Coronet Among the Weeds Page 12
Migo was having quite a boring time too. She was a secretary only she couldn’t do shorthand at all. She was the only person I’d ever met who was worse than me. Only her job wasn’t as boring as mine, it really wasn’t. But she was in love with a footballer, which was pretty awful. Footballers are awful people to be in love with. First of all they never ever love anyone better than their footballs. My cousin told me. She was in love with one too. Then every Saturday they go stomping off and you have to watch them for hours and hours as they kick this football around, then afterwards they drink beer and talk to all these other men who have been kicking it around too. They hardly ever speak to you except during the week. And then they’re very tired from having kicked this football around on Saturdays. I don’t know what their fascination is really. My cousin says it’s probably these shorts they wear on Saturdays. Also they’re very muscly. I don’t like muscly men, but she does, and she says when they’re in these shorts you can see their muscles.
Migo said it was probably their muscles in these shorts too. She didn’t really know for sure, but she thought it probably was. Anyway, she used to listen to these very old records wearing his football scarf, and cry about him. It worried me seeing her listening to these records and crying about this footballer. But she said she enjoyed it. She said it did her good to listen to these records; they were really old actually. I mean they were so old you could hardly hear them. In fact, if I had my deaf ear near the gramophone I couldn’t hear them at all.
It took her a long time to get over the footballer. I made her burn his scarf and buy jazz records, but it still wasn’t too swoony for her. There really ought to be a purge you could take to get over being in love. Even when you burn a scarf it still doesn’t stop you feeling gone inside. It didn’t stop Migo. She felt all gone inside every time she even saw a football for heaven’s sake.
When she’d got over the footballer, she met her superman. He really is a superman actually. Even my mother thinks he’s a superman and it takes quite a lot for her to think that. No really. She only just thinks my father is a superman. Of course she does think he is, but only just.
Chloë and I were bridesmaids when Migo got married. Chloë was very sad because Migo is younger than her. She hates anyone younger than her getting married. She says it makes her feel unsuccessful. Actually I think Chloë goes in for being sad because she knows it suits her. She has these very large brown eyes and when she looks sad they look marvellous. Now Migo’s married Chloë’s learning to appreciate beautiful things. No, it’s true, practically every Saturday she goes about appreciating beautiful things. She says that destiny has not mapped out a married life for her. Not for her a superman. And she says it’s just not in her nature to marry anyone but a superman. She can’t help being a perfectionist. So she’s appreciating beautiful things before her eyesight goes. I don’t know though. If Migo found a superman I don’t see why old Chloë shouldn’t. Or anyone else for that matter.
11
My grandmother says it’s unnatural sitting here scribbling. She says I should be out looking for a rich superman instead of being cooped up. I probably am unnatural actually. I mean, what’s the point of sitting here talking about all these weeds and drips and things and not doing something about finding a superman? It’s just I thought you might like to know. I’ve probably been as boring as hell. But I just thought I’d have a go at telling you.
Actually you’ve probably gathered by now a superman takes some finding. They’re not things you just come across like that. One friend of mine, she’s been looking for one since God was a boy. No luck. Weeds and drips. No superman. She asked me if I thought there was any special place where she might find one. I don’t think there is. I don’t know, mind you. But I don’t think so. I’ve never been there anyway.
One thing though. I think you can class most men. Superman, weed, drip, lech. I only met one person you couldn’t. He wasn’t a superman. He wasn’t a weed or a drip. And he wasn’t a lech. He was a womaniser but he wasn’t a lech. He was only a womaniser when he felt all gone inside. He felt it quite a lot really. What he was, I think, was a vagabond. He was the only person I’ve ever met who was. A lot of people wander about. But not many are real vagabonds. He was a real vagabond.
I once tried to get two friends of mine to come and be vagabonds with me. But it was no use. They were just no good. All they did was wonder what would they do about money? And they couldn’t leave their parents. They just had no idea how to begin to be vagabonds. When I was ten I wrote a poem about wanting to be a vagabond. And I ran away from my school to be one. It was a pretty good idea. Only these three other girls I was with didn’t want to do anything but go home. It’s pretty frustrating, I can tell you, when you’re running away to be a vagabond and you’ve got all these people just wanting to go home. And it’s no good being a vagabond on your own. You must have someone to be poetic with too.
My mother was furious when I ran away from school. She couldn’t understand about being a vagabond. She just said if I did it again she’d take me away and send me to a really horrible school. She said it was ungrateful when she’d taken all the trouble to send me to a nice school and all I did was run away. What she was really furious about was this policeman’s wife who gave us a huge tea when we got fed up with running away. She couldn’t get over us having three boiled eggs each. I said we hadn’t had anything to eat all day. And she said I wasn’t to answer back. That’s what they spend the whole time saying to you when you’re young. They ask you something, then when you tell them they say you’re answering back and you’ve given quite enough trouble to everyone without answering back.
When we did get back to school they shut us in our rooms for three days. And this matron walked us in the gardens when all the school was having lunch. They didn’t want us spreading evil all over the other girls. She carried a rosary in one hand this matron, when she was walking us. She said it was protection from the devils in us. She was Irish. And she told us that we’d all burn in hell, and she was praying to save our souls from damnation. She said she didn’t think it would do much good but anyway she was having a go. She said she wasn’t one to give up hope, not till the very end.
It was pretty boring sitting in our rooms for three days. But we used to tap on the walls to each other and pass bubble-gum on our toothbrushes through the windows. And one or two of the other girls’ parents came down to see them in the parlour. Mine didn’t thank goodness. They just wrote me these terribly long, cross letters. Still, it was better than having them in the parlour any day.
If I actually told you how I met this real vagabond, you wouldn’t believe me. No honestly, you’d just think I was a loon. I met him walking along a road. No, it’s true. I was staying with these people in the country. I quite like staying with people in the country. But I get a bit bored after a bit. So often I go for walks by myself and sing and bash hedges with a stick. Because most people you stay with think you’re a bit funny if you sing and bash hedges with sticks when they’re around.
I was bashing away walking along this road and singing to myself. I can’t sing. Well, it’s not exactly that I can’t sing. Apparently I’ve got a voice but I just can’t sing in tune. When I bumped into this man in front of me. He was just walking along with his hands in his pockets. I just went on singing and bashing away, when he turned off down this drive. It was a very long straight drive with stone gates. You know the kind. And waving trees and deer in the park bit on each side. The kind of drive you die to get on a horse and zoom up with important news.
I stopped when he went down this drive and watched him walking down. It was a very sunny day. Sunny and breezy and he walked in a whistley sort of way. Corny, but you know what I mean. And I felt awfully jealous watching him. I don’t know why. I just stood by these stone gates and wished I was walking down this drive in a whistley sort of way too. He was just getting to the top and practically out of sight when I gave a yell. I don’t know why I gave that yell either. Act
ually most marvellous things that you do, you don’t know why you do them till you have.
He stopped, when I gave this yell, and turned round. And I ran like anything all the way up this drive. When I reached him he didn’t seem surprised to see me at all. That’s the best bit about vagabonds, they’re never surprised. No, honestly. Real vagabonds wouldn’t be surprised if you came out of a hole in the ground. I panted a bit when I reached him and he just stood smiling at me. Then I said, did he live there? And he said yes. So I said I wanted to see round. So he said, okay he’d show me. Just like that.
Don’t you think that about all really marvellous things? They’re so corny. When you tell anyone about them afterwards anyhow. I bet Napoleon felt corny when he was telling everyone about retreating from Moscow. Come to think of it, I don’t suppose that was marvellous. But you know what I mean. Perhaps that’s why they’re marvellous. Because they’re corny-corny. And magical and enchanting. That’s what that day I spent with the vagabond was like. I spent this whole day wandering round his house with him and walking in his garden. He rang up the people I was staying with and said he was an old friend and could I have lunch with him? For heaven’s sake it was like something in a movie.
And his house was like a movie. Beautiful tall rooms and long windows. So you could just step through them and be in the garden. We had lunch in the garden and it was the most beautiful garden you’ve ever been in. No really. It was all fountains and lawns and shady trees. Like some people think Heaven will be like. It won’t half be bad if it is, I can tell you.
I wish I could describe this vagabond without making him sound corny. I can’t remember his face. Not all his features anyway. Except he had blue eyes and very white teeth. Though perhaps they only looked white because he had this very brown skin. And he was thin and had a very deep voice. And he was sad. Well, it wasn’t that he was droopy or anything. Because he laughed a lot. He just had this terribly sad quality about him. Like a very happy song that catches in your throat.
And he was easy to talk to. Honestly, I don’t remember word for word what we talked about. But we never stopped. It was just non-stop. If anyone else had been there they’d have been bored stiff. No honestly, they would. I told him things I usually just think and don’t tell anyone about. Things most people look really embarrassed if you tell them about them. As if you’d forgotten to put your clothes on or something.
He told me about this woman he’d loved. He really had loved her. No really. And he knew what an awful thing love was. I said I’d never known anything more awful and he agreed. What happened with this woman he loved was they loved too much. He said they loved so much they destroyed each other. He said that was why he was a womaniser now. And also he got drunk. He knew what all gone inside meant all right, he really did.
I suppose that’s why he had this sad feeling about him. Because of having loved so much. I told him about only having been in love once. With this actor. I said most people just said it was infatuation. But he said it sounded like love all right. He said from what I’d told him it didn’t sound like infatuation. What he said too was not to get depressed about it. He said it was much worse never to have known what love was really like than to have loved someone and gone away and been unhappy about it. He said some people never knew what it was like. He said they never would know. Not necessarily just narrow little people either. Often imaginative people who were quite super didn’t know what it was like. It just wasn’t in them to love like that.
He really could talk, this vagabond. And he could tell you about anything. Like someone people in books are always meeting. Only I’d never met someone like that before. I never have since, come to think of it. He’s the only one. All the things you believe in your heart but you’re not quite sure you’re not a nit believing in them. He made you sure. When he told you about things. Suddenly you knew you were right to believe in them. You knew they weren’t corny like most people thought they were. It was only the people that thought them corny that were.
He made you so certain you were right you could burst. You just thought you must have been mad before not to have been sure. And you were never going to not be sure again. Like when you’re happy. You’re never going to not be happy again. And you can’t remember what you were unhappy about before.
He made you not mind about being you. Not being someone who cared about corny old abortions. Not mind about having big hips or a pretty funny face. Or anything. Nothing mattered because here was someone who believed, who believed in magic and enchantment. And everything when he was talking was magic and enchantment. Even me. I suddenly knew I was fascinating and magical too. It’s pretty marvellous when you sit in an office all day with people minding about whose turn it is to shut the window when you meet someone who believes in magic. And makes you feel fascinating. Not a plump secretary who can’t do shorthand. It’s okay to be a plump secretary who can’t do shorthand. But it’s awful when you feel a plump secretary who can’t do shorthand.
I never went back to see that vagabond. I’ve never stayed with those people again either. So he might be dead now for all I know. Or just womanising round the place. Or perhaps he’s making someone else feel fascinating. Perhaps his house has been sold to someone who won’t ever want to step through the window into the garden. I don’t know.
I just know I won’t ever go back. You can never make a bigger mistake than going back. The only reason to go back is to try and recapture. And how can you recapture magic? You don’t even know what it is for heaven’s sake. And how can you get back something when you don’t even know what it is? I don’t know what it is. I just know I believe in it. And I didn’t know what the vagabond’s name was. I forgot to ask him. He asked me mine. But I forgot to ask him. It wasn’t important anyway.
I don’t only believe in magic. I believe in everything corny. I believe that there is a superman. Somewhere. I believe in love. My mother says I’ll end up staring in a two-roomed flat in Hampstead because I do. She says it’s the worst thing to believe in. I don’t care. I do. And I believe in innocence. You can’t stop me. I’m always going to believe in it. Yes I am. Even if I don’t find a superman.
I don’t think anyone’s a failure as long as they’re still innocent. Just a little. They may lose everything good in them but as long as they believe just a little in something very small, they’re still innocent. To fail is to lose every bit of innocence.
And innocence needn’t be beautiful. That’s the trouble when you’re young – you think there’s nothing innocent unless it’s beautiful. There are all these millions of things that hurt you because they’re not beautiful. No honestly, you go round being practically killed by all these things that are ugly – then when you’re nearly killed, you suddenly laugh. Once you laugh you’re all right. If you think, jolly few things laugh. I’ve got a friend who swears his cat laughs. But it’s not what you’d notice. You can’t actually hear it when it laughs. And once I was on a bus and there was this big fat woman roaring with laughter. She didn’t stop from the time she got on. And do you know, all those people on that bus – me too – started laughing. All these frightfully dull business men and po old housewives and everything. They all began to roar with laughter. Just because of this woman laughing. And they all looked quite different. They stopped looking constipated and po and looked happy. Mostly, though, I should think humans are the only things that laugh. Laughing is what makes humans human.
A lot of people just run away instead though. They don’t give themselves time to stop and find something to make them laugh. They run away and start sneering because it’s hurting them. Or they run away and just find a swoony spot to hide in so they don’t have to see things that hurt. If they really went on looking at something that hurt them they’d realise it was beautiful, and it would probably make them scream with laughter too. Mind you, you’ve got to stick at it.
I’ll tell you another corny thing. I’d like to write a love poem to the world. Really I would. Sometimes I
love it so much.
It’s always thinking it’s the first to do things. The whole time it’s doing things it keeps thinking no one’s done it before. It thinks each war is the worst. Each civilisation the most civilised. Every king the most important. Every poet the most poetic. Each new joke the funniest – because it’s so innocent. It keeps forgetting everything’s happened before. And when we all go, the next version of the world will think it’s the most important bit. And no one will think much about us having thought it all before them. Honestly, you tell me what’s more innocent than the world? It’s so innocent you can’t help loving it.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My grateful thanks to Alexandra Pringle who remembered this book with such affection.
To Allegra Le Fanu and Angelique Tran Van Sang for putting up with my foibles and doing such a great editing job.
Last, but not least, to my agent Matthew Brady for his patience and encouragement, and my daughter Candida Brady-Ogilvy for her constant enthusiasm and support.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Charlotte Bingham wrote her first book, Coronet Among the Weeds, a memoir of her life as a debutante, at the age of 19. It was published in 1963 and became an instant bestseller. Her father, John Bingham, the 7th Baron Clanmorris, was a member of MI5 where Charlotte Bingham worked as a secretary. He was an inspiration for John le Carré’s character George Smiley.