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Overview
Emma and David Evans seem to have a perfect life. He’s a handsome and successful Welsh actor; she’s a sometimes model, soon-to-be television news anchor, and full-time mother. But all is not well under the surface. She’s impatient and choked by domesticity; he’s narcissistic and unfaithful. Between the two of them is a privately combative marriage that has fed their want of drama.
Then David relocates the family from their London home to provincial Hereford, where he’s to star in two plays during the city’s festival season. It’s here, far removed from the highbrow stimulation of the city, that Emma’s resentment of David—his long hours, his expectations, his ego—finally boils over. Bored and lonely, she falls into the arms of the theater’s director, an indiscretion that triggers a series of surprises neither Emma nor David could have foreseen.
Narrated by a complicated, fascinating, and fiercely intelligent woman at the end of her rope, The Garrick Year is “a witty, beautiful novel . . . written with extraordinary art” (The New York Times).
“[A] romantic novel about actors and the theatre and marriage and sex and babies . . . deliciously bitter . . . so alive.” —The New Yorker
“Unsparing . . . a very knowing, diverting entertainment.” —Kirkus Reviews
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780544286917 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Houghton Mifflin Harcourt |
| Publication date: | 04/01/2018 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 172 |
| Sales rank: | 621,634 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Hometown:
London, EnglandDate of Birth:
June 5, 1939Place of Birth:
Sheffield, EnglandEducation:
Cambridge UniversityRead an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
While I was watching the advertisements on television last night, I saw Sophy Brent. I have not set eyes on her for some months, and the sight of her filled me with a curious warm mixture of nostalgia and amusement. She was, typically enough, eating: she was advertising a new kind of chocolate cake, and the picture showed her in a shining kitchen gazing in rapture at this cake, then cutting a slice and raising it to her moist, curved, delightful lips. There the picture ended. It would not have done to show the public the crumbs and the chewing. I was very excited by this fleeting glimpse, as I always am by the news of old friends, and it aroused in me a whole flood of recollections, recollections of Sophy herself, and of all that strange season, that Garrick year, as I shall always think of it, which proved to me to be such a turning point, though from what to what I would hardly like to say.
Poor old Sophy, I allowed myself to say, thinking that she would not much like being on a cake advertisement; and then I remembered the last time I had said Poor old Sophy, and that in any case, she would have earned a lot of money from that tantalizing moment. There is perhaps something finally unpitiable in Sophy, just as there is in me. We are both in our ways excellent examples of resilience, though I seem obliged to pass through many degrees of meanness on my way, whereas she just smiles and wriggles and exclaims and with a little charming confusion gets by. I like Sophy. I cannot help liking Sophy. And if there is a defensive note to be detected in that assertion, I am not in the least surprised.
That chocolate cake vision made me think back, as I said, over the whole lot, right back to the very beginning, to the occasion when I first realized that David was really intending to go to Hereford. I had just finished putting Flora to bed, and I came downstairs, splashed and bedraggled from her bath, to find David nursing the new baby and drinking a glass of beer. He had poured some stout for me, which was the only thing he would let me drink. When I appeared he handed the baby over quickly, and as I sat down and prepared to feed him, wondering if I would ever get him to wake at a less exhausting time, Dave spoke.
"Wyndham sent me the script for Edmund Carpenter's new play," he said.
I listened to this statement as the tiny, mousy, pathetic scrap of child latched itself onto my breast: I must, I said to myself, keep calm, or the child will get wind and I will be feeding him all night.
"Oh yes," I said after a while. "Is it a good play?"
"It's all right," he said. "It's a very good part."
"Which part?"
"Now look here, Emma," said David, and at his tone I bent my face all the more intently away from him and towards my baby, "I don't honestly see what I can do about it. We've got to go, and that's that. It's only for seven months, and you'll bloody well have to lump it. I can't afford not to go."
"What do you mean," I said, "you can't afford not to go? You told me last week you were rolling in money. And I thought you were signed up to do that television next month."
"I can do that as well," said David.
"Well, in that case," I said, hearing with alarm in my own voice a tone threatening imminent disaster, "you'll be able to afford anything you want, won't you?"
"It isn't a question of money," he said, and out rolled those classic, inevitable words once more, "it's a question of my career."
"Really, Dave my darling," I said with the unnatural evenness demanded by the quiet, even sucking, "I think your career is perfectly all right without your hopping off to the wilds of the country to some artsy festival where they'll probably pay you fifteen pounds a week and expect you to be grateful."
"Wyndham mentioned a salary," he said with that smug look that had been possessing him lately.
"And what about me?" I said querulously, knowing that I had lost as soon as I realized that the economics of the scheme had met with David's approval and would therefore certainly meet with mine. "What about me? I'd got everything so tidily arranged, I can't just mess it all up again to go trailing all over England after you, can I?"
"Of course you can," he said. "Anyway, it isn't a question of all over England, it would be Hereford, for seven months. We can let this place and take a house there, and you'll have Pascal to help you with everything. It would be very good for you and the babies. I wouldn't ask you to go just anywhere, but the country's good for you."
"Good for me! Good for me!" I exclaimed with fury, and at my violence the baby unclasped himself and started to cry. I sat him up and patted his back, and tried for his sake to be calm again. "Look," I said to David, "why don't we leave this little chat until I've finished feeding Joe? It's not worth upsetting him, I'll be here all evening if we go on like this. Why don't you leave me alone for half an hour, and then we can begin again?"
"I'll leave you for the night if you want," he said, getting up and finishing his beer. "But there won't be any point in beginning again. I signed the contract this morning." And thereupon he walked out.
Poor Joseph imbibed a good deal of bile along with his milk that evening. I subsequently found out that what Dave had said about the contract was not in fact true. He had not signed it, as I should have suspected at the time, and did not do so until he had dragged a formal approval out of me. On the other hand, the determination that I had recognized in him had been quite real, and what was my determination against his? There was nothing I could say or do to deflect him. I thought that he might have had the fairness to wait until Joseph's feed was over before raising the subject: our tempers are evenly matched, and we usually conduct our discussions with equal virulence, but one is at a hopeless disadvantage with a baby on one's knee, with milk dripping all over and the prospect of a sleepless night if one loses one's temper. It is too much to expect of other people that they will remember such conditions. I do not expect it, but on the other hand, I cannot behave as though they have remembered. So my behaviour is ruined, even while I try to preserve my judgment. I often think that motherhood, in its physical aspects, is like one of those trying disorders such as hay fever or asthma, which receive verbal sympathy but no real consideration, in view of their lack of fatality, and which, after years of attrition, can sour and pervert the character beyond all recovery. Motherhood has of course infinite compensations, though I can well believe that some people are driven to a point where they cannot feel them.
I must say, however, that even if David had waited like a politician for a promising moment to approach me, he could hardly have found one. I was very unapproachable at that time, and I found the idea of going to Hereford peculiarly upsetting. I had been promised a couple of months before a very pleasant job as a newsreader and announcer by a television company which had decided, as such companies will, to have another attempt at the equality of the sexes by allowing women to announce serious events as well as forthcoming programmes. I was to have been a pioneer in this field, and I fully expected to succeed where others had failed. The job, admittedly, hadbeen procured for me by an old friend and admirer, for whom I used to do a little sporadic fashion modelling before my marriage, but despite this string-pulling everyone admitted that I was admirably suited for such a post. I have a face of quite startling and effective gravity, a pure accident of feature, I believe, and people automatically trust what I say. The nation would have been impressed by the news as read by me. And I for my part would have enjoyed reading it: I have always had a passion for facts and a mild yearning for notoriety, and I could imagine no more happy way of combining these two interests. And after three years of childbearing and modelling maternity clothes, I felt in serious need of a good, steady, lucrative job.
I could hardly believe that marriage was going to deprive me of this, too. It had already deprived me of so many things which I had childishly overvalued: my independence, my income, my twenty-two-inch waist, my sleep, most of my friends, who had deserted on account of David's insults, a whole string of finite things, and many more indefinite attributes, like hope and expectation. And now, just when I had got my future organized and had glimpsed, as it were, the end of solitude, I had been pushed right back to where I had started. There seemed to be no answer but stoicism, a philosophy which I find I can practice, but which I neither enjoy nor admire.
I got Joe to bed after half an hour more of feeding; he was far too small to notice my mood, fortunately, though he did wake up later with wind. Then I went downstairs again and walked up and down the living room and thought. I thought about Hereford, and David's career, and Wyndham Farrar. I had met Wyndham Farrar only once in my life before, though naturally I knew all about him, as did anyone who was connected with the theatre. And may I make it clear that I was connected only by marriage, I have no aspirations in that direction myself, though I have aspirations towards gloss, which can be mistaken for the same thing. Wyndham Farrar, in any case, was a name which one could not fail to recognize. He was a director, and everything he did, good or bad, achieved a certain distinction: he was a freelancer, and had never associated himself with any of the trends or mass managements of the theatre, but would turn up from time to time in unexpected countries with unexpected plays, the odd bad film or good television production, and so on. Most people seemed to have worked with him at some time or another, and everyone spoke of him either with awe or admiration. I could never work out whether he was what in the theatre passes for an intellectual, or whether he was simply a misfit, or whether he had enough private means not to have to work in the usual humdrum West End, television contract fashion. However he had done it, he had managed to make himself accepted as some sort of important and unpredictable figure, whose moves were always worth following and whose judgement was always of interest; and certainly the first time I met him I noticed him as one would notice a significant person. I went out of my way at this meeting not to be noticed by him, as I was very pregnant at the time: it was just before Joe was born. But I paid attention.
It was at a party that this meeting took place; the party was given by a rather classy television director, for whom David had just played a flashy and well-paid role, and it took place in a top-story flat in Hampstead, with the most miraculous falling, fading view from its windows. David and I were just chatting with this man's wife, a lady in purple trousers, when Wyndham Farrar approached us; I recognized him because I had seen him on television the week before talking about the theatre in the provinces, in some programme on the arts. What a world it is, where everyone's face is continually before one, the loved and the forgotten and the about-to-be-loved, all there, falsely thrust upon one's memory every night of the week. No wonder that I wanted to get my face on that dark receiving box myself, to join that intricate pattern, the celluloid drama that is played out there every night at the discretion of the programme arrangers: Sophy Brent and Wyndham Farrar and David Evans, my husband, and that bland-faced woman that should have been me.
Wyndham looked better in real life than on film, unlike my handsome husband: his face had seemed too large and shapeless for the screen, but in the flesh it had a bashed-about, deeply folded vigour and its shapelessness seemed to have planes of complexity which the camera had not shown. He was the same height as David, which is not as high by an inch as me, and thickset; one might say even fat, had he not been so broadly built. He had a thoroughgoing masculinity: his whole shape lacked any attempt at grace, and his clothes hung on him coarsely like appendages. He was the other end of the scale from our host, who was a long-shanked, carefully dressed, delicate gentleman. I preferred the look of Wyndham, who came up to us and said to this man's wife, with the broad, self-possessed complacency of importance:
"Hello, Kate. Introduce me to this clever young man, will you?"
The wife introduced David and, inevitably, me. Wyndham did not so much as cast a glance in my direction, except when he took my hand: his eyes swept perfunctorily over my form and left it at that. I did not blame him. I would have done the same myself. I knew that I was disqualified. He congratulated David on his performance in this woman's husband's play, and they talked about it a little. Then Wyndham said:
"What about coming to Hereford with me next year?"
"What for?" said David.
"Oh, for the Festival," said Wyndham. "Didn't you know about the Festival? A nice new theatre I'm going to have, and if I get my own way I'm going to do some nice interesting plays. I can even think of a fine of parts waiting for you. You're just the kind of person we want down there."
"Oh well," said David, "I haven't been on the stage for years."
"You're not so old," said Wyndham. "And don't you feel the call of all those live audiences?"
"Will they be very live in Hereford? I can't say I do, really. I quite like things as they are."
"Do you? Don't you feel the signs of acting in a vacuum?"
"Anyway, I think I'm doing a film next year," said David. He did not think anything of the land, but he was always saying things like that. And so he and Wyndham left it. The project seemed sufficiently vague for me to feel it wiser not to intervene, and in any case, I knew David would be quite clear about where I stood on the subject: the provinces have never appealed to me, except as curiosities. But being clear about my position has never influenced David as much as I think it should, so being aware of this, I did a little investigation of my own about the Hereford scheme, to which stray references grew sadly thicker in the succeeding weeks. It appeared that a new theatre was being built there, and that Wyndham Farrar was to open it next spring with a season of plays. With his sanction, the whole affair would obviously be a classy, well-financed occasion, not a dutiful pinch and scrape. The names of various prominent artists had already been mentioned in connection with it, and at least twenty-five percent of them would probably go. I had not seriously intended my crack about the fifteen pounds a week salary: I knew that David would be able to get more than that out of them. But on the other hand, our standard of expenditure was so absurdly high that we would need more than any straight classical work out of London or indeed in it would be likely to bring. I cannot think what we spent our money on: the mortgage of the house, I suppose, which was the only sensible project I ever persuaded him to undertake, and the usual wasteful nonsense of clothes and drinks and ridiculous toys and excursions. I mean excursions, not holidays: we never went away, but we spent a fortune on days at the zoo, in Brighton, on river trips, in weekend hotels of vast luxury. For someone not born to money David certainly knows how to spend: he is wonderfully extravagant, and has no idea of saving or of value. Compared with him I am as mean as hell; he was brought up in poverty and I in professional comfort, and this may have something to do with it. He used to shock me at times, with his taxis and his double whiskies. I wondered what would happen to him if he had to do without. I am always trying to do without, just to practice, just in case, and this annoys him; it is sad to see how often in a domestic situation one's virtues can become a curse. His extravagance is one of the things in him that I have always loved.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Garrick Year"
by .
Copyright © 1964 Margaret Drabble.
Excerpted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.
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