Tuesday 6.30pm
‘Trefaldwyn’, Coton Hill, Shrewsbury
My Dear,
This letter was going to be really cheerful as I’ve been in a “don’t-care-a-damn” mood all day, but when I came home about an hour ago there was a letter from Mother which demanded immediate action.
The trouble is this. Mrs Knowles went to tea at home last week by invitation. As you can imagine it was far from being my wish but I had no hand in the matter. I have heard from Mother since then, and as she did not say anything important about the visit, I gathered that Mrs Knowles had kept her mouth shut. So she has – to a certain extent.
Since my last weekend at home Mother has been determined that I’m ill and then Harold sees me last Sat. and Sunday and goes home with tales of how pale I looked – curse him.
Another point – although I’ve only written once to Mollie since I’ve been here, (a letter solely about Shrewsbury and the office) Mollie suddenly starts writing frantic letters to Mother saying how worried she is about me. I’ve an idea that she’s had one of those queer experiences she’s had before. I don’t know what exactly happens but I do know that whenever there’s trouble about, concerning Mother or myself, she knows all about it before she’s told. An awkward sort of sister to have.
You’ll be wondering what all this has got to do with Mrs Knowles or with Mother’s letter, but they do link up. From what I know of them and from what Mother says of the visit I can imagine the scene something like this:
Mother starts weeping because she thinks I’m ill and Mrs Knowles proceeds to comfort her by telling her I’m quite all right physically but she thinks that I’m making myself ill through worry (silly ass). Mother wants to know what Stella is worried about and wonders if it is about Arthur. Mrs K finds herself in rather a jam, says she has an idea it is about Arthur.
As Mother did not mention this when she last wrote to me, she evidently did not attach great importance to it. Since then, however, these other points have been going round in her mind – Mollie’s letters, the fact that I looked ill, and the fact that even Harold, famous for his lack of observation, noticed this. Now all these things have become linked up in her mind and she sends me a frantic letter, begging to be told what is worrying me and revealing the conversation with Mrs Knowles.
I’m sorry to have to use all this space on this matter but I meant to make it perfectly clear. Now I’m not saying she suspects – she probably thinks I’ve had a row with you and I’m breaking my young heart! But she may suspect, and anyway it’s a letter I can’t put off with an airy answer. As I see it, we MUST get this business over right away. I propose writing to her, saying there is something you and I want to tell her privately and asking her to arrange the rest of the family to be out of the way. What about this Sunday, dear? I could get the excursion train leaving here at 9.30am. I’ll arrange for Mother to get a letter on the Saturday, which will prepare her without telling her anything.
The trouble is I don’t want to do anything without your sanction, and there’s this damned letter demanding immediate reply. So in order to shelve matters for at least a day I’ll write her a nice cheery letter tonight, not mentioning a thing so she will believe the letters have crossed. Then when you get this let me know right away whether the whole idea meets with your approval. If you’re terribly busy send one of your immortal wires.
The more I think of it the less I like the idea of taking her out somewhere to tell her. There are only pubs and cafes and as I don’t know how mothers react to these things, never having been in such a situation before, I think it would be wiser if she was NOT told in a public place. When I got the letter I felt very much inclined to finish the whole business by writing and telling her, but I do appreciate that the fact of your braving it out will stand you in good stead in the future, though I don’t promise you’ll be saluted as a hero at the actual interview! There’s no doubt about it, darling, it’s going to be a nasty business, and that’s all the more reason why we should get it behind us as quickly as possible. Do your best to make it Sunday, for if I don’t get home then I’ve an idea Mother will just come down and ask the direct question.
There are times, you know, when I can actually get a flash of humour out of this business, believe it or not. One point that struck me today was that my immediate family (excepting Mother) will be upset chiefly because I am depriving them of a favourite family joke. Having a blot on their own escutcheon, they will never again be able to get hours of entertainment out of discussing the hurried marriages of Tom Gregson’s family. This thought led me to make a mental list of all the first cousins I have who have been in exactly our situation – Doris, Olive, Freda and Joy Gregson; May Farrell, Marty Farrell and Tom Breen. Now I ask you, what chance has a girl got, surrounded by such examples? The first four are all on one side of the family and the other three on the other side. Have you considered what bad blood you’re marrying, sweet? We either go to the religious extreme or the other extreme. In each generation and each branch of the family this has come out again and again. So if it goes on, Michael will be a devil but Ann will level things up by going into a convent. But perhaps the Johnson blood will purify mine? Anyway, when our children do extraordinary things, don’t say I didn’t warn you. After all this confession from me, don’t you think you ought to tell me some of the black deeds of your own family? Did you once tell me that your grandfather nearly murdered your grandmother, or did I imagine it? Heaven grant that Michael is not ORDINARY anyway.
While we’re on the subject of heredity, has it occurred to you what little chance the poor mite has of escaping being a journalist? His very conception was the result of you going to interview a man, and his embryonic life is being spent in a newspaper office and conducting interviews. He’ll be born with a fountain pen (instead of a silver spoon) in his mouth, and ink instead of blood in his veins, poor lamb.
I’m reading a book by Stella Gibbons, who is a damned good novelist, and in the introduction she laments the fact that she wasted ten years of her life “in the meaningless and vulgar bustle of newspaper offices”, and goes on to remark that “the life of a journalist is poor, nasty, brutish and short”. All of which proves that she was jolly glad to escape and has made far more money at fiction since, which has given me much food for thought. At first I thought of Michael as writing finis to my career, but dear, the last few weeks I’ve been thinking of him as a beginning to other things. You see, when this business is known to the large band of people who have always been jealous of me for doing an unusual thing in becoming a journalist (more or less!) there is going to be great rejoicing and many cutting remarks about “Stella’s career”. My friends and relations are in two distinct classes – those who are going to be really disappointed and upset, and those who are going to be indecently glad because I’ve “made a mess of my life”. The reaction of this second lot is going to get my pride up in arms and I’ve an idea it’s going to be the making of me.
If ever I get mopey about my lost career will you remind me of these points? That is why I’ve written them down here. I want your promise that you’ll stick them down my throat, brutally. When I say to you (as I undoubtedly will) that I can’t be expected to do anything more than look after you and Michael, will you say to me “What about Ethel Mannin?” She wrote her first novel when she had to keep leaving off to feed her kid, and she kept wondering if she’d get to the end of the sentence before the baby started crying. Now I’m really serious about this. I’m giving you arguments to use against me when the time comes, and I do want you to remember them.
Oh, love, I do hope you’re getting more sleep. You must keep well. Let me know right away about Sunday, won’t you, even if it’s only a line.
Till then, goodbye, dearest. You tell me to think of you sometimes, but believe me I think of you ALL the time – at least you and Michael.
Bless you,
Stella
Aug 251936