Letters From Constance Read online

‘You know what they will say to you? “Citizens of what country?” The country you inhabit isn’t the same country that the miner inhabits, or the coloured bus conductor. Not that I have any personal experience of either.’ She said this in the same tone in which Gwendolen Fairfax disclaimed acquaintance with a spade. ‘But it’s what they say, these people just down from university, who, let’s face it, Mrs Byrne, are going to shape the schools of the future. Their question to you would be - whose values?’

  ‘Middle-class values.’

  ‘One can’t rely on the middle class any more, I’m afraid. Success is all that most of them want for their children. Service is a word not much used now.’

  ‘I seem to be rather out of date.’

  ‘We both are, my dear. I have quite settled for being a relic.’ That was all very well for her, single, roguishly eccentric and in her fifties. It is early in life for me to be outdated. I suppose it is the war which has been the great divide. Was there a line we failed to hold while we were busy defeating the Germans?

  ‘It’s not my values as such which concern me,’ I said later to Fergus. ‘I’m sure all values need to be taken out and reexamined from time to time and those which haven’t worn well thrown away to make room for new ones. What bothers me is that it should no longer be appropriate, in fact should be slightly disreputable, to admit to values of any kind.’

  ‘It’s all a matter of vocabulary,’ he said. ‘Values out, relativity in.’

  We spent another night propped up on pillows meditating on such questions as can success be equated with fulfilment? and is the possession of a university degree essential to achievement? We didn’t seem to arrive at any conclusions, but the next morning we were both convinced that Kathleen would not be happy at grammar school and that she is not sufficiently interested in academic success to do well in adverse conditions.

  So, there it is, Sheila. In September Kathleen will go to the local secondary modern school. It has a nice new building on the outskirts of the village and the Headmaster is very affable. Our friends think we have made a dreadful mistake. Fergus’s priest disapproves because although the grammar school is RC the secondary modern is undenominational. So her soul is in jeopardy as well as her mind.

  And you? Will you forgive us?

  In hope,

  Constance

  Sussex

  January, 1961

  My dear ageing friend.

  Our fortieth year - all four of us in our forties. Fergus in fact, balanced twixt forty and fifty. He sustains it well enough. His face is nobbly and his hair is sparse but standing up for itself here and there. He still has those long-distance eyes but the whites are getting pinkish and I tell him he had better cut down on the drink before the veins get to be broken.

  Would it be possible for you all to come down here, either on my birthday, or yours, for a huge family celebration? If this doesn’t appeal, could we meet in London, the four of us, for a celebratory meal? Do try.

  Love,

  Constance

  P.S. Isn’t it exciting that America has this new young President? What is all this nonsense about ageing at forty?

  Sussex

  August, 1961

  My dear Sheila,

  We should have done it years ago. Miles is much better at celebrating than I had imagined. In fact, I don’t think I have ever before met anyone who became more witty the more he drank. Fergus, like most men, comes out with stories he wouldn’t have told when sober and doesn’t tell very well when drunk.

  When we came out of the station it was a beautiful night with a great moon the colour of Dutch cheese. We were so happy we decided to leave the car and walk home. Soon I became painfully aware of not wearing the right shoes, so I took them off and we walked across the fields singing ‘Tiptoe through the tulips’ and ‘She’ll be coming round the mountain’ (naval words) and started all the farm dogs barking. Then Fergus rebuked them, ‘Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises. Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not.’ But the very sound of the human voice convinced them they were right to be afeard. Reaching the gate leading into our road, Fergus turned to assure them, ‘Our revels now are ended . . .’. He did the whole speech quite beautifully, but they were not to be comforted. As we lay in bed Fergus said, ‘How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world that has such people in’t!’ Alas, came morning with sound and fury because he had to get a taxi to the station.

  I have a slight headache. How are you and Miles?

  Love,

  Constance

  Sussex

  May, 1962

  My dear Sheila,

  Thank you for your generous offer. I hadn’t meant to drop a hint when I said we were looking for suitable activities to occupy Dominic, Kathleen and Cuillane while the rest of us went to Ireland. I was thinking in terms of an adventure camp for Dominic and something a bit less rigorous for the girls. If you and Miles really think you can cope, we should be very grateful.

  Shall I give you a bit of advice which you may or may not wish to take? It is a scheme which has worked well on past holidays. Devise a points system - so many points for help in preparing food, washing up, bed-making and any other chores you wish to include. You will find Dominic an absolute treasure. His determination to come first in everything quite blinds him to the fact that he is doing more work than anyone else.

  Should you have second thoughts, important engagements, or whatever else, please let us know.

  Our love and thanks,

  Constance

  County Wicklow

  August, 1962

  My dear Sheila,

  We have received a letter from Kathleen telling us that your father met them at Victoria and took them home with him to Ealing. She says it wasn’t convenient for you to have them. Something is wrong. Are you ill? Or Miles? Or has something happened to one of the children? Do please let us know, even if you only send a p.c.

  Anxiously,

  Constance

  County Wicklow

  August, 1962

  My darling Sheila,

  I have read your letter through and through. Surely it is one of those anxiety dreams and I shall wake soon. There have been times when I wouldn’t have blamed Fergus had he taken flight, but that it should happen to you is inconceivable. You sound so calm, trying to be fair to this little trollop, Joey. My poor linnie, to have her father made a fool by a girl only a year older than herself. Had you any inkling of what was going on during her lessons?

  She isn’t pregnant, I suppose? That might make for complications. But eventually he must come back. You have all given him so much; he couldn’t throw away such joy. You were my dream family. When I was tired and fractious and couldn’t sleep at night, I used to close my eyes and see you all in that great barn of a room, making music together. As I lay listening every wrinkle was ironed out. This was the threshold of Heaven and I imagined the music and the music makers to be one. It’s a brainstorm. He has always been precariously balanced, a likely subject for middle-age madness. It will pass. You would have him back, wouldn’t you? We have always said that we would never show the children the door whatever they might do and that we would have the man back were he to stray. Too much goes into the making of a marriage, sheer hard work apart from anything else, to throw it away for the sake of pride and you have never been proud.

  Your parents must be heart-broken. Fergus is writing to them. Will you let me know how Linnie and Toby are taking this. Would it help if I wrote to them?

  My love, you must feel so wounded and baffled. When we return, if he hasn’t regained his senses, come, all of you and we’ll weep and rage together.

  Our dearest love,

  Constance

  County Wicklow

  August, 1962

  Sheila, my dear.

  Yes, since you demand truthfulness, that ugly blight, I was surprised by your saying you would not have Miles back. What particularly disturbed me was that you sounded as if you had been forming this deci
sion over a long period. I could understand your pacing the house, crying out, ‘I will never have him back, never, not even were he to crawl all the way from Kew Gardens station.’ But I can’t understand this calm appraisal of the situation, gathering together past and present, this cool resolve that the future shall be quite other. I would always have Fergus back - I may already have had him back for all I know in my innocence.

  Nowadays there is a tendency to throw away the rule book, to allow our wishes and needs to be the rules of the moment. You were never like that. You have put so much of yourself into this marriage; love and patience, laughter and tears, learning and forgiving have gone to the making of it. Remember the good years as well as the bad. Miles has been foolish, but we love our men for their weaknesses as much as their strengths, don’t we? Indeed, were we ourselves to be loved only for our strengths, what hope would we have?

  And what of the children? You yourself once said they lived in a sealed chamber with you and Miles with the result that they made few friends. How will they manage when they have been brought up to despise the very skills which they will now need?

  Don’t think I’m judging you, my love; this is a plea not to be too hasty, not to do anything that would make Miles feel there is no way back.

  My love and prayers,

  Constance

  Sussex

  September, 1962

  My dearest Sheila,

  I found your letter hurtful and put it aside until we returned home. You were very abrupt on the telephone last night and I suspect you’re still angry with me.

  Can it really seem to you that I scarcely remember who you are, have not, in fact, seen you very clearly since that class photograph was taken? Oh dear, how much self-examination this has brought about! I am afraid it’s only too true that I tend to read my meanings into your sentences. No wonder you found it necessary to state your feelings about Miles so bluntly.

  I can see, looking back, that for years I have been presenting you with my view of your life. It seemed to me that you were uniquely fortunate in having such a close, all-embracing relationship. You’re right. As the walls went up around you, I stood by and applauded. I did indeed find cause for congratulation in the disorderly house, the wild garden, the empty hearth and the untimely meals. Though I do remember that once - I don’t recall in what connection - I detected a hint of desperation in you and I think I commented on it. You never responded.

  I have one memory of Miles which recurs disturbingly. I once had tea with him in a café in Cambridge. Perhaps I told you about it. The waitress was little more than a child; a thin, undernourished creature looking at him with the rapacious eyes of the willing slave to whom servitude, even of the most abject kind, gives sustenance. Can this be what he secretly desires in a woman?

  I wish you had told me that from the very beginning there was trouble between you and Miles. The fact that he was possessive did not escape me, but I even envied you that. ‘You wouldn’t care if you knew that you weren’t the first love of my life, would you?’ I once said to Fergus. I don’t recall his reply, probably because it was non-committal.

  How different we are! You say you loved Miles because there was something that meant more to him than you. His consuming passion was music. You like that kind of passion in a man. I, on the other hand, much regret the tendency in Fergus to look to something beyond the bend in the road, the brow of the hill. He will never tell me what it is, he probably doesn’t know himself, but it’s there, somewhere in the distance in a place where I’m not. This kind of passion in a man does not please me.

  I’m disturbed by the things you say. There is another person in all of us, ‘a dark presence waiting in the wings, ready to take over in time of emergency’. I have sometimes been made aware, mostly in dreams, of another person in me with whom I don’t want to have much to do. Unlike you, I don’t care for this word emergency - emergence, emerge, something humbler than advent, yet a coming to being none the less. I tremble for you. Miles has unlocked a door.

  Although you were so annoyed with me, you seemed concerned about my children. They are shocked, even Dominic is subdued. Kathleen is angry. Cuillane spends some time explaining to Stephen. He and she are great friends and I think it helps her to talk to him. I heard her say yesterday, ‘Yes, he still loves Auntie Sheila. The trouble is, he loves too many people.’

  It seems strange to me that your one feeling of guilt should be that you may have caused my children to question the security of their own home. What of your children, Sheila? You say that you would die for them but are not prepared to sacrifice yourself for them day by day. Are they to be left to rub along as best they can?

  We must talk about these things. As soon as term begins it should be possible for me to come up to see you. In the meantime, let me know if there is anything we can do.

  Our love to you all,

  Constance

  Sussex

  September, 1962

  My dear Sheila,

  We will certainly have Linnie, if you really think it wise to separate from the children; at a time when they have lost one parent it may be more than they can bear to lose the other. Why not stay on in the house until they are both through school and then start to look for somewhere else to live?

  Fergus thinks it will be a long time before you can son out the legal situation regarding property. In his opinion, it would be unwise to do anything which would suggest you were prepared to accommodate yourself to Miles’s arrangements. I pointed out that, far from being accommodating, you couldn’t wait to live an independent life and he said there was no reason why you shouldn’t be independent and still have a roof over your head and assisted school places for the children. ‘There is a battle ahead of her, but at least she occupies the castle and it is Miles who must do the besieging. I don’t see him making a good job of that. I wouldn’t back him to get one piano, let alone a harp, out of that house without doing himself a mischief. And while she can’t pour boiling oil over him from an upstairs window, more’s the pity, she can make sure his progress is impeded by every legal means available to her.’ He suggests we should come up for the day next weekend to talk things over.

  Oh, how this has rocked my own small boat! I look at Fergus and wonder what he may have done and can’t bring myself to ask for fear that, whatever he might reply, I would know the answer as I looked into his face.

  Our love and prayers,

  Constance

  Sussex

  September, 1962

  My dear Sheila,

  I learnt a great deal from our talk. As I listened to you in that room which I had always imagined to be the still centre of your lives, I realised this was something which always had to happen. If not now, then later. Miles would destroy his happiness.

  When you told us that love represented a threat to him because one day the thread from which it hung must break, I remembered how nervous he was when Linnie was a baby. He said to me before the christening, ‘If you dropped her, she would smash to pieces.’ I sympathised with him then because babies seemed to me to be all too breakable; I have since learnt that they are remarkably tough. But perhaps this is how Miles felt all the time - that nothing is tough enough to survive the ticking of a clock.

  I can understand that the one thing which enabled you to continue to respect him was his music. For him, it must have represented a triumph over almost impossible odds to impose form and order, like working on a diamond knowing that one ill-judged blow can shatter the whole. Whenever I listen to Last Thoughts in the Tuileries Gardens I shall marvel at how the human spirit can rise above its handicaps and compose, out of jangling pain and tumult, such calm, ordered beauty.

  On the way home, Fergus stopped the car near Richmond Bridge and we walked along the towpath, although it was nearly dark and raining hard. I think he was gasping for air and I found myself putting out my tongue to catch the raindrops. What haunted Fergus was your description of the many days when Miles would follow you around the hou
se demanding information about something he imagined to be worrying Linnie, or alienating Toby, refusing to be reassured, asking where you were going, what you were doing, why did this or that have to be attended to at a time when he needed your undivided attention, his questions moulding a pitch-cap to your head until the lavatory and a plea of constipation became your only refuge. ‘He wanted to be in every moment of her life,’ Fergus said. ‘Another person can be the most effective form of prison.’ The river was black and flowing out fast and I think we both wished we could deliver you to it and let it carry you far away from that house and its bitter memories. I had noticed that all the windows in the house were open and I hoped that perhaps, even as we stood there, you might be leaning out and could just discern the dark glint of water.

  The town soon slips away as one walks and there was an island, a dense mass of drenched trees, which blotted out the lights of the distant houses. The only sound was the squelch of our inadequately shod feet in spongy ground and the slopping of driftwood in the reeds. One can make what one will, according to mood, of the smell that comes up from the river. I was aware of the broken things it carries, putrefied by their long immersion. It came to me, watching the river, how much of my own life had flowed by, its passage unheeded, nothing of moment achieved. All sorts of questions hovered in the air which it would not have been wise to ask. What was Fergus thinking? I could see his silhouette, the rain streaming down his face as he stared across to the island, and for a moment he was a stranger, some stranded mariner trying to identify an unfamiliar shore. Was he asking, ‘How came I to be washed up here?’ Did he feel that in his life with me much had gone to waste? As night came we walked back. It was so dark, that water. The rain had got under the collar of my jacket and an icy trickle ran down my spine. If anything dreadful were ever to happen to me, I have a fear I might wade into that dark water. I wouldn’t have your strength in adversity.

  If ever you think it would help Linnie or Toby to get away from the house, you know you can send them to us. Linnie was raw with grief, but there was a blankness in Toby’s eyes I did not like to see. It might do him good to be with our brood for a few days; the young have their own way of helping one another.