Chapter 12
I Remarry
At the dinner party there were some very officious women with very definite views on everything. We were discussing abortion and I said whatever one thinks about abortion it is, in my opinion, murder. This did not go down well. The three women berated me, couldn’t believe I thought that abortion was murder. I still think it is but if I were pregnant and didn’t want the baby what would I do? Probably have an abortion even if I thought it was morally wrong to do so. Anyway, I sat next to Geoffrey and we had an interesting discussion about books and reading and I learnt that he was an historian and worked at an Oxford College. His wife and he were separated and he lived next door to Barbara. When I left the dinner party Geoffrey gave me a kiss on the cheek and said he hoped to see me again some time.
So, our romance began. I asked him to Warneford Road for dinner and invited Professor Norman Stone and his wife to come as well. The dinner was a great success and went on late into the evening.
After several outings to dine, to walk in the Botanical Gardens, to frequent pubs for lunch at the weekends, I met his boys, Robin and Jeremy. Robin was fifteen and Jeremy was eleven. The first time I met them they were really concerned, not about their parents’ separation, but about the dog. They loved the dog but it had been impossible for Geoffrey’s wife, Veronica, to look after him or for Geoffrey, since they both worked all day. They had found someone who could care for him, and take him for the walks he needed. I was a bit wary of the boys at first because having three girls of my own I didn’t quite know how I should manage as a stepmother of boys. I found that boys and girls growing up are quite different species, but I think it worked well over the years that we shared a life and I grew extremely fond of them. I always thought of Jeremy as a kind of angel, he was so polite, studious and gentle. And he had beautiful red hair. But one day I took him with me to buy some party presents for something we were planning. The shop assistant was very unhelpful and hopeless and we left the shop empty-handed. ‘Fucking stupid woman’ Jeremy said and I was aghast. Could this beautiful boy have really said that? He was right of course but coming from him it was a revelation. We looked after the boys one week at a time and Veronica looked after them the other. It seemed to work very well, although maybe they would not agree with this assumption, looking back.
After five years of living together Geoffrey and I decided to get married. We had a Registry Office wedding and then a Blessing in St. Michael’s at the North Gate, Cornmarket Street, and a reception at my sister’s house in Pullen’s End, North Oxford. As a particular fan of Thomas Hardy, the writer, I decided that I would try to look like a Thomas Hardy bride. I am so hopeless at looking round shops that I asked my sister Angela to help me choose appropriate garments. We found a silk skirt in pale pink and a matching silk jacket; underneath I wore a white embroidery anglaise blouse with an ivory waistcoat and a pink tie. I wore a straw hat and did my hair in a small plait. My friend Felicity did say that I looked like a Thomas Hardy bride so I was very pleased. Geoffrey wore his only smart suit and gave a good and funny speech. He brought up that quote attributed to Oscar Wilde about a second marriage being more the triumph of hope over experience. So, I became a don’s wife, rather different from being a don’s secretary, which I was in Brasenose College Oxford some years ago. Geoffrey was a very hard worker and cared deeply about his students, but I had stipulated that I wanted a husband who would share some of the things that I wanted to do at the weekends and so I made him attend craft fairs, cinemas, pantomimes and lots of lunches in pubs. None of these things I think he did before he met me. My mother was very ‘café’ society of her time, she loved going to The Berkley Grill for lunch or to the Savoy or Claridges. Not quite the same as the local pub but where she liked to go to for fun. Perhaps this desire for restaurants and pubs is hereditary, because my idea of a lovely day out is to go to a country pub with delicious food and good company.
In case you are wondering, this is a short sketch of Geoffrey. He was small of stature with a clever, kind face and lots of beautiful soft blonde hair. He was very athletic and had played cricket for his college and squash to amuse himself. He was an historian and his specialist subject was Napoleon. Several of his books are published by OUP and have gone out all over the world. He had a very beautiful voice, which he used to sing whilst playing the guitar, and he often read the lessons in our church, St. Michael’s at the North Gate. He was a very quiet and gentle man and much loved by many. I loved him very dearly for the thirty-one years we were together.
If you were a tutor at an Oxford College you were expected to dine at official dinners and eat at High Table. At quite some of these dinners I was invited as Geoffrey’s wife. These occasions presented many difficulties for me. As I think you know by now, dear reader, I left school at 15 with two O levels and although I had tried to educate myself ever since, I had no degree to boast of or academic qualifications. Sitting between two rather fearful looking dons who inevitable asked me what my subject was, I was flummoxed. A feisty friend of mine equally married to a professor and with no degree was asked by a visiting don what her field was. ‘My field?’ she retorted. ‘My field: I am not a horse.’. I was never rude, just puzzled at the strange behaviour of academics. In general, they seem unable to talk on any subject except their own with any interest, or perhaps they can’t be bothered. The only don I enjoyed sitting next to was the English tutor because obviously we talked of our love of books, and I felt confident with him that I knew what I was talking about for once. Although, of course, we could have talked about holidays, what children we had, the Government or anything else. But we didn’t so I dreaded the dinners in college. Here is my last word about academics. They are a section of very clever men and women, who are unable to really connect with the rest of us. Geoffrey was an exception. When I worked in Brasenose College I was the Fellows’ secretary, which meant working for thirty dons, so I did know a disparate bunch. It is always difficult to generalize but during that year I got the impression that dons live in a world of their own, immersed in their subject and not able to cope with much else, and nothing practical. But, as I said earlier in the book, they gave me very generous leaving presents, a kind card and I was sad to leave.
* * *
In 1984 I noticed that my right breast looked strange. The doctor however thought it was nothing but I was sure there was something wrong. Listening to the radio one morning I heard Jenni Murray say if you think you have something wrong with your breasts keep on trying to find out what it is. Right, I thought, I will. I went to see a consultant at the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford. I had a biopsy and was told that I had breast cancer. When I got back home that day Geoffrey asked me whether I would like a cup of tea. A cup of tea, I said, certainly not. I want a large gin and tonic. It was 10 am. I am sure that many people are like me when they learn that they have cancer, they can’t really believe it. But I didn’t have much time to think about it as I was summoned back to the hospital four days later for a full mastectomy. The night after the operation I thought about the part of my body that had I had lost and wept. I didn’t want to have a reconstruction; more operations and pain were for me not an option. As I write this now at 82 years old, I have counted the operations I have had and they amount to seven. Four of them major so it is a wonder that I am here at all. From then on, I had to get used to wearing a prosthesis in my bra but otherwise life carried on as usual.
* * *
I have always loved poetry and decided to join a Creative Writing Class in Oxford. I had an enjoyable four years there and learnt a little about writing poetry. I have since discovered that poetry is not for everyone. Well, in fact, most people dislike poetry. If I said that I was a Christian who wrote poetry, at a party of any sort, I could empty the room. I had read somewhere that the Women’s Institute were happy to enrol people for a performance at their meetings if you had something to say of interest or something to show. You had to have an audition, which terrified me, but I went and performed some of my poems. It was in a large Memorial Hall somewhere just outside Oxford. About thirty women were judging me as I stood on the stage trembling with fear. But I did it nevertheless and was suitably pleased with myself. Fortune favours the brave, I thought. A few weeks later I was telephoned and told I had passed and could start as soon as a WI branch wanted me. The telephone rang one day and we started being asked to perform. It was always exciting going somewhere new, each a hall had its own character, and a new group of women to meet. Between two or three of the poems Geoffrey played the guitar and sang. The Beatles songs were very popular and everyone joined in. All the women in the WI were so friendly and kind and we enjoyed ourselves immensely, sometimes weekly and sometimes every fortnight. But we had to carry the microphones and all the paraphernalia, my poetry books and Geoffrey’s guitar across main roads, which was quite frightening sometimes, and difficult. Then we started being asked to evening parties, which began at around 8.30. We tried to do this but it foxed us in the end. We couldn’t always find the venue and arrived late and harassed. We were both in our seventies and it all got too much and after four years we sadly stopped doing it.
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