Read Online Jerusalem the Golden by Margaret Drabble - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Margaret Drabble
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loudly, knowing that Geoffrey A. Machin and Peter Hawtrey had cut Geography in order
to do just that, and the other girls clucked and murmured and veiled themselves, thinking such deliberate flouting of the conspiracy of shame to be in doubtful taste.
But Clara had not cried out, originally, through vanity, nor for the benefit of her friends on the roof. She had been truly moved by herself, by her own watery image, by her grotesquely elongated legs, her tapering waist, and above all by the undersides of her breasts, never before seen. She stood there and stared at herself, seeing herself from that unexpected angle, as though she were another person, as though she were a dim white and blue statue on a tall pillar, a wet statue, a statue in water, a Venus rising from the sea, with veined white marble globes for breasts. She had never expected to be beautiful, and she was startled to see how nearly she approached a kind of beauty.
She had never expected to be beautiful because nobody had ever suggested that she might be so. Some mothers assume beauty in their daughters, and continue to believe it to be there, in defiance, often enough, of the facts, but Mrs Maugham was not one of these mothers. She assumed plainness, and she found it. She was so devoted to the principle that beauty is a frivolity and a sign of sin that she would have been ashamed to have it in the house. Nevertheless, her conviction of its absence was not wholly generous, nor wholly without malice. (On one occasion, with magnificent inconsequence, she had remarked after staring at one of Clara’s dazzling reports, ‘Well, handsome is as handsome does’; this was the only occasion on which she had ever said anything complimentary about Clara’s looks.) Clara as a child had fully supported her mother’s attitude, for she was in no way a pretty child; she was sullen, dirty, and her features were too big for her face. As she grew older, however, her face grew as well as her hips and bosom, but her way of looking as though she were about to burst out of her clothes became an asset rather than a disadvantage. She had not expected to be such a kind of girl; she had watched this kind of girl for years (the lips discreetly reddened, the loud laughter on the school bus, the tossing of long hair beneath rakish berets, the swinging of hips, the whispering in the garden) but she had never expected to become one. She had expected to be one of the others.
Although she was pleased with what she had become, and saw some future in it, there was one aspect of it that she did not like. She did not, could not like the boys. She persevered with them, in the hope that a taste for men, like a taste for the other desirable sophistications of life such as alcohol and nicotine, could be acquired through hard work. But it was hard work. She often shrewdly suspected that they found it hard work too, and that for all their signatures of fondest love they did not really like her; they wanted her, they thought that she would do, but they did not really like her. The difficulty was increased by the fact that she wanted good-looking boys only, and for some reason the really good-looking boys were quite impossible to cope with. For one thing, they could pick and choose, and they usually chose somebody else. And when one of them did choose her, she found herself quite unable to talk to him at all. There was one particularly disastrous episode with a boy of startling beauty; he was called Higginbotham, but even such a name could not dim his lustre nor silence his éclat. This Higginbotham, the admired of all beholders, honoured Clara with a note one day, delivered at the door of the swimming bath by a small minion; it said:
Dear Miss Maugham,
I have observed you several times coming and going. Perhaps you have observed me, I am often around, if you are not fixed up at the moment what about me waiting for you at the bus stop tonight? I can go your way.
Yours faithfully,
J. R.
to do just that, and the other girls clucked and murmured and veiled themselves, thinking such deliberate flouting of the conspiracy of shame to be in doubtful taste.
But Clara had not cried out, originally, through vanity, nor for the benefit of her friends on the roof. She had been truly moved by herself, by her own watery image, by her grotesquely elongated legs, her tapering waist, and above all by the undersides of her breasts, never before seen. She stood there and stared at herself, seeing herself from that unexpected angle, as though she were another person, as though she were a dim white and blue statue on a tall pillar, a wet statue, a statue in water, a Venus rising from the sea, with veined white marble globes for breasts. She had never expected to be beautiful, and she was startled to see how nearly she approached a kind of beauty.
She had never expected to be beautiful because nobody had ever suggested that she might be so. Some mothers assume beauty in their daughters, and continue to believe it to be there, in defiance, often enough, of the facts, but Mrs Maugham was not one of these mothers. She assumed plainness, and she found it. She was so devoted to the principle that beauty is a frivolity and a sign of sin that she would have been ashamed to have it in the house. Nevertheless, her conviction of its absence was not wholly generous, nor wholly without malice. (On one occasion, with magnificent inconsequence, she had remarked after staring at one of Clara’s dazzling reports, ‘Well, handsome is as handsome does’; this was the only occasion on which she had ever said anything complimentary about Clara’s looks.) Clara as a child had fully supported her mother’s attitude, for she was in no way a pretty child; she was sullen, dirty, and her features were too big for her face. As she grew older, however, her face grew as well as her hips and bosom, but her way of looking as though she were about to burst out of her clothes became an asset rather than a disadvantage. She had not expected to be such a kind of girl; she had watched this kind of girl for years (the lips discreetly reddened, the loud laughter on the school bus, the tossing of long hair beneath rakish berets, the swinging of hips, the whispering in the garden) but she had never expected to become one. She had expected to be one of the others.
Although she was pleased with what she had become, and saw some future in it, there was one aspect of it that she did not like. She did not, could not like the boys. She persevered with them, in the hope that a taste for men, like a taste for the other desirable sophistications of life such as alcohol and nicotine, could be acquired through hard work. But it was hard work. She often shrewdly suspected that they found it hard work too, and that for all their signatures of fondest love they did not really like her; they wanted her, they thought that she would do, but they did not really like her. The difficulty was increased by the fact that she wanted good-looking boys only, and for some reason the really good-looking boys were quite impossible to cope with. For one thing, they could pick and choose, and they usually chose somebody else. And when one of them did choose her, she found herself quite unable to talk to him at all. There was one particularly disastrous episode with a boy of startling beauty; he was called Higginbotham, but even such a name could not dim his lustre nor silence his éclat. This Higginbotham, the admired of all beholders, honoured Clara with a note one day, delivered at the door of the swimming bath by a small minion; it said:
Dear Miss Maugham,
I have observed you several times coming and going. Perhaps you have observed me, I am often around, if you are not fixed up at the moment what about me waiting for you at the bus stop tonight? I can go your way.
Yours faithfully,
J. R.
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