Privileged Children (2 page)

A Desirable Husband (
1987
)
would be Frances’s last novel for Michael Joseph. Her next,
The Marquis of Westmarch (
1989
),
was published by Gollancz. Inspired by her reading of a passage in Germaine Greer’s
The Female Eunuch
concerning a rare genital malformation that historically led to the misidentifying of certain infant girls as boys, the novel tells of a nobleman who harbours just such a secret, the revelation of which would imperil his inheritance. Philippa Toomey for
The Times
called the novel ‘a fantastic, haunting, and extremely well-written story of love and death’
.

MICHAEL MARTEN
: I found
Westmarch
very difficult to cope with as her literary advisor, but Frances was absolutely determined to write it. It was almost like a reversion to the sorts of first drafts she’d written as a young teenager. But there was something in there that she had to get out, about this business of male and female. She had questions about gender. There was an element, I think, that she thought she ought to have been a boy. Whether this was a consequence of her father wishing for a son in order to inherit the title is a moot point. I
don’t suppose her father consciously made her feel that, far from it. But he did regret that he didn’t have a son, there’s no doubt.

SHEILA VERNON
: Johnnie left Sudbury divided between the girls. But a place like that has gone on for generations by always going to a son. Yes, Frances did once say something to the effect of her having lost out on that by being a girl. Men do have more power in the world, still. And Frances didn’t like that – she found it difficult.

Michael has always said that most of Frances’s inner world is probably in
Westmarch
. Janna said she thought Frances wanted to be a homosexual man, because she wanted sex with men, but to be a man. For a woman that is usually very straightforward, but not for Frances, I’m afraid, sadly.

MICHAEL MARTEN
: Frances suffered from depression. She saw a psychotherapist for the last five or so years of her life, and sometimes she’d feel it helped. Maybe it delayed the outcome.

SHEILA VERNON
: I always saw a lot of her, and did what I could. It is a terrible illness. My sister suffered from depression, she died of heart trouble and had other physical problems, but she said to me once that depression was much the worst thing she’d suffered.

MICHAEL MARTEN
: For any outing Frances had to prepare herself, two or three days in advance – psychologically she’d have to work herself up into a state she could deal with. The travel would be difficult – the prospect rather than the actuality. Eventually she decided she ought to overcome her fear of travel and have a holiday. She took herself off to the Lofoten Islands off the coast of Norway, organised it herself. Why she chose those islands I’m not quite sure, they’re pretty dour. She certainly didn’t enjoy herself, or the food. But she did it, it was an accomplishment for her.

As her illness got worse towards the last years, she
found going places very trying – having to call a taxi then worrying if it would be late, or come at all, and once it came, worrying that it would get lost. She could become distraught over things that would seem minor to anyone else, it would all get too much very quickly – and this was a tendency that got much worse. As a child she’d had terrible tantrums, which she learned to control, but nonetheless the desperation behind them was always there. Sheila and John were, I think, very concerned about her.

Over some years she expressed to me a wish to die. She’d say, ‘I wish I was dead,’ or, ‘I don’t know if I can stand it any more.’ There is nothing you can say to that … you don’t dismiss it, but I didn’t feel it was something that ordinary advice or listening could really resolve. I’m sure I wasn’t as helpful as I could have been. But in reality I don’t know what I could have done.

What would be Frances’s final novel
, The Fall of Doctor Onslow –
originally entitled ‘A School Story’ – was inspired by her reading of the memoirs of the writer and homosexual John Addington Symonds, wherein he exposed the commonplace incidence of homosexuality at Harrow School in the1850s, among pupils and indeed between boys and senior staff.

MICHAEL MARTEN
:
Onslow
was based on a true story about a headmaster at Harrow, who was effectively blackmailed or bludgeoned by the father of a pupil into leaving the school and wasn’t allowed to accept any preferment in the Church, such that when he tried to a few years later he got set back. It was a very powerful story and Frances managed to convey it very well. It seemed to me her first novels were very good but of a certain type, novels of manners and mores, but they didn’t really go further than that. Whereas I felt that
Onslow
had more depth.

SHEILA VERNON
: Frances’s sense of humour wasn’t commented on. But it’s there in
Onslow
, especially in Doctor Onslow’s wife Louisa, who is a great character, I think. Nothing’s explained to her but she knows quite a lot. When she speaks of Onslow’s devotion to his pupils and then realises what she’s said … And when Onslow says he’s ‘upset over a boy’, she does know there’s something hidden. Or when they go together to a hotel and she comments on their lack of luggage, to which he replies, ‘A clergyman is always respectable …’ Even he has a joke at himself. Frances was very succinct in her writing, including her humour.

MICHAEL MARTEN
: Gollancz, who published
Westmarch
, turned down the first version of
Onslow
. It was a huge blow to Frances, and she was reluctant to rewrite it, but she did, quite considerably. She must have finished it not long before she died. And it was almost as though she had decided it was the work she had to finish, she had no ideas beyond that – and by finishing it, I think she felt released.

Frances died by her own hand on 11 July 1991 after what
The Times
obituarist would describe as her ‘long struggle with depressive illness’. Having promised her psychiatrist not to end her life using pills he’d prescribed for her depression, Frances created a ‘herbal’ concoction, which she took, and then lay down to die, apparently calmly and peacefully.

MICHAEL MARTEN
: It wasn’t sudden, it was a continual worsening. It was a cloud over her and it grew blacker. She seemed less able to escape from the blackness. When it happened I was certainly shocked. But it was not in the least unexpected. And I felt thereafter that nothing would have saved her.

SHEILA VERNON
: I go over and over thinking how we might have done things differently, and probably we should have, you can’t help wondering. But … you just
have to live with it as best you can. In a way it was rather like someone with a terrible illness that couldn’t be cured, and you don’t want them to go on and on suffering.

MICHAEL MARTEN
: A few months after Frances’s death I sent ‘A School Story’ back to Gollancz in its rewritten form but they turned it down. I got in touch with her agency Blake Friedmann and asked them to suggest other publishers who might be interested. They sent me a list of about twenty, to whom I sent copies, most of whom turned it down until André Deutsch accepted it. And I think it’s the best of Frances’s novels.

The Fall of Doctor Onslow
was published finally in July 1994. Ben Preston for
The Times
called it ‘a searing indictment of the process of education … tersely written in a style that successfully captures Victorian restraint and its stifling sensibilities’. In the
Tablet,
Jill Delay reflected that ‘it is difficult to believe when reading it that the author was a child of our times and did not actually live in the middle of the last century: she recreates that world so vividly, with such understanding of its characters, such an ear for its speech, such feeling for its attitudes and taboos’. Lucasta Miller for the
Independent
observed that the novel’s ‘posthumous appearance is both a tragic reminder of what she might have gone on to do, and a testimony to what she did achieve’.

A child was hurrying along High Holborn with two heavy baskets of shopping. She wore a long green coat which had once belonged to a rich woman. She crossed Southampton Row, darting in front of a cab, and made her way to Red Lion Square. At one of the houses she set down her baskets on the doorstep, drew a deep painful breath and opened the door. Inside, it was warm enough to take off her coat. ‘Alice!’ someone yelled from downstairs. The girl lugged her shopping down to the basement. ‘Thanks, ducks,’ said Tilly, the housekeeper. ‘Mind you hurry up, now. You’re to be dressed and to have dinner in a quarter of an hour.’ Alice nodded.

Her room was on the second floor. She paused outside the door next to it and heard someone singing ‘Speed Bonnie Boat’.

‘When’s he coming, mamma?’ she called. There was a pause. Alice heard rustling.

‘Very soon, darling. Do make sure the drawing room’s tidy, and see that you take Newton downstairs. He does so hate cats.’

‘But when’s he arriving?’

‘Oh, I suppose in twenty minutes or so,’ said her mother. Alice sniffed.

She unbuttoned her patched dress and threw it, together with her stockings, on to the unmade bed. Glancing at the clock, she saw that she had five minutes in which to scan the
News
of
the
World
,
and sat down in the rocking chair, her feet
tucked underneath her, to do so. She poured herself half a cup of milk and drank it in one gulp.

Alice was eight years old. Her face was sallow and long, surrounded by a thick mat of mousy hair. Her eyebrows were black, arching and thick. She had a large nose and narrow, bright, red-brown eyes. Her hands were delicate and her mouth was full and red. She was so thin that her body looked knobbly even when she was fully clothed.

She finished the most important murder story, then quickly threw aside the newspaper and went to her wardrobe. She took out a frilly dress, a camisole, a linen petticoat, silk socks and patent leather shoes. These she put on with great speed, except the shoes, with whose buttons she fumbled, cursing. She combed her hair, wincing as the snarls caught, and put on a white Alice band. She went to the door and then, turning back, grabbed a coral brooch from her table and pinned it on. She had to walk slowly downstairs because the dress was too tight for her.

On the first floor there was a large drawing room. A fire blazed in the grate, opposite two high windows which looked out on the darkening oblong of the square. Dark blue velvet curtains and heavy looped pelmets hung round the windows. The plaster of the wall panels was mouldering and, although the panels were filled with blue damask, the plaster sometimes crumbled on to the floor. Alice picked up a few scraps of it.

The floor was covered with an Aubusson-type carpet, upon which stood several small gilt tables and a Recamier sofa, which had golden tassels hanging from its rolled back. Louis Quinze chairs were pushed back against the walls and the false doors, whose gilded beading was in decay.

Alice gently slapped Newton, a fat tabby cat, for sitting on the big armchair, and carried him downstairs with her after she had thrown more coal on the fire. She collected her supper of stew, apples and beer from Tilly and took it to the library, where she ate it on the window seat.

Alice worked in the library and her mother sometimes entertained there. The long table was scattered with books, darning and paints. The walls were painted yellow-green and Japanese pictures hung between the bookshelves. The most comfortable chairs were down here.

A cab clopped up to the door. Alice poked her head through the chintz curtains and saw a man in a red-lined cloak get out of the cab. She gobbled the rest of her supper. She heard the maid saying, ‘Good evening, Mr Cohen, sir. Mrs Molloy is in the drawing room, sir.’

‘Thank you, Bridget.’

Bridget took Mr Cohen upstairs and announced him. Then she ran downstairs to the library. ‘Alicky, you should be up there! You know your mother likes it that way. Holy Mary, child, you can’t go up with your face covered in gravy. Hold still a moment.’ Bridget scrubbed Alice’s mouth and chin with her handkerchief.

‘Ah, Bridie, don’t scold. And let me do it myself,’ she replied, reaching for the handkerchief.

‘Oh yes, you could do it yourself if you would, but you wouldn’t.’

Alice went into the drawing room, and made a pretty half-curtsey in a shy fashion. Mr Cohen was leaning over her mother’s shoulder. ‘Good evening, Mr Cohen. Good evening, mamma.’

‘Hello, darling. Oh, I see Nanny’s put on your little brooch for you.’

‘Yes,’ smiled Alice, fluttering her eyelashes. ‘It’s ever so pretty, Mr Cohen.’

‘I’m glad you like it, Alice.’ He patted her head.

Diana held a velvet box on her lap. In it lay a diamond necklace which she had just been taking off when Alice came in. Mother and daughter caught each other’s eye.

Diana was wearing a very low-cut apricot silk dress, although it was rather early in the evening to appear in such a frock. ‘Darling,’ said Diana, ‘do go up and fetch me a handkerchief. You know where they are.’

‘Yes, mamma.’

‘Of course, Aaron darling. I quite understand,’ Alice heard Diana say.

On the second floor there was a bedroom which was decorated in the same opulent way as was the drawing room. Alice went through it into a much smaller room where there was a brass bedstead, a chest of drawers and a small table piled high with books by such authors as Bernard Shaw and
Oscar Wilde. Alice opened the top drawer where, among other things, were two sorts of handkerchief: some large coloured squares and some scraps of cambric with ‘D’ embroidered in the corner. Alice took one of the latter sort. She knocked over an ashtray as she was leaving and reckoned that she had time enough to tidy it up.

In the drawing room she gave the handkerchief to Diana and prepared to sit down on a footstool with the wax doll which was left on the table for her benefit. Diana said: ‘Now, Alice, I want you to have an early night tonight. Ask Nanny to give you your supper now.’

‘Oh!’ pouted Alice.

‘Run along, darling.’

‘Goodnight, Alice.’

‘Goodnight, Mr Cohen.’

Diana gave Alice a wink which Mr Cohen, who was standing behind her as she reclined on the sofa, could not see.

Alice went up to the big bedroom. She turned down the sheets of the four-poster bed, closed the door into Diana’s other bedroom, and made sure that there was water in the ewer and a towel beside it.

She paused in the middle of the room. She heard the rustling of Diana’s dress as she was leaving the drawing room. Quickly Alice drew the curtains and then climbed on to one of the window seats and waited. She could just see the bed through a chink between the curtain and the window frame, and the gauze inner curtain hid her face from view.

They came in. Mr Cohen shut the door. Alice heard an oozing sound, and then a sigh. A thud indicated the removal of Mr Cohen’s boots, and a clatter that of Diana’s shoes. There was more rustling, more sighing. Mr Cohen grunted and threw his coat on a chair. The bed gave a great creak, and Alice saw Diana pull the covers over herself and Mr Cohen, who had a shiny bald patch in the middle of his black, curly hair.

Presently, Alice saw Mr Cohen’s buttocks heaving under the bedclothes. Diana’s cheeks were flushed, her arms outstretched. Her feet formed two points on either side of Mr Cohen’s moving legs. Alice watched for a few moments.
The scene reminded her of what she had seen dogs doing in Covent Garden, except that Diana kept murmuring, ‘Oh, darling!’

Bored, Alice sat back and banged her head on the window, which shuddered in its frame.

Diana’s eyes shot open, but Mr Cohen was very intent on lovemaking.

Alice cursed herself.

Soon, there was no more creaking. She heard Mr Cohen roll over. ‘Diana,’ he said. ‘You’re a sensible woman, I know.’ Diana turned round, and he looked away. ‘My wife’s found out, my dear. She found one of your handkerchiefs in my coat pocket.’

‘How sordid,’ said Diana.

‘I can’t carry on seeing you. I promised her I wouldn’t.’

‘Your wife’s very rich, isn’t she, Aaron? But yes, I’m a sensible woman. I’ve made a living out of being sensible.’

Mr Cohen heaved himself out of bed and started to dress. ‘I can pay you fifty pounds a year, Diana. I will do so.’ He paused. ‘Sixty, if you like.’

‘Sixty will do me nicely.’

‘Here’s the address of my solicitors. They’ll arrange it with the bank for you.’ He put the card on the washstand, kissed Diana and left. ‘I’ll miss you so much.’

‘Cheer up, Aaron.’ The door closed very slowly. ‘Come out, Alice.’

Alice, shivering, crawled down from the window seat.

‘Get me a drink. There’s some port next door. And a cigarette.’

Alice fetched them.

‘Ashtray and matches,’ said Diana. ‘He’s gone off to a business dinner. That’s what he was in such a hurry for,’ said Diana. Alice waited. ‘Oh, darling, you look freezing. Come into the bed. There.’ Diana lay back on the pillows as Alice slowly climbed into the bed. Both she and Diana cast their minds briefly over the sixty pounds a year, and the cost of the diamond necklace, sapphire ring and beryl earrings which Mr Cohen had given Diana. Added to the pensions from other men, Mr Cohen’s sixty pounds would bring Diana a regular income of three hundred and fifty pounds a year.

Diana Molloy was a tall woman. She had a figure which she could easily press into the fashionable S-bend, and which, uncorseted, was proudly female. She had almond-shaped auburn eyes, a Grecian nose, an oval face, high forehead, a full red mouth and quantities of hair which was between brown and red-golden in colour. Across the bridge of her nose were eight small freckles.

‘Have you done this before, Alice?’ Alice shook her head. ‘Were you shocked?’

‘No,’ said Alice.

‘But it must have looked rather disgusting. He’s so hideous.’

‘Well, it did.’

‘It needn’t always be like that, you know.’ Diana put her arms round her daughter, and took her head upon her shoulder. ‘You’re never going to have to make love to anyone you don’t want to, Alice. You can be an artist. But I’m a good whore. I can pick and choose a little nowadays.’ Alice smelled Diana’s musky scent, her warm white skin and her soft hair.

‘I wanted to see if you really did it, just once,’ said Alice.

‘I know. If I’d had such a chance when I was young, I’d be a wiser woman today,’ said Diana. She got out of bed and went over to the mirror. She was thirty-two years old. Peering at her face, she saw a line on either side of her mouth, and several fine lines round her eyes. She saw her soft blue-veined breasts as she glanced downwards. Perhaps they were a little too soft and white. She spun the mirror round on its hinges, but it turned a full circle.

‘You don’t look old,’ said Alice.

‘I look ghastly.’

‘You ought to smoke less. Tilly says smoking makes your skin yellow.’

‘She does, does she?’

Diana went into the other room and took a loose, sage-green dress out of the cupboard and pulled it on over her chemise. She took the pins out of her straggling hair and bundled it into a net. ‘I’m going to dine with Augustus and Clementina,’ she called to Alice. She picked up a necklace
which was made of silver and round cloudy crystals. It had been given to her by Michael Molloy just after their wedding in 1896. Michael Molloy had died a year after Alice’s birth in November 1897. It saddened Diana that Alice could not remember her father. She was rather like him.

‘And Alice,’ she said to her daughter, who looked very small in the enormous bed, ‘don’t do it again, will you? For all our sakes.’

‘No, mamma.’