Miranda was sitting up in bed when I woke up this morning & she said, ‘You snore like a pig.’
That is not very nice, I said with what I hope was dignity. I do not snore.
You do you’re a horrible little pig. And then she walked past & threw her glass of water over me. I was still in bed & I sat up & screamed, and then I said, I’m going to tell Mummy what you’ve just done, you idiot, she is already furious with you.
M: Just go ahead & tell her, you little sneak. I tell you, she wants me gone anyway. She wishes I wasn’t here.
Me (upset) Don’t be mean about Mummy. You’re always so horrible about her, & all she’s trying to do this holidays is help you with what you want to do now school’s over . . .
I was trying to sound reasonable & mature, but this only made her crosser. DD, I thought she was going to hit me. She came over, looming over me & her face was like murder. M: ‘You have no idea about the real world do you darling? None at all.’
Bits of spittle were falling into my face. She was gripping the bedstead with her hands, right over me. I thought she might actually spit at me or bite me. She is like a wild cat.
I dodged under her & stood up so we are facing each other. I was still in my nighty, she was dressed in her capri pants & a lovely black & white geometric patterned top.
Me: Where have all these new clothes come from? M: Connie gave me some money, I told you.
Me: Well I don’t believe you. Neither does Mummy. There was a weird look on Miranda’s face. She said: No one ever believes me, do they. I try & I try to get better, and feel better & it still comes back to nothing. I get nowhere.
She said it in a really sad voice, & then she shrugged. I looked at her, diary, she looked different when she said it. So beautiful, so alive & like she fitted everything for once. Like Mummy in her studio: another person, the real person somehow.
I remembered Guy saying it must be hard, being Miranda. I didn’t ask him what he meant. But perhaps it is. Archie is the son, it’s easy being the son. It’s easy for boys, that’s the truth. They can do what they want. If they make a mistake, or fail their exams, they go to agricultural college or train to be something boring. If you’re a girl, you either have to be either useful or decorative. Like a lamp. I think about this a lot & it makes me angry. Mummy is the only person I know who does both, have a talent and be beautiful, and sometimes I think she doesn’t like either of them.
Perhaps that’s why Miranda’s decided to be beautiful, this summer. It takes work, it’s funny. Perhaps that’s why Mummy’s so cross with her.
She doesn’t like her being beautiful.
Oh, this is all rather long & confusing but I know what I mean.
I put on my dressing gown & said I was going to have a bath. She let me go but just as I was leaving she said, ‘Can I tell you one thing about Mummy, Cecily?’
Me: Yes.
M: (in doorway looking pleased) If she’s so wonderful, why was she up here yesterday, trying on my clothes, when you were out at the beach?
Me: What’s wrong with that if she does?
I tried to pretend it wasn’t anything unusual but it’s odd, I knew that right away.
M: She’s made me give her two of them. A coat dress I hadn’t worn yet. And the cocktail dress.
Me: The black gros-grain one?
M: & that’s not all she wants.
Me: What else?
She nods, & then she flops down on the bed. ‘You’ll see.’ She’s smiling up at the ceiling. ‘You’ll find out. I hope it’s not too late.’ & then she flounced out.
I have told this so badly, sorry DD. But I wanted to get it all down and so I’m writing this now before breakfast. I don’t know what to make of it all. Things have changed, perhaps since the Leightons arrived? Since the weather got hotter? Since we grew up? I just don’t know.
It is now evening & Miranda & I are sort of speaking but not friends. I keep looking at Mummy over supper, & wondering if it’s true about her trying on the dresses. I just know it’s not, that’s all. My favourite advert in the Illustrated London News this week is: Take No Chances with Facial Hair. The shop is 7 doors down from Harrods. Extraordinary. Miranda is obsessed with her facial hair, maybe I should cut it out & leave it on her bed, but I don’t think that would improve her mood.
Tuesday, 30th July 1963
I spent a lot of today playing backgammon with Dad again. I am now outside, on the bench under the apple tree on the edge of the lawn, writing what we talked about up, as he told me to. The lavender smells beautiful, perhaps Dad is right.
Since I came back home this summer I have been thinking about relationships. It is strange, being in love. I was so sure most of this year I was in love with Jeremy. And now I know I’m
