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PAMELA HANSFORD JOHNSON
PAMELA
HANSFORD
JOHNSON
A WRITING LIFE
DEIRDRE DAVID
1
3
Great Clarendon Street, Oxford, ,
United Kingdom
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© Deirdre David
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First Edition published in
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and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer
Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press
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contained in any third party website referenced in this work.
For Keith David
Many years of love and friendship
Contents
List of Figures ix
List of Abbreviations xi
Notes
Bibliography
Acknowledgements
Index
List of Figures
Note on Naming
Note on Editions
Prologue
Becoming a Novelist
Precious Dylan
inserting his own into his letters, often in fragments), she pluckily
subjected her work to his criticisms: in her words, ‘sound, astringent
and not infrequently hilarious’.5 Dylan also raged against Welsh pro-
vincialism—‘It’s impossible for me to tell you how much I want to get
out of it all, out of narrowness and dirtiness, out of the eternal ugliness
of the Welsh people, and all that belongs to them’—and he savaged his
numerous relatives for their complaints about his failure to do nothing
more lucrative than stay in his room and scribble verse: ‘What are you
doing . . . You’re always writing . . . You’re too young to write.’6
While gamely conceding her passion for words and a good grasp of
poetic form, Dylan lamented a sentimental daintiness and a lack of
‘soul’ in her verse: for example, he thought ‘Sung in a Garden at
Nightfall’ belonged on the cover of chocolate box since pretty lines
such as ‘O lovely evening, all bedecked with stars,/Woven of saffron,
with a weft of blue’ made him retch; another poem, ‘February’, merely
recorded a winter scene rather than investing it with its ‘spirit’ (‘Winter
is spreading, once again/Grey frost along the window ledge’ struck him
as comically lame—she might just as well be describing a Royal
Academy picture of Balmoral Castle). Overall, however, his criticisms
were astute and clearly the result of careful attention to her poems.
He took her seriously, urged her to get rid of jingly rhymes, eliminate
meaningless adjectives, and dispatch such hopeless lines as ‘Weave the
straining clouds/Into maddened shrouds’. Most of all, he advised,
‘Write out of yourself, and leave the hedgerows and the visual aspects
of the countryside.’ From his perspective, that self he wanted her to
engage was one he knew from her letters: livelier, racier, much more
cosmopolitan than that of a reclusive ‘poetess’. She was intelligently
artistic, artistically intelligent, and also sometimes downright vulgar:
‘It’s remarkable how few of the cultivated young women one meets
can be honestly vulgar. Now you, to your shame and credit, have a
decidedly coarse wit . . . sweet, Rabelasian [sic] Pamela.’7 By the end of
, they arranged that Dylan would come to Battersea early in the
New Year, to meet his witty, sweet, vulgar Pamela and her family.
In preparation for the visit, Pamela sent him a photograph of herself
(Figure Pro.): ‘You do look formidable . . . I did not expect you to be
so full and bright and strong, with such a British chin. What a dominant
personality! Tut, girl, what a zest for life! And here I am, small, chinless,
and like an emasculated altar boy . . . You are very pleasant to look at.
There is meaning and strength in your face.’8 His response to her
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 21/3/2017, SPi
photograph was reassuring since she had said her looks were unusual;
he replied, ‘Why the desire to look like everybody else? If you were the
usual gutless, unimaginative, slang-flinging flapper, your adherence to
conventional style of looks would be excusable. But you aren’t.’ When
he arrived at her front door on February , one pocket of his
overcoat bulging with a mass of crumpled poems and the other with a
small bottle of brandy, Dylan took to her immediately, but to Pamela
he was disappointing: ‘smallish’, wearing a huge sweater, baggy trou-
sers, and a pork-pie hat. At first, he appeared like ‘a brilliant, audacious
child’, but when he took off his hat she was enchanted by his beautiful,
curling dark-gold hair and his marvellous eyes, ‘dark brown, luminous,
almost hypnotic’. And then there was his magnificent voice, bearing
little trace of the Welsh lilt that he acquired when he become the
mellifluous bard.
During his four days in Battersea, he stayed up late talking about
art, music, and the novel, and she discovered fairly quickly that he
was capable of stupendous bluffing. Not knowing much about
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 21/3/2017, SPi
Pro. Pamela and Dylan Thomas, Caswell Bay, Swansea, September
With permission of Lindsay Avebury
‘kind, silly and sweet’, if rather boring, and Dylan ‘very darling and
tractable’ (Figures Pro., Pro.). But after about a week, Pamela’s
nerves went ‘smash’, as she put it, and she became hysterical.11
A local doctor diagnosed ‘nervous debility’ and advised complete
rest: she took a two-month leave of absence from the bank on grounds
of illness and at the end of that time resigned, determined to finish the
novel about suburban London life she had begun after abandoning
poems about saffron clouds wafting on a weft of blue. Dylan’s erratic
behaviour whilst in Swansea also precipitated her minor breakdown,
since he now took little interest in her writing beyond suggesting the
title for her novel. Dismissing her initial choice, Nursery Rhyme, as
unimaginative, he declared that the closing couplet of John Donne’s
The Sunne Rising would form an ironic allusion to her theme of sexual
frustration: lying in bed with his lover, the speaker addresses the sun,
‘Shine here to us, and thou art every where;/This bed thy center is,
these walls thy spheare.’ In Donne’s poem, lovers are warmed by their
passion and the morning sun; in Pamela’s novel, This Bed Thy Centre,
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 21/3/2017, SPi
decorated the walls with the yellow dusters, turned the divans upside
down, and he began going to bed in his clothes after beery evenings with
his pals; they would ponder such questions as how many mice it would
take to propel the Flying Scotsman train to Edinburgh and then wonder
why Pamela didn’t think this was funny. She was deeply miserable, not
just because they excluded her from their male horseplay but also
because they failed to acknowledge her success with the forthcoming
publication of her novel: she finished it on November and it was
published by Chapman and Hall the following March. Even though
Dylan kept telephoning and insisting that they must marry, even going
so far as to suggest a date when they might go to the Chelsea Registry
Office, she knew it was no good: ‘I did not care to wear the arty clothes
he liked . . . and I feared and detested the Fitzroy Tavern, the denizens of
which all seemed much cleverer than I could ever be.’12 And the fact
that she would not sleep with him contributed to the final break; Dylan
had written in August to say, ‘I’ve always wondered why you
won’t come to bed with me; it just seems silly to me.’13 But for Pamela,
it wasn’t silly since she wanted more than boozing in the Fitzroy Tavern
and sexual competition with the clever, arty women hanging on his
every honeyed word; she preferred a simple black sweater and pearls to
their colourful drapery and she knew he was very attractive to women,
giving himself ‘as a treat’ to anyone on offer.
Talking about their love affair on BBC Radio in , she admit-
ted she was actually very glad they never made it to the Chelsea
Registry Office: ‘he was drinking heavily then and I didn’t think
I could cope with it and I’m sure I couldn’t have. I was broken-
hearted, though not over the wedding, but I was broken-hearted to
lose him.’14 A poem she had written towards the end of their love affair
expresses her bitter despair. Less reliant on the soppy imagery that
Dylan so disliked in her verse and more an economically stark depic-
tion of loss, it’s titled ‘By Mutual Consent’:
With the republication in digital form of almost all her novels by Pan
Macmillan, Johnson’s work is beginning to receive the critical attention
it deserves, despite a recent withering dismissal by the novelist Tessa
Hadley. Finding ‘a failure of form and vision’ and ‘a problem of
language’ in Johnson’s work, Hadley offers as ahistorical evidence a
fragment from Pamela’s diary in which she declares she is sure of
‘one thing’ about Dylan—‘that he wants me no more’. Why, asks
Hadley, blind to the fact that this is a sentimental young woman
writing in her private diary in the mid-s, ‘can’t she just say
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 21/3/2017, SPi
depictions of city life: as Gaskell led her readers into the working-class
hovels of industrial Manchester and the mansions of their employers,
and Dickens created a seething panorama of London life, Johnson
focuses primarily on the ordinary lives of mostly middle-class people.
She is very much a novelist of the London everyday, with occasional
excursions to her favourite European cities, Bruges and Venice. As she
observed in , ‘the age makes an enormous impact on the writer’,22
and in her fiction she recorded her particular English age as it passed
from late s political unrest to survival in World War , and from
postwar austerity to the cultural, social, and political changes of the
s and s. And she registered this age not only in her novels but
also in her non-fiction, most notably in her book about the notorious
Moors murders of the early s (On Iniquity ()). She was a
fearless and sometimes unpopular voice in linking violence and
pornography.
This book tells the story of a writing life that during its years of fullest
expression sought to retain and nurture the tradition of social realism
that shapes the history of the English novel. As her biographer, I was
drawn to her life and her work after having published books about the
Victorian novel, Victorian women intellectuals, and nineteenth-
century writing about empire; when first reading Johnson’s fiction
I was delighted by the abundance of allusions and references to
nineteenth-century literature, by what seemed to me an explicit tribute
to the novelists who had preceded her, and by an implicit defence of
intelligent, lucid, accessible fiction. These attributes of her writing are
also to be discovered in her remarkably prolific career as a reviewer of
contemporary fiction, in her numerous essays on the state of fiction at
the present time, and in her regular participation in BBC programmes
about the arts. Incapacitated later in life by several strokes, barely able to
hit the typewriter keys, defying instructions that she stop smoking, she
wrote almost until her dying day. In tracing her long career it became
very clear to me that it was writing itself that animated her existence.
Quite simply, writing gave joy and meaning to her life.
This writing life began as eight-year-old Pamela composed doggerel
verse about naughty little girls; continued as she scribbled poems while
working as a shorthand-typist; found her rapidly writing novels during
World War as she and her two children lived out the war while her
first husband, Gordon Neil Stewart, was away in India and Burma; and
flourished for some thirty years thereafter as she became an admired,
OUP CORRECTED PROOF – FINAL, 21/3/2017, SPi
The Rise
Since my fifteenth year I have kept a diary. If I look back at my
records of ten, or twenty years ago, it is always with a kind of shame;
as if I were performing the rather horrible action of spying upon
myself. We cannot write of ourselves at all, even of the trivia of our
days, without revealing far more of what we are like than we even
begin to suspect.
Pamela Hansford Johnson, 1
walls were once covered with enormous sunflowers and golden rod
and where ten-year-old Pamela, some forty years after her grandfather
bought number , used to play ‘wonderfully imaginative games’,
bouncing a tennis ball against the high garden wall and imagining she
was a champion playing at Wimbledon.3
By the end of the nineteenth century once-rural Battersea had
become an important railway centre: Clapham Junction station was
thronged with office workers heading for the Victoria and Waterloo
termini, and locomotive works and power depots occupied large tracts
of former farmland. Where the small riverside parish had once housed
market gardeners supplying carrots, melons, and asparagus to Covent
Garden (much-prized ‘Battersea asparagus’ grew well in the fertile
marshes along the Thames), by the s its poorer areas were popu-
lated by industrial labourers from all over Britain and Ireland (the
population grew from , in to , in ).4 Only Batter-
sea Park (opened in ), Clapham Common, and Wandsworth
Common remained as remnants of the once-rural landscape, and adja-
cent to these green spaces large detached villas and more modest terraces
sprang up as part of London’s late nineteenth-century rapid expansion.
Charles Howson was a well-known figure in London’s theatre world
and his acquisition of a newly built house signalled professional success
and a comfortable entry into London’s suburban middle class.
In the previous ten years, he had advanced spectacularly from
performing as an orchestra violinist in the Australian outback to
becoming chief treasurer for Sir Henry Irving, the most famous English
actor of his time. When Howson died in November at the age of
fifty-nine, the Sydney Morning Herald hailed his meteoric rise from
colonial barnstorming to metropolitan management, linking him to
the ‘Old Colonial Days’, an era when opera companies toured the
country, offering popular favourites such as The Barber of Seville, The
Marriage of Figaro, and The Bohemian Girl, usually presented in shortened
versions to accommodate relatively unsophisticated audiences. Howson’s
father, John, had emigrated from England in and toured Australia
as a singer and music director for various companies, while also pro-
moting the operatic ambitions of his daughters Emma and Clelia and
securing work for his son Charles as a violinist in theatre orchestras and
as a dancer in Christmas pantomimes: Charles’s particular talent was in
stringed instruments. For a few years, Charles, Emma, and Clelia did
fairly well, but in the late s when more fashionable theatre
J’étais sur le premier pas d’une piste ; je tenais l’extrémité d’un fil
qu’il ne s’agissait plus que de suivre sans le lâcher jamais. Et le bout
de ce fil partait précisément de cette porte dérobée par où mon
assassin s’était esquivé.
Je devais suivre de là sa trace au dehors.
— Venez-vous, mon cher ? dis-je à M. Crawford.
— Non… vraiment… je préfère vous attendre ici.
— Comme il vous plaira…
J’ouvris la porte qui donnait sur un escalier secret et gagnai le
parc sans plus me soucier de Bailey ni de Mac Pherson qui se
morfondaient toujours dans l’antichambre.
Mon espoir était de relever sur le sol une empreinte de pas.
La chaussure c’est l’homme, a dit quelqu’un, et jamais aphorisme
ne fut plus vrai.
Avec le simple tracé d’une semelle on peut toujours, pourvu
qu’on soit habile, retrouver un malfaiteur.
Malheureusement il n’avait pas plu depuis trois semaines et la
terre était sèche comme de la craie. Toutefois, le long d’un mur où
de grands arbres entretenaient une providentielle humidité, je finis
par découvrir une empreinte de bottine assez bien dessinée… une
bottine fine, étroite, à bout effilé et carré, une vraie chaussure de
gentleman.
Un détail pourtant choquait dans l’élégante cambrure de la
semelle : c’était une ligne à peine perceptible qui la barrait en biais
au niveau de l’évidement.
Cette chaussure avait été ressemelée !
Or un homme du monde ne porte jamais de chaussures
ressemelées ! [2]
[2] Dans les pays à change élevé.