Yes, I see. Yes, of course you must. Just, I mean, not everyone . . . But basically Lavinia was—well, unique, wasn’t she? I know she could be . . . no one’s perfect, are they? There’ll be things said . . . I hope you won’t . . . Well, you’ll balance it all up, I imagine, what you hear, what you discover—not that there is anything to discover. A sort of all-round view, I suppose. But I do feel I . . . well, her sister.
When we were children? Five-year gap, so that did mean she was always very much the big one. Older, cleverer, could do things I couldn’t. I seemed to be forever running after her, about thirty feet behind. Saying, “Oh, Lavinia, please, me too . . .” She wasn’t unkind, dismissive, ever. Sometimes she’d include me, but she was off on business of her own. Like for the rest of her life.
Yes, we always saw each other. When she could manage. But I mean my life was so different from hers—just being a mum for years, and down in Devon, miles from her, and then my ordinary little jobs—the library, helping at the old people’s home. The other end of the spectrum from her. She sort of shot on and up and I could hardly believe it was my sister—seeing reviews of her books, and hearing her on the radio. Those TV programs. I was so proud—I’d name-drop her, I’m afraid: “Oh yes, that’s my sister.”
Yes, she visited. Not that often—but when she could. She’d come for Christmas occasionally. I think she quite liked that—full-on family Christmas. And she’d got less—elemental—by then. She never had those hissy fits like when she was a child. She was much easier to get on with—for me, for everyone, I imagine. But she was always this strong presence. Always somehow the center—if Lavinia was in the room things sort of eddied round her.
Gerald? Oh no, he never came to our place. I hardly ever met Gerald. Nor did my husband. I mean, did Gerald ever step outside a library, and Sam was a fruit farmer. Chalk and cheese.
Happy . . . Well, why wouldn’t she be? Her career went rather splendidly well, didn’t it? I know she had a few problems—differences with other people at her London job, and she told me there was carping about her television work. They were jealous probably, weren’t they? And she and Gerald—well, he did seem rather stiff, I do admit, but I imagine they rubbed along all right really. Oh, I’m sure she was happy. Mostly, anyway.
Look, let me get us some tea.
•
And I need to get away from you before I say something I don’t mean to, don’t intend to, mustn’t say.
Take a deep breath. Kettle on, warm the pot, get milk out.
•
Yes, actually I’d rather go back to our childhood. After all, that’s when I knew her best. I remember the later part most, when I was—oh, nine, ten—and she was a teenager. Except there weren’t teenagers then, they hadn’t been invented—people that age were just in a sort of limbo, waiting to be grown up. But Lavinia somehow refused that, she was very much established, very much already a person, helping Mum out at family gatherings—our mother was lovely, of course, but she wasn’t an organizer, things could fall apart, and Lavinia would step in and see the table got laid and the food got served, all that. And she wasn’t shy, like I was, she could find something to say to grown-ups, carry on a conversation. Goodness, I remember her with Uncle Harry, our cousin Barbara’s father, holding her own like anything in an argument about—oh, something political, I think. And he got all ruffled—she was getting the better of him maybe—and told her she was still wet behind the ears. She made that into a great joke, after—always saying, “I must be careful to dry my ears if Uncle Harry’s going to be here.”
She didn’t get her own way, exactly, in the family. No, it was more that she’d decide something and Mum and Dad would go along with it because it seemed the right thing anyway. Applying to Cambridge. Mum thought that was amazing—she hadn’t been to university, of course—and Dad was, well, impressed, I suppose. Mum was always a bit—in awe of her, almost.
Me? Oh, definitely. But in a nice way, don’t get me wrong. I thought the world of her. There she was, always top in everything at school—smashing to look at too. I mean, who wouldn’t want a big sister like that?
Well, I suppose you could be jealous but I wasn’t. I knew I couldn’t be like that in a million years, and that was neither here nor there. And she never treated me as anything but myself—not as someone less clever or less competent. Younger, yes. I was younger. But she’d explain things to me. Tell me what she thought about things.
Bought me a lipstick when Mum said I mustn’t have one yet.
Read Middlemarch to me and I couldn’t understand a word but never mind.
Went round and tore a strip off that girl next door when she’d said I was fat.
Look, do you know, I’m finding this a bit sort of . . . upsetting. Talking about her like this. Do you mind if we . . .
Yes. Yes, do get back to me if you need to.
*
Interview with Barbara Stone. University Women’s Club. June 10th 2014.
First cousins, yes. And of an age—Lavinia was not quite a year older than me. Can’t say we were close at all—you’d meet up at family gatherings and that was about it. In later life I never saw much of her—weddings and funerals only. But she was quite—prominent—when we were both young. I mean, you sort of saw in child Lavinia what she was going to be. The determination, the application. A certain ruthlessness. She ran rings round her parents. Aunt Susan was totally incompetent, and Lavinia would just elbow her aside: “Leave it to me, Mum, please.” No attribution here, mind you. I don’t want Alice wailing that I’ve been trashing her sister. And she lorded it over Alice. I don’t know how the child put up with it.
Assertive—that was Lavinia. At fourteen or whatever. My father got enraged with her, one Boxing Day lunch: “Trying to tell me what was what about Labour party policy. The impertinence.” He never forgot—turned the television off when my mother wanted to watch those programs of hers.
I find it odd to think of a book about her. Biography. Well, obviously you . . . no criticism meant, obviously you see her rather differently. Public figure, that sort of thing. You were forever hearing her name. Something to do with the British Museum, wasn’t she? Always on the Today program. I’m quite aware she was pretty well known. I’ve never read any of her books.
Oh, are they? Well, I’ve always read novels more, if anything. You don’t get a lot of time for reading—four children and a job in school administration. I dare say Lavinia wouldn’t have had such a starry career if lumbered with a family. I was offered something that was a step up, and then the twins struck. After that it began to be too late . . . Irrelevant, so far as you’re concerned, I know. Back to Lavinia. I may not have read her books but I did watch that series—The Child in History, wasn’t that it? History can leave me cold but we’re all interested in children, aren’t we? At least, those of us who’ve had them.
You haven’t? Well, think twice. Anyway, I did watch, despite there being so much of Lavinia holding forth. It was interesting, I’ll give you that. At least we treat them rather better now. And don’t have so many. At least, some don’t.
Seen as what? Oh—innovative. Was it? Well, I wouldn’t know—I don’t watch much of that kind of thing. It did get her talked about, I remember. And after that you were always hearing her on the radio. Here we go again, I used to think.
No, no contact really, by then. Alice always sent a Christmas card, but not Lavinia. Just funerals, and there was a rash of those—her parents, mine. She did turn up—quite a performance—very noticeable, kissing all round. Outdressing everyone. She looked particularly amazing in a big black hat, with that hair. I take it you never actually saw her?
Just photos. And the series. Yes, well, that gives some idea. But Lavinia in person . . . Right from age about thirteen, managing to look elegant in school uniform. Exasperating—by the time we were eighteen or so one was well aware that there was no competition. Game, set
and match to Lavinia. She had that presence, and the smile . . .
•
Though come to think of it, sitting here talking to this woman with her notebook and her recorder, it’s actually match to me in the end, because I’m still alive and Lavinia isn’t. The last word to me, as it were. And I can say what I like about her, except that I shan’t. Getting tired of it. Tired of Lavinia. Just like her to go on being talked about after she’s dead.
•
Sorry? Well, the three of us, of course. My two brothers and me. Paul died last year and Stan’s lost his marbles, poor old boy, doesn’t know t’other from which. So you won’t get anything out of them, I’m afraid.
•
Though you would have done. They worshipped her, being male. The Lavinia effect.
•
You know, I’m wondering if I’ve got all that much more to add that’s any use to you. As I say, we weren’t all that close.
By all means. Whenever. Just give me a ring.
*
Interview with Richard Beaver. Merrivale Road, Sevenoaks. June 28th 2014.
Lavinia. Lavinia. Just saying her name still has a certain potency. No, not the love of my life but an emotional landmark—put it that way. And she was pretty vibrant then, Lavinia—the sixties let her loose, she was all black leather, cropped hair, those sleeveless dresses. Her Sussex days, of course—trendy Ph.D. on family values in the early modern period, or words to that effect. She’s still like that, in my mind’s eye. I’ve never seen her since, except on the telly, of course. That series. I remember thinking: Christ, she must be fifty—trust Lavinia to give fifty a special flavor—kind of elegant mature laced with some sort of eternal youngness peeking through. I watched all of it. My wife was somewhat tight-lipped. Oh yes, she knew we’d been together, back then.
Almost inevitable, it seems now. There was she—pick of the postgrads. And there was I, youngest faculty member in this fashionable brand-new university, all of twenty-seven, cruising around those desperately state-of-the-art Basil Spence buildings, all of us academics handpicked to redraw the maps of learning or some such stuff, the students all state-of-the-moment, swanning about giving interviews to London journalists. Obviously, we’d notice each other, Lavinia and I. And noticing led to rather more, very quickly. Though we had to be not too conspicuous—faculty weren’t to get involved with the students, even a postgrad with a three-year age difference. I remember being in a Chinese restaurant in Brighton with her, and in came the Dean of my School of Study with a party—it was all Schools of Study, not Departments, mind-blowing academic innovation. I got a bit panic-stricken, and said we should maybe sneak out before they saw us, but she wasn’t having any of that. I can hear her now: “We’re bloody well not going to, Richard. We’re just having supper together—not fornicating.”
You’ve got your work cut out, I’d say, writing about Lavinia. There’ll be a minefield of comment. Have you seen Gerald Plant yet? I ran into him once at a conference—found myself at the same table. I said: “I used to know your wife—back in the Sussex days.” He stopped eating, eyed me. Then—with bland smile: “Indeed? Some happy memories, no doubt.” What was meant by that? Nothing at all—or: I know all about you, and you are of no interest to me.
Not yet? Ah. Have fun. He had a Chair at Oxford by then, Plant, and would have seen me as lesser fry altogether—you’ll be aware of the vigorously hierarchical nature of the academic world. And Lavinia of course was everywhere—theoretically rooted at her London college—Temple—but all over the airwaves, open the Sunday papers and there she was. Wonderfully adroit choice—that field of study. She owned all commentary on family or children. Ironic, really, when . . . My wife was always pointing that out, rather nastily. We had three, which may in part account for my somewhat low publication record.
Oh Lord, look . . . I’ve got to pick a daughter up at the station, I’d almost forgotten. Could we call it a day?
Yes. Yes, fine. Anytime.
*
Interview with Carol Pickering. University Women’s Club. July 14th 2014.
Oh, she was such fun, Lavinia. We had a great time—sharing a flat in Brighton. I was doing an MA, just, and of course my academic ambitions rather fizzled out, whereas she . . . And she never seemed to be working, though she must have been, she got the Ph.D., but she was always up for anything—the parties, the jaunts to London for a raid on Biba. She was sixties to the hilt, Lavinia. Me, too—goodness, you’re bringing it all back. I’ve still got a Biba dress somewhere—Antiques Roadshow stuff now, I suppose. But she was dead serious, too, underneath. She meant business, where work and career were concerned. You knew she was going to disappear over the horizon, sooner or later—which of course she did. I never saw a lot of her, after Sussex—we kept up, the occasional phone call, quick lunch in London, but I was just a housebound mother, and then teacher in the local comp, whereas she shot up the academic ladder and published book after book and became, well, a big name.
Oh, no—she wasn’t patronizing. Never, never. Lavinia wasn’t like that. She . . . she didn’t need to be. People who patronize are affirming their status, aren’t they? And it would never have occurred to Lavinia to do that. She couldn’t be bothered, she had better things to do.
Confident? Well, yes, I suppose so, but never in an annoying way. It was a sort of private confidence. That French expression—bien dans sa peau. She was comfortable with herself, so you were comfortable with her. At least I was. I know not everybody . . . I suppose you’re talking to various people . . . Look, take it from me, Lavinia was basically all right, whatever anyone says. Of course she must have trodden on a few toes, with a career like that, but she was fantastically interesting, and good to be with. And thoughtful in her way—sort of busy, rushed way, even back in Sussex. She held my hand when I had boyfriend trouble. Not something that came her way, much—men fell for her right and left. She was with Richard Beaver—oh, you’ve spoken to him. She shed him as soon as she’d left Sussex, I suppose you could say a bit hastily but that was Lavinia’s style—if something wasn’t working, didn’t suit anymore, then move on. Jobs, places to live, men . . . I mean, that’s so unlike my life that I’ve always admired it.
And I remember when . . . well, I lost a baby once, stillborn, and Lavinia came to see me right away, though I know she was frantically busy. Came to see me in Twickenham, where we were living then, John working in the City—made me come out for lunch, was funny and sympathetic both at once. Of course I had the other two but she didn’t point that out or say, look, just get pregnant again fast. Though that’s what I did . . . She was somehow so right for that situation. Made me laugh instead of cry.
Fond of children? I’ve no idea, really. She never saw anything of mine. Maybe not, since she never had any.
I last saw her . . . Goodness, now you’re asking . . . I can’t quite think. Not for—well, not for ages, I realize. We met for lunch in London. I’d dropped her a line to say I’d thought the TV series was terrific, and she suggested lunch so I came down specially, we were in Manchester by then.
Nineteen eighty-seven? That long ago . . . Well, if you say so. Yes, I suppose we had rather lost touch. I just slot into a bit of her life, don’t I. I imagine that’s why you wanted to talk to me. Witness to the 1960s.
*
Interview with Professor Gerald Plant. Merton College, Oxford. August 15th 2014.
We were married in the Registry Office in Oxford. In . . . 1970. 1972, was it? I stand corrected. You’ve marshaled the basic facts, evidently. Essential groundwork—I always used to tell students that. Oxford Registry Office—witnesses were an old friend of mine and a young colleague of hers—Mary . . . Mary something.
Mary Whittaker. Don’t much remember her.
What did Lavinia wear? Wear? Well, a dress of some kind, I suppose. I’m sure she looked delightful—Lavinia always did.
No, no h
oneymoon. As such. Too busy, both of us. A week in Paris some while later—work-based to an extent, Lavinia wanted the Bibliothèque Nationale for research she was doing on nineteenth-century French infanticide rates, and my particular field as you will know is the Revolution, so I had business there too. But we found time for amusement as well. A trip to Chartres, I remember—Lavinia had never seen the cathedral. Lavinia was keen on experience: “I’ve never this . . . I’ve never that . . .” I hear her saying things like that still. So if you like you can say we had our honeymoon in Chartres cathedral. Or in the Bois de Boulogne—we went there one evening, as well. Either would fit the somewhat conjectural nature of biography. I’m not condemning your métier, not by any means, valuable stuff in some hands, in some respects, but I’m sure you’ll agree that there is always an element of—shall we say—conflicting evidence. Uncertainty.
I beg your pardon?
Oh—history. Indeed, indeed. You have a point. The equivalent problem. The essential difference being the general context, the wider sweep. Though I suppose you will be trying to place Lavinia within some kind of context—her associates. Myself in particular, I suppose—twenty-five years of marriage, or thereabouts.
I’m sorry? My hearing is a touch imperfect. Thirty, was it? You realize of course that I was somewhat older than Lavinia. Ironic that I should have outlived her.
Yes, I heard you. I was considering. I prefer on the whole not to expand on the last ten—fifteen—years. No, we weren’t together so much. Lavinia had a lot of commitments, I have a major work still in progress and needed to stay put, on the whole. She was in London, I was here.
Of course we were in contact. Just not together all the time.
Fifteen years? Thereabouts. You are, if I may say so, pursuing this to no great effect. It was merely a matter of convenience.
Her work. Well, of course I respected her work. Admired, in some areas. She pioneered much of what has been done with regard to the study of childhood and the treatment of children. Early on in her career. Valuable work. Mind, later, I suppose one has to say an element of populism rather prevailed.