Love is this and that and always present
“SONNET III,” JOY DAVIDMAN
August 1952
I stepped off the SS United States onto the Southhampton docks, squinting through my glasses at the unfamiliar country shrouded in fog and coal dust. The land, and what lush green glory it held for me, rested somewhere beyond.
I dragged my luggage, a sight I’m sure for all to see, because even with the smog and dirt, I had a feeling of such lightness and gaiety that the malaise I’d been carrying for years fell off like shed skin. I wouldn’t have been surprised if someone had chased me down and bellowed, “You dropped something back there!”
I had left my family in America, and I knew there were neighbors and friends who didn’t understand. Our church community scowled. Other women talked about me. And yet must not their souls die inside? Did they not feel the anxiety that comes when the inner light rises and cries out, “Let me live”?
Perhaps our Maker had stitched us each together in such a way that this was not true of all women. I could have kept on the way I was going, empty and jaundiced, sick and desolate of soul. I could have tried even harder to erase the stench of whiskey from my alcoholic husband, to scrub the floors cleaner, to quiet my troubled heart. Of course I could have, but what would it have cost me?
A complicated musical composition of accents—from Cockney and melodic Irish to sophisticated Queen’s English—carried me along the sidewalk as if it had been written for my very arrival. I boarded a train and then disembarked in London to hail a cab. The city passed by with beauty: cobbled streets and red double-decker buses, lampposts arching over the sidewalks so majestically they seemed to guard the city. Men in suits riding bicycles, women in smart, waist-cinched dresses tottering on high heels along the sidewalks. Cathedrals with spires reaching toward the sky. Cherry-colored phone booths on the corners, the doors often swung open like a secret invitation. The taxi arrived at Phyl’s flat on 11 Elsworthy Road, a road lined with silver birch and sycamore trees that beckoned like a secret passageway.
My sea legs swaying beneath me, I stood on the brownstone steps and knocked with the confident hope of a new beginning. Phyl threw open the door, and for a moment I didn’t recognize her. The last I’d seen her had been at my house in Staatsburg, where she’d been suicidal and wan—but there she was, her cheeks flushed and her smile wide, full of vitality with a boisterous greeting and a grand hug. “You’re here!”
Transformation. Yes! That was what I sought. To name something was to make it mine—transformation of my heart and body.
And it would all begin here in London.
Today I will meet Jack.
The thought awoke me with a smile in the guest bedroom at Phyl’s. I’d been in England for a month already—wanting to become strong and ready to meet my pen-friend, as well as enjoy the peace and rest I needed. Today was the day.
I rose slowly to the whistle of a teapot.
In the past days I’d been seduced by England, and time had flown by with proof that it is relevant, that it moves quicker in happiness, fleeing away from me like water from the highest fall. I’d explored London with an awakened desire to learn and see everything I could in the nine-hundred-square-mile regal city. This journey, these days away from my little boys, must be worth the absence, and I set forth to make it so. As Phyl and I ambled through Trafalgar Square, she huffed, out of breath. “You’ve walked all of this city, I’m sure. Aren’t you tired of it?”
“Tired of it?” I spread my arms wide and laughed. “Walking has always allowed me to slough off the darker parts of myself. And I’m stunned by this city’s beauty.” I sat on the edge of the fountain and motioned for her to do the same. “What’s fascinating is the way I see the world now. It’s as if in believing in God I was given new eyes—the world is full of possibility and fascination. It’s no longer just nature, or just beauty—it’s revelation.”
She squinted into the sun and jostled me. “Looks the same to me.”
“Oh, Phyl!” I held my hands to the sky. “Can’t you see now that anything is possible? Anything. The world changes when you understand the Love behind it, over it, and under it.”
“You love life by the fistfuls, my dear.” She patted my knee.
We made our way home, and for the remaining weeks I was poked and prodded by the dentists and doctors I visited—healing was paramount in this journey. I also filled my days with reading and research, writing and traveling, meeting new friends and finding a writing group.
Loads of letters flew back and forth between Bill, the kids, Renee, and me. I wanted to tell them every detail of my journey.
Joy:
Oh Renee, how I wish you’d been with me at Trafalgar Square where I found a Spanish restaurant you would have adored. But I’ve realized this: Londoners must be half duck. If not for the crepe-soled shoes I’d have swum through the streets.
Bill:
I’m very glad to hear that all is “beer and skittles” for you, and that you are marvelously happy, but we are having a hard time here. Money is tight. Forgive me for not sending more this time.
Joy:
Dearest Poogle,
I am sorry money is tight. I will do what I can here to write and sell, to pinch the shillings. I think of you often—I wish you could have been with me when I went to an open-air theater where a huge thunderstorm shook the tent as if we were still in Vermont! I also took a trip to Hampstead Heath, where I bought three pieces of art for cheap-cheap, a watercolor for only thirty-five shillings. It’s a wonderful place and full of all sorts of artists and writers. Maybe we should sell the house and move here. Love all around, Joy.
P.S. to Davy: The aquarium here has a five-foot grand salamander from Japan!!
Davy had written to me of the snake Bill had finally let him get—Mr. Nichols, he named him. I thought of my boys continuously, and when I went to the London Zoo I missed them fiercely and bought souvenirs to send.
I visited Madam Tussauds Museum and every chapel or cathedral or art studio open to me. Then there was my solo journey to Canterbury, which felt like entering a book I’d read as a child. I’d never seen a land that echoed my dreams—the seductive, rolling green hills in their variegated greens, lined with stone walls and dotted with cottony sheep.
I fell in love with England again and again. The shape of my soul was changing with every view; I wanted to be strong and steady before I met Jack in person.
I traveled through Kent, a country of short-horn cows and undulating golden hills. I tried to describe it in my letters, but how could I do it justice? Miles and miles of apple and pear and plum trees. Hazel thickets and rowan trees with red berries flaming like fire that didn’t consume. Chestnut trees and fields of hops flew past like Renoirs. I filled myself with the views. The WWII bombed-out spaces revealed ancient Roman pavement and walls below—there was a story everywhere I looked. Oh, how America seemed provincial and boring in comparison.
Then there were the friends I found. Two days into my trip, at Jack’s urging, I knocked on Florence Williams’s door. Her late husband, Charles Williams, had dubbed her his “Michal,” and although he was gone, the name had stuck. He’d been a poet, theologian, author, and an Inkling with Jack and J. R. R. Tolkien. And in a connection that made us both break into the laughter that binds friends, we discovered that Bill had written a foreword for one of her late husband’s books—The Greater Trumps. Not only did we become fast friends, but she also introduced me to an author’s crowd in London—a group of science fiction writers who gathered off Fleet Street on Thursday nights in a low-slung ceiling pub called the White Horse. They dubbed their group the “London Circle,” and I ducked into their cluster and drew that circle around me. Over thick beers and bangers their stories, debate, and publishing gossip swirled around me. It was community I’d been after and community I found, as though I’d washed up on an island after being lost at sea.
Bill:
It’s nice to hear you went to both the doctor and the dentist already. I hope you are healing. The boys are doing well but miss you more than they let on.
Renee:
Thank you for the Liberty scarf! I’ve been wearing it everywhere. Please forgive Bill for not sending much money; we are broke as we can be—sorry to be so down, but it’s just the gosh awful truth: Bill is having trouble selling anything at all.
Joy:
Dear Poogabill,
I’m sorry you can’t send money and that you actually are “broke as can be.” I am writing every day and if I sell something, I will send some cash to you. Meanwhile I will scrape by—thank God for Phyl and a place to live. You’ll be thrilled to know that I’ve found a writing group. Most of them are sci-fi writers, and many of them know your work. And guess who I met? Arthur Clarke! You know, the famous author who is a member of the British Interplanetary. As for my health, I’ve never felt better. Just you wait, Sweetabill, when I come home I’m going to be the nicest poogle you’ve ever known me to be.
“Joy!” Phyl’s voice called from the hallway. “We must leave or we’ll miss the train to Oxford.”
I’d switched outfits and hats three times; I had almost chosen the black Jaeger wool jersey I’d just bought but changed my mind when I saw it might look dreary. I’d put my hair up and then down, and then pinned again in my regular bun. It was Michal Williams who’d told me that Jack liked it when women made an effort in their dress.
Phyl poked her head into the room and pressed her hands to her chest. “You look beautiful. I love that tartan dress.”
“Oh, Phyl.” I pulled up my stockings and snapped them into the garter that dug into my thigh. “I wonder what we’ll all talk about. I’m not very good with new people. That’s Bill’s realm in the kingdom of our marriage—he’s engaging and charming, he laughs loud and tells jokes, he plays his guitar and participates in games. I usually find myself in a corner debating politics or religion or books.” I slid my glasses on and smiled at Phyl.
“But you already know this man.”
“I do, I believe. He’s bringing a friend, and there’ll be four of us.” I glanced in the mirror one more time, tucked my hair under the grosgrain hat with the blue ribbon. “Thank you for coming with me.”
“It’s no trouble,” she assured me. “And I certainly want to meet him too. Plus Oxford—who doesn’t want to take a sojourn to Oxford? You think you like London? Just you wait. And you’ll adore Victoria’s little guest room, both convenient and cozy.”
I fetched my bags and straightened my shoulders. “Let’s be on with it then.”
Phyl and I sat side by side as the train lurched from the platform. She read a novel and I watched her face, her long eyelashes sweeping down and up, and a horrid memory flooded me: a terrible fight with Bill in December of last year. He’d taken Phyl in our old Chrysler to Pier 88 in Manhattan for her return trip to London. I’d been sick, miserable, cooped up, and suspicious after the previous nights of admitted infidelity, and I hadn’t been rational. When Bill called to say the car was sputtering with trouble and he would spend the night at Hotel Woodstock, I accused him of seducing Phyl. I screamed and cursed and embarrassed myself. He in turn raged at me. I didn’t remember the words that were said, but the gaping soul-wounds had cut deep and remained.
Phyl had proved herself to be the most loyal and uplifting friend; I wondered how I ever could have thought she’d take any such nonsense from my husband. And Bill had sworn his infidelity was over . . . but for a wife it is never over. Ever.
“Phyl,” I said as the train exhaled coal-tinged smoke and heaved toward Oxford.
“Hmmm?”
“I’m nervous. Isn’t that odd? Why should I be nervous about meeting a man and his friend at a restaurant? I’ve met a hundred writers in my day, and most of them not worthy of the awe I gave them.”
“Because you respect this writer so much. I think you’re quite afraid to meet the real man. Maybe he’s not everything you’ve imagined him to be.”
I laughed, too loudly as always, and two women a row ahead turned with disapproving looks. I offered them my biggest smile. Nothing like a little kindness to kill. “Oh, cookie,” I said to Phyl. “Could you be any more blunt?”
“We might as well face the truth, my dear.” She stretched and closed The Great Divorce, which she’d wanted to skim before meeting Jack. “There’s no real use in pretending you don’t care. Of course the butterflies must be flapping all over your insides.”
I thought for a moment as the landscape flickered by, green and gold. “It’s not losing the respect for him that makes me nervous; there’s no chance of that. It’s the regard he might or might not have for me. You know, my dear, Jews aren’t taken too kindly round these parts. Even ex-Jews. What if this ex-atheist, ex-Communist, Bronx-born woman appalls him?”
“Maybe appalled, but more likely a little enthralled. Like a good book unfolding, you’ll just have to wait and see.”
The checkered fabric-covered seats itched to the touch but I sank back anyway, lifting the shade higher on the window. Green fields passed by, wetlands and rivers, marinas and creeks. It seemed as if we crossed many rivers, although it might have been only one, snaking its way between London and Oxford. High on a knoll we blew by a small town where the chimney pots below looked like headstones. Then we passed through the coal-tinged Industrial Slough and onward through Reading. The rocking sensation of the train left me sleepy as I imagined a few opening lines for the moment I saw Jack.
It’s an honor and a privilege.
You’ve changed my life.
I’ve adored you since halfway through The Great Divorce when you stated, “No people find themselves more absurd than lovers.”
Hi, I’m Joy, and I’m a nervous mess.
But in the end I said none of those things.