Free Life Class: The Selected Memoirs Of Diana Athill by Diana Athill

on the roads. We had a car, so it was not necessary to have a horse and cart. It was simply fun that could be taken seriously.
    Fun in theory, at least. To me, that day, it was extremely disagreeable. I had on my gum-boots, my fleecy gloves, and a huge scarf over my coat, crossed over my chest and fastened in the small of my back with a safety-pin. I was also wearing two jerseys, a liberty-bodice and a woolly vest, and my black velour hat with its domed crown and saucer brim – a sure indication of exceptional coldness, because we hardly ever wore hats. I was so bundled up that movement was difficult, and within the bundling I was becoming colder and colder, fingers going white and numb within the thick gloves, feet in agony within the socks lining the boots. Naturally I had been pleased to go out for this drive, because I took it for granted that the dog-cart was ‘fun’; but now that we had turned towards home so that the wind was in our faces, pinching our noses to blue and making our eyes stream, I started to whimper and complain.
    ‘Get down and run,’ said Mum impatiently, pulling the mare to a halt. ‘No, I don’t want to.’ – ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake – go on, hop down quickly.’ – ‘ No …’ and the whimpering became a howl. Couldn’t Mum see what I could see: the dog-cart rattling off over the field, while behind – falling ever further behind – stumbled an absurd little figure, its gum-boots tripping over frozen molehills, its arms sticking out because of the thickness of its wrappings, its silly hat like a black mushroom bobbing against the white background of hoarfrost? Think how absurd that figure would look to Revel! So what if running would make me warm – I would rather die of cold than become that figure in this admired man’s eyes.
    ‘ Why won’t you get down?’ asked my exasperated mother. ‘Because it would be so silly,’ I sobbed. ‘But it’s much sillier to sit here snivelling and freezing.’ Howl – howl – howl, because that was true, and Revel, who was keeping out of the scene, staring ahead in an abstracted way, must already have thought me very stupid. But now getting down seemed worse than ever, because the ridiculous figure would be sobbing, its nose would be running, it would be a disgraceful spectacle as well as a comic one – not only my mind, but every muscle in my body locked in refusal of this humiliation.
    Another humiliation, even worse, came at about the same time from a sudden reversal of my role in a public place. My mother had taken Andrew and me up to London on one of our rare excursions to buy shoes or visit the dentist. These trips were exciting because moving staircases, the underground, buses, taxis, lifts, crowds – all the commonplaces of London life – were unfamiliar enough to be glamorous. Mum, more beautiful than ever in her best clothes, became extraordinarily impressive because of her assurance: her certainty as to which bus to take, her ability to swoop through the dazzle and glitter of a huge shop straight from the door to the department we needed. To us London was high life, and its highest points were reached in restaurants.
    Because the object of these trips was usually Daniel Neal’s, the children’s clothing specialists, or a dentist or doctor in the Harley Street area, we would lunch in one of Oxford Street’s big stores: Marshall & Snelgrove, Debenham & Freebody, or John Lewis. That a restaurant covered a vast floor space and contained a great many tables made it all the grander to us – Lyons’ Corner House would have thrilled us. We would be hushed with pleasurable expectation as the lift carried us up, watching the lift-man’s skilful manipulation of his machine with admiration. Sometimes he had to adjust the level before the doors would slide open smoothly – an inch or two up or down, so that we could step out gracefully onto the silencing carpet of the restaurant floor. Then a black-gowned lady would cast a