I thought — Good heavens! Then — Well yes, indeed, but I have felt there is some style of truth in fairy stories.
I went and played tennis by myself against a wall. The ball flew off old bricks at odd angles. I thought — This is practising, I suppose, to be ready for some random occurrence.
That evening when my mother came up to my room to say goodnight — I had had supper early in the kitchen with Mrs Elgin and Watson; I had said that I was tired and hungry — that evening when my mother came up she appeared somewhat sombre, watchful. I thought — Well where are we: on a hot and dusty plain?
She said 'What's the matter?'
I said 'Nothing.'
'You've been avoiding me.'
'Have I?'
'Is it Hans?'
'Is what Hans?'
She said 'He is our guest! I have to be nice to him.'
She sat on my bed. She leaned back on her elbows with her head against the wall.
I said 'I've been reading that book by Dr Freud called The Interpretation of Dreams. I mean — do you believe all that sort of stuff?'
She said 'It's not Frood, it's Froid.' Then — 'Good heavens, where did you find it?'
I said 'I found it by your bed.'
'What were you doing by my bed?'
If I had been older, and wittier, I suppose I might have said -
You've been reading The Interpretation of Dreams, and you're asking me what I was doing by your bed?
I said 'I wanted to see what you were reading.'
She said 'And what did you find?'
'There were those bits you had underlined.'
'What bits had I underlined?'
She had her legs hanging over the edge of the bed. I was both looking at her and pretending not to be looking at her. I thought — I am being like Dr Kammerer.
I said 'About it's not just parents doing terrible things to children, but children wanting to do terrible things to parents.'
She said 'Oh I don't call them terrible!' She looked away. I thought — There is that impression again of being on hot sand, or in long grass.
I said 'Neither do I.'
She said 'Oedipus Schmoedipus.'
I said 'What?'
She said 'It's a Jewish joke.' Then — 'It is Hans!'
I said 'What is Hans?'
She said 'Oedipus Schmoedipus, so long as he loves his mum!' Then she laughed.
She was like one of those people in fairy stories with snakes in their hair. I thought — Was it a snake that was crawling over me in the hot sand?
Then she said 'Hans likes you. Hans wants to get to know you.'
I said 'Good.'
I thought — But if all this is what happens in fairy stories -
— What happened in early childhood?
My mother got up suddenly and kissed me and left the room.
For a day or two I continued to keep clear of my mother and Hans; I went off on my own on my bicycle; I kept banging away at balls that came at odd angles off walls. Then Hans began to go during the day into Cambridge; my mother would drive him in and then return and look for me. But I would be climbing up trees or over walls. I would try to eat with Mrs Elgin and Watson in the kitchen. I would explain that I had to do holiday work in the evenings. Sometimes I found Hans watching me.
You think children do not know why they are doing these things? Surely it is often a question more of power than of sexuality. Certainly by acting like this I was managing to get my mother's and even Hans's attention directed more and more towards me. So
one night there were Hans's footsteps tramping up the stairs to my room. I assumed, yes, that my mother had told him to come and try to make friends with me.
He knocked and said 'May I come in?'
I was sitting up in bed. Perhaps I had my legs underneath me and my eyes cast down like a mermaid.
Hans said 'I felt I should like very much to have a talk about your work. Your mother tells me that you are interested in biology.'
I said 'What I am interested in is physics.'
Hans said 'Ah that is my subject!'
I thought — Oh I thought it was biology.
He said 'There are some extraordinary affairs occurring at your University of Cambridge! Your Professor Rutherford, some years ago, has bombardiered the nucleus of a nitrogen atom with particles alpha; a proton emerged, and the nucleus of the nitrogen atom was changed into oxygen, wonder of wonders!'
I said 'It sounds like a fairy story.'
He said 'Indeed, it is the transformation that alchemists dreamed about!'
I said 'But couldn't you do that in biology?'
He said 'Do what?'
I said 'Bombard — it is "bombard", by the way, not "bombardier" — bombard, yes, wherever it is, so that there are, when you might want them, these mutations.'
He said 'That is an extraordinary interesting idea!' He sat down on the bed beside me.
I thought — Oh well, here we are: and what do those mermaids and sirens do? Smooth down with a hand the soft sea of the bedclothes beside them -
(Of course, children learn these things! From relationships at school, if not from their mothers.)
Hans said 'Perhaps you will be a great scientist one day.' He leaned on an elbow so that he was reclining almost behind me.
I said 'But do they exist, these atoms, particles; can you touch them, measure them?'
Hans said 'No, but you can measure their effects.'
I said 'My father says it is not scientific what you can't test, measure.'
Hans said 'You can measure the collective effect. You cannot measure the individual within that effect.'
I said 'You cannot measure the individual?'
Hans said 'No.' Then 'The individual is sacred. The individual goes his own way.'
I looked up from under my eyelashes. Hans had put his hand round behind me. I thought — But this is ridiculous.
Then — But what are we after in this story we are engaged in? What is being told us by a stone, a ring, a bird, a pool of water, a tree?
After a while my mother was calling to Hans from the first-floor landing.
Sometime during these days I went to visit my father's laboratory in Cambridge. My father's chief assistant was Miss Box, a pretty brown-haired lady. I suppose this was a time, yes, when I was beginning to be haunted by sex. Miss Box spent much of her time in a specially heated room where there were the glass cases which were the settings for my father's experiments with newts and toads and salamanders. Miss Box took me round; I was particularly interested in the salamanders which were small bright lizards that lay or stood so still that it was as if they were made of enamel. When Miss Box lifted the lid off one of the cases there was the smell of sand and piss. Miss Box had soft gold hair under her armpits. I wondered if my father ever went and sat on Miss Box's bed at night.
I said Td like to do an experiment with salamanders.'
She said 'You wouldn't have time.'
I said 'I wouldn't want to see what they passed on to their offspring. I'd just like to see if I could make them stay alive long enough to breed.'
Miss Box said 'It's difficult.'
I thought — But who would want to live and have offspring in a place like this, which is like the waiting-room of a railway station?
I said 'Do you go home at night?'
Miss Box said 'Of course I go home at night!' She looked at me as if I had made an improper suggestion.
I said 'I mean, I just thought that the salamanders might need to have someone with them at night.'
When I got home there were my mother and Hans on the lawn; he had apparently hit a croquet ball so that it had caught her on the ankle; she was leaning back on her elbows with her foot out on the grass. Hans was kneeling in front of her putting a hand forward, taking it back; putting a hand forward, taking it back. I thought — Oh carry on, do, in your glass case; and she'll have you head over heels, or whatever you want, in the shrubbery.