if you’re busy.’
‘What did you want to talk about?’
‘Oh, as for that.… I hoped it might develop.… I don’t like Julia crying.’
‘She always has,’ said Cassandra, before she could stop herself. ‘Do you always call your mother by her Christian name?’
‘She says the thought of being called Mummy made her feel sick.’ She looked out of the window. She wore amustard-coloured polo-neck sweater, a pleated navy skirt, and thick tartan stockings which Cassandra thought ugly. She said, ‘Have a cigarette?’
Deborah slewed round. ‘Thanks. I don’t – I don’t smoke. But I’d like one.’
Cassandra tossed her the cigarette packet and the matchbox; Deborah clumsily lit and sucked.
‘I’ve always had a sort of picture of you as the person I could talk to.’
Cassandra thought. ‘I see that. But I think you’re probably wrong.’
Deborah sighed. ‘I can’t cope with this family.’ She tapped non-existent ash off the end of her cigarette. ‘I certainly can’t cope with Julia crying.’
‘Do you have to cope?’
‘She likes moral support. I always end up comforting her. That’s the funny thing. Once I was invited to stay with a girl from school – something that doesn’t happen to
me
often, I may say and she rang up the second day and said would I come back, we didn’t see enough of each other, she said she thought we ought to be together. That was the time they said
The Silver Swan
sounded one plaintive note of self-pity all the time. So I went home and told her that there comes a time in every writer’s life when the critics think they’re important enough to slate —’ She looked at the floor and twisted her hands. ‘But she doesn’t
like
me,’ she said.
‘We all believe that, at some stage in our lives.’
‘No, she specially doesn’t. It’s partly this thing – why she’s crying now. I – I wish she didn’t always write books about how we – Father and I – how we diminish her, stop her living.… I don’t want to stop her living. I want to live myself. But she – but she – You know what she’s like, you might understand.’
‘We all diminish each other. We all impinge on each other. It’s natural.’
‘And I remind her of you,’ said Deborah. ‘I can’t help that. She’s always telling him – writing letters to people – Shedoesn’t let me exist. I thought –
you
might see I existed. I’ve been thinking, if I met you, properly —’
It was all clearly so well thought out. Cassandra shivered slightly. She said, ‘You don’t know me. One should never exercise one’s imagination on people one doesn’t know. It’s a kind of theft. Savages believe photographs are a theft. So are expectations. What can I do?’
This puzzled Deborah, who wrinkled her face, and returned to the attack.
‘She steals, too. She says I never tell her anything, and when I do, she puts it in books. And gives me copies. So that my thoughts aren’t mine. Look – Once – once I told.… Once one of the mistresses at school wrote her a letter saying she ought to respect my confidences. That I was an unduly secretive child.’ She laughed. ‘So Julia showed me the letter, and burst into tears, and I had to comfort her about that. I had to tell her it was all silly and I knew a book was a book, and life was life … and I didn’t mind.…’
‘What do you want me to say? Of course your confidences should be respected.’
‘Of course.’ Deborah’s assurance was suddenly shaken. She said uncertainly, ‘Of course they’re very good books. I know they’re very good books. I know Julia’s a creative writer. A person has to write what they know …’
‘I think that no one has any necessary right to publish what they know – however good it may be for them to write it. Or even if what they have written is very good. That a piece of writing is good doesn’t override other considerations – moral considerations – when it comes to damaging others.
‘What did you want to talk about?’
‘Oh, as for that.… I hoped it might develop.… I don’t like Julia crying.’
‘She always has,’ said Cassandra, before she could stop herself. ‘Do you always call your mother by her Christian name?’
‘She says the thought of being called Mummy made her feel sick.’ She looked out of the window. She wore amustard-coloured polo-neck sweater, a pleated navy skirt, and thick tartan stockings which Cassandra thought ugly. She said, ‘Have a cigarette?’
Deborah slewed round. ‘Thanks. I don’t – I don’t smoke. But I’d like one.’
Cassandra tossed her the cigarette packet and the matchbox; Deborah clumsily lit and sucked.
‘I’ve always had a sort of picture of you as the person I could talk to.’
Cassandra thought. ‘I see that. But I think you’re probably wrong.’
Deborah sighed. ‘I can’t cope with this family.’ She tapped non-existent ash off the end of her cigarette. ‘I certainly can’t cope with Julia crying.’
‘Do you have to cope?’
‘She likes moral support. I always end up comforting her. That’s the funny thing. Once I was invited to stay with a girl from school – something that doesn’t happen to
me
often, I may say and she rang up the second day and said would I come back, we didn’t see enough of each other, she said she thought we ought to be together. That was the time they said
The Silver Swan
sounded one plaintive note of self-pity all the time. So I went home and told her that there comes a time in every writer’s life when the critics think they’re important enough to slate —’ She looked at the floor and twisted her hands. ‘But she doesn’t
like
me,’ she said.
‘We all believe that, at some stage in our lives.’
‘No, she specially doesn’t. It’s partly this thing – why she’s crying now. I – I wish she didn’t always write books about how we – Father and I – how we diminish her, stop her living.… I don’t want to stop her living. I want to live myself. But she – but she – You know what she’s like, you might understand.’
‘We all diminish each other. We all impinge on each other. It’s natural.’
‘And I remind her of you,’ said Deborah. ‘I can’t help that. She’s always telling him – writing letters to people – Shedoesn’t let me exist. I thought –
you
might see I existed. I’ve been thinking, if I met you, properly —’
It was all clearly so well thought out. Cassandra shivered slightly. She said, ‘You don’t know me. One should never exercise one’s imagination on people one doesn’t know. It’s a kind of theft. Savages believe photographs are a theft. So are expectations. What can I do?’
This puzzled Deborah, who wrinkled her face, and returned to the attack.
‘She steals, too. She says I never tell her anything, and when I do, she puts it in books. And gives me copies. So that my thoughts aren’t mine. Look – Once – once I told.… Once one of the mistresses at school wrote her a letter saying she ought to respect my confidences. That I was an unduly secretive child.’ She laughed. ‘So Julia showed me the letter, and burst into tears, and I had to comfort her about that. I had to tell her it was all silly and I knew a book was a book, and life was life … and I didn’t mind.…’
‘What do you want me to say? Of course your confidences should be respected.’
‘Of course.’ Deborah’s assurance was suddenly shaken. She said uncertainly, ‘Of course they’re very good books. I know they’re very good books. I know Julia’s a creative writer. A person has to write what they know …’
‘I think that no one has any necessary right to publish what they know – however good it may be for them to write it. Or even if what they have written is very good. That a piece of writing is good doesn’t override other considerations – moral considerations – when it comes to damaging others.
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