Letters From Constance

by MARY HOCKING

  During the lunch break the sun shone fitfully and Linnie brightened with it. Kathleen is envious because she has a room of her own, which is Kathleen’s idea of absolute independence. Kathleen is a great believer in absolutes and I was pleased to hear Linnie say, ‘You soon find out you have exchanged one authority for another. It is much harder to bargain with a landlady about the time you come in in the evening. As for playing the violin, that’s out of the question. I’m looking for a deaf house-owner with deaf neighbours.’

  Fergus and Peter were relaxing in a manner which suggested the work was all but finished. When I pointed out that we were behind schedule thanks to their late arrival, Peter said, ‘We’ll soon make up any lost time.’ Fortunately, Dominic had the bit between his teeth and Fergus could see that if he did not bestir himself his son would take command of the house as well as the van.

  ‘Now, what can Linnie and I do?’ I asked Kathleen when the men had returned to their labours.

  ‘You may well ask,’ she said crossly. ‘Neither of you has lifted a finger so far.’

  She had packed all the crockery and kitchen equipment. I hope it arrived intact? It would not have been well received had I insisted on inspecting her efforts. She and Linnie and I began to pack the books. We had nearly finished when we were aware that the sounds of masculine effort which had echoed about the house were now concentrated on the landing. Ill-humour had displaced the cheery camaraderie of the morning. We finished the books and went into the hall intent on a little gentle gloating.

  I will recount this episode in detail since it seems from your letter that Peter and Fergus had not thought fit to mention it to you.

  Sheila, it was your upright piano! Fortunately, Peter had had the good sense to protect it with dust sheets and cushions as soon as he saw that there might be a little difficulty in negotiating that sharp bend in the stairs leading down from your bedroom. Which was where it was stuck. Not only did it appear to be immovable, it was also impassable. Peter and Toby were trapped above it. Fergus said, ‘Sheila and Miles must have discovered this piano when they moved in. The house was undoubtedly constructed around it.’

  I shouted at them not to cause any further damage by attempting to move it. (I inspected it later and I swear it is not marked.) Fergus lost his temper and locked himself in the lavatory. Peter and Toby, to whom retreat was not open, sat on the stairs and sulked. Kathleen and Linnie and I crawled about looking under the legs, but this only confirmed that it was firmly wedged. Eventually, after much mutual recrimination, we agreed to get the remaining furniture and packing cases into the van and then have another think about the piano. Toby and Peter went up to your bedroom to see whether it was possible for them to get out of the window.

  While we were putting the last of the cases into the van, and Toby and Peter were convincing themselves that a long ladder was their only hope of escape, the incoming furniture van arrived. Harrods. Sheila, if you could have seen those two benign, rubicund men immaculate in green baize aprons! Had they pattered round their van singing, ‘Heigh-ho, heigh-ho, it’s off to work we go’, it would not have seemed inappropriate. They listened gravely to our tale of woe, too polite to permit even a twinkle of the eye. Then they went into the house to inspect the piano. One of them said to Peter, ‘I think it will go back up if you could just ease your end a couple of inches. Sir.’ Surprisingly, it did prove possible to move the piano back to your bedroom. While we were congratulating ourselves on the release of Peter and Toby, the Harrods men delicately lofted the piano and conveyed it sedately down the stairs and out to the van.

  Here, we encountered a problem. No one had thought to inform Dominic of the existence of the piano. So, it was all to do again. I am afraid your furniture came to you packed by courtesy of Harrods at the price of two bottles of beer.

  How wise are those legends about people who are told that whatever they do they must not look back. I went back for one last look from your landing window. ‘I will never again see the river from here,’ I told myself, as though that view had a magic nowhere else to be found in the whole length and breadth of the river. The sun was out. Best it had not been and I unable to distinguish one grey area from another. But the sun was out and there were willows in the intervening gardens and then that distant flash of blue water. And I remembered walks along the towpath with Daddy on a Sunday afternoon, the pussy willows and catkins, Syon House composed and confident beyond its green lawns, the spume of trees which hides The London Apprentice from view. I remembered you and me at Kew, shouting for Cambridge as the crews toiled past; I remembered walking to Strawberry Hill during my lunch hour in Twickenham and watching fighter planes like gleaming toys in the sky. Why is it that so much of our life is spent longing for drama, and when it does come our way we find that it is the small, unimportant things which we really cherish? Is this what is meant by the sacrament of the present moment? Before I could develop this enquiry - always supposing myself to be able - Linnie joined me.

  She said, as if taking up an interrupted conversation, ‘So do you think I’m silly to go on with my music?’

  ‘I’d be disappointed if you didn’t go on with it.’

  ‘I’m only moderate, you know.’

  ‘Even so, it means a lot to you, doesn’t it? What will you do when you leave college - teach?’

  She nodded. She looked attractive with sunlight gentle on her dark hair and honey-coloured skin. Not that she will ever be a beauty; there is that in her manner of presenting herself which suggests beauty would be a presumption, an error of taste. But she will lose nothing by seeming to undervalue herself. Some man will feel he has made a great discovery in her. I found myself thinking that she wouldn’t need to worry too much about what she did with her music, marriage would claim her energies soon enough. Then I reminded myself that times are changing. To Linnie, marriage, a home and family may not represent the ultimate prize, may not seem desirable. She may even prefer to remain undiscovered.

  ‘Carry on with your music,’ I said. ‘It will always give you joy so long as you don’t hope for too much from it.’

  ‘I don’t think I could hope for anything ever again,’ she said.

  I found that little touch of drama - and who better than me to recognise drama - quite comforting. When grief is on parade it ceases to have the force of a private devotion. Don’t you agree?

  ‘You won’t find hope so easy to get rid of, my treasure,’ I assured her, brisk and nannyish. This ended our conversation, as she likes to be taken seriously. We joined the others. She made a show of greeting Kathleen as if they had been separated for a month rather than ten minutes.

  When Fergus and Peter finally drove off, Toby insisted we went to tea at the Copper Kettle. He and Dominic were getting on well. Kathleen and Linnie talked about London life. Kathleen was undiscriminating in her enthusiasm, as willing to embrace the petty restrictions imposed by landladies as the greater freedom of association, as eager for the depravities of Soho as the chic of Shepherd Market, as delighted by the prospect of having money of her own as the necessity to live on cheese when the grant ran out. London was a pageant laid on for her benefit, a twenty-four- hour show so varied its power to stimulate would never fail.

  Dominic, when not urging more crumpets on us, was looking beyond his law degree to the time when he would be in chambers. He has been in training for this for a long time and from his manner one might imagine that he had already taken silk. I was impressed by how adult he has become. His broad face and thick dark hair give him an expansive, even luxurious air and this, combined with heaviness of feature and thickness of body, deceptively suggests maturity and a degree of good living for which I can take no credit. He is fashioned thus. It is inconceivable he will not eventually be addressed as M’Lud.

  Toby, you will be pleased to know, was by no means daunted. He is quite a big lad now, isn’t he? with no padding to disguise bone and sinew. He seemed restless, not so much in his mind as within his skin; as if, after a period
of lethargy, he had become conscious of a need for exercise. On an impluse, I asked, ‘Does your school send boys on Outward Bound courses?’ He was dismissive - too much emphasis on character building. He thought he would like to go to some place where they hadn’t yet discovered character. It struck me that he was the one person in this group who had suffered no nostalgia as a result of the day’s work. If it is possible physically to pick up one’s troubles and dump them, then he seemed to have done it.

  There you have my removal story. I look forward to our working holiday with you in August. Judging from your description of the condition of the cottage, the Byrnes will be camping in your garden at intervals throughout the next few years.

  Love from us all and don’t try to do too much on your own,

  Constance

  Sussex

  June, 1966

  My dear Sheila,

  You will be surprised to learn that I am going to disagree with you. Can this be Constance, you wonder, biddable, acquiescent Constance, seldom known to be contrary? I must mark these wise words, you will tell yourself as you read.

  It is true that during the years you spent with Miles you were cut off from the outside world and you lost most of your friends, apart from Harpo and myself I concede that there was no one outside your immediate family with whom you had regular contact. Now, consider: when you married, you were twenty-four, had been to Cambridge and served in the WRNS; your ability to socialise was not in doubt in those early years, nor, more important, was your capacity for friendship. I will allow that your social skills may be rusty and that the years with Miles have left you wary and prone to withdraw from close contact; but these problems will right themselves given time and favourable conditions.

  It is obvious that the conditions are far from favourable. This school would have been regarded as old-fashioned in its outlook in the thirties. The Headmistress bemoans the fact that while before the war she was regarded as upper class she now finds herself categorised as middle class, a relegation she sees as symptomatic of the decay of the nation. The staff complain, ‘We have to teach children of tradespeople now; the butcher’s daughter is in the third form.’ They are insecure; they see their world under threat, themselves the last defence against barbarism. You would never have been able to work among such people.

  For years you have been pushing yourself in the belief that you are indestructible. When you were at your lowest ebb, you decided to take up the challenge of teaching. As if that were not challenge enough, you moved to Gloucestershire, away from your children, your parents and ever further from your devoted Constance. There, not content with one house near enough the river to be a prey to its moods, you bought a stone cottage steeped in the damp of centuries on which we shall all have to work like navvies for the next two years at least. Then, good Labour supporter that you are, you take a post at a school which looks back to a golden era of Edwardian comfort and privilege.

  You have made mistakes, but you didn’t imagine that once free of Miles you would go through life without making mistakes? A few mistakes here and there don’t add up to ‘an inadequate personality unable to establish good personal relationships or to handle work situations’.

  What you need is rest. The day term ends, pack your bags and head for Sussex, sanity and sanitation. We shall be going to Ireland on 15th August. I can’t ask you to join us as my father-in-law is not well, but you are welcome to use our house while we are away. Dominic, Kathleen and Cuillane will be in and out, and Harpo will be there keeping some sort of order and subverting their political judgement.

  Please, please be kind to yourself.

  My love,

  Constance

  Sussex

  October, 1966

  My dear Sheila,

  I loved the poem you sent me. Beyond my window-pane the grass is dusted with frost, patterned with the red of fallen leaves. The hills are damson against a steely sky. And does my heart sing praise? No, I think only of early darkness penning in reluctant children; mud everywhere and arguments over the cleaning of boots; the battle to keep the house warm with so many males around who never shut a door, and shopping expeditions on icy roads. You, whose situation is so much worse, make a gift of each day, each season.

  I am glad you feel better, though I have to tell you that our adviser on matters psychological, Harpo, is not entirely convinced. Are you right in saying you must do three years at this wretched school in order to have some experience to put on paper? Whatever you do, don’t let it make you ill.

  Linnie seemed well, I thought; and you must have been pleased at the improvement in Toby. I wish I could write as hopefully of Fergus’s father. To our great surprise, Dominic gave up a sailing holiday in order to visit him. Kathleen and Cuillane plan to go over at half-term. He will be so pleased to see them. He lies in bed looking more than ever like one of those Old Testament characters who begat many sons. His daughter-in-law had news for him. I have decided to become a Catholic. It was his reaction which convinced me he was terminally ill - he was delighted. His son is still at the fractious stage of life and suspects there is no reason for conversion other than the need to demonstrate yet again a talent for mistiming life; having stood out during the children’s younger years, thus causing dislocation, if not friction, now, when it doesn’t matter so much (is that theologically sound?) I decide to partake of the feast.

  I said to him, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice if we could share one profound experience?’

  He said he had often wished for this and thought it typical of me to dictate the event.

  His mother says he is anxious about the instruction, since it was such a disaster last time, and he is afraid of the effect on the children should it fail again. But it won’t fail. I have come to believe that, for all its imperfections, the Catholic Church is the custodian of the treasures I hold dear. The priest is a plump, elderly man, benign and unillusioned. I doubt that he rates my chances of being a good Catholic very high, but Catholics are accepting of weakness and I expect I shall be better off failing with them than keeping my chin above water with the Protestants.

  My mother is deeply shocked but says, ‘Of course, it was inevitable given your circumstances’, which is not fair to Fergus who has never put any pressure on me. I hope you and your parents will understand. It has often seemed to me that there is some common ground, which I can’t identify, between Methodists and Catholics.

  We will try to get down at half-term and lend a hand with the plastering. I am glad the farmer who owns your land is being helpful about the proposed covered way to the loo. Is he the man I met last year - not uncouth nor yet couth, a working farmer? He looked as if he would be effective. Let’s hope he can summon up labour to get the work done quickly. I can’t bear to think of you trudging out at night in the snow as you did last year. It is a wonder ’flu did not turn to pneumonia.

  My love,

  Constance

  Sussex

  January, 1967

  My dear Sheila,

  Yours was such an understanding letter. We are so sorry that you did not meet Fergus’s father. What sparks would have been struck from that encounter! Fergus is writing to you. He grieves that he saw so little of his father when the chance was there. It was my fault. There were years when we didn’t go to Ireland because of trivial household matters I can scarcely bear to think of. My priest is a great comfort and tells me I mustn’t take the blame for everything but allow others to have their share; so I am resolved to banish retrospective guilt. Of present guilt there is enough.

  Sheila, it seems I have trespassed against Harpo. She is in love with one of those sensitive men who are totally absorbed in the integrity of their own feelings. He owns a second-hand bookshop. Harpo says he is too individualistic to work with other people and, moreover, he would never survive in one of the professions because he doesn’t believe in competition. He came for Christmas. Harpo cherishes him, but he will never marry her or anyone else. He is the kind who will drift from one lov
ing woman to another, wasting them all.

  Before they arrived, I expressed the hope that they would not discuss the threat to the cosmos. This concern with the cosmos has altered Harpo sadly. She now wears her hair Shetland-pony style and from being one of the most smiling of people, seriousness has settled on her features and weighed them down. She has become worthy. She makes pronouncements instead of conversation. Her clothes have been adapted to suit the new Harpo. Gone the bright colours which, though they did not always flatter her, gave one the sense that she was trying in a very positive way; now she is all rumpled in greys and browns and there is a definite impression that the clothes are telling you she doesn’t give a damn for you or your values. When I remarked on this to Kathleen, she said, ‘If Aunt Sheila were to turn up in sackcloth you would proclaim it the height of fashion.’ (I wouldn’t rely on that Sheila.)

  Kathleen then said to me, ‘You must be nice to Harpo this Christmas.’

  I pointed out that I had been being nice to Harpo for years before Kathleen was born. Imagine my surprise when I was informed, ‘You are a proper Martha with Harpo. Whenever she tries to tell you anything about her work, her friends, something interesting that has happened to her, you busy yourself about the house. If it was Aunt Sheila, you would be Mary, sitting at her feet, all attention.’

  Even Cuillane was against me. ‘It’s because she’s not married,’ she explained gently. ‘You wouldn’t speak to her the way you do if she had a husband in tow.’

  ‘How do I speak to her?’

  ‘Tolerant, a bit irritated sometimes.’

  ‘She is irritating. I am very forbearing.’

  You rate yourself above her and below Aunt Sheila,’ Kathleen said. ‘These ratings are formed when people are quite young and they seldom change.’