Diary of an Ordinary Woman

by Margaret Forster

  So, a man was standing on my doorstep this morning, a man who from the back and from a distance was roughly the same build as Robert, or how I remembered him. My heart started to race, my mouth to go dry, but before I’d made a fool of myself the man turned and I saw it was a stranger. Are you looking for me? I said, and he asked if I was Millicent, and I said yes, come inside. I knew of course what he was bound to tell me and did not want to hear it on the doorstep. He followed me in very unhappily and when I invited him to make himself comfortable and offered him tea, he declined to do either. He was so thin, his shabby blue suit hanging on him to the point of the trousers looking almost as though there were no legs in them, and his skin was a dull sepia colour with sores across his forehead and on his neck. I felt so sorry for him. You’ve been in Changi Prison, haven’t you? I said, to help him out. He nodded. Well, I said, you must have been sent to tell me about Robert, so if you don’t mind I’d like you to get it over quickly. His silence was beginning to get on my nerves, but still he hesitated and kept swallowing and didn’t seem to be able to get any words out. I’m sure he thought I was a cold bitch, standing there waiting, how could he possibly know what I was feeling. Tears might have made it easier for him, my tears. When he began to tell me the whole story he sort of slumped onto a chair and shaded his eyes with his hand and spoke in a monotone, as though he’d rehearsed what he had to say over and over, which he probably had. Robert hadn’t died of dysentery or cholera, or malaria. He’d been executed. Beheaded. For insulting the Emperor. He was made an example of, when he refused to applaud the beheading of a Chinese woman who was being executed for stealing food. He had tried to wrestle the sword from the Japanese soldier’s hands. The man telling me this was shaking as he relived it and I was shaking myself as I heard and visualised it. I thought you should know the truth, he croaked, whatever the pain. I’m sorry. He said he hadn’t had it in him to be a hero like Robert, survival was all – he had a wife and family and wanted to return to them at any cost. I got up, my legs feeling so weak I hardly trusted them to get across the room, but they did, and I found some whisky and poured the man a glass; but he hardly touched it, saying his stomach couldn’t take much at the moment. I wanted him to go, that was all I wanted, for him to disappear, but he was so weak and sat on as though he hadn’t the energy to move and he seemed to want some response from me which hadn’t been forthcoming. He rambled on – I only heard bits of it, my thoughts far away – all about Robert and how strong he had been and how the others had looked up to him and he’d been a cut above them and how furious he was that the army had been trapped in Singapore. He said Robert swore that the leaders had miscalculated and it was all the fault of Churchill and higher command that the city fell, but, surely, Robert could never have said that, never have blamed Churchill. The man said he wasn’t clever like Robert and didn’t know if what he said was true or not. He asked if there was anything I wanted to know. There wasn’t, but I felt I had to give him the chance to be helpful, so I asked the date Robert died. He told me, and the time, and already I’ve forgotten it. Then at last he struggled out of the chair and said again he was sorry and held out his hand. I took it. It was a claw, all bone. He told me his name, and I’ve forgotten that too, something beginning with D. I thought he seemed such an unlikely friend for Robert, but then the army makes unlikely men into friends. I wonder what kind of life he’s come back to. How can I wonder such a thing when I have just been told my lover, my husband-to-be, doesn’t exist any more. My head is full of odd, unconnected musings swirling around, and behind them this image of what the messenger saw, all quite vivid but without sound or feeling, like a silent film. The twins are asleep. I’ve just looked in on them. Sweetly asleep. How lucky I haven’t told them much about Robert at all. I keep wondering if this man is trustworthy, was Robert really beheaded, but no one would make that up. It is just that I cannot credit it.

  *

  The story Millicent was told was so horrific that it was only natural that she should half-doubt its truth, but she does later receive a full account of what the messenger had described. The Japanese did indeed execute prisoners of war in this barbaric manner and there are even photographs of such beheadings. The crime Robert was killed for, insulting the Emperor, was given as the justification in almost all cases even when the alleged insult was impossible to prove. As for Robert’s reported fury with Churchill – whom Millicent, like most of the British population, revered – this was shared by many of those trapped in Singapore. It was widely believed by the army there that Churchill had known the time of the Japanese attack and had withheld this information. The official records will not be available until 2025, but Millicent had little interest, in any case, in knowing the true facts. Robert had died in a hideous way and she struggled to suppress the terrible images which haunted her. Yet at the same time, because it had taken so long for her to hear what had happened, and because it had happened so far away, the feeling of disbelief persisted and, she afterwards concluded, acted as a barrier to overwhelming distress. And, of course, she had to remain strong for the sake of the twins. Her determination to do so runs through her diary for the rest of that year and shows her at her most admirable.

  The entries after this exceptionally long one become very short and matter-of-fact, right up to New Year’s Day 1946, so Millicent may well have been seriously considering, as she said, discontinuing her diary for good, but, as ever, she keeps going, mentioning once that she now has a new reason for doing so: a duty to record things for the twins. This changes what she chooses to write more than might have been expected, and perhaps more than she ever realised. Her subject-matter becomes what the twins say and do and she is entirely taken up with worrying about them. This results in lots of anecdotes which at the time they were written down may have seemed amusing to her but which now don’t survive the telling. Toby longs for a toy gun, which she refuses to give him, but he swaps a pile of comics for an old imitation revolver from which he shoots tiny pebbles, breaking a window on one occasion – that kind of thing takes a lot of space in the diary. There are descriptions of walks (she learns to call them ‘hikes’, to make them sound more exciting) and visits to the zoo and attempts at brass-rubbing and all the other pastimes she tries to arouse the children’s interest in. When they are 8, she manages to procure second-hand bikes for them, which she cleans and paints herself, and then there are accounts of bike rides in Regent’s Park. They yearn for a pet and she agonises over whether to allow them the dog they really want, but settles for a hamster and a guinea pig. Camps are made in the garden, sales held at the garden gate, fancy dress costumes made for parties. Millicent wears herself out straining to be both mother and father and in doing so the focus upon herself is lost. Daphne points this out to her – that she is losing her own identity – but she denies it. Though gradually, in 1946, she begins to fret about herself.

  1 January 1946

  THE TWINS SLEPT late today, result of course of letting them stay up to see the New Year in. We went to Trafalgar Square, against my better judgement, but persuaded by Daphne and their passionate pleadings. I was worried that we might get separated in the crush, but Daphne said, as she so often has said, that I sounded like an old woman and had no sense of adventure and made me ashamed of myself, so we went and it was fun and nothing untoward happened except Connie lost one of her new gloves. Daphne left us on the stroke of midnight, with kisses first all round, and then off to join her fellow, her GI, who wants her to marry him. He is so much younger than her, but then, as she tells me, she is ‘young at heart’. Infantile sometimes, in my opinion. He’s off to Panama soon and she is supposed to be going to join him. We will see. I’ve told her that she knows nothing about this man really, to which in true Daphne fashion she said she didn’t need to know anything except that he is a wonderful lover and when I said that is not the most important thing in the world there were more accusations of my being an old woman. Well, I am. There is no denying it. Forty-five this year and fee
ling every year of it in spirits. Today, when I caught sight of myself reflected in a shop window, I was surprised and relieved that I didn’t look as dreary as I feel. The costume Daphne gave me is flattering, this belted style suits me, and so does the soft perm she persuaded me to have – it’s given some body to my hair without crimping it, and I like the way the hairdresser has pulled it up above each ear with combs. I must keep it like this and find some prettier combs, perhaps tortoiseshell. I can’t hope to match Daphne’s glamour – she looks like a film star in her silver fox fur coat and that hat with the dotted veil – but at least I can try to look neat and fresh, and not dowdy, as I’d grown to look in Blockley. I don’t want the twins to be ashamed of me and for my appearance to be an embarrassment. My skin, I’m pleased to realise, is better than Daphne’s, always was. There, a bit of pride! Robert always used to say that my skin was as smooth and flawless as the most perfect of pearls. I don’t know about that, but I am healthy and physically young, which even Daphne admits, and the twins keep me young in mind. There is a lot to be thankful for. How prim that sounds. Later today, Connie asked if I was sad and I quickly replied no, just tired, and she accepted that. Connie watches me carefully, I realise, and worries if I seem downcast. I don’t want her to have to do that, she’s too young to take on the burden of worrying about an adult, so I must make more of an effort to smile and be brisk, and I must not go off into daydreams about times that will never come again. And I must interest myself in the world around me and not let myself get so withdrawn. I do love Connie, and Toby, and don’t want them to suffer from my feeling that an important part of life is over for me.

  3 January

  Grace and Claudia arrive tomorrow for the last weekend of the holidays. I’m surprised Grace has found the energy never mind the desire to come, braving the travelling and the confusion of London with Claudia, but I take it as a sign that she is much better. The twins don’t seem particularly interested in this visit, Toby going so far as to ask who Claudia was, which earned him a scornful kick from Connie. It’s odd the way Toby seems determined to remember nothing about Blockley, pretending ignorance at the most unforgettable things. It annoys his sister, who remembers in minute detail, right down to the names of various cats and dogs in the village.

  8 January

  Twins back at school, Grace and Claudia back to Blockley, and myself back to an empty house and deeply grateful for it. Place a shambles, but tidying and cleaning can wait. Sat most of the schoolday reading an Evelyn Waugh novel, Brideshead Revisited – heaven to be removed from the actual world I live in. And yet the weekend was enjoyable, a great success, and it was wonderful to see Grace so restored and Claudia smiling and talking, if still shy. The pantomime treat was the highlight, but it was more the general air of contentment which warmed me. When I think of those months in that cottage, the strain, the tension – it was dreadful. Grace has put on weight and her lovely hair has regained its shine and the dark hollows in her face have gone and so have the shadows under her eyes. She has been making clothes for local people and performing what I am sure are held to be miracles with old curtains and sheets, dyeing them herself and reconstructing them using her own patterns. She says it is the sewing that has made her feel better every bit as much as the peace and quiet of the village. She wants to stay there at least a year. I’ve promised to visit with the twins in the Easter holidays. There were no tears the whole weekend, nor even a sign of them.

  15 January

  I wish rationing was over. It doesn’t seem fair that, though the war is over, food is harder than ever to get and with two ever hungry growing children to feed it is exhausting finding enough food. I swear it was easier in Blockley, with my own vegetables from the garden and a butcher who seemed to have more meat than the one I am registered with here ever does. With the twins’ birthday coming up I’ve been trying to save luxuries like sugar and eggs to make a cake, but that means having to deprive them in the meantime.

  12 February

  Twins’ party over, I’d made my mind up to go and see the solicitor about their affairs. I should have done it ages ago, but there were always more pressing matters to attend to. I knew there were no problems, Charles’s will was straightforward, and all the necessary things, like the sale of the house, were being done by the solicitor. I’d signed whatever he’d sent me and there was nothing to worry me. But he had always said I should come to see him sometime and today I did. I suppose I was thinking that it was my duty to understand the financial standing of the twins, and to know what was being done with their money until they come of age. Both of them are bound to ask questions later on and I want to be prepared. The firm of solicitors has its premises near Gray’s Inn, easy to get to, quite an imposing place and with an atmosphere busier than I’d imagined. I saw the man who’d handled everything from the beginning, a Mr Purcell, about my age, a quiet, sensitive-looking man, more like my idea of a poet than a lawyer. He’d been a friend of Charles’s and we talked a bit about him, with Mr Purcell – Peter, his name is – reminiscing about Charles and how brilliant he was. He has four children of his own, all girls, and showed great interest in the twins, saying how fortunate they were to have me to take care of them. He then went on to tell me that money could be released to help me bring the children up, enough if I wished to buy another perhaps bigger house, or a car. Unusually, provision for that kind of flexibility had been made in Charles’s and Tilda’s wills, but then they had been made, as so many wills were, in the shadow of war and what might happen. I said I didn’t need any money, or not yet, that I am fortunate and own my own house. Mr Purcell asked about my income and I told him it was adequate, and came from the investments my mother left me, but that I might soon return to work. He said that the money held in trust for the twins consisted of what would come from the sale of the house, and some stocks and shares Charles inherited, plus a few thousand from their paternal grandmother’s will, and another few from what Tilda and Charles had in the bank. There was enough available to buy clothes for them and take holidays and so forth while they were growing up. I thanked him, but said I wanted their money to remain intact, if I could possibly manage it. We chatted a bit more and then, as he shook hands with me at his door, a man came out of the room opposite. Mr Purcell stopped and said to me, Ah, let me introduce our senior partner, Mr Johnson. Mr Johnson, Miss King. It was Frank! I recognised him straight away, but he seemed not to realise who I was for all of a minute or so. Frank, I said, Good heavens. You! An embarrassed Mr Purcell stood perplexed between us, watching Frank take my arm, as if to test I was really there and hearing him say, My God, Millicent, after all this time, how are you? What are you doing here, how marvellous to see you. He was nervous. That was my first thought. How peculiar, I thought, Frank is nervous. I wonder why. He didn’t know how to handle our unexpected encounter. We walked down the stairs together, Mr Purcell having discreetly disappeared, and stood in the hall. How has life treated you? Frank asked. I started to tell him about Tilda – and then I stopped, remembering that I’d met Frank through Daphne, who was at Cambridge with him, and she might have told him what had happened. Yes, he said, hurriedly, I thought when I heard what a terrible business, very bad luck. And you’re looking after the children, I believe. I meant to write, but I was in Egypt when Daphne wrote and then, with so much to do . . . His voice trailed off. I despised him for making excuses. I asked him how his life had gone, and he launched into an account of his war which I hardly listened to. He is married, of course, and has three children. He got that in. He said we must get together and talk about old times, and I said that would be nice, and we parted. He didn’t ask for my address or phone number. I don’t, of course, wish to see him again. All the way home, I was wondering how a man who had meant so much to me could now mean nothing. Nothing.

  27 February

  Felt so angry and restless all day and had hardly slept the night before which didn’t help. No need to wonder why. Frank can’t have meant nothing or I wouldn’t s
till be feeling irritated by him yet I can’t quite decide exactly why I was, and am, so annoyed. It is something to do with that nervousness of his which I sensed, as though I embarrassed him and he was afraid I might want something from him. Why am I embarrassing to him? Why should he suspect I want something? It is ridiculous. Perhaps he has forgotten that it was I who broke off with him. He was acting as though he had jilted me. But maybe his awkwardness was more to do with seeing me and wondering how on earth he could ever have made love to this dried-up old spinster – a different kind of embarrassment. I find myself wanting to let him know that I had a lover far superior to him and whom I truly loved. Not true, though, not all of it. I did love Robert in a way I never loved Frank, but he was not as passionate as Frank. Thought this afternoon as I went to meet the twins, to take them to try to find new shoes, that nobody seeing me stand at the school gate could possibly guess I was thinking of and comparing old lovers. No, I am poor little Miss King, demure and chaste, a noble aunt looking after her niece and nephew with no life of her own. I rage at my own image, but do nothing to correct it. Connie, on the way home, asked why I was angry, though I had said nothing at all to indicate anger. She picks up moods dangerously quickly.

  28 February

  I am mortified to find I am still disturbed by thoughts of Frank. I wish I could decide exactly why. I wish I had been wearing my green suit with the tie-neck cream blouse and that pretty hat Daphne made me buy, but I thought I ought to look sensible, visiting a solicitor, and trustworthy, and I wore that dowdy grey thing with flat shoes and my black velour hat. What can I have looked like? So, it is vanity which makes me so cross, feeling that I looked dull and worn out, and this must mean that I wanted to be thought desirable still. But I am not, not in the least desirable, and must face up to it. If Robert had survived, would he have found me desirable? Would I have desired him? I can blame the war for this sad state of affairs but I am more inclined to blame myself. I dreamed about Frank last night. He was as I saw him two weeks ago but I was young again. It was a sexual dream. I woke to find myself wet and throbbing, as though a heart was beating between my legs, and I had to calm it. I lay willing myself to be still and eventually it was over, that terrible ache of desire. Felt shaky all day, and dread tonight. I don’t want to have anything more to do with such longings and yet it is stupid to ignore them. They will fade of their own accord, I suppose, as I age, and it will be a relief. How sad it makes me feel, though.