From Juliet to Sidney
11th January 1946
Dear Sidney,
Yes, lovely – can it be somewhere on the river? I want oysters and champagne and roast beef, if
obtainable; if not, a chicken will do. I am very happy that Izzy’s sales are good. Are they good enough
for me not to have to pack a suitcase and leave London?
As you and S & S have turned me into a moderately successful author, dinner must be my treat.
Love,
Juliet
P.S. I did not throw ‘The Shepherd Boy Sings in the Valley of Humiliation’ at the audience. I threw it at
the elocution mistress. I meant to cast it at her feet, but I missed.
From Juliet to Sophie Strachan
Mrs Alexander Strachan
Feochan Farm
Oban
Argyll
12th January 1946
Dear Sophie,
Of course I’d adore to see you, but I am a soulless (desalmada), will-less automaton. I have been ordered by Sidney
to Bath, Colchester, Leeds, and several other places I can’t remember at the moment, and I can’t just
slope off to (largarse) Scotland instead. Sidney’s brow (fremte) would lower – his eyes would narrow – he would stalk (salirse los ojos de las órbitas). You know how nerve-racking (perturbador) it is when Sidney stalks.
I wish I could sneak away (escabullirse) to your farm and be coddled (ser mimado). You’d let me put my feet on the sofa, wouldn’t
you? And then you’d tuck me up (poner a buen recaudo) in blankets and bring me tea? Would Alexander mind a permanent
presence on his sofa? You’ve told me he is a patient man, but perhaps he would find it annoying.
Why am I so melancholy? I should be delighted at the prospect of reading Izzy to an entranced
audience. You know how I love talking about books, and you know how I adore receiving compliments. I should be thrilled (estremecerse, emocionarse). But the truth is that I’m gloomy (melancólica)– gloomier than I ever felt during the war. Everything is
so broken, Sophie: the roads, the buildings, the people. Especially the people.
It’s probably the after-effect of a horrid dinner party I went to last night The food was ghastly (horrorosa), but that
was to be expected. It was the guests who unnerved (me ponían nerviosa) me – they were the most demoralising collection
of individuals I’ve ever encountered. The talk was of bombs and starvation. Do you remember Sarah
Morecroft? She was there, all bones and gooseflesh (carne de gallina) and bloody lipstick. She used to be pretty, didn’t
she? Wasn’t she mad about that riding chap who went up to Cambridge? He was nowhere to be seen;
she’s married to a doctor with grey skin who clicks his tongue before he speaks. And he was positively
romantic compared to the man sitting next to me, who just happened to be single, presumably the last
unmarried man on earth – God, how miserably mean-spirited I sound! I swear, Sophie, I think there’s
something wrong with me. Every man I meet is intolerable. Perhaps I should set my sights lower – not
as low as the grey doctor who clicks, but a bit lower. I can’t even blame it on the war – I was never very
good at men, was I?
Do you suppose the St Swithin’s furnace-man (hornero???) was my one true love? Since I never spoke to him, it
seems unlikely, but at least it was a passion unscathed (ileso) by disappointment And he had such beautiful
black hair. After that, you remember, came the Year of Poets. Sidney scoffs (burlarse) about those poets, though
I don’t see why, since he introduced me to them. Then poor Adrian. Oh, there’s no need to recite the
dread rolls to you, but, Sophie – what is the matter with me? Am I too choosy (quisquillosa)? I don’t want to be
married just for the sake of being married. I can’t think of anything lonelier than spending the rest of my
life with someone I can’t talk to, or worse, someone I can’t be silent with.
What a dreadful, complaining letter. You see? I’ve succeeded in making you feel relieved that I won’t
be visiting Scotland. But then again, I may – my fate rests with Sidney.
Kiss Dominic for me and tell him I saw a rat the size of a terrier the other day.
Love to Alexander and even more to you,
Juliet
From
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