DIARY
Ihave applied for a renewal of my provisional driving licence having been seized yet again by a resolution to learn to drive. With my 69th birthday approaching this does, indeed, seem a triumph of hope over experience. What principally moti- vates me is a feeling that it is inept not to be able to drive a car and that I may one day find myself in a situation when it would be a matter of life or death. This is probably the novelist's predilection of making a drama out of a crisis since I can't readily imagine a situation which would be improved by having me at the wheel. I did, indeed, drive for nine months when I was living in Dublin in 1981, not a propitious year for the enterprise. In the Republic a motorist can drive unaccompanied pro- vided that he or she has put up L-plates, so I purchased a second-hand Fiesta and took to the road. I took lessons from a delightful instructor who instilled in me a totally unjustified confidence by himself quietly working the dual-controls. He had once driven a bus in London and unfortunately seemed to think I was an aspirant for a heavy vehicle driving licence. We would both watch out obsessively for the next bus-stop and he explained that the examin- er would place a walnut behind the back wheels of the bus and that if I broke it when starting London Transport would instantly reject me. The caretaker at my block of flats took one look at the Fiesta and said: 'I see you have yourself a car, then, Mrs White. Would you be wanting some Holy Water for sprinkling on that?' I said I would be grateful for any aid which might preserve me from the terrors of the Dublin streets where a red light seemed to be regarded more as a friendly warning than a prohibition. Eventually the Holy Water was produced and proved extremely efficacious. I'm not sure, however, that it will succeed with a British examiner. I have offered a substantial bribe to any member of my family or friend who can get me through the test at the first attempt but there has been an unflattering shortage of takers. I have been firmly told that there are some tasks best left to the profession- als.
Ican't get used to the increasing practice of charging visitors to enter our cathedrals. Last autumn I lunched with friends at Ely and we subsequently went into the Cathed- ral to be confronted by amiable ladies at the receipt of custom collecting the pounds. I realise that the cathedrals are in trouble and that if those of us who love them were more generous in our voluntary contributions they might not have to re- gard themselves as tourist attractions. But what I find depressing is the apparent assumption of Deans that they have the
P. D. JAMES
care of historical and architectural monu- ments which only religious eccentrics would wish to visit for the purpose of prayer and meditation, except at official services. And what about people from the diocese? Are they, too, charged a fee if they want to visit and pray in their mother Church? And if not, how do the cash collectors differentiate between the medi- tating sheep and the gawping goats? And should they even try to?
Ihave just completed correcting the proofs of my new novel. I don't know many writers who actually enjoy this pro- cess but it is particularly anxiety-prone for a writer of detective stories since this is positively the last opportunity to put right those factual errors which it is the joy of one's sharp-eyed and devoted readers to uncover. Apart from this comparatively minor anxiety, every detective writer must occasionally wake in panic from that night- mare of opening a letter which says tersely: 'This murder is physically impossible, cf. pages 149 and 328.' I am afraid that, despite all the care of my proof-readers, there is one error, however small, in a number of my books. The difficulty is not with those facts I'm only too aware I don't know and need to discover by consulting the appropriate book or expert. The prob- lem arises when I am certain of my fact but it happens to be wrong. In A Taste for Death one of my characters, Miss Whar- ton, goes to stay with the former priest of her parish who now has a living in Notting- ham and I make her travel from King's Cross instead of St Pancras. Only two readers so far have noticed this bloomer and both were surprisingly kind about it. One lady wrote: 'I'm not in the least surprised that Miss Wharton decided to travel to Nottingham from King's Cross. I, too, dislike St Pancras and always avoid it whenever possible.' The other reader was less indulgent: 'Why, I wonder, did Miss Wharton travel to Nottingham from King's Cross? She would have had to make two changes and would have taken double the journey time.' And then there is the passage in my second book in which I state that a suspect, suitably disguised in goggles and oilskins, reversed noisily down the road on his motor-cycle. A male reader wrote to protest that the use of the word `reversed' suggested that I thought a two- stroke motor-cycle engine could go back- wards. Unfortunately I did. Despite cor- recting the error in subsequent editions I still receive letters from male readers all over the world explaining in boring detail, sometimes with a diagram, exactly why it can't. Unless, apparently, the cycle is a Harley-Davidson. This useful piece of in- formation comes from a former motoring correspondent, and I am grateful. So, when the next letter arrives complaining about my reversing motor-cycle, I shall have my answer. My younger daughter always reads my new novel in proof. I have a high regard for her judgment and await her verdict with some trepidation. But she is absolutely useless when it comes to spotting inconsistencies of plot. She would much prefer the novel not to contain a murder and always skips any passages which mention dead bodies or blood.
When he was told that I had accepted an invitation to write this diary my younger son-in-law enquired whether I would emu- late the members of Emma's picnic on Box Hill and attempt to provide one thing very clever, two things moderately clever or three things very dull indeed. The very dull indeed items must surely include the recital of one's personal grievances and foibles. But I am in danger of becoming almost paranoid about noise. Recently I went into a small restaurant in Oxford which seemed to offer the possibility of a quick, eatable meal, only, as soon as I had seated myself, to be assailed by a blast of pop music. I explained to the waiter that if it were not turned down I should have to leave, and he saw me go totally without regret, probably relieved to see the back of such an eccen- tric and potentially awkward customer. After all, the noise in public places is presumably provided mainly to keep the staff happy; in a tourist city there are always plenty of new customers. That afternoon I attempted to buy a pair of shoes in a store which also subjects its customers to loud and continuous pop music. When I complained that I couldn't hear my own or the assistant's voice she suggested that I carry the shoes to a quieter part of the store and try them on, a solution that I found neither convenient nor acceptable. I have actually managed to find a hairdresser where I can sit in relative quiet, but taxi drives have ceased to be a pleasure, partly because they seem to consist of sitting in queues but also because of the continual irritating chatter of radio instructions.
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