The Merciless Ladies (26 page)

Letter from Holly Stafford to William Grant, at same address.

Royal Avenue

Dearest Bill,

Thank you so much for the lovely Venetian bag. It was sweet of you. I do hope you had a good Christmas.

We were lucky and managed a family reunion at Newton. Bertie is back on holiday, as you probably heard, looking very well and not dried up with the climate, and no sores. He has formed a cricket team out there and they play in the morning before the sun gets high. He's discovered a left arm spin bowler, and seems upset that he can't bring him to England until his few remaining patches are cured.

And Leo came from Paris! He's having his first concerto performed next month and is very much the composer now. He rather got on Paul's nerves, who as you know is always so matter-of-fact in his dress and behaviour; but we all really managed very well together. Mother had a cook in for the week, some friend of hers who is hard up; but when she came we found she couldn't cook after all; so Bertie and I (mainly Bertie) did the Christmas dinner.

These days it takes me most of my time looking after Paul in one way or another: arranging appointments, answering letters and invitations. So far I haven't had so much leisure as I'd planned for helping Daddy with his physics, but we maintain a correspondence. Anyway Paul is still dead keen to cut out a lot of his present work. I'm dissuading him from any change at the moment because I'm afraid it might be an
emotional
change, all bound up with marrying me etc. Any new direction in his life has to be taken coolly and in detachment.

I met Olive entirely by accident last week – at least I think it was accident. She's quite
beautiful
, isn't she? But
probably
a little uncomfortable to live with.

I have never seen so many plays in my life, some marvellous but others so inane that one wonders what the critics saw to praise in them or the audiences to laugh at.

Write soon,
please
.

Love, Holly

Extract from a letter to John Nichols in Scotland, from his wife Madge, later passed on to William Grant. Dated 12 April 1929.

… I must tell you about Mavis Hammersley's latest party, where I met – at last – Paul Stafford's new wife – and on her own! Seeing they've been married nearly a year, she'll soon cease to qualify for that description; but at least she's new to
me
, so closely has Paul kept her under his wing.

They say she's brainy – but so
young
, like a schoolgirl almost – not good-looking, with horn-rimmed glasses, nice eyes – straight of body but with a sort of hiccup of a walk. Someone said she looked like an awkward colt suffering from underfeeding. Out of her depth at this party, which was the usual thing, bridge, tea, gossip. She couldn't play bridge, or wouldn't, stood or sat (figuratively) with her back to the wall for an hour or so, not sulky or defiant but self-contained and mute unless spoken to.

And then who should come in but Olive Stafford. Mavis swears she wasn't invited, but Mavis is such a harebrain that you can never be sure. Anyway from the moment she got there Olive was not in a
good mood
. Something had got in her – long before she knew her successor was there. You know what Olive's like – slightly smaller than life, tip-tilted face, those eyes. And you know how she dresses. The way I'd like to dress if I had the figure and
you
gave me the
money
! Mrs Stafford II was wearing a tweed skirt and a créam lace blouse; terribly correct for a suburban afternoon.

Of course in that company it wasn't possible to keep them apart for long, and of course in most circumstances it wouldn't much matter. After all, if divorce can't be treated as a civilized expedient these days it's just too bad for everybody. But because Holly S is
not that type
we did our best. Alas, no go. Olive soon got the message from somebody and at once went across and said something about how glad she was to meet Mrs Stafford in such pleasant surroundings as she'd fully expected to encounter her in the divorce courts.

Holly S didn't quite take this in, as no one had told her who Olive was, but naturally she could see she was being got at.

‘But tell me', Olive said, sweet as arsenic, ‘how is dear Paul?'

Mrs Stafford II still didn't cotton, and said to Olive: ‘You know Paul well?'

Olive laughed at this and said: ‘I ought to, my dear, I slept with him long before you did.'

So far, a little rancid, you'll agree, but not exceptional in that company. But then Olive really let rip – and there are standards, my love, even in that job-lot of Mavis's friends, who I know you don't think too highly of yourself. Out came the poison pills, coated with sugar. Paul and his working-class manners and his eccentric vices; the dreariness of life with him, his habit of sucking his teeth when asleep, his dislike of changing his socks, his … well, I can't remember it all, but it got nastier and nastier. Until now I've always thought Olive rather good
value
– but I must confess I was somewhat sickened.

The second Mrs Stafford, who had been going whiter and whiter, suddenly forced a smile and said: ‘Well. I'm sorry for your unhappiness. I do hope I shan't make such an awful mess of the job as you did … I wonder if I could have my coat, Mrs Hammersley? Thank you for a lovely party.' And swept out.

It really was done with dignity after all, and, although when I helped her into a taxi I could feel her arm trembling, she didn't at all give way or let herself down. I expect she felt pretty bad when she got home.

After all this I went back in and found Olive too was on the point of leaving. She was aware that she'd behaved pretty badly, and she obviously preferred to leave us to talk about her in her absence. The only explanation was offered by Mary Whitethorn who said she'd heard that Olive's engagement to Peter Sharble was in a shaky state, and maybe she was working something off.

My cough is better, so this is the last long letter you'll have before we meet.

Love, love, Madge

From Holly Stafford to William Grant, at Piazza San Borromeo, Borgo Monalieri, Rome.

Royal Avenue 6 May

Dearest Bill,

So sorry to have been such an age replying to your last letter.

My reason for the delay, which is no excuse, is that we have been away on a motor holiday. Last month I caught a streptococcal throat, and when it was better the doctor said ‘a change', so we went a tour, up through Wales and the lovely Welsh scenery before there were too many char-à-bancs about, through the Mersey tunnel, which reminds me of a Bax Symphony, and then Lancashire and up to the Lakes. Quite a few people, including a fellow called Wordsworth, have had a go at them; but it's hard to pin down in words what they're
really
like. A first silly thing that struck me was the lovely absence of banks. Not the sort that are crashing in America at the moment but the common or garden earthen ones which serve usually to
contain.
In the Lake District they hardly seem to
exist:
there's just green valleys brimming with clear water, and where the water ends the trees and the green lawns begin, sloping gently up.

I must tell you of one day. Paul wanted to see Wastwater, which is supposed to be different from the others, more gloomy. From Broughton-in-Furness one takes a road north and branches off. Well, we did branch off, but too soon, and followed a narrowing track into an enchanted valley.

I call it enchanted because it seemed without life, not a bird was singing, not a house to be seen, only this narrow road winding in and out of huge lichen-covered boulders. Then a stream joined the road and went with us, bubbling but somehow hollow and not very cheering. Perhaps that was because there was no other sound; not even wind. You know how quietly our Chrysler goes. We just stole along into the quietness, up little rises and round corners among the boulders and the undulating moorland and the short stunted trees. It was the sort of experience I felt I might have after I was dead: moving along without effort and without sound through an empty moss-grown valley, not knowing what to expect round any corner, but devoid of fear. Not quite alive and nothing else alive but the stream.

At length we passed a small empty house and then came on a large cottage standing by itself where the valley broadened, among a few trees and with a stone bridge across the stream, and with mountains on either side. We were both hungry, as we'd intended getting something at Broughton, and we were also curious to know what the name of this valley was. So we stopped and went to the door. There was a ‘For Sale' notice in one of the windows, but the house was occupied and an oldish woman came to the door.

Paul asked her if she could make us a cup of tea, and after an argument she gave way and we went in. In one room we could see chicken feathers scattered all over the floor, and in the kitchen there was a dirty child playing in front of the fire. The room we went into had a stone floor with one rug and grubby lace curtains at the window and a big deal table.

The woman told us that this was Crichton Beck. We were eight miles from the nearest village and there were only three ways into this valley: the road we had come on or over the two mountain passes, west to Wastwater, east to Langdale. Her husband was working in the fields; there was one other cottage three miles up the valley and the empty house we had passed; no, she didn't find it lonely, they were leaving because the child would have to get schooling and she couldn't walk sixteen miles a day. No, they'd only lived here a matter of two years, up to then they'd lived in the cottage up the valley. You couldn't farm this land. No, she didn't think much about the scenery. It was all right for visitors who saw it fresh-like, but when you lived in a place one view was much like another.

After tea we went on to Wastwater: an awful climb, then a precipitous descent in the rain with seven hair-pin bends and any number of gates and water splashes and slipping yellow mud.

Paul did nothing but talk about the valley. If only he could drop everything and go up there and paint. But I still had that first impression of
unearthliness
; the silence and the stream, then the interior of the old cottage with its dirt and its air of having been something better; the woman's rigid narrow peasant face and her story of disappointment and failure, and all round the sloping brown mountains. I'm afraid Paul wouldn't get many portraits to paint there unless they were the portraits of deparred spirits.

We called to see Paul's father on the way home. He's a nice old man, fierce outside and soft in. He is coming down to stay with us next month. You must by now be wondering whether the germs have left behind them what Daddy pedantically calls a
cacoëthes scribendi
, so will finish.

Love from Holly

Enclosed with above a scrawled note from Paul.

What's this – a
flat
in Rome? Are you setting up a ménage?

Don't mind, except that I don't want you to
settle
there. Come

home soon.
Holly has been off colour but is fine now.
Will write
more
soon.

P.

From Paul Stafford to William Grant, at the same address.

Royal Avenue 30 June

My dear Bill,

Again thanks for the letter. Am glad you appreciate my offer, even if from a purely monetary point of view; though I don't think my stuff will fetch much in the pawnshops of the Eternal City. So sorry, though, that I can't send you one of Holly as requested. To tell the truth I have never once painted her, and your letter made me face up to the matter and ask myself why.

The only answer that seems to be an honest one is this: Holly is the one thing in my life that has come to serve as a sort of touchstone for the genuine. She means something which is true and without alloy, that is, something with which I'm not prepared to compromise. So the two sides of existence just don't meet at present. Do I make myself clear?

Besides, she isn't beautiful and I don't want her to be. She exists but you don't paint her. Who can put her kind of personality on canvas? I can't. There's no way of making it more clear. I know if you want to be awkward you can argue that Monet and others have painted light, and maybe air; but that's not really the point.

Am sending you the ‘ Head of a Parisian Girl' which you admired.

In haste, Paul

Letter from Holly Stafford to William Grant at same address.

10 September

Dearest Bill,

A word in a hurry to say how
delighted
we are you're coming home, and especially as Lit. Ed. of the
Chronicle.
This should suit you exactly.
Congrat-u-lations
!!!

Are you likely to be back by Thursday the twenty-third? Leo is in England and is playing his concerto at Torquay; an afternoon show, but its first performance in this country. If you can drop us a card we'll save you a seat – not that there's likely to be a crush.
Do
if you can. Looking forward to it if you are there.

Holly Extract from the
Daily Telegraph
, 12 September 1929.

‘The marriage took place at Brompton Oratory yesterday of Mr Peter Frank Sharble, Member of Parliament for the Epping division of Surrey, second son of Brigadier John Sharble and the late Mrs Sharble, of Knowledge Court, Farnham; and Miss Elizabeth Mary Wainwright, only daughter of Dr and Mrs Wainwright, of The Grange, Abbey Road, Epsom.'

Torquay drowsed like a middle-aged prima donna in the autumn sun, its ample curves and plump little hills warm and prosperous under the ripe blue sky. People thronged the promenade and main streets, little white boats clustered in the harbour, wasps hummed and struggled about the waste-bins in the harbour car park.