Making It Up

  I would like to have been George Bain; a life in books seems an attractive proposition. And I would have liked to own number twelve Sheep Street; my real-life houses have all been elderly and in varying states of decay. I am a skeptical woman and have no truck with ghosts, but I do prefer a house of substance, a house that has experience.

  As for Hester Lampson, I see her as a symbol of the universal plight: we can any of us be picked off by strangers—our lives derailed, our tranquillity disturbed. And such strangers continue on their way impervious; frequently they do not even know what they did.

  Penelope

  Is there some directing factor, from day one? Some cast of mind that will always prevail, that will insist that we go in one direction rather than another? Is the plump, curly-haired toddler riding on my father’s back in Alexandria in the photograph of 1934 already programmed to become addicted to reading and writing, to prefer thoughtful, argumentative men, to want children, to need to live in one way rather than another?

  I am still here because my mother took us to Palestine rather than to Cape Town in 1942, because I did not get onto a dodgy plane in the 1950s, because of myriad other evasions. Happenstance. But I am what I am, doing what I do, perhaps because of some mysterious innate steering system which twitches the wheel at crucial moments. No, not that way; keep clear of the reef, mind the sunken vessels. And listen to that persuasive inner voice that says: Try this.

  When very young, I fed on fiction, and created private narratives. And today I feel an eerie compatibility with that solitary child with a handful of books and a taste for invention. Was she pulling the strings, even then?

  My driving literary influence was Homer, by way of Andrew Lang’s Tales of Troy and Greece. And here the most compelling attraction was that I was right in there anyway, with a leading role: Penelope. I read and reread, steeped in that late-Victorian interpretation of the ancient story. The wine-dark sea, rocky Ithaca, battles, warriors, and gods became as real and urgent as my own world of palm trees, the Nile, the convoys of tanks and armored cars on the road to Alamein, the roistering officers on leave from the desert whom my parents entertained. But the trouble was that I was there with the wrong part, and the story line was not entirely satisfactory. It is made clear that Penelope is not nearly as beautiful as her cousin Helen, who is the fairest woman that ever lived in the world. Penelope is wise and good, qualities that did not have much appeal. Moreover, Ulysses is short-legged and has red hair; evidently not a patch on Hector or Achilles. And that addiction to weaving is tiresome, let alone the shilly-shallying over the suitors. Some reconstruction was in order, it seemed to me.

  Andrew Lang trod carefully; he stuck to The Odyssey for the story of Ulysses and Penelope, and ignored other, off-stage versions, thus excising the more unacceptable elements of the story. He does not mention the events said to have succeeded their reunion—the banishment of Telemachus and the death of Ulysses at the hands of his own son Telagonus, the fruit of a dalliance with Circe. Above all, he ignores the allegation that Penelope subsequently married her dead husband’s bastard while, in a nice symmetry, her own son Telemachus set up with his father’s ex-mistress. He leaves out the rumor and innuendo also. Was she, or was she not, the mother of cloven-footed Pan—possibly by the god Hermes, possibly by one of the suitors, possibly by all of them?

  When I was nine, I identified with Penelope because my mind was happy to confuse fact with fiction—and what was she doing with my name, anyway, if she was not some form of myself? I seized on that story, and its furnishings, and juggled them around to make a version that was personally satisfying and more relevant to my own circumstances. That nine-year-old perception is lost, but there is the faint reverberation still of an early way of thinking. And, today, an old story seems to lend itself to other kinds of manipulation, less solipsistic.

  Paris stole Helen and took her to Troy which was a silly thing to do because then the Greeks came to fetch her back again and they lit a thousand fires outside the gates of Troy and sat there drinking their wine to the music of flutes. Helen was fair but actually there was someone else who was just as fair as she was and that was Penelope, who had to wait for Ulysses to come back from Troy. The Greeks were all brave and good at fighting but so were the Trojans, so it took a long time but in the end Troy lay in ashes. Then Ulysses set off home to see his beautiful Penelope again but he kept losing his way and having adventures and meanwhile Penelope was being pestered by the princes who wanted to marry her because everyone thought Ulysses was dead.

  So Penelope turned the princes into frogs and you can hear them croaking still in the reeds beside the river. And then at last Ulysses came home and Penelope said to him, “Thou hast been away for a very long time so I am not at all pleased with thee.” She knew that he had been staying with Calypso for seven years, who was a sort of fairy. And he said that Penelope was meaner than Calypso in comeliness and stature which meant that she wasn’t so pretty and that wasn’t a very nice thing to say. And he had stayed with Circe too, who was a witch and turned people into pigs but Ulysses seemed to rather like her all the same. So Penelope decided that it would serve him right if she went away with Achilles, who came along at that moment.

  And as soon as Achilles beheld Penelope he said, “Thou art more beautiful than rosy-fingered Dawn and I want to marry thee at once.” So they were married that day and Penelope wore a dress of pink tussore silk from Cicurel and afterward they feasted on dates and ripe mangoes and persimmons and chocolate ice cream from Groppi’s.

  Penelope and Achilles sailed over the wide sea to Egypt and there Achilles said that it was time for him to get into a battle again so he went away into the desert with the other warriors.

  There were the Eighth Hussars and the Eleventh Hussars and a great army of Desert Rats and they had armored cars and bren guns but Achilles’ tank was better than anyone else’s because the gods had made it for him. Achilles chased and slew the Germans until they cried for mercy and then he challenged Rommel to single combat and he killed him. So the Germans fled to the sea and sailed away in their black ships and there was great rejoicing and the army said that Achilles must now be top general.

  But Achilles had had enough fighting for the moment and after a great feast he said farewell and he returned to his beautiful wife Penelope and they settled down in a palace with rich tapestries and treasures of amber, ivory, and silver and they had a swimming pool with a high diving board in their garden. And there they lived for ever and ever.

  It was a lovely funeral. I know that sounds an odd thing to say, especially coming from the widow, but it was such a wonderful send-off for him. Everyone was there, and one person who should not have been, but we won’t dwell on that. All my friends, and so many of his colleagues though of course most of them I didn’t know, but you just smile and smile, don’t you? Someone rather high up in the government gave the address, a Sir Somebody, and he was so sweet at the reception after, making a point of coming straight up to me: “Orson was a true citizen of the world. He thought in global terms. Wherever he was, he looked and listened.” Charming man. And I said, “I know. I know. And I was so proud to be beside him.”

  I was still devastated, of course. The whole occasion was exhausting. I was in a state of shock. Shattered. I hadn’t slept. I must have looked quite fearful. I hid under my hat and hoped no one would notice.

  But people were so kind. Everyone saying nice things, and not just about Orson. One felt so valued. Maurice Enderby was there, not seen for years, goodness had he aged, and of course he had a terrific thing for me at one time, water under the bridge entirely now but all the same it was rather good for morale to have him fussing around, with quite a look in his eye still: “Can I get you a drink, my dear? Can I find you a chair?” That is something one so much had to do without, over the years—a bit of cosseting, a bit of cherishing. Alone so much. And then when Orson was back, the times when he was at home, he was off to the office at some ungodly hour and gone till
midnight like as not, he might as well have been still in Angola or Addis Ababa or Chad, dispensing humanitarian aid. There was just as much dispensing to be done in central London, apparently.

  And anyway that sort of thing was never Orson’s style. The little niceties. Flowers on the anniversary, breakfast in bed. I married a man of action and I knew it and far be it from me to complain. “Dedicated”—the number of times I’ve heard that word. Just that occasionally, very occasionally, I’ve wished a tiny bit more of the dedication came my way.

  So it’s hardly surprising is it if once in a while one looked elsewhere. Friendship. A bit of personal attention. Never any question of disloyalty to Orson, never never.

  And it’s rather a question of people in glass houses, isn’t it? When Caroline showed up at the funeral I was infuriated. That she had the nerve. Looking distinctly past her sell-by date, I couldn’t help noting—if you spend years and years in the sun your skin is going to tell the story. Not that I paid her any attention, just walked straight by, made sure I kept on the opposite side of the room. But it was an irritation—her having the gall to show up, and socializing right, left, and center, I saw, having a word with the Sir Somebody, cruising around Orson’s old colleagues. A legendary hostess, apparently, that was the story. Well, maybe. Diplomatic hospitality, it’s called, and possibly diplomatic in other ways too, if you ask me. She would set her sights on a man, and if he was someone else’s husband, well, no matter—it was, come stay with me in my tropical paradise, plenty of aid and development to be done here, just tell the bureaucrats that you need to be gone some time, relax, enjoy. I doubt if Orson was the only one.

  At least Clara hadn’t appeared. I’d have gone ballistic.

  And the point about a funeral is that it’s supposed to be a coming together, isn’t it? There shouldn’t be any jarring element. You are coming together in grief and in remembrance. Not that remembrance doesn’t throw up difficulties here and there, but you don’t want them thrust in your face, do you? A funeral should be tranquil, reflective, a culmination.

  Orson disliked chrysanthemums. There was an acreage of them, displayed outside the church. Pink, bronze, white; sheaves, wreaths, sprays. That smell—the smell of weddings and funerals. Is that why a funeral makes you think of a wedding? Ours was register office, of course, not church. We’d had to hurry with it because Orson was going to Uganda for six months which was where I realized that that sort of place was not at all my cup of tea. The heat, the dirt. They weren’t called third-world countries then; they were “underdeveloped.” All underdeveloped countries were hot and insanitary; presumably they still are. Orson didn’t give a damn—the more squalid the better. He liked a challenge, always has. A spot of adventure. And I found that terribly appealing, when I first met him—the buccaneer quality. And of course there was the older-man thing—he was fifteen years older than I was. Or twelve. Thereabouts.

  Mummy and Daddy had invited him to lunch. Daddy had heard that he was an up-and-coming man and wanted to pick his brains, Daddy being big in the Foreign Office at that point, and I was expecting to be bored to tears, doing nice polite daughter-at-home stuff, and in the event it turned out rather different. Smoldering glances across the table and a phone call the next day. Orson never wasted time. And he could lay on the charm. Mummy thought he was delightful, though the name fazed her at first. “As in Welles,” he told her, which is what he always said. “My mother was a fan.” Mummy had barely heard of Orson Welles, but never mind, she was impressed by the exoticism. Daddy wondered at first if perhaps he wasn’t a bit too clever by half, but after we announced our engagement he re-jigged this and said Orson was a chap who would go far. Too true. Mummy said red hair in a man was quite unusual, and I could see she was thinking about the grandchildren. As it happens, Toby is dark, like me.

  We had a whirlwind honeymoon on this island, Hydra. I’d wanted Paris, but Orson wasn’t having that—he had to have some action—so there was a week of scuba diving and spear fishing, at least that’s what he did, I lay around and swam and drank ouzo and thought, So this is marriage—a man in goggles comes out of the sea waving a spear-gun with a fish stuck on the end.

  The sex was fine, I will say that.

  I was so young. Twenty-two. Fresh from art school. Totally inexperienced but so creative. Oh, I know that’s not for me to say, but it’s the truth. I wasn’t so brilliant at painting and drawing—you did those back then—but I was really good at clothes. I could knock up some snazzy original outfit out of a length of stuff and a few trimmings. I always won the prize at the college fashion show, and one thing was already beginning to lead to another. I’d started to hang around the Chelsea boutiques, to suss out the latest trends, and I made a few frocks for chums, and people said but you’re so incredibly good at this, you should go commercial. And then Orson swept us off to Uganda. Not that he saw it like that. An overseas posting is a directive, one was informed; sweeping did not come into it.

  I tried. I really did. I struggled. You’ll get used to it, I told myself. The dust and the insects and the stomach upsets and, frankly, the boredom. What was I supposed to do with myself? I dreamed of the King’s Road and London summer evenings, thin cool air not that soupy heat, a bunch of friends drinking Pimms in a pub garden. And oh, the relief, when at last it was over and Orson was based at home again and I could get on with my life. I started running up frocks in some gorgeous silk I’d bought in bulk in Mombasa when we went there for a weekend—Orson thought I’d gone crazy—just a couple of simple styles, and I put these witty quirky adverts in the Sunday papers and orders came flooding in. I got another sewing machine and brought in Midge who’d been at art college with me as helper and we began a sort of assembly line. Amazing. Magic. This is what I’m for, I thought. Of course the paperwork was a complete nightmare, and the post and packaging. Soon I had to get someone else in to do that. The house was becoming a maison de couture.

  Midge came to the funeral. Sweet of her. Of course we’d parted company long ago. She always said I should have gone into mass production: “You could have been another Laura Ashley. You would have put Laura Ashley out of business.” Well, I dare say, but I preferred to develop in a different direction—something more exclusive. Just a few stunning designs, new every season, and a rather select list of clients. Much more stylish. Anyway, there was Midge, looking like a bird of paradise amid all the suits—she’s a fashion editor nowadays—and we talked husbands. She’s had three. I said, “I never ever wanted anyone but Orson. Despite everything. Despite being on my own so much. Orson was always first and foremost.” She said, “It does you credit, darling, but you always did have such strength of mind”—though I’m not absolutely sure what she meant by that, and then she started asking who everybody was, likes to do a bit of networking, does Midge. She’d noticed Caroline—“Pretty lady. I like that outfit. Friend of Orson’s . . . Oh, I see.”—and she said how handsome Toby was now, which of course he is, and then she spotted Tam: “But who is the other glamorous young man? Oh . . . Oh, is he . . . I hadn’t realized. . . .”

  Tam does not look at all like Orson. I suppose he favors his mother, but I am not prepared to hold that against him. And I have never set eyes on Clara. She runs some sort of artists’ colony on a Greek island these days, it seems.

  Midge and I drifted apart after I set up in Beauchamp Place. She had her own agenda and by then I needed a professional cutter and fitter. And someone for the office—always a nightmare, the money side of it, and having to borrow at that stage—so humiliating. But there were people who were very kind and helpful about that. One was eternally grateful.

  Of course Carlos had pots of money, he could easily spare a few bob. Banking, though actually he was rather aristocratic—some old Spanish family. We met when his wife came in and ordered a frock, though soon after that she became his ex-wife. Nothing to do with me, I hasten to say. I was always very firm that in a sense our relationship was a business one. He was my backer, put it like tha
t.

  The sad thing is that people come to expect more than was ever intended. Carlos did become rather insistent, over time. Dear Carlos, I used to say, you were my savior in my darkest hour and I am grateful to you forever but there are other people of whom I have to think. My husband. My son. And my work. I am a slave to the calendar—two collections every year. I can never let up. My clients depend on me. No sooner is one lot off the drawing board than I need to start thinking of the next. And the hunt for fabric and trimmings . . . I am hither and thither, from one week to the next. Eventually, perhaps, I shall be able to delegate more, find myself some space, and of course you will always be among my dearest friends.

  I’ve learned to cope with pressure—I’ve had to—but back at the beginning it was coming from all sides and some of it I’m sorry to say from Orson. Not 100 percent supportive. How could I possibly drop everything and go with him to some famine in Senegal or Sudan or Ethiopia or wherever when everything depended on me? And anyway by then there was Toby, always a slightly delicate child and no way could I have him dragged from continent to continent.

  But Orson was Orson and he wasn’t going to settle for a decent desk job in London which was the obvious solution given the way things were turning out so there was nothing for it but long periods of separation. Some people didn’t even realize I was married. And I was still young and if I may say so not unattractive so inevitably there were men sniffing around. I was making a bit of a name and I met a lot of people and it would have done me no good to be unsociable, and let’s face it a bit of attention from a few personable admirers didn’t come amiss. But I was always circumspect. Always.