A Life Discarded

  In another specimen of peculiar script, Barbara has highlighted the writer’s ‘d’s and ‘t’s. The up and down strokes of the vertical line of the ‘t’s make a distinct ‘tent’ shape.

  ‘Stubbornness,’ declares Barbara.

  Not-Mary’s ‘d’s are quite different, like Greek deltas. They’re ‘d’s that have been slapped across the back of the neck.

  Click ‘Services’ on Barbara’s website and you see an excerpt from a handwritten note by a mother who has secretly sent in a portion of her daughter’s handwriting. Barbara doesn’t pull her punches. She says nothing about the daughter’s script; she picks out the ‘tangled lines’ of the mother’s note. ‘Confusion of interests’, she pronounces decisively. In another example, deceit is revealed by the letters ‘a’ and ‘o’. Instead of the line that completes these vowels running over the top, as usual, it loops inside it, as though the devious writer had snatched down a telephone cable and were winding it greedily through the kitchen window. Not-Mary’s letters are never like this.

  I’d given Barbara three books: one from the 1960s, when Not-Mary’s hand bounced across the page at four words to the line:

  One, from 1979, when the writing first begins to look like a line of bugs:

  And one of the brilliantly-coloured books, from 2001. It was this last that had shocked Barbara. Somewhere between the origin of words in Not-Mary’s brain and their appearance at the end of her pen, her thoughts have turned into worms: tiny, wriggling and innumerable. As I looked at the pages again over Barbara’s shoulder, I absorbed some of her analytic spirit. This, I thought with a shock, is the handwriting of somebody getting herself ready to be thrown out in a skip.

  Of course, all my own plans in my youth were just a pie in the sky, as I have a quite different “God”

  ‘It’s not her eyesight that’s making this so small,’ pronounced Barbara, making a note on a jotting pad. ‘She’s not got especially bad eyesight, or else she’d get tired before she could write this much. Alzheimer’s is also associated with small letters, but this person remembers everything, so it’s not that …’ Barbara squinted into mid-air as if the outline of Not-Mary was starting to take shape there, quickly added another word to her pad, and dropped her head back to the magnifier.

  Graphologists believe that the central nervous system is directly linked to the emotions, and therefore minute impulses in the brain cause individual variations to handwriting that can be reliably related to character. Crudely put, the interpretative idea is that if you can determine what an average and unremarkable hand looks like, then a person’s abnormal character traits will be determined by the ways in which their writing deviates from the bland middle ground.

  To help simplify analysis, graphologists divide a person’s script into three zones: upper, middle and lower. The ‘upper zone’ is the high space occupied by the tall letters: this zone represents intellectual and spiritual matters – the extension of the everyday into the realm of ideals and dreams. Bill Gates’ handwriting has a large upper zone:

  may you make billions someday

  Britney Spears’ has a little one:

  I want to apologize for the past incedent with the umbrella.

  Not-Mary’s upper zone is large.

  The ‘lower zone’ is the space under the bulk of the word, where the dangly segments of ‘g’ and ‘p’ grope about. This zone reveals the writer’s instincts, activities and motivation; it shows, according to Barbara, ‘how a person feels about money, possessions and the powers of her body.’ One of Barbara’s website links opens a window with a scan of a letter by Stewart Blackburn. ‘Handwriting of a murderer’, chirrups the headline. The case is repulsive. Blackburn killed his girlfriend by setting light to her then locking her in a room. The extract is from a letter he wrote to the woman’s parents after he was convicted. His ‘y’s have a very distinctive lower zone:

  ‘The extreme leftward trend’, observes Barbara, shows he has ‘unresolved issues’ with his mother or ‘mother substitute’. Not-Mary (particularly in the colourful books) writes her ‘y’s and ‘g’s in a similar way:

  I went on with the book on “Dennis Neilson”, as I couldn’t sleep It seems he was very good at English literature, and was a good writer; I might think he could have been a novelist, if he hadn’t turned to murdering.

  The ‘middle zone’ of handwriting is everything in between the high bits of a ‘d’ and the low bits of a ‘y’: it is the majority of the text. An average hand uses roughly 3mm for each zone. Much more or less, or in different proportions, and Barbara’s glasses quiver on her nose. For a perfectly average person, you’d expect the distance from the top of the letter ‘t’ to the bottom of ‘p’ to be about 9mm.

  For the diarist of the third book it is 2mm.

  ‘But analysis is not just about letter shape; it cannot be that simplistic,’ insisted Barbara. She raised the diary above her head to catch the light against some pressure marks that had caught her interest, turned the page over to check the other side, and began to speak with the clipped specificity of a police investigator: ‘Writing does not leave any evident indentations on the back of the paper … energy levels not high … experiences wash over writer, leaving little impression … doesn’t learn from past mistakes …’

  Barbara broke off and looked up with a startled smile.

  ‘You need to look at the writing as a whole. Only when you’ve studied everything, including the way sentences relate to each other on the page, can you make a proper assessment. Just this morning I was reading one expert who claimed that if you write “g”s like this …

  … then you’re a lesbian. That little bow at the bottom, like a lasso-y loop, is supposedly a guilt sign, because you’re coming back. But I’ve seen loads of gay men who do their “g”s that way; there is male and female in everyone … AhhgggHHH! Don’t put that cup there!’ She skimmed a coaster across the dining-table polish; it came to rest under my mug. ‘My husband did that just after he made this table. One sip and off he had to go, strip the wood down and start over again.’

  Graphologists peddle fantastic certitudes when all they have is guesswork and a sense of theatre–that’s what I had thought before I met Barbara: they’re hucksters. They’ve hucksted themselves first, and now they’re out to huckst you. ‘They remind me of someone,’ I’d said to myself as I drove to this meeting in Landbeach. ‘That’s right, that’s who: they’re exactly like biographers. They remind me of me!’ They use the same sort of language as biographers; they operate with the same vague sense of self-importance that they are pursuers of ‘truth’, which means, in other words, that they like to hear themselves be opinionated; they are driven by the same gossipy curiosity. Put two graphologists (or biographers) in a room together and they can scarcely agree on each other’s name.

  I like the graphologists I’ve met. A few months earlier I’d been to see Patricia Field, who’d published an article on Jane Austen’s handwriting. Patricia, like Barbara, was interested in ‘d’s. She pointed out the importance of Not-Mary’s delta. It is a well-known marker of creativity to write the letter in that way.

  n.b. saw today what I’ve wanted to see – a specimen, a facsimile, of John Gielgud’s handwriting – like the personality of it – the fullness of his imagination, spirituality in the “d’s” written like that, (upwind), intelligence in its straightforwardness & simplicity. A writing not unlike mine, in a way

  I agreed contentedly: ‘Yes, I do those deltas too.’

  ‘And they can also suggest an excessive desire for attention, perhaps an inferiority complex, people who’ll do anything to get noticed.’

  When the diarist’s ‘d’s are compared to the rest of the text, Patricia said ‘I’ was held back by tentativeness and lack of resolve. For all her great artistic urge, Not-Mary might have ended up just a cook.

  According to Patricia, the ‘m’s also suggested that Not-Mary had a closed nature, because of the way this letter was curved at the top, like the arch
es under railway viaducts. Open people write ‘m’s with fallen arches, as if two ‘u’s have been put together. There is a connection, Patricia had said, between ‘m’ and the way children hold hands when they are playing ring-aring-a-roses. Those hatchet-faced kids who keep their knuckles facing upward during this old English dance write their ‘m’s as Not-Mary does. The saps who clasp from underneath, knuckles down, tend to do the collapsed sort.

  Barbara, on the other hand, is much too cautious to be drawn into clear physical statements. She insists it is not possible for graphology even to determine if a writer is male or female. Not-Mary writes the rounded ‘s’, ‘which of course means yielding, and as a female you’re more likely to compromise and give in. But it would mean the same thing in a man.’

  In her expert thirty-page report, produced for the slight sum of £100 after reading the three books I’d brought and studying and comparing the handwriting of each, Barbara concludes that by the end of her life, the diarist

  is in a negative state of mind and is in low spirits most of the time. She is an inveterate worrier and usually expects the worst of people and situations. She is shy and timid, appearing awkward and uncomfortable. She is likely to dress soberly so as not to attract attention [and] she is typically attracted to someone unavailable. Because she feels her parents were inadequate, this also produces a longing for the ‘good parent’ – the person who will see her as she truly is. In the extreme, emotional breakdown or suicide is likely.

  In films, the pathologist – in order to give the contemptuous and disbelieving copper a first approximation of time of death – stands over a slab and performs a post-mortem on the corpse. In biographies of unknown diarists, Barbara Weaver peers down at her mahogany dining table and performs a post-scriptum on the corpus.

  The slant of handwriting is a measure of its ‘emotional dial’. Barbara looked up sharply, and from her heap of implements plucked out a plastic protractor, its edges dimpled with rulings. Writing that slopes to the right suggests the person is outgoing and confident; straight up and down, an independent spirit; a slant to the left, shyness.

  ‘Yes, mmm, a shrinking violet … a severe case, inclined to suicide … possibly abusing alcohol or drugs … a hoarder … dejected and melancholic … born, let’s see, yes, May 22nd, 19 … 1939.’

  ‘You can tell from the handwriting?’ I burst out, unable to hide my disbelief any longer.

  ‘Oh no!’ retorted Barbara, looking up from her breadboard magnifying glass with a delighted smile. ‘I can tell that from reading what she’s written. Haven’t you tried doing that yet?’

  May 22nd, Sat.[1999]

  A.m.:– Make a note – it is my birthday – the “Big One”; although it doesn’t really happen until nearly midnight tonight. Anyway, now I am eligible for all these concessions I read of, for pensioners.

  14 A Chapter of celebrations: birthdays from thirteen to sixty-two

  1952 Birthday list

  fountain pen or biro

  big pen knife

  sleeping bag

  dictionary

  doll. (boy or girl).

  cartrige paper drawing book (bla)

  pastels.

  ballet shoes.

  trousers.

  gun for Henry

  new white vest for yaby.

  yolly’s tea set.

  pyjamas. for Henry

  dressing-gown for Henry.

  a length of pink ribbon.

  a party dress.

  AGED THIRTEEN

  1961 As I expected it was a good birthday. My spirits run high, full of health and youthful optimism. So far, enjoying being 22. Wonder if these are the best years.

  AGED TWENTY-TWO

  1962 Just woken from a lovely dream of c-feel – a birthday treat indeed – a happy dream, for me – one in which my needs for superiority & social worth are satisfied.

  AGED TWENTY-THREE

  1964 Spent my birthday at home. Can’t understand it. I eat well, & don’t lose an undue amount of blood. Does every woman feel the period so much, in terms of strengthlessness and nervous reaction? A whole bloody week of feeling awful, in every four!

  AGED TWENTY-FIVE

  1974 My birthday, and perhaps the most uncelebrated I ever had!

  Had a little eavesdrop, later in the evening, when Dame Harriette was in the drawing room; having an uncanny instinct of knowing when I’d be mentioned. Miss N said I am very happy. She asked D.H. about what my interests were, & D.H. seemed quite at sea. She said I watch television ‘all the time’, which annoyed me, as it is quite untrue.

  AGED THIRTY-FIVE

  1975 My birthday, and possibly the quietest ever. A quiet usual day, and Little Harriette unaware of the fact – didn’t want to worry her about it. But just to have her still, is present enough – in fact, to have all the old people.

  AGED THIRTY-SIX

  1977 My birthday, and a dull one – luckily I don’t care. Really have had enough of the old people. They are such a drag.

  AGED THIRTY-EIGHT

  1978 My birthday, and I take stock of what received. Words and love are what I crave, not material things. The nightie from [my sister] Noon is generous, but not what I want – I want words.

  It is a great comfort that Puddn’ [another sister] thinks that being single is best – she really does. And she knows. Has had so much experience with men. She says the attraction wears off, and she agrees that then one is very unfree and trapped.

  E is doubtless too busy dying, inch by inch, to think of my birthday.

  39 is nice to write, from a calligraphic point of view.

  AGED THIRTY-NINE

  1982 My birthday, which fact I keep forgetting, as I’ve felt 43 long before now. Read in the paper that Sophia Loren wants extra luxuries in jail. She is a dreadful big-headed, spoilt woman. It jolly well serves her right. Ever so glad to see an over-lucky, very self-satisfied & healthy person have a little set-back like that. All stuffed with sleep etc.

  AGED FORTY-THREE

  1983 Having had a good night, I remembered it is my birthday. Weigh in at 10st. 6lbs.

  AGED FORTY-FOUR

  1984 It sounds as if I nearly died when I was born, because they couldn’t cope with the mucus new babies get – I was even christened when I was just born, & had the last sacraments. It is a poignant story, because it would have been terrible for Moth & Pa if I had died – their first baby. Wonder if it would have been better if I had died.

  AGED FORTY-FIVE

  1993 Glad to see the back of today.

  AGED FIFTY-FOUR

  1996 It is my birthday; and I have been a very busy pensioner, it not a day of leisure. The TV had something really good for once – a medical programme, about the latest in heart surgery. The film was about four men who were having a specialist operation; and three of them were over 70. Although it was late, I felt I had to see all the film, as I wanted to find out how the patients did. As it happened, three of them died.

  AGED FIFTY-SEVEN

  1997 It is my birthday! And I am not very keen about it. I thought how enormous I felt – like a beached whale; and even my breasts seem to have swollen, when that part of me always used to be thin.

  AGED FIFTY-EIGHT

  1998 Make a note; it is my birthday; and I didn’t remember it at first.

  Mother has been abysmal – has sent me £9.

  It seems with these pensioners, their brains give out before their bodies; about the only explanation.

  AGED FIFTY-NINE

  1999 Make a note – it is my birthday – the ‘Big One’ … Moth told me something that I hadn’t known, in the Botanical Gardens; that my birth was induced, so it was quick, but incredibly uncomfortable. It seems the doctor had wanted to go flying, the next day. And another baby who was born in a similar fashion was given too much oxygen, so was blinded. Myself also trouble with ‘mucus’, and given oxygen.

  It might explain why I am a fearful person.

  AGED SIXTY

  2000 Make a no
te; it is my birthday; rather a gloom falling over my day; yet other people do nice things at my age – like ‘Anna Ford’ getting married this summer. I have been to Histon Road. When I got back, I found that the can of cider I had bought at the wine shop had sprung a leak.

  AGED SIXTY-ONE

  2001 Make a note; it is my birthday, of course. I thought Moth looked very old, as she walked away down the drive. It has been quite a good birthday, considering what an awful traumatic year it is; and what will be the situation in a year’s time, I wonder.

  AGED SIXTY-TWO

  15 The Oldest book

  Read my 1952 diary, & old reports. What a troublesome creature I was.

  Aged twenty

  The oldest book in the Ribena box is a thin, beige hardback, twenty-three plain pages inside, and made from two slabs of cardboard stuck over with brown parcel paper. The linen spine has once been orange or pink, but it has gone to the bad. On the front cover, inside a large square, is the printed instruction:

  GENERAL EDUCATION

  ROUGH NOTES

  A child has been briefly at work around this message, splodging ink and nonsense words. In the bottom right-hand corner a self-contented cursive has filled in the date: ‘1952’.

  And underscored it twice, slash! slash!

  Inside the book, the handwriting is large and clumsy and crashes about the paper:

  Many of the pages contain drawings, some of which might be by a small boy:

  or definitely by a girl:

  or a psychotic:

  There is some good mathematics: