Chapter 2
As a man is,
So he sees.
William Blake
August 24th 1981 was the memorable day I moved into my own
house to start the single life. During my days of married life, in an
unruly house in Hampshire, I had often imagined the kind of house I
would like for myself one day. Now at last, unbelievably, here it was
– a small, terraced house in Oxford full of strange silence and future
potential. I have always loved small Victorian houses. My beloved nanny,
Agnes Ellen Turner, lived in one in Canterbury. There were nine
members of her family, three rooms in the house. Unfortunately, I
never saw inside it, but imagined what it would have looked like
from my voracious reading of Victorian novels. I saw the familiar
kitchen from Sons and Lovers where Paul Morel and his mother used
to sit; Anna Tellwright’s back parlour with its bentwood rocking chair
and an engraving of ‘The Light of the World ‘over the mantelpiece
and the small black fireplaces as discussed in various Dickens’ novels.
These would, I knew, radiate a cosy, settled, all-embracing feeling
coming not from luxury, but from love. There would be the smell of
beeswax, sparkling blackened grates, and according to season, jars of
wild flowers, bluebells or dog roses picked on Sunday rambles. In
front of the fire on winter afternoons there would be buttered
muffins, honey, and numerous cups of lemon tea. The street itself
would be tidy, uniform, and predictable, like Coronation Street, with
small front gardens behind spruce hedges.
That image was my Utopia, and I recognized it immediately in the
small, dilapidated house I found in East Oxford. The outside
resembled a squat, with flaking paint and dirt-grimed walls; the
inside was filthy. Masses of newspapers and circulars everywhere,
windows you couldn’t see through, electricity meters in every room
and graffiti on the walls. The garden was full of old bedsteads,
curious pieces of rusty ironware, empty beer cans and empty bottles.
However, in the hall a shaft of sunlight shone through the dusty
haze. I glimpsed Anna, Paul and Mrs Morel, and Fanny Price (before
she went to Mansfield Park) flitting about; and I fancied I smelt the
beeswax. At that moment I fell in love with it, made an offer that
afternoon which was accepted and settled in the day after. A good
choice, as it has been the most constant and supportive lover I have
ever had; always warm, always welcoming, always loving and always
there.
Plumbers, electricians, and painters during the intervening four
months worked long and hard on improvements making the house
habitable. Four small downstairs rooms were made into one large
sitting room, and a large kitchen with a door to the garden. Both dry
and wet rot had spread happily and freely everywhere and needed a
stay of execution; a hot water tank had to be installed and radiators
fixed to the walls. Cupboards were fitted and the house rewired.
(Little reference is made by Victorian novelists to cupboard space. I
suppose it lacks romance as a subject, nevertheless I always wonder
where the characters put their clothes since nineteenth century
street houses appear to have been built without them. Ditto modern
houses).
The day I moved in there were no carpets, no curtains, no
electricity, and the telephone had yet to be connected. However,
until the builders, who incidentally had become my first friends in
Oxford left that evening, I was euphoric. All day I boiled saucepans of
water to make cups of tea and I made jokes. The unreality of
dreaming of a house of my own had become a reality. Unbelievably,
this small part of the universe belonged to me, somewhere to root
myself. Ken and Eddy left at 5 o’clock wishing me goodnight and
hoping that I would enjoy the first evening alone in house. But, as
with most anticipated events that fall short of expectations, this was
no exception. The much sought-after silence in the house seemed
oppressive rather than peaceful. Putting away china, hanging the
pictures, and generally straightening the muddle, lost its appeal as a
solitary pursuit. The excitement of being solitary, of being free (that
freedom so sought after, so much discussed, so often) and the single
life for which I had fought and now attained, diminished, it seemed
on acquaintance. I thought of the Schopenhauer quote: “He who
does not enjoy solitude does not love freedom”, and decided that
solitude equalling freedom would be an acquired taste, arrived at in
time, with much planning, effort and thought. As it was, I had
forgotten to buy any food. So hungry, cold, and feeling less
courageous than I expected, I burst into tears. Until that evening I did
not realize exactly what it would be like to be totally alone:
something which is perhaps not possible to know until experienced.
In the midst of noisy families women dream of endless peace and
quiet on their own, sure that they would be entirely happy in
isolation. But in truth they might be no such thing. An hour or two
maybe…. But real solitude, though aspired to by many, is in practice
only really enjoyed by a few.
Anyway, I made pots of tea, and cheered myself up reading
Persuasion by candlelight. Jane Austin, was, after all, single, and she
seemed to have managed all right. (My reliable friends out of books
are as one would wish, human friends to be, constant, predictable,
and peaceful. Peaceful, perhaps, because they are constant and
predictable). That first night I went to bed with mixed feelings, many
apprehensions and a constantly re-occurring thought. Had I been
extremely foolish in my desire for independence?
In the weeks that followed, before I decided what I was going to
do with my life, I discovered some very important facts about single
living. Planning a structured day, and sticking to the plan, was vital.
The radio provided my mealtimes admirably; I had breakfast with
lovely Terry Wogan until he misguidedly left his large adoring
audience to prostitute himself on the terrible television. I had lunch
with Robin Day to acquaint myself briefly with news of the outside
world, and at 7.07pm had supper with the Archers who have now
become an integral part of my life. Perfect entertainment at the end
of the day, Shula’s love life or lack of it, Nigel Pargiter’s
misdemeanours, Brian’s affair with Caroline, Eddy Grundy touching
up the girl sent to Grange Farm by the Council for experience as a
nursery nurse (but not that experience) and every evening I silently
thanked God that the most irritating woman ever invented, Peggy
Archer was no relation of mine. Many mock the Archers. They see
the series as unrealistic in the modern world. But man is not
supposed to be able to bear too much reality, and life in Ambridge
can provide a continuity missing from real life, a sense of security
and safety brought about by a proper order of things. And, of course,
the radio provides the sound of a human voice. A necessity to
solitary people, who buy canaries, sticklebacks, cats or whatever as
an excuse to converse out loud with something. I bought a large
brown Teddy bear and called him Aristotle to share my bed, but so
far have baulked at talking to him, although he would, I feel,
understand as much or as little as the canary, stickleback, cat or
whatever.
Administration of bills, coping with solicitors over the house
purchase, trying to understand tax forms, sorting out money
problems and generally being totally responsible for myself was, at
first, extremely frightening. I had had no part in these activities as a
married woman and I was quite convinced that I would be
completely unable to tackle them. But I did. And I could. It came as a
great surprise to me just how capable I was, having been under the
impression, while married that I was almost moronic. I did the desk
work in the mornings. Necessary fresh air was taken daily, after
lunch. Oxford is traditionally a city full of bicycle riders. (I think many
of them bicycle with an image of someone else in mind. Either a girl
at a secretarial college trying to resemble a student or a student
trying to resemble an academic. Or a North Oxford housewife trying
out her Greenham Common outfit). Anyway, I hate bicycles, and
maniacal cyclists. So, I tried a new venture, walking, which proved
both beneficial as exercise, and uplifting. It is a magical experience
exploring the diversities of Oxford on foot. Watching the canal boats
at Donnington Bridge, visiting the beautiful colleges, or walking
through the water meadows and stopping on the way back in a
bookshop, was a perfect way to spend the afternoon. In the evening
after supper, I learnt to enjoy the peace. It is, I know, corny to
elaborate on the process of ‘knowing thyself’. Newly single people,
intent on finding their own ‘space’, whatever that means, can bore
on about it interminably. But as Socrates, Alexander Pope and
Herman Hess strongly recommend the idea of knowing oneself, and
as I greatly respect their judgement, that is precisely what I tried to
do. More from circumstance than from conscious planning I
discovered my real hates. Violence, aggression, confusion, and noise
(endemic in our society) are abhorrent to me. Finding this out was
important on practical grounds. For instance, those mouth-watering
jobs I saw when I was job-hunting – advertising for personal
assistants or secretaries to help employers build empires, or to meet
interesting/exciting top people, and/or the ability to leave the
country at a moment’s notice, all share the same snag: ‘to be able to
work under pressure.’. This means noise, confusion, aggression and
probably some kind of violence to achieve the first three. Also, I am
quite slow. Slow at everything. So, if I got a job which meant working
under pressure, by about Wednesday of my first I would probably be
needing the outpatients’ department in the nearest asylum. So
would my boss. I regrettably found myself to be sensitive where
others are less so. I take offence where none is intended. This is
extremely boring, but a fact that I seem unable to change. But
discovering my frailties was a help in choosing the kind of life and job
most suitable to my temperament.
Depression, despair, and misery swept over me quite frequently in
the early months. It struck around the hour of the dawn chorus.
Sleep was impossible. Eventually, however, I did find some good
ways of combating it. Thought control at night was essential; simply
not allowing your thoughts to stray into depressing areas. I made
literary problems for myself to work out. I pondered upon what Miss
Haversham would have done with her life if she had not decided to
spend it in one dark and cobwebby room? Or, had she lived now,
would Lady Bartram have risen from her sofa to raise money for the
Conservative Party, or NSPCC or rather, in her case, for the RSPCA?
That sort of thing. Sewing is soothing at 3.15am and with the World
Service and a cup of tea quite an enjoyable way of spending the
night. My sewing abilities are non-existent, but I made an attempt to
master easy patchwork; now tablecloths and several cushions
stitched in the early hours. My sister gave me some tapes of Peggy
Ashcroft reading four Katherine Mansfield short stories. These were
wonderfully sleep-inducing.
Early on I learnt far the most crucial and important lesson. I could
not doubt my decision to change my life. Much careful thought,
much agony had been gone through to arrive at that decision. Having
found the nerve or courage to swop a protected married life for a
solitary single one in which there were a mass of new worries
besides quite a difference in material things, I had to keep believing I
had done the right thing. There could be absolutely no looking back.
Nietzsche said: “What does not destroy me, makes me stronger”. I
began to understand the wisdom of his words. I was not destroyed. I
grew stronger every day.
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