Auberon Waugh on charity and Hunter Davies

A Very Loving Couple Hunter Davies (Weidenfeld and Nicholson £1.50)

With greater cunning than I ever knew .I possessed I did not mention that the copy- right on Margaret Forster's excellent new novel, reviewed three weeks ago, belonged to 'Shelter.' I noticed, of course, and brooded about the matter, but held my peace. Mr Anthony Bailey, reviewing the book in another periodical, was less cautious, and provoked this severe rebuke from Miss Forster: . . when they [reviewers] get round to snide remarks about whom the copyright belongs to, then teeth-gritting silence has gone on long enough. Dear God, is nothing sacred?'

Heh, heh, heh. Poor old Anthony Bailey. But now the matter has been brought into the open, I might as well say that I never supposed for a moment that she was being pharisaic or trying to advertise her own goodness. I assumed she was merely trying to encourage other writers to follow her example. My comments on that suggestion, on top of what I had earlier said about middle-class housewives being the only people who can afford to write novels now- adays, would not have been either polite or constructive, and there seemed no point in insulting someone for kindheartedness.

But now the situation has got quite out of hand. Mr Hunter Davies, who is Miss Forster's middle-class husband, has given his copyright to the Multiple Sclerosis Society of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. As this fact is crucial to proper understanding of the book, I shall return to it, but before leaving the more sordid aspects one must note that Davies apparently supports a wife and two children by working only six months a year for the Sunday Times. If that is the case, I can only say that it is time some of my bachelor friends who work twelve months a year for the Sunday Times bought me a drink.

Mr Davies's novel is one of the most horrifying documents I have ever read. It describes how a young husband is tyran- nised by a wife of superior intelligence to himself, reduced to a cringing jelly then whipped all the harder for cringing until he is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. One would have said at one moment that he was over the verge, suffering from hallucina- tions and a cleanliness obsession, except that suddenly, inexplicably, in the last chapter, the nervous breakdown is forgotten and a domestic drama—one of their two repulsive children injures its thumb—restores them once again to being, in the words of the title, a very loving couple. This last chapter, for which nothing has prepared us, might easily be read as an example of extremely black, extremely sick humour. Indeed the whole book could be read in that vein, in the assumption that the title is ironic, if it were not for that little notice facing the dedica- tion page—C) 1971 by the Multiple Sclerosis SOciety The reason why that little insertion effec- tively rules out any probability that the intention of Mr Davies's novel could be ironical is to be found on page 111. The hus- band, Sam Carter, has just come home to announce a rise in salary. He tells his appal- ling wife, Liz, that he has just ordered a new car. She replies 'Then you had better unorder it, I've already spent your rise, I signed a covenant with the Multiple Sclerosis Society this morning. The man said this was the easiest way to give money. We're giving them £300 a year for the next seven years. That should cover what your rise will come to. It's the least we can do.'

If one had not seen the copyright slip, one would have read that with a happy guffaw. Could any woman really be quite so awful as Liz? The hideous, humourless puritanism, withering, everything it touches, is brilliantly portrayed. So is the self-righteous sadism, as she makes him cringe and then flays him for cringing. But having read the copyright notice, one realises with a shock that Liz is not intended as a monstrous caricature. She is for real. We are all intended to cringe before her. The last chapter, which seems to make nonsense of everything that has gone before, is Sam Carter's ultimate cringe.

Of course, it would be possible to read the book in other ways, ignoring both the copyright label and the incomprehensible dustjacket, which assures us that the young couple is 'bound by real ties of love.' Socio- logically, it is hilarious. Here is how this 'effervescent, tender, youthful' novel des- scribes the hero's homecoming to his young family : 'I hung my coat in the hall, unwound my ,scarf and put my shoes on the boiler.'

Where in the name of God, Sam Carter, did you put your anorak, your galoshes and your little pork pie hat? If he was creep- ing around the house in a pork pie hat all day, it is no wonder his wife had a sexual hang-up and his children did not wish to speak to them.

Ideally, for best comic effect, the novel should be read aloud in a north country accent. I read it when alone in a Chiriese restaurant in Swindon after addressing the Swindon Writers' Circle. 1 think this is the second best way to read it.

"Daddy" said Joe. "Do you know what I did today. Snot did, come out of my nose, and I did blow it back again. I did." "Real- ly?" I said. "You'll definitely get in the World Cup team at this rate."

How sweet! How typically English! How classless! How true to life! We may have ordinary conversations with our three-year- old children about religion, politics and art, but Sam always has to talk about more earthy things because, you see, he hails from the working class: "I want another wee-wee", said Polly.' How fascinating! Of course, one can scarcely blame the wretched children, because whenever they address remarki to their father he will only say 'great' or 'smash- ing' or make some asinine remark about the World Cup.

Sam worries terribly about his repulsive children: 'I got Joe into a cubicle to take off his clothes. I was ashamed of his milk fed limbs . . . He% not a softy or a drip. He's not even posh or panSy. It's just that compared with the cockney lads, he's got middle-class skin'.

Poor, devil! It's no good telling Sam Carter to grow up and see that he is middle class noW, along with Terence Lancaster of the People, Brian Walden, Labour Mr for All Saints, the great and good Alan Watkins and all the rest of us. He will still be teach- ing his wretched children how to talk with a north country accent from a cassette lin- guaphone as he cruises in his Rolls-Royce, singing about the smashing nosh back home.

But the main impression of the book is not so much its social awkwardness, nor even its arrogant puritanism. It is of the ultimate degradation of the male species : 'I didn't crack my fingers any more. I knew when my breath smelled. I changed my underpants every day. I now shaved under my arms. I didn't expect it every night.'

Again : "Must you lie there?"

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be so sloppy. I bate you when you're a creep."' Again: '1 woke up feeling very ashamed of myself, going on at Liz all the time, yet it was me who couldn't get up the energy to score. It proved what she said all along. I was selfish and self-centred ...'

Poor Sam Carter. He tells us his wife has sexy, firm legs, a slight pot-belly and short hair. Plainly, they are a virtuous, serious couple. Dear God, is nothing sacred? But 1 rather fear that Sam Carter is damned.