*
24 April 1967
I made Connie angry yesterday, though I am sure I never intended to and, frankly, I think she took offence without cause. All I happened to say was that I was surprised she wanted to live with Caroline, Jane and Judy in the way they did and she flared up, as only she can flare up, and said she didn’t like my insinuation. I said there had been no insinuation and she said of course there had, I was plainly criticising her friends and the flat and behind the criticism she perfectly well knew lay this ridiculous old-fashioned wish that she should have a nice young man and settle down with him in a semi and have 2.1 children. She maintained that I was always hankering after such a dull life for her. Well! I protested mightily, said never for one moment had I wanted such a fate for her and how could she think I did when she knew from my own life I didn’t think marriage and children the be-all and end-all for a woman. I decided to take offence myself. I protested that I was hurt that she had me down, obviously, as an embittered spinster trying to live the life she had really wanted through a niece. It was Connie’s turn to cry Nonsense (which I’d made it, deliberately) and to swear she’d never thought me embittered, but that nevertheless, when I thought I was being subtle or discreet, I was neither. Fact is, said Connie, you do wish I had a lover, you do disapprove of casual sex, you do think I and my flatmates live in appalling squalor, and you do wish I taught in a nice school. I stared at her, and then asked very quietly what was wrong with that, any of it. Connie snapped, ‘Everything.’ She added that my generation had spent our youth being obedient and living according to the dictates of our elders and had never risked anything. Her way of life, she said, was infinitely richer. She was doing work that mattered and not shrinking from making her opinions known, and as for men, they had their place and their uses and they weren’t important to her. She is happy and fulfilled, she says. I don’t believe her, but was too afraid of starting her off again to say so. How can she be happy when she is so worn out? How can coming home after an exhausting day to a filthy, untidy, comfortless home make her happy? How can spending every spare minute she has shouting outside embassies – now it is the Greek Embassy, because of the Colonels’ coup – make her happy? And how can these one-night stands, as she calls them, make her happy? Maybe I was never entirely happy myself, but I was happier than Connie when I was 30, in spite of many blows of fate.
25 April
Lay awake last night wondering whether it is true that I was happier at 30 than Connie is now. I can’t remember what on earth I was doing when I was 30. All these diaries I’ve kept, and I can’t remember. There is the temptation to look out my diary for 1931 and find out, and yet that is an awful thought, embarrassing for some reason. I don’t think I could bear to read something I wrote all those years ago. Inevitably, it will be gauche and trivial, and the knowledge that, even so, it will have been the truth at the time is no comfort. I have never intended to read my diaries. I like to record things, to try to give shape to what happens (or does not) to me, but I don’t want to read them. Nor do I want others to read them, whatever anyone might think. No, I am not going to look myself up. I ought to be able to remember where I was and what I was doing even if I cannot recall what state of mind I was in or what my feelings were. I think I had just moved from Brighton to London, or if I hadn’t I was about to. And I’d given up teaching and was training to be a social worker. What was the name of my superior? Can’t remember, and it isn’t important. So, at Connie’s age I was in love with Frank, and Frank (as well as Percy) was in love with me. Am I right therefore to declare I was happier than Connie is now? Yes. I still think so. She doesn’t realise how daring I was in my own time, what with my career and my lover. She thinks she and her friends are the first women to enjoy the advantages of both. She thinks me almost Victorian, a blushing maiden in my youth, knowing nothing of sex and doing no more than tinkle on the piano and dust furniture. It is provoking. She is indeed more emancipated than I ever was, by her education alone, but I was not entirely shackled. Yet, happy . . .? Ruthless honesty compels me not to be absolutely sure. I know I would find a great deal of anguish in my diary for 1931, frightful stuff I daresay about Frank, and my attraction to him, but lack of real love for him – and then all the guilt about poor Percy. I wonder what happened to Percy. I feel that, unlike Frank, he may not have survived the war. I could have found out, but I never tried to, and I knew no one except Charles who knew him and who might have told me of his fate. I shall tell Connie what thoughts she has given rise to when next I see her, and put her right about a few misconceptions.
2 May
Connie came for lunch. I prefer her to come to me rather than my going to that flat. I don’t think she comes out of duty, at least I hope not. She was in quite a calm mood for once and looked not quite so harassed, though I didn’t comment on her appearance, remembering as I do how it irritated me when Mother made comments about shadows under my eyes and so forth, and required explanations for them, and then praised on other occasions my so-called bright eyes and glowing skin and wondered if they were due to a ‘romance’. So I said nothing. She has had her lovely hair cut and shaped in a geometric way. It gives her head a sculpted look which I don’t quite care for, but at least it is tidy. I told her about the time I had my hair cut off and what a big event it was and how Tom hated it and preferred it long. Connie kindly indulged me and asked me to remind her who Tom was, she wasn’t sure she’d ever heard of him, and professed to be interested in the answer.
Then it came out that she has a favour to ask. Could she move in here for six months? Well, of course, I’m delighted, and said so, but wondered why she wanted to. It seems the lease of the flat has run out and the rent to renew is more than any of them can afford, so they are all going their separate ways. Connie says she wants to find something on her own but can’t do that quickly and needs time. She asked, jokingly, what the rent here would be, and what rules there were. This brought on a discussion about money which I would rather not have had. Connie suddenly asked me what I did for money and I said I had plenty of money and tried to move the conversation to other matters, but she persisted, asking how could I possibly claim to have plenty. Where did it come from? Part-time teaching couldn’t have earned me much. I thought about saying that my financial affairs were none of her business but instead said my mother had left me some shares which had always given me a sufficient income. Connie stared at me with the strangest look on her face and I thought at first she was going to berate me for being a capitalist pig, she is always attacking capitalist pigs, but she didn’t. She asked suddenly if I had brought her and Toby up on that income. I said there had been no money problems, which she said was evading the real question. I was obliged to remind her about the money I’d been granted from hers and Toby’s inheritance, which I had asked them to agree to, to cover various things as they grew up. But she said she wasn’t fooled – she knew I must have spent a very great deal of my own money on her and her brother and it should be paid back. I said that was nonsense, I wouldn’t hear of it, there was nothing to pay back. Well, said she, I am going to pay a proper rent now and look after bills while I am here. You can save it if you want for your old age. I do wish she wouldn’t say things like that. I do wish she wouldn’t mention money. Later, she returned to this same distasteful subject, asking me if Daphne had left me anything. I was shocked, and said no, certainly not, why should she have. In that case, Connie asked, where had her money gone, who had inherited it, and her flat? I told her I had no idea, it was of no interest to me, but that knowing Daphne it had probably been left to some charity and that that was a good thing. I said, I suppose a little accusingly, that she seemed very interested in money. What is wrong with that, she said, money is important, especially to women, money is independence. Well, really, as if I of all people do not know that. Then Connie said that in my case, having an unearned income, however small, had been my undoing, it had ruined my life. It was very hard to keep my temper. I managed to ask h
er, tight-lipped it is true, how she came to that interesting conclusion. She said I had been able to chuck my job as a social worker and by doing so had wasted my brain. I thought about pointing out that I had ‘chucked’ it, as she so elegantly put it, first of all because there was a war and then to look after her and Toby, and then that, however lowly she considered it, I had resumed teaching. But I didn’t. I just tried to look rather sad and yet dignified, and kept silent. I was pleased to see this made Connie uncomfortable. She said sorry and came and gave me a hug and told me it was just that it had always seemed a shame to her that someone as clever as me had never used her ability, or not for any length of time. My potential has been wasted! I said it probably had been but that it hadn’t been very great in the first place and I had done some worthwhile things. Connie said maybe, but that she couldn’t imagine how I now put my days in. I said like millions of other women, looking after my house and garden – she snorted with derision – and doing voluntary work of one sort and another, taking the library trolley round at the hospital and helping in the Save the Children shop – more snorts, though not so loud – and reading and listening to music and walking. She said I made her despair. But we parted friends.
3 May
I know Connie does not mean to despise me, or make me feel ashamed, but that has been the effect of yesterday’s diatribe. I found myself lying awake thinking, for some reason, which must have a connection though I can’t identify it, of the time I kept a record for Mass Observation. The ordinariness of my day never seemed pathetic then. I remember feeling quite excited at what I had to describe. But I wouldn’t be able to feel that now. I have watched myself all day today and not been pleased. Connie is right, now that I no longer teach even part-time, my doings are trivial and few, my pleasures modest. Yet I am not bored any more, not exactly, and that restlessness I once felt so constantly is not there, or not today. It happened to be my afternoon for taking the library trolley round at the hospital and as ever I felt a degree of satisfaction doing it. Connie might sneer at this, but she doesn’t understand what goes on, how I enjoy helping patients choose books and feel quite triumphant when I persuade a reader of silly romances to try something more interesting. Also, going round the wards when I hate hospitals so much is hard for me and I feel that by doing it I am overcoming fear. I like it when I can conquer small terrors. No, Connie would not understand that. I think she thinks that I am lonely, that is what is at the bottom of all this. She cannot see how, though I am alone most of the time, I am not lonely. There is a difference. I do miss Daphne, though often even when she came back from America, I did not see her for weeks or months, but I don’t crave a best friend, or a companion. I think maybe I have become horribly selfish, and have grown used to the self-indulgence of living alone, but is that so terrible?
1 June 1967
IT IS VERY peculiar having Connie back living here. The noise! And I don’t even mean her records blaring away, I mean ordinary noise, the constant banging of doors and clattering down the stairs and the unnecessary scraping of chairs. She cannot even eat her cereal quietly in the morning – the spoon bangs, bangs, bangs against the side of the bowl. When she leaves the house peace settles over it as if after an earthquake, and I stand quite still for a while savouring it. She comes home so late, but at least then tries hard to be as quiet as possible. She seems to lead such a hectic life, when she eats I don’t know. I had envisaged suppers together, even looked forward to cooking for her. I have a recipe for a chicken, mascarpone and mushroom gratin I want to try – it’s not worth making for one – but I can never get Connie to guarantee to be here. She says I am not to get food in for her, she will fend for herself. So far as I can see, not much fending goes on. Nor much grooming. I offered to do her washing, or rather to load the machine for her and hand-wash delicate items, but she laughed and said she didn’t need a washerwoman and, in fact, in the two weeks she has been here, she has never used the washing-machine. She washes her smalls and drapes them over the bath and that is that. The rest of her clothes, which seem to consist of those horrible denim trousers and black cotton T-shirts, remain uncleaned. She does have one dress, which she wore one day, if it can be called a dress. It is white, extremely short, sleeveless, very plain, with a round neck edged in red. It is lucky she has good legs. Heaven knows what her pupils think of her.
15 June
Connie brought a young man home with her last night. We have discussed this. Of course I want her to have her friends to stay, I want her to feel free to have whom she likes when she likes. But it brought back memories of her teenage years when she was always staying out late and scaring me and trying to make me let boyfriends stay the night which I never would allow. We had such arguments. But bringing male friends home now is to be expected. I am even glad of it. I was curious this morning to meet her friend. It being Sunday, she was not going to work and so had no need to get up and it was midday before she emerged, yawning mightily. She ignored me – I was chopping onions and had the wireless on so she could be forgiven for thinking I was concentrating – and trudging over to the kettle, boiled it and made herself a cup of instant coffee (hers, I don’t use it). I put the wireless off and said good morning then altered this to good afternoon. No response. Then I heard movement on the stairs. The most extraordinarily ugly man came into the kitchen, quite massive and hairy with a beard and matted-looking long hair. I was so shocked I simply stared, very rudely. Hi, this creature said, any chance of coffee? Connie handed him her half-drunk mug. He accepted it, tasted it, shuddered and said, I meant coffee. So I made him some. Connie muttered ‘snob’, and he said wanting proper coffee was not snobbish. No one introduced us. I thought that quite remarkable. I looked and looked at Connie, but she seemed in a daze. I coughed, but her attention was not to be drawn. I felt like a servant in my own house, not a comfortable feeling. In the end, I went into the garden and started dead-heading roses. I had closed the door to the kitchen but the window was open and I could hear raised voices. Shortly afterwards, I heard the front door slam. On I went, clip, clip, and finally Connie appeared at the door. Sorry about that, she said, he’s gone now. And that is all she told me. She went back to bed without another word. I went out to the park, glorious day, and when I came back about four o’clock, she had disappeared. I find her behaviour extraordinary. If I had not brought her up myself I would think she had never been taught any manners at all.
1 July
Connie asked me what I was going to do about holidays and I said nothing, I don’t need holidays and I don’t want one. The mere mention of the word holiday makes me think of Greece ten years ago and Daphne and it is upsetting, not that I said so to Connie. Then it turned out that she was wondering if I would care to join her at a workshop in Brighton. I didn’t understand the word ‘workshop’, but apparently it only means a sort of conference. Why it can’t be called that I don’t know. It is a workshop to raise women’s consciousness, a three-day event at which there will be speakers on a variety of topics. I asked what kind of topics and she showed me a list. There were titles like Violence in the Home and What Can be Done About It. I said I didn’t think I would enjoy that sort of thing very much, and Connie exploded, saying enjoyment was not the point, surely I could see that. I said, in that case, what was the point, and she said to change things, to make society better and safer for women. Well, that is all very worthy but hardly a holiday. I said it didn’t really interest me, I didn’t see how I fitted in or why she’d suggested this workshop to me, and she groaned and held her head in her hands and said sometimes I am unbelievable, and that it is women like me, utterly passive politically illiterate women, who are responsible for the state of things. I said I thought I had done my bit, I had gone on the women’s march, but she interrupted me saying she was bloody well tired of hearing about that pathetic march and hearing me boast about participating, and that if I went on to also add that I’d joined CND and been on one Aldermaston march she would scream. Constant action and participa
tion were needed to combat male power. Really, there was no point arguing with her, so I didn’t.
25 July
Connie has gone off to her workshop, dressed as if for battle in trousers and denim jacket, very military-looking, and the house is quiet. The phone has been ringing constantly, with her friends calling to make plans and discuss tactics, and the living-room floor is littered with pamphlets and bits of paper with notes on. Connie is, it seems, the mastermind, responsible for having invited the speakers and for making sure enough women turn up to hear them. I tried to show an interest but she has been very aloof and cold towards me and has ignored my inquiries. I have scurried about my own home feeling humble. It is a relief to be once more on my own and feel what Connie calls the ‘vibes’ change. Everything is rush, rush with her, she moves at such speed and with such violence, jumping downstairs, slamming doors, and swearing as she goes. I do object to the swearing, there is no need for it. I have never liked swearing and have never had to live with it, not even during the war, not to the extent Connie swears and certainly not containing the f and c words. Damn and bloody and bugger were the worst then, apart from Christ and hell. I told her one day that she was foul-mouthed and it did not become her. She laughed, and hugged me. That is the confusing thing about Connie. She is so affectionate and sweet under her aggressive surface.
Diary of an Ordinary Woman Page 39
