Diary of an Ordinary Woman

by Margaret Forster

  *

  It was a good time to get out of Italy. As Mr Russo doubtless knew, Mussolini’s contempt for democracy and belief in violent action were making the country a dangerous place to live in unless the fascist creed was accepted and obeyed. Elections were by then a fraud, torture was used in prisons, and people disappeared suddenly, ‘enemies of the State’, to be buried in unmarked graves. Most of this had passed Millicent by, but by the time she leaves she has at least picked up hints of what is going on and is concerned for those she is leaving behind. Mr Russo assures her that, in so far as he is able, he will try to protect them. When he departs, the villa will be shut up but places found for the servants.

  After a surprisingly emotional goodbye from Francesca, which touches her greatly, Millicent travels back to England, by train, and goes first to Brighton where she spends an unsatisfactory month becoming increasingly irritated by her sister-in-law Esther (already pregnant) and increasingly concerned about her own, yet again, uncertain future. It is hard to gauge, from her diary, just what Millicent expected from Italy, but I think her expectations of some kind of adventure were quite high and that she is therefore disappointed nothing exciting has happened. She’s spent seven very quiet months teaching a rather uncommunicative child in a beautiful but isolated villa and that was all – there have been no dramatic developments and her life has not been changed for ever. She is back where she started and the romantic in her feels cheated. There is no mention in her diary, however, of applying for jobs. She spends her days helping her mother with the younger children, developing some degree of closeness to 9-year-old Grace, and walking the dog that Michael (who is said to be a very solitary child) has just been given. Then, at the end of August, comes the summons from Tilda, whose baby is due. Florence is born on ist September.

  6 September 1925

  WHY TILDA COULD not keep on the maternity nurse for longer I do not know. Florence cried all last night, I swear. I could hear her clearly, and lay gritting my teeth and willing Tilda to attend to her, but the crying, the screaming, went on and shattered my nerves. At two in the morning, I could stand it no longer and got up only to find Tilda was up already and walking up and down with Florence, and crying herself. Why can’t Charles do something about this, what is the point of being married to a children’s doctor if he cannot find out what is wrong with his own baby? But Charles was not here, he was at his hospital attending to other women’s babies. And Tilda a nurse, surely she should be able to quieten Florence. I took her from Tilda’s arms and for a moment she stopped yelling, only to start again. But it gave Tilda the chance to make her up a bottle, though she was not due another for an hour. The relief when the milk silenced her! I went back to bed, unable to imagine how Mother had coped and with twins. Tilda and I discuss it, and agree that though Mother had a nursemaid it is still impossible to believe how well she managed. Neither of us can recall Michael or Grace screaming the night away, but then the house was bigger, much, than this one and we were younger and sound sleepers. But I can’t go on living here. I will stay only a month. I don’t want to return to Brighton but it is preferable to here. Why am I so hopeless that I cannot find a job and a place of my own to live?

  7 September

  A letter from, of all people, Mrs Harris, forwarded from Brighton. I never thought to hear from that unfriendly lady ever again nor did I ever want to, though I expect, and want, to keep in touch with Mr Russo. Mr Russo provided her with my address and she hopes I will not think her letter an intrusion but she believes she can put me in touch with what she calls ‘a great opportunity’. This opportunity is the offer of the post of companion to the bereaved daughter of friends of hers, a Miss Daphne Willes who lives in Yorkshire. Miss Willes is 17 years of age and has recently lost both her parents and been very ill herself. She needs someone to be with her, though not to look after her, she has servants to do that, but to read with her and take walks as her strength returns. Mrs Harris remembers how good I was with Francesca and, though Miss Willes is much older and the situation different, she thinks I would be ideal and has suggested Miss Willes could write to me herself if I am agreeable. This letter, the tone of it, annoys me intensely. It is condescending. I fail to see where any ‘great opportunity’ lies. Teaching Francesca, and having the opportunity to live in Italy for a while, was one thing, but going to Yorkshire, with winter not that far off, merely to keep a young woman company is in my opinion quite demeaning. On the other hand, it would get me away from here. It is weak of me, but I have replied saying Mrs Harris can give Miss Willes my address. Nothing to be lost in that.

  11 September

  A letter from Miss Willes. I am quite taken with it. Her approach is not at all like Mrs Harris’s. She sounds diffident and is very self-deprecating though also has a touch of wit, describing herself as, at the moment, a bit like a wilted stalk of asparagus because she is all floppy and green around the gills. She says she needs stimulation more than anything or she will drown in self-pity. She encloses a photograph of a solid-looking house, which is on the outskirts of Leeds, and of herself ‘before the accident’. She looks a cheerful, happy girl. There was a separate note included, telling me how much I would be paid and for how long the agreement would be after an initial trial period. It was typed, whereas the letter was handwritten. I thought that showed a certain delicacy and a business-like mind, unusual, surely, in one so young. I am going to think about it.

  12 September

  I am still thinking. Florence cried all day as well as all night, or so it seemed. Charles says it is ‘just’ colic, and will cease soon. How soon? It grows more attractive hourly to be far away in Leeds, though when I mentioned the prospect to Tilda she was horrified, not just at the thought of my leaving but of Leeds. She is sure it is a ghastly place and I would hate it. She may be right.

  13 September

  I have written to Miss Willes agreeing to come and see how we suit each other and offering to arrive next week, if that is convenient. Tilda made a scene, claiming only to be concerned for me. What was I thinking of, she asked, banishing myself to Leeds, and not even as a teacher but as a companion, a complete waste of my abilities and training. She said she couldn’t understand me, but then, as I said to her, that is hardly surprising when I do not understand myself. Tilda says I need a man in my life to settle me down. I resented this, and said so. I do not need a man. I do not wish to settle down either. It is the very thing I do not want to do. If I’d wanted a settled life I’d have stayed teaching in Surrey.

  14 September

  A telegram from Miss Willes, expressing her delight that I am willing to join her. Her enthusiasm cheered me up and made me think this venture is not as absurd as Tilda has tried to convince me it is. I have started to prepare for going to Leeds, which is a bit different from getting ready to go to Italy. At least there is no need for new clothes, though I have bought a new warm coat. It is lined with a fleece-like material and has a big collar which can be pulled up to keep the wind out. I bought a book, too, thinking that as my role is to be stimulating it would be sensible to have something to stimulate with. I spent a good hour in Foyles choosing it. Not knowing Miss Willes’s taste, it proved quite a problem to decide on a book but in the end I selected a novel I felt she could not possibly have read because it is only just published and I have not read it and I like the sound of it. It is called Mrs Dalloway and is said to be the story of a woman who is having a party and is shopping for it and remembering her life up to then. I am hoping it will be jolly. But Father used to say that the only books worth buying were those sure to enhance one’s own library and that nobody could be sure about anything new when it came to literature. I am taking a volume of Katherine Mansfield’s stories too because they are not new and I am sure of them at least.

  15 September

  Went to Brighton to see Mother before going to Leeds. She is as horrified as Tilda at the thought of Leeds, claiming it will surely be all nasty smoke and dirt. I showed her the photograph
of the house where Miss Willes lives and this reassured her somewhat. No sign of smoke, or blackened buildings. Mother said it was a pity that if I had to go north it could not be to the other side of the country, to Westmorland, which is so beautiful and where we spent holidays in the past. She has never known anyone from Leeds. But it consoles her that at least I am not going abroad again and that Leeds, for all its faults (mostly imagined) is only a train ride away. I can telephone her each week, and promised to do so. She seems well, and thrilled about Esther’s approaching confinement. Esther is vast. It makes me feel faint to look at her.

  20 September

  What a curious thing it is to be going off to meet a perfect stranger with whom one has said one will try to live. I felt excited but apprehensive setting off from Tilda’s house in the cab. It was quite different from the feelings I recall having when I was waiting for Mr Russo to arrive. Then, I had met him, and it was thrilling besides to be going to Italy. It was not thrilling to be going to Leeds. Yet, at the same time, it was rather thrilling to be making such a gamble and following my own instinct about Miss Willes. At any rate, I boarded the train feeling glad to be going. The journey seemed short. Daphne – she is Daphne already – had arranged for me to be collected by a Mr Barker, whom she had described as a friend. He was there waiting, carrying a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums. Daphne had told me about the identifying flowers, saying she could not resist this touch even though Mr Barker would be terribly embarrassed. He was, unless his rather fat face is naturally scarlet. I’d thought he would be old, or at least middle-aged, but he was young, probably my own age. I don’t know yet the connection between him and Daphne. We did not talk much on the way to her house. I was busy looking out of the window, and frankly not too impressed with what I saw. There was none of the smoke Mother feared, but all the buildings did seem black, or at least dark and dingy. However, we were soon out of the city and then the countryside became quite pleasant, though nothing like Italy. Daphne does not live far out. Her house is one of about a dozen large houses about a couple of miles from the outskirts of Leeds going, I think, in a north-eastern direction. The house is built of stone and is double-fronted with a short circular driveway. It is on two storeys, a ground floor and an upstairs. Daphne’s rooms are all on the ground floor, her bedroom and bathroom and sitting-room conveniently arranged together on one side. I am upstairs, at the back, in a very pleasant room overlooking the garden and beyond are what I take to be the moors. I am too tired to write about Daphne tonight.

  21 September

  I was up at seven, but then at a bit of a loss until ten o’clock when Daphne was ready for me. It seems she sleeps badly and falls into a deep sleep at last around four in the morning and consequently does not waken until late. I will get used to this, but today I did not quite know what to do. The night before, Daphne had said I was to make myself at home and treat the house in what she called a familiar way but of course since it is not familiar that was impossible. I drifted about examining the layout but not feeling comfortable about doing more than peeping round doors that were open. Upstairs is all bedrooms. I gather the housekeeper has her own quarters in an addition to the back of the house somewhere. I found the kitchen downstairs but there was no sign of Mrs Postlethwaite, nor of Molly, the girl who comes in daily. I made myself some tea but didn’t feel like anything to eat. Then I prowled about and finally, because it seemed so terribly quiet and I worried I was disturbing Daphne, I went back up to my room until I heard signs of activity below. It was a relief to hear Daphne call my name and shouting a cheerful good morning. She is a most cheerful girl in spite of her infirmity. She smiles all the time, and her eyes, very large greenish eyes, are full of curiosity. She asks questions, one after the other, apologising for being cheeky if I think them so (I don’t) and gives the impression of great energy. But what is a little frightening is the way she suddenly fades and turns pale and seems to catch her breath. It happens at regular intervals, this partial collapse, and when it does she has to sit still and compose herself and wait. Her walking is poor. She has a stick but mostly scorns it. Unlike in Mr Russo’s house, there are no mysteries here to ponder. The first thing Daphne did was tell me what is wrong with her and why. It was a terrible car accident. She and her brother and her parents were driving in Switzerland up a steep, winding road and a lorry coming down skidded on a bend and crashed straight into them. Her parents were killed instantly and her brother died in hospital. She survived, but with all kinds of injuries. This was eight months ago but she has only been home a few weeks and is still not completely recovered. She has inherited the house and describes herself as having no financial worries but she doesn’t intend to stay here. When she is better, she will sell the house and move to London and she’ll buy somewhere smaller. She doesn’t yet know what she wants to do with her life. When she had finished telling me all this, which I could see had exhausted her, she closed her eyes and invited me to tell her about myself.

  I felt embarrassed to do so. It is a fairly feeble account. I have no excuse for not having managed to have a more creditable existence. After all, I haven’t been in an accident, or ill.

  27 September

  Daphne is clever. I should have guessed it. She likes to discuss everything and relishes an argument. We have now read Mrs Dalloway, which was not so very jolly though quite interesting, and all of the Katherine Mansfield stories, and she sees things in them that I do not. We read ‘The Wind Blows’ this morning, each reading to herself, silently, and when I got to the end I said, well, what on earth is that all about? – it is all a puzzle, this girl and the wind and her music lesson. No, Daphne said, it is not a puzzle; read it again, it is about adolescence and how disturbed and confused and excited one can feel for no reason; it is about all the inner turmoil, the hormones, everything. I read it again and saw she was right. Haven’t you ever felt like that, Daphne asked, and I have, of course I have. But I had not realised that was what this little story was about. Daphne is perceptive and also anxious to educate herself in every way whereas I see that my interests are narrow. Every day, she reads The Times and then wants to discuss with me what is being said in its leaders and I find this difficult. When Father was alive, I used to take an interest and loved to try to discuss things with him but I have lost the habit. Daphne’s knowledge of political affairs is extraordinary. Father would have been amazed at a young woman being so very well informed. She told me her father was going to stand for parliament at the next election and that he had educated her and her brother to understand the issues of the day. I asked if this had not bored her and she was quite shocked. Her mother was involved in the suffrage cause and at one point was briefly in prison. Daphne shares her beliefs and wants to do something to further the cause. Stupidly, I asked, hadn’t what her mother fought for been won now that some women had the vote. Daphne was appalled at my ignorance and said that only those over 30 could now vote, and that all women should be able to. I feel she is going to stimulate me, not the other way round.

  4 October

  I have been here two weeks and both Daphne and I had no need to wonder if, the trial period being over, I will stay. Of course I will. I will stay as long as she wants me to. We are both doing a correspondence course, just for fun, in English Literature. Daphne says that if she decides to go to university she will read English and so this course serves as an introduction and even if it is not of a very high standard it will do no harm and keep her brain fresh. Her brain is very fresh compared to mine. We have begun on Shakespeare, King Lear, and whereas Daphne has no difficulty with the language, I do. We are reading the play aloud in the mornings, and then after lunch, when Daphne retires to rest, I ponder over the passages I have not really grasped. In the afternoon, if the weather is fine, we take a turn round the garden or along the road. Daphne wishes I could drive. So do I. If I could drive, we could go into Leeds and visit other places. As it is, Mr Barker takes us, but by arrangement, and often the arrangement has to be cancelled for one re
ason or another and it is all a bother. Daphne has suggested that Mr Barker should teach me. There is a car in the garage here which was her brother’s and I could learn to drive that. I am game. She is going to consult with Edward (Mr Barker).

  6 October

  Mr Barker (Edward) is happy to teach me to drive but it will have to be at the weekends, on Saturday and Sunday afternoons, so long as I have no objections to having lessons on a Sunday. We are to start tomorrow.

  7 October

  My first driving lesson. It did not go well. Edward says I am too tense and that my co-ordination is not good. He is the sort of man who loves to be superior and was quite in his element teaching me. I hope I have never been that kind of teacher. I am determined to do better tomorrow.

  8 October

  I thought I did better today but Edward groaned and said I was murdering the gears and probably ruining the car. I gritted my teeth and said nothing. But he grudgingly allowed, after an hour, that I had got the hang of the clutch. It is lucky this road is so quiet, but he says it is not safe enough and that next week he will drive me up on to the moors road where I can get some real practice.