Letters From Constance Page 13
He still had the appearance of not fitting into his surroundings and making it seem the surroundings which were at fault. Our sitting-room has not withstood the ravages of childhood assault and homely is the best one can say for it; yet he contrived to appear gaunt and awkward as a man returned from the mission field, unaccustomed to the comforts of Western society. To continue the religious theme, he still had that hungry look, the sort of hunger earthly food will not satisfy, which would make a saint of him were it not for the suspicion that Divine food would appeal to him even less. So, in that respect, she has not so much changed as allowed him to exacerbate his more extreme tendencies. I suspect that not only will she not thwart him, she will never apply a brake.
Facially, there is a difference. It is not simply that his face is more deeply striated, time would have seen to that anyway. It is the eyes. Miles may have looked on the world without much liking, but he did find it a source of devilish glee. Now, the eyes stared unblinkingly, as if, just beyond where his feet rested, a great rift had opened up. He seemed, more often than not, to be addressing that void rather than anyone in the room. Perhaps it’s that while he was safe with you he regarded the world as an entertainment; now it has ceased to entertain.
I showed this letter to Fergus in case he had anything to add. He said Miles was an egoist and this explained the hungry look; he had never had much in the way of nourishment to offer himself and his food store is therefore being depleted day by day. Fergus thinks you are well rid of Miles.
I am disappointed that you can’t come at half-term; but I do appreciate that our house is not the quietest of places in which to study. Linnie and Toby will be very welcome; but do please look after yourself. Left alone, I fear you will go cold and unfed. Remember that if you deny yourself food and warmth your brain won’t function so well.
Love and admonitions,
Constance
Sussex
October, 1964
My dear Sheila,
When I felt the weight of your letter, I hoped that here was good news about the divorce and the sale of the house.
I am so distressed for you. As if you hadn’t enough trouble without this pestilential psychiatrist. You don’t say why it was decided to refer Toby to him. Was this the recommendation of the educational psychologist? It’s all a plot to keep themselves in business.
Does this man have children of his own? How would he feel, rehearsing his troubles in front of a monosyllabic, enigmatic, uninvolved, grey-suited icon who showed great reluctance to take any part in moving the discussion along and who treated him like a complaining customer who had pushed past the sales assistant and stormed the manager’s office? No wonder you felt as if Toby were a piece of equipment which had left the maker in good condition and must subsequently have been damaged in the home. It may well be important for Toby to feel that there is someone ‘to whom he can talk about himself in absolute confidentiality, secure in the understanding that adverse comments are not being fed in without his knowledge’. Wouldn’t we all love such a confidante? No wonder Toby bounces in like someone who has had a splendid evacuation when he returns from a session; but most purgatives carry a warning that if the problem doesn’t clear up within a few days one should consult a doctor. How is he to be helped by someone who has to rely for his assessment of the family situation on the impressions of a very disturbed youth? Is he God? Does he ever pause to wonder whether it is justifiable to encourage Toby to lay bare his feelings of resentment and to voice his belief that you are responsible for the loss of his father?
How dare he make you see yourself as a tough, unsympathetic mother! But are you quite sure this is, in fact, what he was saying? I know how sharply I react to criticism and if anyone were to say to me ‘Do you think it is possible you may have failed to notice how quiet Cuillane is - or how strident Kathleen has become’, I should immediately translate this into an accusation that I was a selfish, uncaring woman and unfit to be a mother. You are much more level-headed, but the past few years have been a struggle for you and any negative comment on the way in which you have coped is bound to be particularly wounding.
Yes, we will have Linnie at half-term, if you think this will help. Alternatively, why not send Toby? It might do him good to be here with Fergus, since he is missing the company of an older man. This would give Linnie time alone with you. I know you don’t want her to become too dependent, but she is very attached to you and one can’t push them into self-reliance before they are ready. Have a think about it.
It may cheer you to know that you are not alone in having trouble with your offspring. Dominic has been smoking pot. How exemplarily calm that sounds. We found out about it a couple of months ago, at which time calm I was not. Fergus and I were at odds as to the best way of dealing with him. I thought Fergus was too easy-going and he said that if I would persist in behaving as if Dominic had already blighted his life there would be no incentive for him to mend his ways.
My mother, who was staying with us, was surprisingly supportive. ‘At least he didn’t learn that at home,’ she said, but could not forbear adding, ‘Now, if it had been drink . . .’
Dominic insisted that he had not, in fact, smoked pot. He couldn’t make up his mind whether to say this in court, thus letting his friends down - and possibly not being believed anyway - or admit to something he hadn’t done and accept whatever the beaks handed out. In the event, he pleaded guilty because he thought this would be less risky and time-consuming. We hope he has learnt from this affair. He likes to be in the swim, but not in real trouble. Dominic is ambitious and his ambitions don’t lie in the direction of probation work.
I am fairly easy in my mind about Dominic. What worries me is the effect it may have on the other children. Kathleen is a strong character and I don’t see her succumbing to this particular temptation. Her reaction to the affair was to say, affectionately, ‘Dominic isn’t an addictive type - too hooked on himself. All that Cuillane had to contribute to the debate was the statement that ‘it was not uncommon in the nineteenth century’. She seemed unable or unwilling to narrow the problem down to what was happening in 1964 in her own house. The twins are secretive and prefer to be on their own rather than with friends. We lose them when we go for walks on the Downs and by the sea they have their own part of the beach, which I regularly invade bringing Peg with me. Fergus doesn’t like this tendency to be apart, but points out that it doesn’t mean they perform satanic rites and are ripe for drug addiction. As for Peg, I don’t think she knew what kind of pot we were talking about.
Stephen is the one about whom I am really concerned. He views all people with a delighted interest which can only too easily be interpreted as a particular affection and I have noticed that other children are drawn to him. Even characters as different as my mother and Harpo lay claim to sharing a special understanding with Stephen. In addition to this disarming show of interest, he is fun to be with. He has his father’s humour and there is always laughter in the house when they are together. But, and no doubt I lay too much emphasis on this oft-repeated but, he lacks Fergus’s toughness of mind. He is an obliging person. I am not saying he would be easily led into doing something that was against his nature; the trouble is, I am not sure what his nature is. I fear that in him curiosity may be stronger than the tendency to formulate principles. In short, I’m not sure how sound is his judgement. During this business with Dominic he went into orbit and we were daily presented with the Stephen who is a stranger to the planet and doesn’t understand its life forms.
Heigh-ho. Friends cast even more doubtful glances at Fergus’s laboratory, though I think it is really the playing of classical music they are anxious to discourage.
Let us know who to expect at half-term.
Love from one failed parent to another,
Constance
Sussex
April, 1965
My dear Sheila,
I am trying to be delighted for you. Once the divorce was through I knew that you
would want to make more changes in your life. It is splendid that you have a senior English post; but why in the depths of Gloucestershire? And will you really enjoy teaching at what sounds ominously like a school for young ladies? I console myself by imagining you looking from the window of one of those lovely stone cottages overhung with wistaria while you wait for the inspiration for the next line of a poem. You are going to address yourself to your poetry now, I hope; otherwise I see no advantage in this rural retreat.
Linnie seems happy at the Guildhall School of Music. I know you think that music doesn’t offer much of a life to those who lack great talent; but she seems to get so much joy out of it that I wonder whether sometimes it might not be worthwhile being second-rate. She is such an accepting, undemanding person and will take what comes her way and be thankful. I hope you are not moving away too abruptly at a time when she may be beginning gently to separate from you.
Toby will be well looked after by your parents; but are you right in thinking that the only hope of reconciliation is for you to be at some distance from him?
Don’t move too far away from us all.
Love and misgivings,
Constance
Sussex
April, 1965
My dear Sheila,
I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry! I will cover two sheets with sorriness if you will forgive me.
I was profoundly moved by your comment that you have come to realise you must now take on yourself the role of the partner. As I reflected on this I realised how much I rely on Fergus to supplement and balance my personality. How does one manage without the seemingly unfruitful arguments after which one is surprised to find one’s opinions ever so slightly amended; the long talks in bed which over a period of time lead, if not to the solving of problems, then to some sort of accommodation; the acceptance of weakness, the recognition of strength, the ability to laugh at fears and to put anger to one side? You say it’s like developing another part of the brain when one part ceases to function. I hope that Gloucestershire may bring you the peace you need to make some sort of sense of this.
I have problems, too. Would I had your courage.
Now that the children are all at school I have time to make discoveries about myself - such as, that I am not good company. I thought of taking a part-time job (goodness knows we could do with the money), but all I have to offer is myself and this doesn’t seem to be enough - skills are required. I told Fergus, ‘I need worthwhile activities with which to occupy myself.’ He, as well as his paid work, has worthwhile activities, which doesn’t seem quite fair. Some time ago his priest asked him to visit one of the Roman Catholics in the town prison. This soon led to his visiting several Roman Catholics, with the result that he sees rather less of me. I asked whether there was any reason why I shouldn’t do prison visiting. I will not bore you with details, merely say that eventually the powers that be decided that there were several reasons, none of which they were prepared to divulge, why I would not make a suitable prison visitor.
Obviously my capabilities as an adult, as distinct from a mother, were in question. I spent some time in the bedroom studying myself in the long mirror. In my youth I was reckoned to have dress sense and more than a touch of glamour. I had thought to have retained both attributes and I have always indulged the youthful habit of flinging on my clothes in the belief that the effect will not have changed materially down the years. Now, studying myself carefully, I saw a woman with strawlike hair badly in need of a good cut and a figure which no trimming would help. Why did nobody tell me my stomach had spread? I had no idea what this unkempt stranger was good for, if anything. For a week I felt burnt out and useless and produced meals to prove it.
At the weekend Fergus’s Jesuit friend stayed with us. I told him I was reading Von Hügel, which I hoped would please him as he isn’t impressed with my intellectual powers. He said that if I found Von Hügel congenial, I might try Caussade. When he had left, I asked Fergus if he had anything by Caussade and he produced yet another volume of letters. The Jesuit was right. Von Hügel talks to his niece and I am privileged to overhear. Caussade speaks directly to me. There is a rumour abroad that he died in 1751, but it’s not true. He sits across the room from me and his knowledge of my condition is uncanny. ‘I can find no particular sin in your conduct, yet I perceive defects and imperfections which might do you great harm if you did not apply a strong remedy. These are uneasiness, foolish fears, depression, weariness and a discouragement not quite free of deliberation, or at least not combated with sufficient energy, all of which tend to diminish your inner peace.’ No one has ever known me so well or advised so wisely - ‘Be very careful not to allow thoughts which would bring about sadness, uneasiness or depression to remain in your mind. Let them alone, without dwelling on them; despise them and let them fall like a stone into the sea.’
I help in the canteen at the prison now, serving tea and coffee and miscounting change. ‘I nearly swindled you,’ I said to one con yesterday. ‘Don’t do that, love,’ he answered. ‘That’s what I’m in for.’ It keeps me occupied and provides some sort of service.
Soon Dominic will be leaving home and then it will be Kathleen and the time will come when my beloved clown, Stephen, will go. Pray that I may grow in wisdom. Sheila, as I pray that you may find your way through the dark wood.
My love,
Constance
Sussex
May, 1965
My dear Sheila,
It was a joy to hear you on the telephone, though the line was so bad I only heard half of what you said. I gathered, however, that you were phoning from a call-box in the village. It’s a relief to know that you’re within reach of civilisation of some sort. I would have thought you had had your fill of struggle over the last week, but seemingly you’re insatiable since you want an account of the house moving activities from the Richmond end.
Spirits were high as we set out from Sussex. My Fergus and your dear brother, Peter, were excited as two schoolboys allowed into the cab of a steam-engine - the difference, being that they were to do the driving. Peter talked much of his experience in the desert, though to my recollection he wasn’t in the tank corps. As the marines did most of the driving in the Navy, Fergus couldn’t respond in kind, but he recounted tales of his early years in the Wicklows where, he would have us believe, his family was the first to discover the wheel. None of which convinced me that either of them was qualified to drive a high-sided vehicle with limited rear view.
Dominic and Kathleen had volunteered to help and I took them with me in the car - a procedure to which they only consented because it was apparent that if they so much as set foot in the van I should lie down in front of its wheels. Needless to say we arrived long before the van. Kathleen suggested we should start stacking furniture and move it into the hall.
‘You will break your father’s heart if you lay a finger on any object,’ I said. ‘He spent most of last night planning this manoeuvre down to the last cup and saucer.’
Dominic said, ‘How much did they get for the house?’
‘Just over five thousand.’
‘They should have got at least seven.’
Kathleen said, ‘I can’t stand around here,’ and went into the garden. I followed her. She had her period and looked heavy-eyed and pale. That lovely chestnut hair is greasy now and she has lost her sprightliness. She moves as if her limbs drag chains. Adolescence is physically and emotionally cruel to her. We poked about in the shrubbery where the rhododendrons were choking the azaleas whose expiring breath was overpowering. ‘They’ll make it all neat and tidy, the new people. Just like any other garden. There will never be anywhere like this again for children.’ So, you see. Sheila, despite her present misery she counts your home among her blessings.
Fergus and Peter arrived half an hour later. No sooner had Fergus assigned to each of us our allotted task than Toby and Linnie arrived. They were insistent they should help. You seemed particularly anxious to know how they were aff
ected by this upheaval, so I will give you my impressions for what they’re worth.
Toby rolled up his sleeves and got to work as if he were exorcising ghosts. Whatever happened to the ghosts, the physical effort certainly brought him back to life. As the day wore on he came more and more to resemble the sturdy boy of his early years.
Linnie wandered sadly from room to room, shadowed by me. ‘Do you think this is the best way to say goodbye?’ I asked. ‘We could go out to lunch. They don’t really need us.’
‘I have to see it happen.’
‘Memories are important, though, aren’t they?’ I made a pretty speech in defence of memory and the need to keep it intact.
She said, and I don’t like to repeat this, for my own sake as much as yours, ‘Now that I have left home, I shall want to run back here whenever I am sad. If I see it dismantled I will know I can’t go back, won’t I? It is like death. They say you never really believe a person is dead if you don’t see the body.’
We were in the music room; with Miles’s furniture gone, there were only the music stands, two upright chairs and your harp. A room looks smaller without its furniture.
It was one of those fickle spring days, lilac blowing about beyond the window, rain on the wind. I’m sure this must have affected Linnie. When one is young one’s body is so tormented by atmospheric pressure. Still, for no reason at all, I can weep on an uncertain spring day. No season so accuses one as spring, saying, look at all this promise and account for yourself I am afraid I wasn’t much help to her. She played the harp and I snivelled.
All that time, Toby was dismantling light fittings, taking out curtain rails, unscrewing hooks. Is one allowed to take all the fixtures? Toby took the lot. He seemed determined the house should be stripped of all its possessions.
Dominic was invaluable. He it was who fully understood that whereas the house had many spaces, the van had but the one into which all the furniture must be compressed. He had his hour of glory, standing at the rear of the van in a ‘they shall not pass’ attitude until all bowed to his authority. A very good job he made of it, with one exception of which you shall hear later.