her fiction writing, and she submitted a number of short stories to the likes of Women’s Own, Punch and the London Mystery Magazine. However she had to endure a fair number of rejections before, finally, her debut novel was accepted. In a preface to a later Pandora edition of said novel Fremlin wrote:

  The original inspiration for this book was my second baby. She was one of those babies who, perfectly content and happy all day, simply don’t sleep through the night. Soon after midnight she would wake; and again at half past two; and again at four. As the months went by, I found myself quite distracted by lack of sleep; my eyes would fall shut while I peeled the potatoes or ironed shirts. I remember one night sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, my baby awake and lively in my arms it dawned on me: this is a major human experience, why hasn’t someone written about it? It seemed to me that a serious novel should be written with this experience at its centre. Then it occurred to me – why don’t I write one?

  The baby who bore unknowing witness to Fremlin’s epiphany was, of course, Geraldine. It would be some years before Fremlin could actually put pen to paper on this project, but the resulting novel, The Hours Before Dawn (1959), went on to win the Edgar Award for Best Crime Novel from the Mystery Writers of America, and remains Fremlin’s most famous work.

  Thereafter Fremlin wrote at a steady pace, publishing Uncle Paul in 1960 and Seven Lean Years in 1961. Those first three novels have been classed as ‘tales of menace’, even ‘domestic suspense’. Fremlin took the everyday as her subject and yet, by introducing an atmosphere of unease, she made it extraordinary, fraught with danger. She succeeded in chilling and thrilling her readers without spilling so much as a drop of blood. However, there is a persistent threat of harm that pervades Fremlin’s writing and she excels at creating a claustrophobic tension in ‘normal’ households. This scenario was her métier and one she revisited in many novels. Fremlin once commented that her favourite pastimes were gossip, ‘talking shop’ and any kind of argument about anything. We might suppose that it was through these enthusiasms that she gleaned the ideas that grew into her books. Reading them it is clear that the mundane minutiae of domesticity fascinated her. Moreover, The Hours Before Dawn and The Trouble-Makers have a special concern with the societal/peer-group systems that adjudge whether or not a woman is rated a ‘good wife’ and ‘good mother.’

  *

  By 1968 Celia Fremlin had established herself as a published author. But this was to be a year for the Goller family in which tragedy followed hard upon tragedy. Their youngest daughter Sylvia committed suicide, aged nineteen. A month later Fremlin’s husband Elia killed himself. In the wake of these catastrophes Fremlin relocated to Geneva for a year.

  In 1969 she published a novel entitled Possession. The manuscript had been delivered to Gollancz before the
terrible events of 1968, but knowing of those circumstances in approaching Possession today makes for chilling reading, since incidents in the novel appear to mirror Fremlin’s life at that time. It is one of her most absorbing and terrifying productions. Aside from the short-story collection Don’t Go to Sleep in the Dark (1970) Fremlin did not publish again until Appointment With Yesterday (1972), subsequently a popular title amongst her body of work. The novel deals with a woman who has changed her identity: a recurrent theme, and one with which Fremlin may have identified most acutely in the aftermath of her terrible dual bereavements. The Long Shadow (1975) makes use of the knowledge of the Classics she acquired at Oxford; its main character, Imogen, is newly widowed. Again, we might suppose this was Fremlin’s way of processing, through fictions, the trials she had suffered in her own life.

  Fremlin lived on in Hampstead and married her second husband, Leslie Minchin, in 1985. The couple remained together until his death in 1999. She collaborated with Minchin on a book of poetry called Duet in Verse which appeared in 1996. Her last published novel was King of the World (1994). Geraldine believed that her mother’s earlier work was her best, but I feel that this final novel, too, has its merits. Fremlin marvellously describes a woman who has been transformed from a dowdy, put-upon frump to an attractive woman of stature. The reason Fremlin gives for this seems to me revealing: ‘Disaster itself, of course. However much a disaster sweeps away, it also inevitably leaves a slate clean.’

  Though Geraldine did not admit as much to me, she did allude to having had a somewhat mixed relationship with her mother. This, in a way, explained to me the recurrence of the theme of mother–daughter relations explored in many of Fremlin’s novels, from Uncle Paul, Prisoner’s Base and Possession right up to her penultimate novel The Echoing Stones (1993). One wonders whether Fremlin hoped that the fictional exploration of this theme might help her to attain a better understanding of it in life. Thankfully, as they got older and Celia moved to Bristol to be nearer Geraldine, both women managed finally to find some common ground and discovered a mutual respect for each other. Celia Fremlin was, in the end, pre-deceased by all three of her children. She died herself in 2009.

  To revisit the Celia Fremlin oeuvre now is to see authentic snapshots of how people lived at the time of her writing: how they interacted, what values they held. Note how finely Fremlin denotes the relations between child and adult, husband and wife, woman and woman. Every interaction between her characters has a core of truth and should strike a resonant note in any reader. Look carefully for the minute gestures that can have devastating consequences. Watch as the four walls of your comforting home can be turned into walls of a prison. Above all, enjoy feeling unsettled as Fremlin’s words push down on you, making you feel just as claustrophobic as her characters as they confront their fates. Fremlin was a superb writer who has always enjoyed a core of diehard fans and yet, despite her Edgar Award success, was not to achieve the readership she deserved. As Faber Finds now reissue her complete works, now is the time to correct that.

  *

  Prisoner’s Base (1967) was Celia Fremlin’s sixth novel. Its setting is a house full of women headed by grandmother Margaret, her daughter Claudia, and Claudia’s child Helen. Although the story first seems to centre round Margaret, it is in fact Claudia who is the catalyst for what ultimately happens at the end of the novel.

  Fremlin once admitted to a fondness for gossip, and that interest is evident in this tightly told study of how the telling of tales can have rippling effects and consequences. Claudia is seen to love people who are ‘lost causes’, always inviting them in to stay at her house – much to Margaret’s chagrin. Her latest acquisition turns out to be a young poet who tells stories of his seven years in prison. With the intervention of Mavis – Claudia’s prior lost cause, clearly put out by the new arrival – the atmosphere in the house becomes more and more intense as the summer days slip by.

  Prisoner’s Base paints a sharp picture of the 1960s and the huge chasm that had opened up between young and old in this decade. Fremlin shows Margaret’s somewhat Victorian values clashing with Claudia’s updated views. The discord is spotlighted in Margaret’s displeasure at taking in an unmarried mother as Claudia’s guest. For her part, Claudia seeks the approval of her own daughter by trying to understand Helen’s sexual needs as a growing woman. However, Helen, a typical teenager, is revolted by her mother’s very evident desire to be an ‘understanding radical mother’.

  As in many of Fremlin’s novels, nobody is exactly who they say they are. Was the latest ‘lost cause’, Maurice, really in prison for the crime of robbery? Are the noises in Mavis’s head real or her imagination? Why do people keep lingering about the place after Maurice’s arrival? In Claudia, Celia Fremlin has created a misguided monster of a character, who truly believes she is helping these people for the better. Unfortunately, as often in the Fremlin oeuvre, the belief does not match the reality.

  Chris Simmons

  www.crimesquad.com

  CHAPTER I

  IN THESE DAYS there are few sights more terrifying than that of a well-dressed man with a notebook looking at a piece of land.

  As Margaret stood watching him from the upstairs landing window, she kept telling herself that it was of no significance; that she was just a suspicious old woman to be giving it a thought. Why shouldn’t he just be a passer-by, happening to pause at the gate to enjoy the sight of a field of buttercups under the morning sun? Admittedly, he didn’t look the sort of man who would enjoy anything, least of all a field of buttercups; but there, you shouldn’t really judge a man by his looks; who knows how many a joyous soul may lurk gleefully behind a lined and miserable face?

  But what about that dark, neat suit—a suit of ill-omen, if ever there was one? Why, poor fellow, perhaps he had just escaped from his office for an hour; and the notebook?—why, it might be anything—a diary … a record of the wild flowers of the neighbourhood … and all the while Margaret’s heart was thumping, deep down inside her, the dark, unmistakable rhythm of disaster.

  The field was going to be built on. The man had not yet so much as lifted the latch of the gate; he had not yet taken his horrible measuring implements from about his person, but Margaret felt already that the field was doomed. Doomed now, in the glory of the year, with the buttercups just out and the blossom still pink on the two gnarled old apple trees; now, when in their domain of sun and straw Margaret’s Rhode Island Reds were enjoying their first dust-baths of the year; when Claribel had gone properly broody at last and was settling down beautifully on her clutch of eggs after all the trouble and the worry…. It was now … now, in the time sacred to the sunshine and to new life, that this black, starched, polished monster had chosen to come and look at her field with his small, cement-mixer eyes….

  Her field! Yes, of course it was hers really … they couldn’t do a thing without consulting her, of course they couldn’t …! In one swift movement, quick as a girl in spite of her sixty-odd years, Margaret drew in from the window and whirled herself across the landing to lean over the banisters.

  “Claudia!” she called—annoyed, as she heard the urgent syllables echoing round the draughty passages downstairs, that she had allowed her dismay to sound in her voice. She had meant to sound calm, authoritative, right from the beginning. “Claudia! Are you there?”

  Footsteps from the dining-room, brisk and irritable already, clicking with the ostentatious patience of the one who has to humour a sentimental old fool. So she knows, reflected Margaret shrewdly, listening to those footsteps: she knows just what it’s all about; let her not try any wide-eyed surprise on me …!

  “What is it, Mother?” Claudia, looking both striking and competent in a pair of dark slacks and a loose, brilliant shirt-blouse, leaned against the mahogany spiral of the banisters, staring upwards. “What’s the matter now?”

  The last word, wearily emphasised, suggested that Margaret had already made a dozen unreasonable complaints this morning; Claudia’s
whole stance was that of one braced ready for the last straw. Claudia had always been an adept at putting you in the wrong before you had so much as opened your mouth; Margaret had been waiting for her to grow out of this unlovable talent ever since she was thirteen: but she never had. Indeed, she was getting better at it, and now, at nearly forty, she could switch off most family arguments before they began at all; like turning the water off at the main in some depressing outhouse to which she alone had access.

  But she wasn’t going to switch off this argument; Margaret swooped to the attack.

  “Who’s that man in the field? What’s he supposed to be doing?”

  “What man?” But Claudia herself must have felt this to be pointlessly unconvincing—pointlessly, since her mother would certainly have to be told in the end—“Oh—do you mean Mr Marvin?” she amended, with slightly forced guilelessness. “Oh, he’s just the man from Thoroughgoods’. You know, Thoroughgood and Willows. You pass their office every time you go down the High Street! You must know them!”

  Of course Margaret knew them; and of course Claudia knew that she knew. The barely veiled suggestion that her mother had grown so forgetful as not to recognise the name of the chief estate agent in the district was a typical Claudia-ism—a calculated manoeuvre to belittle and undermine her opponent on irrelevant issues before the real argument had even begun. This was to be a real fight, then. All right: if Claudia was going to deploy all her best weapons, then Margaret was going to deploy hers too; the chief of them being, of course, the fact that the field was hers.

  “And what, may I ask,” she enquired, with as much dignity as was compatible with making sure that Claudia could hear her over the banisters—“What is the man from Thoroughgood and Willows doing in my field? What possible business can he have there? I didn’t ask him to come!”

  “Now, don’t panic, Mother. Just relax. Why is it that women of your generation always have to be so tense? Naturally, the field has to be valued; and to be valued it has to be looked at. Doesn’t it? Surely that’s common sense? They have to send a man along. To look at it.” Claudia was emphasising the simplest of the one-syllable words as if she was hoping that these, at least, might come within the range of her mother’s intelligence.