Maggie Gee - Virginia Woolf in Manhattan

Her eyes were fixed, cold and still. A distant pool I could not see into. ‘It’s even harder for you, of course, because in a way, this would be your comeback novel!’

Her fingers clenched on the stem of the glass, her great lids dropped. What was she thinking?

I wondered, is this going well?

But I took a gulp and pressed on regardless. ‘That’s partly why I came to New York. And why I wanted to write about you. I thought, get back to first principles. Why, you know, is your writing so — great? What is the point of — what we do?’

I found myself blushing. Had I been clumsy?

VIRGINIA

I wanted to spit. Did she think we were the same? Did this woman presume to share my feelings? She thought she saw into my soul. She thought we would share ‘confidences’. She thought I was ‘blocked’, like any novice! Soon she would be giving me ‘advice’. I held my lids shut for a long, long time, and hid inside my world of darkness.

ANGELA

Was it possible she had gone to sleep?

VIRGINIA

Very slowly the anger drained away. Foolish of me to confide in her. Foolish to let the world peer in. Yield a chink, and they forced one open, left one wet and crushed on the sand.

I did not believe she was a cruel woman.

Nor, indeed, completely stupid. I had never read a word she had written. Now I vowed I never would.

‘The pens,’ I snapped. ‘Those stupid pens.’ I had decided not to complain, but the words leaped out of their own accord. ‘That old man sold us defective pens.’

‘Pens?’ she said, puzzled. ‘Oh, the pens from Moshe … The one I used was quite OK. Here, borrow my biro. It’s a pen, Virginia. Just so you have something. Just for now.’

I took the thing. It looked cheap and synthetic. I held it firmly away from me.

No, I was growing angry again. I put the biro in my bag, breathed deeply, managed to say ‘Thank you.’ Let it all leak away into the music.

My fault, mine, to have shown my wound.

That terrible feeling of nakedness, akin to what I once felt with Gerald, when I was a child, helpless, small. Or that terrifying sense of being undressed when I sent my first novels to publishers. It was why we started the Hogarth Press, so that never again — never again — would I feel I had been passed around among strangers, naked as a baby from the waist down, to be judged and prodded, discussed, handled.

I drank down the wine, and became the jazz.

Angela sat beside me looking worried, her stupid frown, anxious mouth, as if she knew things had gone astray.

Yes she should be nervous. True, she admired me. She was big and awkward and unhappy.

Yet she was the only friend I had.

ANGELA

‘They have obviously forgotten the nibbles. I think I’m pissed. Are you OK?’

VIRGINIA

Saxophone, piano, a blue swell of memories. It was the music of the past. ‘A foggy day … in London town …’

ANGELA

‘Virginia? Do you want to go home? Is it the music? You look so sad.’

VIRGINIA

‘Partly sad … also happy. The music makes me think of Leonard.’ I could share my heart, perhaps, my woman’s heart, but never, never would I share my writing.

ANGELA

‘I hope I didn’t offend you, just now. Talking, you know, about the work?’ I hated myself for sounding meek.

She shook her head in a definite manner that closed the door upon that room. It was unspoken, but I understood. She would not talk to me about writing. It hurt me, but I had to accept it.

VIRGINIA

‘It’s all forgotten. I wasn’t even listening.’

ANGELA

Why did she have to humiliate me? No, I wouldn’t let her make me angry.

Probably she was just unhappy.

I thought, I told her I published last year. She hadn’t written a book in decades. Was it that — Virginia was jealous?

Yes, of course. She was jealous of me . My mood picked up. I could afford to be generous.

‘More champagne?’ She didn’t answer. ‘Two more glasses.’ I made myself smile. We were getting into a drinker’s rhythm. Thank God, some canapés arrived. Both of us fell on them like gulls, our fingers stumbling together on the plate. Soon we would be holding hands.

VIRGINIA

‘Something I’ve been meaning to ask you. Something about — about — Leonard.’

I had tried to ask her many times before. My tongue tangled; my tongue tumbled.

But all round the room, the flowers helped me, the white faces, the white hands, the writers reaching from another world. Don’t abandon us. We need you. Tell of your love. Remember us. Mention our names, or else we die. The lilies and I became pure longing.

‘I hope Leonard wasn’t alone, that’s all. I hope he did not live alone. You won’t tell me — will you tell me, please?’

ANGELA

The question I dreaded and expected.

How could I tell her? That he loved Trekkie Parsons, that they lived side by side for much of his life. The thing he’d said that saddened me, even though it was in another lifetime, with Virginia dead and long past caring: ‘Knowing and loving Trekkie has been the best thing in my life.’

I mumbled my way out of it. ‘I think he was all right.’

VIRGINIA

‘Isn’t it in your — laptop? You said that everything was there.’

ANGELA

Her voice was sharp, her eyes suspicious. I did not want to lie to her. ‘You have to search. There are millions of words. Sometimes you cannot find the answer.’

VIRGINIA

As if I were a child to be lied to. There must have been another woman.

But Leonard loved me. His wild monkey. I know he found me beautiful.

Yes, I was loved. That I never doubted.

In any life there are losses, sadnesses. Nessa loved Duncan more than he loved her. But Leonard loved me while I lived, as I loved Leonard. Equally.

Dearly, deeply we loved each other; lived for each other in our moment.

They thought I was cold, but what did they know of the way my love and I lay together? On summer nights. Those summer nights … even if I failed him. In the ultimate place. He was my love. We lay together. Is one caress better than another?

Because I was clever, they had to gloat that I was not a proper woman.

Yes, they were glad I could not be a mother

grim old men, refusing me

Leonard’s young face mimicking theirs

‘Virginia, it’s not sensible we must refrain

you are too fragile’

I could have been a mother too

could have been loved as Nessa was

but they all refused ‘ the Goat is mad ’

‘ everyone knows the Goat is mad ’

No, I must not go down that track

the more I drink, it surfaces

fin like a blade black, flashing

dark water beside the path

under the weed, the arid rock

(the pen-nib breaks, my fingers bleed)

shrunken shapes at the turn of the road

beckoning me to confide in them

rope ready to slip round my neck

stopping me writing staring, pointing

‘ Can’t you write, Virginia? ’

‘ Oh, so sorry to see your pain ’

‘ Maybe we could talk about it? ’

holding their sides and cackling

Get away, run, while they are still distant,

cartoon enemies, weak and small,

hunkered down to wait by the roadside

‘Tell them to turn the music up!’ I heard my own voice, loud, confident. Angela went to do my bidding.

Dance me away into this tune Take it away, Snakehips Johnson

Oh dear yes, I will conquer this mood

it doesn’t matter

San fairy ann

A foggy day in London Town

They bombed the Café de Paris No-one can say we were not

happy …

We will defeat them England will win