The Golden Notebook

  “I did so adore those marvellous school stories when I was a child,” said Marion, lisping girlishly.

  “I loathed them.”

  “But you always were such an intellectual little thing.”

  Anna now sat down with her whisky and examined Marion. She was wearing an expensive brown suit, obviously new. Her dark, slightly greying hair was newly waved. Her hazel eyes were bright, her cheeks pink. She was the image of an abundant, happy, lively matron.

  “And that’s why I’ve come to see you,” Marion was saying. “It was Tommy’s idea. We need your help Anna. Tommy’s had the most marvellous idea, I do think he’s such a fine clever boy, and we both thought we should ask you.”

  Here Marion took a sip of her whisky, made a small moue of pretty distaste, and put down the glass, chattering on: “Thanks to Tommy I’ve just realised how awfully ignorant I am. It began with my reading the newspapers to him. I never read anything before. And of course he’s so well-informed, and he explained things to me, and I really do feel quite a different person, and so ashamed that I never cared for anything but myself before.”

  “Richard mentioned that you had become interested in politics.”

  “Oh yes, and he’s so cross. And of course mother and my sisters are furious.” A naughty girl, she sat smiling, with naughty little compressions of the lips, and flickering guilty little glances from the corners of her eyes.

  “I can imagine.” Marion’s mother being the widow of a general, and her sisters all ladies or honourables, Anna could see what a pleasure it must be to annoy them.

  “But of course they have no idea, none at all, any more than I had until Tommy took me in hand. I feel as if my life began from that moment. I feel a new person.”

  “You look a new person.”

  “I know I do. Anna, have you seen Richard today?”

  “Yes—I told you—in his office.”

  “Did he say anything about a divorce? I’m asking because if he said something to you, then I suppose I must take it seriously. He’s always been threatening and bullying—he’s a terrible bully. So I didn’t take it seriously. But if he’s really talking about it, then I suppose Tommy and I must take it seriously.”

  “I think he wants to marry his secretary. Or so he said.”

  “Have you seen her?” Marion positively giggled and looked roguish.

  “Yes.”

  “Did you notice anything?”

  “That she looks like you did at her age?”

  “Yes.” Marion giggled again. “Isn’t it funny?”

  “If you think so.”

  “Yes, I do.” Marion suddenly sighed and her face changed. Before Anna’s eyes she changed from a little girl into a sombre woman. She sat staring: serious, ironical. “Don’t you see, I’ve got to think it’s funny?” “Yes, I do.” “It happened all at once, at breakfast one morning. Richard’s always been horrid at breakfast. He’s always bad tempered and he nags at me. But the funny thing is, why did I let him? And he was going on and on, nagging away about me seeing Tommy so much. And suddenly, it was like a sort of revelation. It really was, Anna. He was sort of bouncing up and down the breakfast room. And his face was red. And he was so bad tempered. And I was listening to his voice. He’s got an ugly voice, hasn’t he? It’s a bully’s voice, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “And I thought—Anna I wish I could explain it. It was really a revelation. I thought: I’ve been married to him for years and years, and all that time I’ve been—wrapped up in him. Well women are, aren’t they? I’ve thought of nothing else. I’ve cried myself to sleep night after night for years. And I’ve made scenes, and been a fool and been unhappy and…The point is, what for? I’m serious Anna.” Anna smiled, and Marion went on: “Because the point is, he’s not anything, is he? He’s not even very good-looking. He’s not even very intelligent—I don’t care if he is ever so important and a captain of industry. Do you see what I mean?” “Well, and then?” “I thought, My God, for that creature I’ve ruined my life. I remember the moment exactly. I was sitting at the breakfast-table, wearing a sort of negligee thing I’d bought because he likes me in that sort of thing—you know, frills and flowers, or well, he used to like me in them. I’ve always hated them. And I thought, for years and years I’ve even been wearing clothes I hated, just to please this creature.”

  Anna laughed. Marion was laughing, her handsome face alive with self-critical irony, and her eyes sad and truthful. “It’s humiliating, isn’t it Anna?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “But I bet you’ve never made a fool of yourself about any stupid man. You’ve got too much sense.”

  “That’s what you think,” said Anna drily. But she saw this was a mistake; it was necessary for Marion to see her, Anna, as self-sufficient, and non-vulnerable.

  Marion, not hearing what Anna had said, insisted: “No, you’ve got too much sense, and that’s why I admire you.” Marion now held her glass between tense fingers. She took a gulp of whisky; another, another, another—Anna forced herself not to look. She heard Marion’s voice: “And then there’s that girl Jean. When I saw her it was another revelation. He’s in love with her, so he says. But who’s he in love with, that’s the point. He’s just in love with a type, something that strikes his box.” The crudity of the words strikes his box, surprising from Marion, made Anna look back at her. Marion sat tense, her large body rigid and upright in the chair, lips tight, fingers claw-like around the empty glass into which she gazed, avidly.

  “And so what’s this love? He never loved me. He loves large brown-haired girls with large bosoms. I used to have a lovely bosom when I was young.”

  “Nut-brown maid,” said Anna, watching the avid hand curl around the empty glass.

  “Yes. And so it’s got nothing to do with me. That’s what I’ve decided. He probably doesn’t even know what I’m like. And so why do we talk about love?”

  Marion laughed, with difficulty. She put back her head and sat with her eyes shut: shut so tight that the brown lashes quivered on cheeks that were now haggard. Then her eyes opened, and blinked and searched; they were searching for the bottle of whisky which stood on the trestle table against the wall. If she asks me for another drink I shall have to give it to her, Anna thought. It was as if she, Anna, were involved with her whole self in Marion’s silent struggle. Marion shut her eyes, gasped, opened them, looked at the bottle, twitched the empty glass between her fingers, shut her eyes again.

  All the same, Anna thought, better for Marion to be a lush and a whole person; better a drunkard, and bitter and truthful than sober, if the price of being sober is that she must be an awful dripping coy little girl—the tension had become so painful she found herself breaking it with: “What did Tommy want me to do?” Marion sat up, put down the glass, and in one moment changed from a sad, honest defeated woman into a little girl.

  “Oh he’s so marvellous, he’s so marvellous about everything Anna. I told him Richard said he wanted a divorce and he was so marvellous.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He says I must do what’s right, what I really believe to be right, and I mustn’t humour Richard in an infatuation just because I think it would be high-minded or I want to be noble. Because my first reaction was, let him have a divorce, what’s it matter to me? I’ve got enough money of my own, that’s no problem. But Tommy said no, I must think what’s best for Richard in the long run. And so I should make him face up to his responsibilities.” “I see.” “Yes. He’s so clearheaded. And when you think, he’s just twenty-one. Though I suppose the terrible thing that happened to him accounts for it—I mean, it’s terrible, but you can’t even think it’s a tragedy when you see him so brave and never giving way, and being such a marvellous person.” “No, I suppose not.” “And so Tommy says I shouldn’t take any notice of Richard, just ignore him. Because I’m quite serious when I say I’m going to spend my life on bigger things. Tommy is showing me the way. I’m going to liv
e for others and not myself.” “Good.” “And that’s why I dropped in to see you. You must help Tommy and me.”

  “Of course, what shall I do?”

  “Do you remember that black leader, the African man you used to know? Mathews, or something like that?”

  This was not at all what Anna had expected. “You don’t mean Tom Mathlong?”

  Marion had actually taken out a notebook and was sitting with a poised pencil. “Yes. Please give me his address.”

  “But he’s in prison,” said Anna. She sounded helpless. Hearing her own feebly objecting voice, she realised she felt not only helpless but frightened. It was the panic that assaulted her when with Tommy.

  “Yes of course he’s in prison, but what’s its name?”

  “But Marion, what are you planning to do?”

  “I told you, I’m not going to live for myself any longer. I want to write to the poor thing, and see what I can do for him.”

  “But Marion…” Anna looked at Marion, trying to make contact with the woman she had been talking to only a few minutes before. She was met by a gaze from brown eyes glazed with a guilty but happy hysteria. Anna went on, firmly: “It’s not a nice organised prison like Brixton or somewhere like that. It’s probably a shack in the bush, hundreds of miles from anywhere, about fifty political prisoners, and very likely they don’t even get letters. What did you think?—that they had visiting days and rights and things like that?”

  Marion pouted and said: “I think that’s an awfully negative attitude to take about the poor things.”

  Anna thought: negative attitude is Tommy’s—echoes from the Communist Party; but poor things is all Marion’s—probably her mother and sisters give old clothes to charities.

  “I mean,” said Marion happily, “it’s a continent in chains, well, isn’t it?” (Tribune, thought Anna; or possibly the Daily Worker.) “And measures ought to be taken immediately to restore the Africans’ faith in justice if it is not already too late.” (The New Statesman, thought Anna.) “Well at least the situation ought to be thoroughly gone into in the interests of everybody.” (The Manchester Guardian, at a time of acute crisis.) “But Anna, I don’t understand your attitude. Surely you’ll admit there’s evidence that something’s gone wrong?” (The Times, editorialising a week after the news that the white administration has shot twenty Africans and imprisoned fifty more without trial.)

  “Marion, what’s got into you?”

  Marion sat anxiously leaning forward, her tongue exploring her smiling lips, blinking earnestly.

  “Look, if you want to get involved in African politics, there are organisations you can join, Tommy must know that.”

  “But the poor things, Anna,” Marion said, very reproachful.

  Anna thought: Tommy’s political development before his accident was so far in advance of the “poor things” that either his mind has been seriously affected or…Anna sat silent, considering for the first time whether Tommy’s mind had been affected.

  “Tommy told you to come and ask me for the prison address of Mr Mathlong so that you and he could send the poor prisoners food parcels and consoling letters? He knows quite well they’d never reach the prison at all—apart from anything else.”

  Marion’s bright brown eyes, fixed on Anna, did not see her. Her girlish smile was directed towards some charming but wilful friend.

  “Tommy said, your advice would be so useful. And we all three could work together for the common cause.”

  Anna, beginning to understand, was angry. She said aloud, drily: “Tommy hasn’t used the word ‘cause’ except ironically for years. If he’s using it now then…”

  “But Anna, that sounds so cynical, it doesn’t sound like you at all.”

  “But you forget that all of us, including Tommy, have been plunged in the atmosphere of good causes for years, and I assure you that if we had always used the word with your reverence we would never have got anything done at all.”

  Marion stood up. She looked extremely guilty, sly, and delighted with herself. Anna now understood that Marion and Tommy had discussed her, and had decided to save her soul. For what? She was quite extraordinarily angry. The anger was out of all proportion to what had actually happened; she knew it; and was all the more frightened.

  Marion saw the anger, was both pleased and confused, and now said: “I’m so sorry I’ve disturbed you for nothing.”

  “Oh but it wasn’t for nothing. Write a letter to Mr Mathlong, c/o Prison Administration, Northern Province. He won’t get it of course, but it’s the gesture that counts in these matters, isn’t it?”

  “Oh thank you, Anna, you’re so helpful, we knew you would be. And now I must go.”

  Marion left, creeping downstairs, in a way that parodied a guilty but defiant little girl’s. Anna watched her and saw herself standing there, on the landing—cool, rigid, critical. Marion having gone out of sight, Anna went to the telephone and rang Tommy.

  His voice came slow and formal over the half mile or so of streets. “Double o five six seven?”

  “This is Anna. Marion has just left. Tell me, was it really your idea to adopt African political prisoners as pen-pals? Because if so, I can’t help feeling you are just a bit out of touch.”

  A slight pause. “I’m glad you rang me, Anna. I think it would be a good thing.”

  “For the poor prisoners?”

  “To be quite frank, I think it would be good for Marion. Don’t you? I think she needs some interest outside herself.”

  Anna said: “A sort of therapy, you mean?”

  “Yes. Don’t you agree with me?”

  “But Tommy, the point is, I don’t think I need therapy—at least, not this particular kind.”

  Tommy said carefully, after a pause: “Thanks for ringing me up and giving me your views, Anna. I’m very grateful.”

  Anna laughed, angrily. She expected him to laugh with her; but in spite of everything she had been thinking of the old Tommy, who would have laughed. She put down the receiver and stood trembling—she had to sit down.

  Sitting, she thought: This boy, Tommy—I’ve known him since he was a child. He’s had this terrible damage done to him—and yet now I see him as a sort of zombie, a menace, something to be frightened of. And we all feel it. No, he’s not mad, that’s not it, but he’s turned into something else, something new…but I can’t think about it now—later. I’ve got to give Janet her supper.

  It was after nine, and Janet’s supper overdue. Anna put food on a tray and took it upstairs, arranging her mind so that Marion and Tommy and what they represented were out of sight. For the time being.

  Janet took the tray on her knees and said: “Mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you like Ivor?”

  “Yes.”

  “I like him very much. He’s kind.”

  “Yes he is.”

  “Do you like Ronnie?”

  “Yes,” said Anna, after a hesitation.

  “But you don’t really like him.”

  “What makes you say that?” asked Anna, startled.

  “I don’t know,” said the child. “I just thought you didn’t like him. Because he makes Ivor behave in a silly way.” She said no more, but ate her supper in an abstracted thoughtfulness. She looked several times, very shrewd, at her mother, who sat, allowing herself to be shrewdly inspected, preserving a surface of calm competence.

  When she had gone to sleep Anna descended to the kitchen and smoked over cups of tea. She was worrying now over Janet: Janet’s upset by it all, but she doesn’t know why she is. But it’s not Ivor—it’s the atmosphere created by Ronnie. I could tell Ivor that Ronnie must go. He’ll certainly offer to pay rent for Ronnie, but that isn’t the point. I feel exactly as I did over Jemmie…

  Jemmie was a student from Ceylon who had had the empty room upstairs for a couple of months. Anna disliked him, but couldn’t bring herself to give him notice because he was coloured. The problem was solved in the end because he went ba
ck to Ceylon. And now Anna could not ask a couple of young men who were disturbing her peace of mind to leave, because they were homosexuals, and they, like a coloured student, would find it hard to get a room.

  Yet why should Anna feel responsible?…It isn’t as if one doesn’t have enough trouble with “normal” men, she said to herself, trying to dissipate her uneasiness with humour. But the humour failed. She tried again: It’s my home, my home, my home—this time attempting to fill herself with strong proprietary emotions. This failed too: she sat thinking: Yet why do I have a home at all? Because I wrote a book I am ashamed of, and it made a lot of money. Luck, luck, that’s all. And I hate all that—my home, my possessions, my rights. And yet come to the point where I’m uncomfortable, I fall back on it just like everyone else. Mine. Property. Possessions. I’m going to protect Janet because of my property. What’s the use of protecting her? She will grow up in England, a country full of men who are little boys and homosexuals and the half-homosexuals…but this tired thought vanished in a strong wave of genuine emotion—By God, there are a few real men left, and I’m going to see she gets one of them. I’m going to see she grows up to recognise a real man when she meets one. Ronnie’s going to have to leave.