The Golden Notebook

‘Good.’

‘But I think I’ll mention three of the comrades—oh, only in passing,’ said Anna hastily, as Molly grimaced. ‘Three fine sons of the working class and trade union officials.’

‘Who?’

‘Tom Winters, Len Colhoun, Bob Fowler.’

‘I knew them, of course,’ said Molly quickly. She always knew, or had known, everyone. ‘Well?’

‘Just before the Congress, when there was all that disquiet in our circles, what with this plot and that, and Yugoslavia, etc., it so happened that I met them, in connection with what they naturally referred to as cultural matters. With condescension. At that time I and similar types were spending a lot of time fighting inside the Party—a naive lot we were, trying to persuade people it was much better to admit that things stank in Russia than to deny it. Well. I suddenly got letters from all three of them—independently, of course, they didn’t know, any of them, the others had written. Very stern, they were. Any rumours to the effect that there was any dirty work in Moscow or ever had been or that Father Stalin had ever put a foot wrong were spread by enemies of the working class.’

Molly laughed, but from politeness; the nerve had been touched too often.

‘No, that isn’t the point. The point is, these letters were interchangeable. Discounting handwriting of course.’

‘Quite a lot to discount.’

‘To amuse myself, I typed out all three letters—long ones at that, and put them side by side. In phraseology, style, tone, they were identical. You couldn’t possibly have said, this letter was written by Tom, or that one by Len.’

Molly said resentfully: ‘For that notebook or whatever it is you and Tommy have a secret about?’

‘No. To find out something. But I haven’t finished.’

‘Oh all right, I won’t press you.’

‘Then came the Congress and almost instantly I got three more letters. All hysterical, self-accusatory, full of guilt, self-abasement.’

‘You typed them out again?’

‘Yes. And put them side by side. They might have been written by the same person. Don’t you see?’

‘No. What are you trying to prove?’

‘Well, surely the thought follows—what stereotype am I? What anonymous whole am I part of?’

‘Does it? It doesn’t for me.’ Molly was saying: If you choose to make a nonentity of yourself, do, but don’t stick that label on me.

Disappointed, because this discovery and the ideas that had followed from it were what she had been most looking forward to talking over with Molly, Anna said quickly: ‘Oh all right. It struck me as interesting. And that’s about all—there was a period of what may be described as confusion, and some left the Party. Or everyone left the Party—meaning those whose psychological time was up. Then suddenly, and in the same week—and that’s what’s so extraordinary, Molly…’ In spite of herself, Anna was appealing to Molly again—‘In the same week, I got three more letters. Purged of doubt, stern and full of purpose. It was the week after Hungary. In other words, the whip had been cracked, and the waverers jumped to heel. Those three letters were identical too—I’m not talking about the actual words, of course,’ said Anna impatiently, as Molly looked deliberately sceptical. ‘I mean the style, the phrases, the way words were linked together. And those intermediary letters, the hysterical self-abasing letters, might never have been written. In fact I’m sure Tom, Len and Bob have suppressed the memory that they ever wrote them.’

‘But you kept them?’

‘Well I’m not going to use them in a court of law, if that’s what you mean.’

Molly stood slowly wiping glasses on a pink and mauve striped cloth, and holding each one up to the light before setting it down. ‘Well I’m so sick of it all I don’t think I want ever to bother with it again.’

‘But Molly, we can’t do that, surely? We were communists or near-communists or whatever you like for years and years. We can’t suddenly say, Oh well, I’m bored.’

‘The funny thing is I’m bored. Yes, I know it’s odd. Two or three years ago I felt guilty if I didn’t spend all my free time organizing something or other. Now I don’t feel at all guilty if I simply do my job and laze around for the rest. I don’t care any more, Anna. I simply don’t.’

‘It’s not a question of feeling guilty. It’s a question of thinking out what it all means.’

Molly did not reply, so Anna went on quickly: ‘Would you like to hear about the Colony?’

The Colony was the name they gave to a group of Americans, all living in London for political reasons.

‘Oh God, no. I’m sick of them too. No, I’d like to know what happened to Nelson, I’m fond of him.’

‘He’s writing the American masterpiece. He left his wife. Because she was neurotic. Got himself a girl. Very nice one. Decided she was neurotic. Went back to his wife. Decided she was neurotic. Left her. Has got himself another girl who so far hasn’t become neurotic’

‘And the others?’

‘In one way and another, ditto, ditto, ditto.’

‘Well let’s skip them. I met the American colony in Rome. Bloody miserable lot they are.’

‘Yes. Who else?’

‘Your friend Mr Mathlong—you know, the African?’

‘Of course I know. Well he’s currently in prison so I suppose by this time next year he’ll be Prime Minister.’

Molly laughed.

‘And there’s your friend de Silva.’

‘He was my friend,’ said Molly laughing again, but resisting Anna’s already critical tone.

‘Then the facts are as follows. He went back to Ceylon with his wife—if you remember she didn’t want to go. He wrote to me because he had written to you and got no reply. He wrote that Ceylon is marvellous and full of poetry and that his wife was expecting another child.’

‘But she didn’t want another child.’

Suddenly Anna and Molly both laughed; they were suddenly in harmony.

‘Then he wrote to say he missed London and all its cultural freedoms.’

‘Then I suppose we can expect him any moment.’

‘He came back. A couple of months ago. He’s abandoned his wife, apparently. She’s much too good for him, he says, weeping big tears, but not too big, because after all she is stuck with two kids in Ceylon and no money; so he’s safe.’

‘You’ve seen him?’

‘Yes.’ But Anna found herself unable to tell Molly what had happened. What would be the use? They’d end up, as she had sworn they would not, spending the afternoon in the dry bitter exchange that came so easily to them.

‘And how about you, Anna?’

And now, for the first time, Molly had asked in a way which Anna could reply to, and she said at once:

‘Michael came to see me. About a month ago.’ She had lived with Michael for five years. This affair had broken up three years ago, against her will.