Over some years she expressed to me a wish to die. She’d say, ‘I wish I was dead,’ or, ‘I don’t know if I can stand it any more.’ There is nothing you can say to that … you don’t dismiss it, but I didn’t feel it was something that ordinary advice or listening could really resolve. I’m sure I wasn’t as helpful as I could have been. But in reality I don’t know what I could have done.
What would be Frances’s final novel, The Fall of Doctor Onslow – originally entitled ‘A School Story’ – was inspired by her reading of the memoirs of the writer and homosexual John Addington Symonds, wherein he exposed the commonplace incidence of homosexuality at Harrow School in the 1850s, among pupils and indeed between boys and senior staff.
MICHAEL MARTEN: Onslow was based on a true story about a headmaster at Harrow, who was effectively blackmailed or bludgeoned by the father of a pupil into leaving the school and wasn’t allowed to accept any preferment in the Church, such that when he tried to a few years later he got set back. It was a very powerful story and Frances managed to convey it very well. It seemed to me her first novels were very good but of a certain type, novels of manners and mores, but they didn’t really go further than that. Whereas I felt that Onslow had more depth.
SHEILA VERNON: Frances’s sense of humour wasn’t commented on. But it’s there in Onslow, especially in Doctor Onslow’s wife Louisa, who is a great character, I think. Nothing’s explained to her but she knows quite a lot. When she speaks of Onslow’s devotion to his pupils and then realises what she’s said … And when Onslow says he’s ‘upset over a boy’, she does know there’s something hidden. Or when they go together to a hotel and she comments on their lack of luggage, to which he replies, ‘A clergyman is always respectable …’ Even he has a joke at himself. Frances was very succinct in her writing, including her humour.
MICHAEL MARTEN: Gollancz, who published Westmarch, turned down the first version of Onslow. It was a huge blow to Frances, and she was reluctant to rewrite it, but she did, quite considerably. She must have finished it not long before she died. And it was almost as though she had decided it was the work she had to finish, she had no ideas beyond that – and by finishing it, I think she felt released.
Frances died by her own hand on 11 July 1991 after what The Times obituarist would describe as her ‘long struggle with depressive illness’. Having promised her psychiatrist not to end her life using pills he’d prescribed for her depression, Frances created a ‘herbal’ concoction, which she took, and then lay down to die, apparently calmly and peacefully.
MICHAEL MARTEN: It wasn’t sudden, it was a continual worsening. It was a cloud over her and it grew blacker. She seemed less able to escape from the blackness. When it happened I was certainly shocked. But it was not in the least unexpected. And I felt thereafter that nothing would have saved her.
SHEILA VERNON: I go over and over thinking how we might have done things differently, and probably we should have, you can’t help wondering. But … you just have to live with it as best you can. In a way it was rather like someone with a terrible illness that couldn’t be cured, and you don’t want them to go on and on suffering.
MICHAEL MARTEN: A few months after Frances’s death I sent ‘A School Story’ back to Gollancz in its rewritten form but they turned it down. I got in touch with her agency Blake Friedmann and asked them to suggest other publishers who might be interested. They sent me a list of about twenty, to whom I sent copies, most of whom turned it down until André Deutsch accepted it. And I think it’s the best of Frances’s novels.
The Fall of Doctor Onslow was published finally in July 1994. Ben Preston for The Times called it ‘a searing indictment of the process of education … tersely written in a style that successfully captures Victorian restraint and its stifling sensibilities’. In the Tablet, Jill Delay reflected that ‘it is difficult to believe when reading it that the author was a child of our times and did not actually live in the middle of the last century: she recreates that world so vividly, with such understanding of its characters, such an ear for its speech, such feeling for its attitudes and taboos’. Lucasta Miller for the Independent observed that the novel’s ‘posthumous appearance is both a tragic reminder of what she might have gone on to do, and a testimony to what she did achieve’.
Part One
THE YOUNG PARNELLS
1950–1952
CHAPTER 1
CHRISTMAS, 1950
Hugh Parnell of Combe Chalcot in Dorsetshire disliked Isabel his daughter-in-law, and called her a transatlantic bitch; he used to observe that his elder son Gerard’s little wife Finola was more his cup of tea. He was pleased when Isabel’s husband Darcy told him in November that she and the children would be spending Christmas in New England with her American cousins; though he did wonder why Darcy was not going with her, for he thought his son’s work could not really prevent his going where he liked.
Hugh took a pinch of snuff and thought of this, as the organ groaned into silence and everyone sat down with rustlings and coughs. Then his wife stared at him across Finola and he mumbled distastefully as he realised it was now time for him to read the second lesson.
The church was electric-lit and hung with Christmas decorations: holly and pine-cones and crude stars of silver paper which the schoolchildren had made. Hugh hunched his shoulders against the cold as he walked round to the lectern. He put on his spectacles, glanced at his family in the first pew, then began to read in an excellent deep voice:
‘St Luke, chapter two, one to eleven. And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed. And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.’ He saw that Gerard, who was a Christian, was moving his lips. ‘And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem …’ Darcy, who was an emotional atheist, was also looking moved. Hugh noticed this and continued, seeing that only Finola was watching him, with her small head on one side. ‘… Because he was of the house and lineage of David. To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.’ Hugh thought with resentment of this transfer of population for government purposes, which seemed as he read to be quite as likely in the future as the continuation of rationing, and national service; though there would be no difficulty for the Dorset Parnells in moving to the place of their birth. They had never left it. He grasped the lectern, and pricked himself on some holly tied there. ‘And she brought forth her first born son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.’ Constance his wife, who was large and handsome and a Christian like Gerard, considered that much of the Authorised Version was coarsely expressed. She was looking at the organ. Seed, thought Hugh, and circumcising – he glanced at the facing column, which was not to be read today. ‘… For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.’
Hugh snatched off his spectacles and replaced the marker with an unsteady hand. His heart was not good, had not been good for years, and he had felt a rough quick pain as he finished. He looked up again, preparing to return to his pew, and saw the white faces, heads and hats, the font and the crib at the dark end by the door. Near him, the rector made a move: the Parnells and the village were puzzled. Another sight of his tall family revived Hugh, who had thought for a moment of death. Neither of his sons was at all satisfactory, his wife was a very determined woman, and he had no intention of dying without making proper preparation. He knew that Constance would speak to him that afternoon about the danger to his health.
‘Take a pinch of snuff, pa-in-law,’ whispered Finola, smiling at him as she finished making her small son Richard blow his nose. ‘You are all right?’
‘Of course! Ssh,’ Hugh was not offended. They began another carol, with which the Rector was generous at the Christmas morning service.
&nb
sp; Finola shared her hymn book with Hugh, signalled with her eyes to Gerard that he was quite all right, ignored her peering mother-in-law, and was more pleased than she should have been when Richard joined in the last verse: ‘… Hor-hor-ia Hosanna in Excelsis!’ Christmas had not been so difficult as she had anticipated, and she was glad they had not stayed after all in London, to entertain her parents.
*
Gerard and Darcy, both six foot tall, were forty-six and thirty-seven years old. Gerard was so beautiful that he had been courted by men as well as women ever since he went to Eton, and age had only made his beauty less unnerving. There were still a few men who called him ‘Pretty Polly’, though he hated it. He was not yet bald, but his forehead swooped up at the corners, and his hair had turned from flaxen blond to pale grey. His nose was perfectly straight, with deep-cut nostrils, his lips were thin and gentle, and his brandy-coloured eyes curved down a little at the lower edge, giving him an air of drooping sensibility. His thick straight eyebrows and long lashes were dark and turning grey, his complexion was delicate, and his masculine figure excellent, though rather too thin.
Darcy was not quite so handsome. His hair was brown, his mouth was wide, and his eyes were too small, sharper and less clear than his brother’s. He had a very square jaw and a heavy neck, but the same straight nose and high forehead as Gerard. Constance said that Darcy’s was a more intelligent and interesting face: Gerard took after herself in looks, and so she did not think it wrong slightly to disparage them. Hugh had no particular objection to his elder son’s loveliness.
At lunch, when for a moment no one was requiring her attention, Finola thought to herself that she loved her husband for his restful qualities. He was wearing with dignity the knitted tie which had been his mother’s present, and picking at his Christmas pudding as he listened to his brother talking about the reception accorded in America to his book, The Pride of Clarissa: A Pagan Element in Richardson’s Work. Finola thought that perhaps Gerard should have tried to make more of a success of his career at the Bar, but she could not blame him for disliking his profession. She and Gerard both thought it must be quite delightful to be an English don at Cambridge.
‘Mamma!’ said Darcy suddenly, interrupting Constance. He spoke with a drawl. ‘Talking about my book. D’you know, I’ve seen that although you still have a copy out in the drawing-room the marker is in exactly the same place as it was in July?’
‘Really, Darcy,’ said Constance. ‘It was your father who was trying to read it. It’s such a clever book! Coffee in my sitting-room, please, Mainwaring,’ she said to the butler. She and Finola were first to leave the dining-room, and Constance said to her: ‘Darcy likes to tease, you know.’
‘I must go up and see Richard,’ said Finola. She thought Darcy rather odd today. ‘Nanny says Eleanor’s very fretful, she’s too young for Christmas really.’
‘Of course!’ said Constance.
Finola turned, and ran up the linoleum back-stairs to her bedroom to powder her nose and enjoy the quiet grey light and cold chintz for a moment, alone. She did mean to see her children but she suspected that, although Mainwaring had kindly carried Richard up to the old nursery when he had grown sleepy in the dining-room after half a glass of wine, the child would now be boisterous: and Eleanor, at nearly two, was never still. Finola was not an indulgent parent though Constance, who had disapproved of the diluted wine and attributed the boy’s being encouraged to Finola’s French blood, had just begun to say that she was.
Her face felt stuffy with food and drink, but when she looked in the mirror Finola saw that it was hardly shining at all. She brushed her nose with powder, and observed that she had never been a beauty. Hers was a pale, pointed, high-cheekboned face, with a thin, too-long, turned up nose, a rather full mouth, and strong arched eyebrows. Her eyes were steady grey and her hair a light gingery brown. As a child she had been a pretty watercolour version of her intriguingly ugly French father, but as she had grown older, some of her mother’s rather heavy, though handsome features had developed in her small face. Finola wished they had not.
‘Go upstairs,’ said Finola, who had a habit of whispering to herself, ‘see the children, and then downstairs, and have coffee.’ She closed her powder tidily in the dressing-table drawer, and reflected that the two black labradors, Trumpy and Amelia, would have joined the family in Constance’s sitting-room. Finola got up, and went first to the attic nursery where Eleanor was playing rather distractedly with all her new toys at once, and then to see Richard who was lying down in the night nursery, having been sick. Finola was very relieved when Nanny, who was younger than she was, said that it had been a lovely Christmas all the same.
Downstairs it was just as she had supposed it would be. Coffee was half-finished, the lights were on, and the holly on the picture-frames had wilted. Constance was the only person sitting upright, working at her tapestry, while the men lounged, and Hugh read Picture Post. The labradors lay at Gerard’s feet by the fire, and he was worrying about the war in Korea and the atom bomb. Constance and Darcy were discussing bad weather and hard winters, especially the winter of three years ago, power cuts and shortages and the winds from the Fens in Cambridge. When Finola sat down, their conversation lapsed.
‘This is damned dull,’ said Hugh five minutes later. Finola smiled.
‘I told you I’ve got to go tonight,’ said Darcy.
‘Darling, I simply don’t see why,’ said Constance. ‘Do at least stay over Boxing Day!’
He put down his coffee-cup. ‘I ought to tell you something now – I thought I would be coming down again in January, but I’m not, and so – I’m afraid you’ll be rather cross, but Isabel and I are getting a divorce. That’s why she’s gone to America.’
‘I don’t follow,’ said Hugh, breaking the silence.
*
Three hours later when Darcy had gone, and Constance was lying down upstairs with eau de cologne, Hugh found Gerard and Finola still in Constance’s sitting-room. He had taken Darcy into his study to talk with him alone, when he considered that the family had really heard too much about adultery, and co-respondents, and terrible rows.
‘This is simply monstrous,’ he said, taking off his spectacles and walking to the fire. Gerard, who had been talking with his wife about Darcy’s misfortune, excused himself and Hugh watched him leave. ‘Darcy exaggerates!’ said Hugh to Finola when his son was gone, and paused. ‘My dear, d’you think it’s at all likely that it won’t finally come to divorce?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Finola.
‘I never wanted him to marry her,’ he said. ‘And why the devil couldn’t he have waited, like Gerard? Before getting married, I mean.’
‘He and I were very old to be married,’ she said. ‘Most people don’t wait.’
‘Nonsense – you were quite a child.’
‘Twenty eight!’ said Finola, and waited.
‘Well, well.’
Hugh was neither tall nor handsome; he was white-haired and red-faced, with the clever eyes and heavy jaw he had given to Darcy, a large hooked nose and a jockey’s legs. He was rather fat and, of all the family, only Finola was shorter than he. Finola watched him, and started a little when he swung suddenly round from the mantelpiece.
‘Here Amelia – good dog, so beautiful, yes,’ she said, pleased when the labrador placed a black nose on her knee from mere curious affection.
‘… And does he realise his position at Cambridge will probably be wrecked by this divorce? Does he actually realise that she’s the one with the money?’ Hugh was saying.
‘I don’t know. Did you ask him?’ Finola said.
He snorted. There were times when, in fine rhetorical anger, her father-in-law reminded Finola of her forthright but excitable artist mother (about whom Hugh was always polite in her presence). ‘Darcy’s a bloody fool, I beg your pardon my dear. Says there’s nothing for it but divorce and I couldn’t get another word out of him.’
‘Well,’ said Finola, ‘they won
’t give him the sack at Cambridge, will they? They can’t do that, can they, it isn’t gross moral turpitude?’
Hugh was not quite sure of the meaning of ‘turpitude’ but he knew that Finola was being calm and keeping a sense of proportion, and said: ‘Not such gross moral whatsit as marrying that bitch in the first place.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Finola. ‘You don’t suppose they will sack him?’
‘My dear Finola, if Isabel cites an undergraduette they’ll get him to resign, as sure as eggs is eggs, and I wouldn’t put it past her; I know there was some girl or other.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Finola.
‘The scandal will be simply appalling, be in all the newspapers I daresay. I don’t suppose you quite understand, my dear, not having been brought up among people who make a fuss about these things, but it’ll be devilish. Isabel’s had her photograph in the newspapers, and she’s stinking rich, and a so-called – God knows why she married Darcy.’
‘I hope there won’t be a terrible scandal,’ said Finola, rather fascinated by the word. ‘And I must say I agree with you, pa-in-law, I don’t see why they need to get divorced. They’ve led such separate lives ever since I’ve known them.’ She added: ‘Those poor children simply haven’t had a chance.’
‘I know,’ said Hugh. ‘But I’ll tell you why it is, I got it out of him: she wants to marry another man.’ They thought of how Darcy would never willingly admit this.
‘Who?’
‘An American,’ said Hugh, looking rather pleased. ‘Just what one would expect!’
‘Couldn’t Darcy divorce her?’
‘My dear, it simply isn’t done. He’ll go off to some ghastly hotel in Brighton with whoever he can find, one can pay some woman, you know. Plenty of false evidence, that’s what one wants –’
A Desirable Husband Page 2
