I said, Piers, that wasn’t funny.
Piers said, I wasn’t making a noise, was I? Have we got to like it?
G.P. said, get out.
Antoinette said, I’m afraid I always think of Beecham. You know. Two skeletons copulating on a tin roof?
G.P. said (frightening, his face, he can look devilish), first, I’m delighted that you should admire Beecham. A pompous little duckarsed bandmaster who stood against everything creative in the art of his time. Second, if you can’t tell that from a harpsichord, Christ help you. Third (to Piers) I think you’re the smuggest young layabout I’ve met for years and you (me)—are these your friends?
I stood there, I couldn’t say anything, he made me furious, they made me furious and anyhow I was ten times more embarrassed than furious.
Piers shrugged, Antoinette looked bewildered, but vaguely amused, the bitch, and I was red. It makes me red again to think of it (and of what happened later—how could he?).
Take it easy, said Piers. It’s only a record. I suppose he was angry, he must have known it was a stupid thing to say.
You think that’s only a record, G.P. said. Is that it? It’s just a record? Are you like this stupid little bitch’s aunt—do you think Rembrandt got the teeniest bit bored when he painted? Do you think Bach made funny faces and giggled when he wrote that? Do you?
Piers looked deflated, almost frightened. Well, DO YOU? shouted G.P.
He was terrible. Both ways. He was terrible, because he had started it all, he had determined to behave in that way. And wonderfully terrible, because passion is something you never see. I’ve grown up among people who’ve always tried to hide passion. He was raw. Naked. Trembling with rage.
Piers said, we’re not as old as you are. It was pathetic, feeble. Showed him up for what he really is.
Christ, said G.P. Art students. ART students.
I can’t write what he said next. Even Antoinette looked shocked.
We just turned and went. The studio door slammed behind us when we were on the stairs. I hissed a damn-you at Piers at the bottom and pushed them out. Darling, he’ll murder you, said Antoinette. I shut the door and waited. After a moment I heard the music again. I went up the stairs and very slowly opened the door. Perhaps he heard, I don’t know, but he didn’t look up and I sat on a stool near the door until it was finished.
He said, what do you want, Miranda?
I said, to say I’m sorry. And to hear you say you’re sorry.
He went and stared out of the window.
I said, I know I was stupid, I may be little, but I’m not a bitch.
He said, you try (I think he didn’t mean, you try to be a bitch).
I said, you could have told us to go away. We would have understood.
There was a silence. He turned to look at me across the studio. I said, I’m very sorry.
He said, go home. We can’t go to bed together. When I stood up, he said, I’m glad you came back. It was decent of you. Then he said, you would.
I went down the stairs and he came out behind me. I don’t want to go to bed with you, I’m speaking about the situation. Not us. Understand?
I said, of course I understand.
And I went on down. Being female. Wanting to make him feel I was hurt.
As I opened the bottom door he said, I’ve been hitting it. He must have seen I didn’t understand, because he added, drinking.
He said, I’ll telephone you.
He did, he took me to a concert, to hear the Russians play Shostakovich. And he was sweet. That’s just what he was. Even though he never apologized.
October 26th
I don’t trust him. He’s bought this house. If he lets me go he’ll have to trust me. Or he’ll have to sell it and disappear before I can (could) get to the police. Either way it would be unlike him.
It’s too depressing, I have to believe he’ll keep his word.
He spends pounds and pounds on me. It must be nearly two hundred already. Any book, any record, any clothes. He has all my sizes. I sketch what I want, I mix up the colours as a guide. He even buys all my underwear. I can’t put on the black and peach creations he bought before, so I told him to go and get something sensible at Marks and Spencer. He said, can I buy a lot together? Of course it must be agony for him to go shopping for me (what does he do at the chemist’s?), so I suppose he prefers to get it all over in one go. But what can they think of him? One dozen pants and three slips and vests and bras. I asked him what they said when he gave the order and he went red. I think they think I’m a bit peculiar, he said. It was the first time I’ve really laughed since I came here.
Every time he buys me something I think it is proof that he’s not going to kill me or do anything else unpleasant.
I shouldn’t, but I like it when he comes in at lunch-time from wherever he goes. There are always parcels. It’s like having a perpetual Christmas Day and not even having to thank Santa Claus. Sometimes he brings things I haven’t asked for. He always brings flowers, and that is nice. Chocolates, but he eats more of them than I do. And he keeps on asking me what I’d like him to buy.
I know he’s the Devil showing me the world that can be mine. So I don’t sell myself to him. I cost him a lot in little things, but I know he wants me to ask for something big. He’s dying to make me grateful. But he shan’t.
An awful thought that came to me today: they will have suspected G.P. Caroline is bound to give the police his name. Poor man. He will be sarcastic and they won’t like it.
I’ve been trying to draw him today. Strange. It is hopeless. Nothing like him.
I know he is short, only an inch or two more than me. (I’ve always dreamed tall men. Silly.)
He is going bald and he has a nose like a Jew’s, though he isn’t (not that I’d mind if he was). And the face is too broad. Battered, worn; battered and worn and pitted into a bit of a mask, so that I never quite believe whatever expression it’s got on. I glimpse things I think must come from behind; but I’m never very sure. He puts on a special dry face for me sometimes. I see it go on. It doesn’t seem dishonest, though, it seems just G.P. Life is a bit of a joke, it’s silly to take it seriously. Be serious about art, but joke a little about everything else. Not the day when the H-bombs drop, but the “day of the great fry-up.” “When the great fry-up takes place.” Sick, sick. It’s his way of being healthy.
Short and broad and broad-faced with a hook-nose; even a bit Turkish. Not really English-looking at all.
I have this silly notion about English good looks. Advertisement men.
Ladymont men.
October 27th
The tunnel round the door is my best bet. I feel I must try it soon. I think I’ve worked out a way of getting him away. I’ve been looking very carefully at the door this afternoon. It’s wood faced with iron on this side. Terribly solid. I could never break it down or lever it open. He’s made sure there’s nothing to break and lever with, in any case.
I’ve begun to collect some “tools.” A tumbler I can break. That will be something sharp. A fork and two teaspoons. They’re aluminium, but they might be useful. What I need most is something strong and sharp to pick out the cement between the stones with. Once I can make a hole through them it shouldn’t be too difficult to get round into the outer cellar.
This makes me feel practical. Businesslike. But I haven’t done anything.
I feel more hopeful. I don’t know why. But I do.
October 28th
G.P. as an artist. Caroline’s “second-rate Paul Nash”—horrid, but there is something in it. Nothing like what he would call “photography.” But not absolutely individual. I think it’s just that he arrived at the same conclusions. And either he sees that (that his landscapes have a Nashy quality) or he doesn’t. Either way, it’s a criticism of him. That he neither sees it nor says it.