Our lovely little prison

Have you been bingeing on piles of fiction or telly through this lockdown? So have we. Don't feel guilty - it's not like it's chocolate (oh, it was, was it?). Anyway, here's the first story in a tri-partite binge for our little blog: a mini series by Maggie Redding which wryly examines the effects of the pandemic on the population of a retirement home . 

Don't forget to come back next week for the second instalment: 'Room for Rob'.

FARADISE LOST IN LOCKDOWN - Part 1

by

Maggie Redding

‘Perish the thought!’  Tom Daly spoke with anger.

‘What’s the matter?’ his wife, Mimi, asked.

‘This!’  He was in the small hall of their retirement flat at Faradise Park.  A sheet of paper he had just tugged from the jaws of the letterbox was being waved to and fro.  ‘Remember when Hester referred to Faradise Park as our, ‘Lovely little Paradise?’

‘Vividly!  It was when the bonfire got out of control, wasn’t it?’

‘It won’t be our lovely little Paradise much longer.’

‘You mean there is going to be more building?’

‘No.  I mean this!’  He marched down the hall to the kitchen.  Mimi was making a pot of coffee.  ‘This- this – Corona Virus.  This notice.  We are going to have to go into  Lockdown from next Monday week.’

‘No one has got it here.’

‘That’s not the point.  Read it.  I can’t read it to you I’m too upset.’

He thrust the notice at her and strode away into the sitting room to throw himself onto the large, overstuffed sofa, which sighed under the impact.  A silence settled over the flat.  Mimi came into the sitting-room with two mugs of coffee.  

‘Come on, Tom.  Sit up.  It’s not as bad as you think.  No one’s ill.’

‘Thousands are,’  Tom argued.  ‘That’s the trouble.  A lot of us here at Faradise Park, might catch it.  In a place like this, it would go round like wildfire.  We are all doomed.’

Mimi let out a great guffaw.  Tom sat up to take his coffee.  She plomped down beside him.  ‘Stop panicking.  You’ve been watching Dad’s Army too much.  If we do what it says on the notice, we’ll be ok.’

‘Oh yeah!  Stay indoors, don’t go anywhere, don’t see anyone.’

  ‘It won’t be for long.’  

‘It’ll be for the whole of Spring, you’ll see.’  He put down his mug of coffee, leaped up and rushed over to the window.  The park, fresh and green, lay spread out before him.  Trees were coming into fresh, green leaf.  Daffodils lined the drive and beneath the boundary hedge, away to the entrance.  Blossom frothed in the hedgerow.  Birds chattered, flitted and swooped past the window.  In the Memorial Garden immediately below Tom and Mimi’s flat, spring bulbs bloomed, crocus, more daffodils, snowdrops.  

‘I don’t envy Lena if she has to manage us lot for the duration of this – virus,’ Mimi said.  

‘There are twice as many of us now.  Forty, if not more.’

‘But Izzie is assisting her.  Look Tom, relax, will you?  Do you remember the fuss and shock-horror from you when all the building was announced, and the Travellers' site was planned?  It turned out not to be so bad, didn’t it?’

Tom watched her face, wanting to argue, to maintain his point of view, but this was his beloved Mimi.  He hadn’t the heart to carry on with his objections.  They had been married for over a year.  Their first meeting occurred when they had both arrived at Faradise Park to take up residence in neighbouring flats.  Mimi, tall, black and beautiful had been slightly intimidating to the much shorter, less charismatic Tom.

Arguing was useless anyway.  He was about to say something to restore peace and harmony when a great din could be heard outside, in the corridor.  

‘No visitors, can you imagine?’  An irate Hester French from Flat Two, next-door-but-one, had realised some of the implications of the notice that had come through her letterbox.

‘Sounds as though Hester is none too happy,’ Tom observed.  ‘I’m glad I’m not the only one.’

A hostile ringing of the doorbell caused Tom and Mimi to exchange glances that were self-mocking but at the same time, relieved.

Tom hurried to the front door.  Hester stood there.  To Tom, her fury was so obvious that he was convinced for a moment that her short, grey hair was standing on end.

‘What on earth does Lena think she’s doing?’ demanded Hester, waving the notice and stepping into Flat Four before she’s even been invited.  She needed gently to push Tom aside.  The quieter Mel, Hester’s other half, followed her.  She smiled.  The four friends, Tom, Mimi, Hester and Mel had known each other since they had first arrived at Faradise Park. 

‘Our lovely little Paradise is going to become our lovely little prison,’ fumed Hester.

* * *

All those who lived at Faradise Park were up in arms, at the prospect of Lockdown, even the residents of the new block, referred to by Hester as Les Invalides, a droll reference by Francophile Hester to the famous Paris hospital.  These were the twenty new flats where people with ‘extra care’ needs lived independently, but with support for some of the health problems that arose in ageing.

‘What we need,’ Hester said, ‘is a council of war.’  

‘Council of war?’  Mimi said.  ‘There’s no use protesting.  If you watch the news on telly, you’ll realise it will happen everywhere.’  Mimi was wary of Hester in energetic mood.  Hester used to be depressed, but since she had been in touch with her daughter she had substituted depression for energy.  

‘I know that,’ Hester said.  ‘What I meant is we should plan, you know, make preparations.  If we’re only allowed out once day, that’s not a lot of shopping at the Co-op in the village.’

‘You’re right,’ Mel said. ‘Stock up before the 23rd of March’

‘Then all our outings won’t be just out of necessity.  We can go for a walk round the Park, up the hill, you know.....’ 

Everyone agreed.

‘Let’s start now,’ Tom said.  ‘I’ll go up to the Co-op and get a few toilet rolls.’

‘And hand sanitizer.’ 

An urgent ringing on the doorbell caused all four to startle.  Mimi rose to hobble to the front door.  She used a stick these days, as arthritis made walking painful.  It was, she explained, the result of her dancing, especially her ankle was most bothersome.  Since coming to Faradise Park she had injured her right ankle a few times.  

‘Oh!  Marjorie.  Hello.’

Marjorie Lovelock, Flat Seven stood there.  Mimi gazed at her.  Her red eyes suggested she had been crying.

‘Could you come for a chat, please, Mimi?’  a request Marjorie made occasionally.  Mimi was happy to lend an ear.  Marjorie was a bit of a baby, having led a very sheltered life until widowhood sent her to Faradise Park, with it’s sheltered flats for over sixties.

‘Of course.  Give me ten minutes.’

Marjorie attempted a smile.  ‘Thanks.  Really grateful.’

Mimi closed the door and went back to the sitting room.  ‘Marjorie looks a bit upset.  I said I’d go up to her flat in ten minutes.  Can we resume this later?’

‘The Council of Whatever?’ Hester said.  ‘Come to us.  Fairy cakes and wine.  Two o’clock.’

‘We can all have a good think ‘til then.’ Tom said.

* * *

‘Thanks for coming, Mimi.  I’m getting myself in a bit of a state.  Please sit down.  Is it too early for glass of wine?’

‘No.  Fine.  Do me good.’  Mimi sat facing her.

‘So, what’s bothering you, Marjorie?’

‘This.’  Marjorie waved the notice. It had come through her letter box earlier.  ‘We’ve all had one.’

‘Yes.  But it presents certain problems for me that I don’t think anyone else will have to contend with.’

Mimi raised big, startled eyes, thought for a few seconds, before exclaiming ‘Oh, of course!  Rob!’

‘Yes!’  Marjorie fairly bounced in her chair.  ‘Exactly!  We’ve been in this relationship for nearly two years now, and I thought it would be like this forever.  You know?  He’s been coming here two or three times a week, nipping up the backstairs and staying the night.  He leaves in the morning, creeping down the backstairs and goes back to his place in Milton Stanwick.  He leaves behind all the new building, like the extra care block, Milton Faradise, and the Travellers’ Site.  But now from March the 23rd he won’t be able to.  I don’t know what to do.’ She dabbed her eyes with a sodden tissue.  ‘Why don’t we have some of this,’ she said leaning forward to fill the glasses on the low table.  

Mimi lifted her glass.  ‘Cheers.  I do understand.  But tell me,’ she said sipping from her glass, ‘what would you really like to do?’

‘Really, carry on as we are.’

‘That’s impossible, isn’t it?  If he gets Covid 19 you’ll catch it and everyone else here will probably get it.  That’s a huge number of people.  Think about the guilt.’

‘That’s just what I have been doing, ever since this,’ and she waved the notice with contempt, ‘this came through the letterbox this morning.’

‘And the alternative?’

‘Split.’

‘Forever?’

‘At my age, it might well be forever.  For heaven’s sake, Mimi, I’ve only just at sixty years of age discovered a sex life.’  She laughed shamefacedly, ‘but also, I’ve never had anyone I’ve really loved.’

Mimi nodded.  ‘Better late than never.’

‘Of course.  You know.  But I don’t want it to be never, so soon.’

‘Do you think you could cope with the present situation?  Just carry on.’

‘I’m scared to.  I haven’t discussed it with Rob yet, of course, but as you said just now, suppose one of us gets Covid, the implications are horrendous.’

‘People could die,’ Mimi said, without mercy.  They sat in silence for some minutes, sipping wine.  Then Mimi said, ‘Of course, if he is willing, Rob could move in with you.’

Marjorie put down her glass, gave Mimi a horrified glance, her face flaming.  She sat with her head lowered ‘But that would mean asking Lena if he could come and live here in my flat.  I would be so embarrassed.’  Lena was the Manager of Faradise Park.

‘No need,’ Mimi said.  ‘Think about it.  You’d get used to it.  Look, I ought to go back, Tom will wonder where I’ve gone.  I’ll look in again later, after you’ve had a think.’  She rose stiffly, grasped her walking stick and limped from the flat feeling nearly as wretched as the weeping Marjorie was.

* * *

Tom shot out of the front door of flat four.  He was on an errand.  There had been reports of shortages.  He left Mimi behind, because it was too far for her to walk to the village and back.  This had been a recent development, but Mimi had not made much fuss about it, though he recognised her frustration and bad temper at being left behind.  To compensate on this particular occasion, he planned to execute the task – purchasing toilet rolls – as speedily as possible.

He was already slightly out of breath by the time he reached the main exit to Faradise Park.  A brisk walk across the parkland was chilling and disturbing.  It ruffled his hair, what there was of it.  The thought of being almost a prisoner and confined by that exit was alarming.  He preferred not to dwell on it and focused on his self-appointed errand. Along the main road he passed Dave and Caroline Miller’s extended bungalow.  Dave and Caroline were great supporters of Faradise Park although, with two-year-old twins – one named after Tom and one named after Mimi – their time was limited.  

He reached the village.  There seemed to be a lot of people and a slight atmosphere outside the Co-op.  Tom went straight into the shop, to the shelf which he knew would be stocked with toilet rolls. The shelf was empty.

I can't see myself in the mirror

Magenta Wise wrote this story, included in her 'Kill and Cure' collection, to illustrate how women are viewed in the patriarchy.

"Women have so many talents," says Magenta, "yet all too often are judged by how we look, rendering us invisible, especially as we get older. It also seems relevant regarding the covid virus, and how more isolated we have become as a result. I never thought I would write fiction, but one day I got an idea for a story, then another and so on. They are all in different genres and voices, some uplifting, some challenging, but hopefully all entertaining. In addition, I have published two collections of poems, a book about Archetypes and human consciousness, and I am working on another collection of stories. I use my own artwork for the covers."

Pay a visit to Magenta's author page author.to/MagentaWise

I’m Invisible

I can’t see myself in the mirror. On the occasion when I can get the attention of other people, I ask them if they can see me. They act as if I’m mad and say of course they can see me. But to my eyes, I’m not there. I look and there’s never anyone there. No matter how many times I peer and squint into the glass, whatever time of day it is, or the size, angle and location of the mirror, I see nothing but my surroundings. I’ve tried wearing different outfits, dresses, jeans, different coloured tops, but it makes no difference. As I’m told I do have a reflection, I suppose I’m not a vampire. I don’t feel like a vampire, I’m not one of those people who fantasises about them and wants to fall in love with one and drink blood and become one. In fact, I find all that kind of thing distasteful, and of course other people say they can see my reflection, so I’m definitely not a vampire. What am I though? Most of the time I’m invisible.

Sometimes I don’t care, but at other times I have what you could call a panic attack. I feel so scared, I want to cry and shout and scream, but I can’t catch enough breath and the sound of my thumping heart would probably drown me out anyway. You see, in spite of what people say, I’m not entirely convinced I’m actually here. I know that sounds insane, but for years now I’ve noticed that people ignore me. It really is as if they can’t see me. I can be standing in a shop waiting to be served and the sales assistants always attend to other people and leave me standing there. The other customers don’t seem to see me either. It’s the same in restaurants, I seat myself at a table and the waiters take orders from people at other tables and don’t notice me. In the past I would shout really loud to get attention, and so I must become visible when I try really hard, but these days I avoid going anywhere that necessitates other people seeing me. It’s too much like hard work. I’d probably have starved to death if it weren’t for those serve-yourself tills. I can go round the shop, whisk the barcodes through, enter my money or credit card, pack and leave without the stress of having to make myself seen.

I’ve always been like this. I was not what you would call a pretty child, with my mousy thin hair, small brown eyes and skinny body. The cute girls got all the attention, particularly the blonde blue-eyed ones who knew they were pretty because people were always telling them so. I noticed how they made the most of it and got more attention as a result. I wonder if they’re invisible too now, or have they retained some visible glamour? I had no choice but to fade into the background because I was so plain and uninteresting. My brain and any talents I might have never got a chance to develop because no one saw enough of me to care. Sad to say, I was not a late developer. I remained thin, mousy and uninteresting all through my teens and into adulthood.

Now I’m getting older I’m fading much more. Men had never found me attractive, so I didn’t get married and have children. The office work I did before I retired demanded little interaction with other people. They treated me like a machine, depositing piles of paper on my desk as they passed by, without so much as the minimum greeting, never mind a please or a thank you.

A few weeks ago I had one of my attacks in the street. It was not far from where I live and a neighbour actually saw me and took me to the local doctor. It was a pointless exercise, he wanted me to go on some kind of pills but unless they were magic make-me-visible pills, I didn’t think they’d do me any good. I thought the sleeping pills might come in handy though. There were years when I scrimped and saved every penny I had, which wasn’t very much because the rent, bills and food used up a big chink of my wages. Even so, I managed to accrue a decent amount, but it was never enough. I wanted cosmetic surgery, you see. I was sure it would help me to be seen. I wanted breast implants, a bit taken off my nose and my eyes widened. I have nice legs which I keep covered most of the time, but I intended to bring them out of hiding when I was glamorous. I dreamed of having a makeover once all the swelling had gone down and learn to apply makeup and get my hair dyed blond and permed to give it more volume. That’s a lost dream, and I’m worse off now than before as far as being invisible is concerned.

I can’t be bothered to look after myself at all. I stopped caring once I no longer had to go to work. The flat was a mess, which didn’t matter, seeing as no one ever visited me. I have no friends and I can’t blame people for not wanting to know me. Who wants to be seen with someone who’s invisible? Haha. That’s funny. It amuses me. I barely bother to eat anymore, I have no appetite. I have the occasional shower, I haven’t lost all my self-respect quite yet. During the last few weeks I’ve been getting everything in order. I’ve had a clear out, I’m getting rid of almost everything I own and I’ve made a will, which is with a solicitor. You may wonder, what does someone like me have that’s of any value to anyone. Well let me tell you, you may not be able to see me now, but you will come to know me very well once I’m gone altogether. You will wish you had known me and will yearn to see me.

This is because I have a secret. For years I’ve been writing novels and short stories and they’re very good. I might go as far as to say they’re a works of genius. Before you decide I’m delusional, let me tell you that I belong to several online writers’ groups and I’ve had superb feedback, and no, they weren’t just being nice. I’ve been approached by three different agents, all begging to represent me, with publishers lined up ready for a bidding war. I’m told that hundreds of thousands of pounds will be involved. Why don’t I grasp the opportunity you may ask? Well these days it’s not just about the work, it’s also about the author. They would want me to have my photograph taken and do book tours, signings and appear on radio and television. Once they see how insignificant I am, if they can see me at all, they’ll either drop me or try persuade me to allow someone else to pretend to be me. Someone young and attractive. They play these tricks. They’re only interested in money and exploiting people.

So I’ve decided to leave my work to a local animal sanctuary because I think that animals are so much nicer than people. Those who run it do such good work and are always struggling to keep going. My bequest will allow them to expand and to keep going for a long time. Along with my will, I’ve deposited my manuscripts and the letters from the agents to prove that my work is valuable. I know they’ll make a fortune. These will be handed over to the sanctuary on my demise. I’ve also written to the agents informing them of the whereabouts of my work. It’s up to the sanctuary which one they choose.

My being dead will fuel curiosity and make my work increasingly precious, as there won’t be any more. Artists are always worth more dead than alive. There will be no photographs of me, nothing at all to indicate who I was. I’ll be the mysterious woman who kept her gift under wraps and left no trace of herself, other than her name. It pleases me to think of other creatures benefiting from my slight presence here, only possible because I wasn’t born pretty.

I’ve had my shower and soon I’ll be ready. Most things are packed up and ready to go to charity. A van is coming today to collect the furniture and the few other pieces I own. The rest has gone in the bin. I’ve sent a letter to my doctor, the police and my solicitor, instructing them to come to my flat tomorrow with the greatest urgency. I mean to keep unpleasantness to a minimum. I do hate maggots and flies. All that is left is my bed, a pretty nightdress which I bought specially for tonight, a glass of water and the pills.

My name is not Mary

 A Case of Domestic Pilfering is a Holmesian romp set in high summer. Come, warm yourself on memories of hot streets ...

Madeleine had been stooping, picking at the flattened granules of something ground into the carpet.  Now she straightened, red in the face, and sat back on her heels for a moment until a movement at the door made her jump.

'Only me!'

Madeleine turned away.  'So I see.  How come you always turn up when the work's half finished?'

'It was John.  He kept me to help with – to help him shift something.'  The older girl moved across the room slowly, humming.

'Well, you took your time.  I've already cleaned over there, by the way.'

'So you have.  Good little worker, ain't you Mary?  Shall I do over here then?'   

My name is not Mary, protested Madeleine silently. 'No need.  It's all done, Sarah.'

'Well, lemme carry that then.  Oh by the way –  ain't it your half day today?  Don't feel like swapping with me by any chance?  I got some things I want to do.'

'No, I don't.  I've got things to do as well.'

'Oh come on, Mary!  What things?'  Sarah sat down on the piano stool; the lid was up, and she ran a finger along the keys.

'Shush that!  They'll hear you!' 

'Not them.  They didn't get in till light.  I heard 'em.'

'Couldn't sleep, eh?'

Sarah ignored the dig.  'You're mean, you are, Mary,' she said in complaining tones. 'You get much more fun than me, living out like you do.  It's work, work, work here, all day long.'

'I work.  Or hadn't you noticed?'  And my name is not Mary.

'Well, I'd have thought you could do me just one tiny favour...'

'I'm always doing you favours.'  Madeleine made toward the door.  'I've got things to do,' she repeated over her shoulder.

'Must be love, then!' laughed Sarah as she slid from the piano stool.

Madeleine stood still for a moment.  'No,' she said firmly; 'No, it's not love.'

They crossed the hall in silence, and disappeared down the back stairs.

Later, she threaded her way through the crowd.  It was hot, and although she'd washed her face and hands before leaving Mr Clements' house she felt dirty and sticky.  The pavements burned through the soles of her shoes, and the smell of people, horses and hot tar invaded her nose.  At last she decided to blow some wages on an omnibus, rummaging in her purse to find the requisite coppers.

Home at last, tired and flushed, feeling the hair cling damply to her forehead, she ascended the three steps and opened the door.  Immediately the smell of cabbage puffed at her, accompanied by its auditory equivalent: Mr Morgan's voice lessons wafting down the stairwell.  She hurried into the back room she shared with her mother, pulling at the ribbons of her bonnet.

Her mother was in bed, a great heap under the covers, snoring.  The yellow blinds trapped the air; the room smelled of sweat and unwashed linen.  Madeleine wrinkled her nose, withdrawing quietly.  She went downstairs to the basement where her younger brother Michael was reading at the kitchen table.

'Is that tea?'  She sat down opposite him as he refilled the cup at his elbow and pushed it towards her.  

'What you reading, Mikey?'

He held up the book.  'The Terrible Fate of Lady Melrose,' she read aloud.  'That's the same one you were reading last week!'

'Yeah.  It's got some good bits in it.  This Lady gets kidnapped by a gang of roughs - here, look -'

Madeleine read curiously.  'That's rude'.  She pushed the book away, blushing involuntarily.

Michael was grinning.  'I don't mind.'

'Don't suppose you do.  Anyway, no-one talks like that in real life.'  She swept some biscuit crumbs aside.

'It's books, innit?  Anyway, I'll be getting a new one tomorrow because – look.'  He slid something into his palm and made a fist.  'Which one?'

'That one.'  He opened his hand.

'Well well,' she said softly.  'You have been earning your keep now, haven't you?'  She looked at him.  'Anything else?'

'No.  Straightforward, this one. Never seen him before –  new to it, by the looks of him.'

Madeleine nodded.  'It's the regulars who turn out more interesting from my point of view.'

'And mine.  Did your Frog go for those papers?'

'Difficult to tell, but he was interested all right. Enough to make your gent worth another squeeze.'

'I'll squeeze him all right.  They're pathetic, that sort – dead scared, but keep coming back for more.  Must be my charm.'  Michael smiled pleasantly.  'The price'll go up this time, though.  We could do some serious business – tell your Frog that.  By the by, what about your gent?  Any chance there?'

'Mr Clements?  Too risky.   Anyway, he's catered for.  Got a nice friend staying with him now.'

'One of us?'  Michael leaned forward, interested.

'Nah.  He sticks to his own.'

Michael sat in silence for a while; Madeleine watched him.  He met her eyes.

'Mads - d'you think I should buy something for Ma with this?'  Suddenly he looked very young.

'She never notices!  Don't know why you bother.'

'Don't be hard on her, Mads.  She can't help it.'

'I'm sick of hearing that.'  Madeleine spoke coldly.  'She has it easy compared to you.  And me.'

'She's had a deal of trouble …'

'We've all got trouble.  Don't get soft on me, Mikey.  You won't last if you're soft.'

'I think I know that better than you,' said Michael quietly.  'Don't be angry, Mads.'  

There was a pause.  'When you seeing him, then?  Your Frog?'

'Dunno. Tonight, maybe. Or maybe not. I'm tired.'  She rubbed her eyes and passed a hand through her dirty yellow hair.  'No, tonight. I could do with a run. It helps.'

'I know,' said Michael.   

Upstairs Mrs Peterson reached a crescendo of snores, and on the floor above, Mr Morgan's pupil trilled on top G, cracked, and gamely tried again.  'Bravo!' came his voice, drifting faintly down the stairs; 'Bravo!'

All I saw was lit up by your body

This week we're delighted to share another beautiful poem by award-winning poet Christine Webb. 

First published in 2011, her remarkable work Catching Your Breath 'celebrates and mourns her partner of forty years, who died in 2006.'

Knowledge

That moment suspended in the dull room

above the streets of the January town

(a branch pecked on the window, but the curtains

shut out the garden of dead chrysanthemums)

– undressing for each other the first time

all I saw was lit up by your body,

its gold and ivory. Such knowledge to bring away,

to carry wrapped through the streets, past naked trees,

into the school where heating pipes clanked and gossiped,

where blackboards expressed decorous equations,

where at the corners of corridors we might breathe in

to pass each other, but did not speak or glance

in case the doorways should break into leaf,

in case the books we carried should burst into flame.

Christine Webb 

  

Oscar, I will start again

Happy New Year to all our kindly readers! We wish you all plenty of health, wealth and happiness and thank you for visiting our blog.   

As we note that it was Constance Wilde's birthday yesterday, it seems an excellent opportunity to take a peep into some private correspondence addressed to her estranged husband, Oscar Wilde. It is, of course, as imagined by Rohase Piercy in her excellent and well-researched novel, The Coward Does It With A Kiss. 

Villa Elvira,

Bogliasco,

Nervi.

2nd of January 1898

My Dear Oscar,

You may be surprised to receive another letter from me so soon after my last, and indeed I had not intended to write again for I have nothing in particular to say that has not been covered by our recent correspondence.  I'm sure I need hardly add that I have not changed my mind about anything, especially after your last letter to me, which is the letter of a madman.  I suppose that A.D. is still with you?  I hear rumours that Lady Q. has written to him, and that you are both short of money.  I can only say that I hope she has withdrawn his allowance as I have withdrawn yours, and when I think of your going back to him after all that has happened, and then blaming me because I have been biding my time before inviting you here to join me, a thing which everyone agreed to be the most sensible and delicate course of action, I hope you may both starve.

Oscar, I will start again.

I do not want to write you another letter full of bitterness and recrimination.  I want to write you at least one honest piece of correspondence, not to lecture you about your situation, but to tell you something about mine.  Or are you so far steeped in the madness of self-pity that you have not even the imagination to see that your wife has a soul to be tormented also, a soul as precious as yours perhaps?

It is no use. I am so full, so saturated with bitterness and spite, that it appears I can neither speak nor write without barbs.  I sometimes wonder whether my ill health is not caused by sheer anger - spite and resentment running like electricity through my nerves - which would account, perhaps, for the shooting pains and the tingling.  Of course I have plenty of encouragement from my family and from well-meaning friends (and your well-meaning friends have done little to help the situation) – but encouragement is no excuse.  The truth is that I am an unpleasant person masquerading as a likeable one, a vindictive women pretending to be a martyr; one who chose with eyes wide open to go where I would seem to have been led innocent and blind.  I say this in cold blood and without self-abasement; and I know that it will be as great a surprise to you as anyone, to know that I have long had a window through which to look into the secret recesses of your heart.  

It has often been said to me (how often!) that I could not be blamed for having misunderstood you, that your actions were, and still are, beyond the comprehension of decent people.  But I did and still do understand you, Oscar; I understand you perfectly well.  It is myself, myself I do not understand.

Cyril went back to Neuenheim yesterday, and I do miss him; especially as today is my birthday, as you know, and I enter my forty-first year.  But it is a beautiful morning here at Nervi, and I feel quite well for the first time in days.  Maria woke me with a breakfast tray on which lay a bouquet of sun-coloured roses – a gift from the Ranee, who always remembers me.  She must have sent for them specially, at this time of year.  Feeling rested, I rose early and have been sitting for some time now by my window, from which I can see the jasmine in bloom, and the white road leading down to the village.  I have been leafing through an old diary which I found in the bottom of my trunk – I am still in the process of unpacking, you see! - and which I am very thankful to have kept by me, for I blush to think what the bailiffs who ransacked Tite Street would have made of it.  I am not sure just what has prompted such a restrospective indulgence, at a time when retrospection can bring me nothing but pain – intimations of mortality, perhaps, having reached the age of forty (still young, the Ranee says, but it feels so old!); my ill health, et cetera; and thoughts of other birthdays, with you.

 You think this a rambling and self-indulgent preamble, no doubt.  Well, you should know all about that.

  

No.  If I cannot do better than this, this letter had best not be sent at all.  I am getting too tired, Oscar, to nag you for much longer, you will be relieved to hear.  Would you be interested, I wonder, in what I have been reading?  

 Well, prepare yourself.  The young woman who expressed herself thus was twenty-six years of age, and newly married; a young woman of artistic pretensions, ardent disciple of the Aesthetic Movement, and forty-eight hours wife of one who was, at the time, regarded as its High Priest.

Hotel Wagram, Rue de Rivoli

31st of May, 1884

The first day of my new life!  And my first chance to write about it.  It still seems like a wonderful dream, from which I pray I may never wake.  I have a few hours to myself this morning – by choice, of course, for O. pressed me to join them in a morning stroll but I declined, thinking how delicious it would be to spend some time writing by the window in our room.  We have a wonderful view of the Tuileries, and everything is in bloom, and I can see couples out strolling arm in arm just as O. and I did yesterday (as man and wife!  How strange, and yet how completely natural it seems already to think of ourselves in those terms).  Mr Sherard addressed me this morning as “Mrs Oscar”...

  Oh, I forgot to mention that Robert Sherard arrived at breakfast this morning, and was introduced to me, and was altogether most charming and contratulatory.  I had heard much about him from O. and so was very interested to meet him; he does not seem on first acquaintance to display any of the “puritanism” that O. likes to complain of – on the contrary, he seems a rather romantic figure, and puts me in mind of Chatterton.  And he is the great-grandson of Wordsworth!  Anyway, he and Oscar are taking a stroll together, and I do not at all begrudge them one another's company, for now I have a little solitude in which to revel in my happiness.  To tell the truth, I am also feeling tired – and aching in every limb!  I am very glad of those talks with Lady M.B. otherwise I might not be quite sure that all is as it should be.  It feels rather like one's monthly “indisposition”, but it is not at all unpleasant; in fact I feel extremely smug and contented, and I shall never allow myself to be intimidated by a bitter old spinster like Aunt Emily again!  For what does she know of life, when all is said and done?

“More happy love, more happy, happy love,

Forever warm, and still to be enjoyed,

Forever panting and forever young!”

(O. prefers Keats to Shelley, and I am coming round to his way of thinking - we read this aloud only last night, and laughed for pleasure!)  

“Forever may I love, and he be fair!”

O. seems vastly pleased with himself, and enjoys showing much tenderness and concern.  I do not like to spoil it for him, although he knows perfectly well that I was neither ignorant - how could I be, with a father whose indiscretions were the talk of the household? - nor apprehensive!  He insists that all his past experience counts for nothing, that there was no-one to compare to me, and of course that pleases me.  And he is so beautiful … I nearly told him what Lady M.B. said to me about the Rajah on her wedding night, but feared that instead  of amusing him it might offend.  His delicacy is so delightful, I hope he never loses it ...

Oh, Oscar!  I really think I had better not send this letter.  Embittered and cynical as I have become, it still brings an indulgent smile to my lips, even a nostalgic tear or two.  And Robert Sherard!  Not that I have any particular suspicions, for it is true that he was infected with a lingering puritanism … but even so, more than one of my friends thought it strange, on the second day of our honeymoon, and said so!  Well, it comes as no surprise to me now, to remember that I thought the two of you charming together.  But see what comes next:

 

I am interrupted by a knock at the door, and there has just been delivered a beautiful bouquet from O., who has not yet been gone more than an hour and a half, and a card with sweet words on it! What must Mr Sherard think of us?

  

(What indeed?  I remember how, a few days later, he threatened to throw his swordstick out of the carriage door on the grounds of being tempted to murder us for being too happy.  I thought it a great joke, and offered to relieve him of the tempting weapon there and then...)

 Ah, Oscar, our honeymoon!  Visits to John Donaghue's studio (you remember the bas-relief of the naked boy harpist we both admired so much?); Sarah Bernhardt's wonderful Lady Macbeth; ordering heaps of new clothes (at last I could order with impunity the costumes of which Aunt Emily so disapproved - soft flowing fabrics, rich colours, no bustle); reading Keats to one another in the evenings, when “Chatterton” had made his bow and retired.  And we were in Paris, in June!  Of all places and all seasons!  I felt as though a banner had unfurled in my heart declaiming Liberté, égalité, fraternité!  Strolling through the Tuileries in the evening, lamps flaring out against an indigo sky - I felt like a queen newly crowned, installed in the palace of your heart, Oscar, with all your adorers hastening to cast themselves at my feet also.

  After Paris, Dieppe was quiet, was it not?  A little too quiet for you, I think, but for me it was just what I wanted, for I needed time to reflect, and prepare for our return to London.  I had much to reflect on – at least, I seem to have thought so at the time, for my diary entries become quite copious, all much in the same rapturous vein:

  

Oscar is like the white moon, hiding the secret blue of his eyes under langorous heavy lids, and the amber waves of his hair are like an aureola around him. He makes me feel as deep and as powerful as the sea; the moon leans down, and she rocks him in her lap, like a lover.

  

A little too “utter”, perhaps, but not all bad I think – even comparable to something of yours?  I was told that you described me on occasion as a “violet-eyed Artemis” - well, I cannot imagine that you found me much like Artemis on our honeymoon!  Looking back, I wonder whether I might even have frightened you a little?

  

Received today a letter from Lady Wilde, who addresses me as “Dearest Constance” and signs herself “La Madre Devotissima”!  Mainly compliments about the wedding...  Will I ever live up to her expectations?  I wish I had the courage to display even half her unconventionality!  I really do not want to be a  Virgilia to her Volumnia, though I am sometimes afraid that is how people will see us.

  

Ah, poor Speranza. She was looking for a daughter to fill the chasm left by your little sister's death all those years ago.  I think that in time I did come to fill it, at least partly.  I certainly did come to love her, with a true affection; it is one of my greatest regrets that I was not more of a comfort and support to her at the last.

The spectre at your feast

 This week, Sylvia Daly's poem hints at a different Christmas meaning - which seems appropriate, as this year it's definitely going to be a different kind of Christmas for us all. Thought-provoking.

P.S. Nevertheless, we wish you all a cosy, healthy and safe Christmas!

Christmas Visitor

I am the dark Christmas Angel,

the spectre at your feast.

Watching over celebrations

that change you to gorging beast.

Your God, reduced and captured

in swaddling clothes and stall,

gentle, safe, rendered harmless.

Offending none and pleasing all.

This is not the Christ of my world,

doe-eyed baby smiling sweet.

My Christ suffers, works for justice,

speaks with passion, acts in heat.

Is there a place for such as I

at this false, festive season

With myriad gifts, glittering trim

and drink to lose all reason?

Yes, I’ll attend your vulgar romp,

though not atop your burdened tree.

A shadow fleeting, movement quick,

a flicker in the eye, knows me.