DIARY
P. D .
JAMES
0 ne consequence of being a well- known writer is a daily post-bag remarkable for its size, variety and occasional eccentric- ity. Recently, apart from the usual requests to explain clues, read or advise on manuscripts, give lectures, open fetes and provide quotes, or to help children who have chosen me as their 'project', I have received a letter from a lady in the United States requesting my assurance that her beloved cat, Edith, will go to heaven. She has enclosed a stamped addressed envelope for my speedy response. I feel tempted to reply that Edith's chances are probably as good as mine, but that, if she does get as far as the gate, she will no doubt be reassured to find a fisherman on duty. A letter from the NSPCC requests my endorsement of their new money-raising scheme in sec- ondary schools whereby a volunteer teach- er will be covered with green slime in a 'gunge tank'. The cause is worthy and the money needed, but I can't think why the NSPCC should imagine that I would be sympathetic to this method of raising it. Two prisons in the north want me to speak to the inmates, two hours in the male prison and two in the female prison, where my talk is required to end before Corona- tion Street begins. The last time I spoke at a prison was in the secure wing of Albany on the Isle of Wight. My talk, which was large- ly concerned with encouraging the inmates to write, was followed by a lively discussion period in which I remember the comment of one young prisoner. 'You and I should get together, Miss James. You have the tal- ent, but I have the experience.'
Writers vary in their response to unsolicited letters but I am always impressed by the extraordinary trouble taken by my friends who write for children in replying to letters from their young read- ers. Evelyn Waugh, in a 1952 letter to Nancy Mitford, set out his own policy fairly clearly. Humble expressions of admiration were rewarded with a postcard, as were bores who wished to make minor criticisms. Aspiring writers received a letter of dis- couragement if attractive, and a postcard if unattractive. American students of creative writing who wished Evelyn Waugh to write their theses for them received a printed refusal, as did tourists wishing to visit him in his house. Indians and Germans asking for free copies of his books went unan- swered, but very rich Americans were sent a polite letter since they were capable of buying 100 copies for Christmas presents. Requests from Roman Catholic groups for a lecture were granted and he also had some postcards with his photograph on them which he sent to nuns. He wrote: 'In the case of very impudent letters from mar- ried women, I write to the husband warning him that his wife is attempting to enter into correspondence with strange men.' I wish I were as organised.
Aspell of warm weather invariably results in the hauling out of picnic ham- pers, the inspection of thermos flasks, and what Jane Austen describes as schemes of pleasure. But a summer picnic, like the aroma of newly ground coffee beans and the smell of bacon and eggs, is one of those experiences which invariably promises more than it performs. A member of my son-in-law's family married a Pole who could not understand why the English were so addicted to a pastime for which our cli- mate is so singularly unsuitable. His lament has become part of family folk-lore: 'Where do I find myself? Under a railway bridge in the rain. What have I in hand? A damp tomato sandwich.'
Nowadays, exhorted by cookery writ- ers, we know that sandwiches reveal a deplorable lack of culinary enterprise. A successful picnic requires food which is imaginative, varied and memorable, con- veyed in a variety of heat-preserving or refrigerated containers. If the food isn't highly enjoyable, then the picnic degener- ates into an open-air snack, but, if it is, then it surely deserves to be eaten with more formality and under more suitable condi- tions than sitting in an unsalubrious field with one eye on an approaching animal of 'They must be mad.' less than benign appearance, the other on the inevitable wasp. There is also the ques- tion of comfort. Only the young can sit comfortably on the grass without support for the back, but to haul out folding chairs and tables from the car boot is surely to cheat. And then there is the problem of the right site. One sure rule is to know in advance precisely where you propose to picnic, otherwise you are caught in that well-known trap of always pressing on to a place which is bound to be better than the last two or three at which you hesitated, and settling in the end for a viewless field and an acrimonious debate on the merits of the rejected sites. For some, of course, this is never a problem. I am always amazed by the number of families who apparently pre- fer to picnic on the grass verges of a busy road. Perhaps they are fascinated by mov- ing traffic, or can't bear to be parted even momentarily from their own car.
Apicnic may well be a metaphor for life. The essentials for happiness are the right company, moderate if sanguine expec- tations and a reasonable standard of physi- cal sustenance and comfort, the whole being bedevilled by the belief that there is always something better to be had if only one presses on. Perhaps this is why picnics are so popular in literature. It would be interesting to compile an anthology. I think my favourite, despite my affection for the picnic in Daisy Ashford's Young Vzsiters and Mr Salteena's passionate declaration of love for Ethel Monticue, is the unhappy excursion to Box Hill in Emma and the unfortunate result of Emma's demand that the picnickers should each say one thing very clever, two things moderately clever, or three things very dull indeed. I can't believe that anything memorable is ever said on a picnic, except perhaps on a picnic for two.
Myra Hindley's application for parole is shortly to be considered, and not surpris- ingly her case has received renewed media interest. Joan Bakewell's BBC programme Myra Hindley: Have We a Right to Forgive? was well-balanced and sensitive, but I thought the title rather odd. I do not per- sonally feel I have any right either to for- give or not to forgive Myra Hindley: it was not my child she tortured and killed. Nor do I feel competent to decide whether or not her remorse is genuine. A priest might be a better judge, but essentially this is a matter between her and her God. What, however, I do find surprising is that any woman who came to a full realisation of what she had done in torturing and killing a child should ever want to leave prison.
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