Under a Canvas Sky Clare Peake
CONSTABLE • LONDON
Constable & Robinson Ltd 3 The Lanchesters 162 Fulham Palace Road London W6 9ER www.constablerobinson.com First published in the UK by Constable, an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd., 2011 Copyright © Clare Penate 2011 The right of Clare Penate to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 Excerpt from Mervyn Peake by John Watney (Michael Joseph, 1976) reprinted by permission of Marcus Watney Excerpt from The Naked Civil Servant by Quentin Crisp (Jonathan Cape, 1968) reprinted by permission of the Estate of Quentin Crisp Excerpt from 1945 1945:: The Dawn Came Up Like Thunder by Tom Pocock (Collins, 1983) reprinted by permission of Penny Pocock Excerpt from Introduction to Mervyn Peake: The Man and his Art (ed. G. Peter Winnington) (Peter Owen, 2006) by Michael Moorcock reprinted by permission of Michael Moorcock Excerpt of ‘The Listeners’ by Walter de la Mare © 1912, reprinted by permission of The Trustees of Walter de la Mare and the Society of Authors as their representatives All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication data is available from the British Library ISBN 978-1-84901-511-0 Printed and bound in the EU 1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
For Scarlett, Titus and Jack – love always.
The vastest things are those we may not learn. We are not taught to die, nor to be born, Nor how to burn with love. How pitiful is our enforced return To those small things we are the masters of. The Vastest Things Are Those We May Not Learn , Mervyn Peake
It all began on a rainy September morning in 1936. I’ve I’ ve of ofte ten n pi pict ctur ured ed th thee hi high gh-c -cei eili ling nged ed st stud udio io at th thee Westminster School of Art, transparent dots settling on the brroad skyl b yliight above, like a Seurat. I see the stud udeents in their coloured smocks, red-mouthed women with sharp bobs, men in baggy trousers. I hear smoky laughter from the fullfigured models and, up above, I see the dark skies of London spoiling for the start of autumn. I see my father leaning over the clay, shaping it with his dexterous fingers. I see my mother walk nervously into the room. It was her first day at art school. She was seventeen. I know about this moment, how it was love at first sight.
Introduction
I
haven’t seen my father for forty years and my mother for twenty-five, yet not a day goes by without my thinking of them. They pop in and out of my head with a comforting regularity as I look around me and wonder what they would make of the world. My mother, Maeve Gilmore, was a painter and my father, Mervyn Peake, a novelist, painter, poet and illustrator. If he’d been just one of these things I sometimes think his life might have turned out differently. He has never been easy to place. To some he is the author of the Gormenghast trilogy, to others the illustrator of classics they loved as a child. Some know him as a poet and many don’t know him at all. I knew him as a father, and as a father his talents were as great as any line drawing he ever sketched or sentence he ever wrote. The first few years of my life were wonderfully happy. It seemed I inhabited an enchanted playground, where all the wonders of the world were there, before my eyes; a place where creativity, love and laughter were all you needed for a contented and satisfied soul. Our life abruptly altered when my father became ill. Beginning with a nervous 2
breakdown, it ended with Parkinson’s disease, the final diagnosis taking years to discover. It changed him from a cheerful, easy-going man into a frightened stranger, locked into his own private nightmare – a place too far away for me to reach. In my sma mall ll wo worl rld d, as the yo youn unge gest st ch chil ild d and on only ly daughter, I was protected from too much pain by a fierce respect for childhood – nothing was allowed to ruin that crucial and fleeting moment. Life for Mervyn and Maeve was much harder than they ever let on and deep down I knew this but, because outwardly they appeared lighthear he arte ted d an and d op opttim imis isti tic, c, I al allo lowe wed d mys ysel elff to be fo fool oled ed.. Tw Twel elve ve of my father’s fifty-seven years were spent in and out of mental institutions and during that time I lived in a haze of confusion, believing that nervous breakdowns and mental hospitals were just a part of life. Since this book is primarily about my parents I should declare at once that I adored them. I didn’t adore them they ey we were re my pa pare ren nts ts,, bu butt be beca caus usee the hey y we were re because th char ch armi ming, ng, lo lovin ving, g, gen gener erous ous-he -heart arted ed pe peop ople, le, an and d an ab abso solut lutee j jo oy to be aroun und d. With a surfe feiit of crea eattivi vitty surroun und ding me wherever I turned, little money and a healthy disregard for convention, an outsider might quite rightly describe our household as bohemian. I saw it only as a munificent and pass pa ssio iona nate te sa sanc nctu tuar ary, y, wh wher eree id idea eass we were re ev ever eryt ythi hing ng an and d lo love ve was the key. The sprawling Victorian house I grew up in is engraved on my mind forever as the scene of more happiness and more despair than anywhere I lived before or have lived since. When my paternal grandparents died, they left their house to my father and, in 1953, when I was four, we moved from Chelsea to the Surrey suburbs. For the next seve ven n ye yeaars 3
it signified a period in time that was neatly sliced in two, the first half idyllic, the second bewildering and sad. In 1960 we move ved d back to Chels lsea ea and li liffe changed aga gaiin, and for the better. London in the 1960s was a place with a romance all of its own. Optimism clung to the air, a sense of daring made anything seem possible, as if everything were being experienced for the first time. The films, art, theatre, music and fashion were so exciting and inventive you felt yourself to be a participant in a pageant of kaleidoscopic colour. For a time, Mervyn was central to the spirit of this era. er a. Wh Whiile he wa wass la lang ngui uisshin ing g in ble leak ak hos ospi pita tals ls all ov oveer the coun co untr try, y, Pe Peng ngui uin n Bo Book okss re repu publ blis ishe hed d th thee Go Gorm rmen engh ghas astt trilogy and, with a fervour, his books were read, dissected and loved by a mass of people in a way he’d never know, neve ne verr ha have ve be beli liev eved ed wa wass po poss ssib ible le.. Th Thee bo book okss be beca came me essential reading, part of the very fabric of a generation’s combined memory, and of this I am incredibly proud. During this difficult time my mother, with a stubborn refusal to give in to self-pity or gloom, created an atmosphere at home that was thrillingly glamorous and aliv al ive. e. He Herr pa part rtie iess we were re le lege gend ndar ary y oc occa casi sion ons. s. Wr Writ iter ers, s, painters, poets and publishers would talk, drink and dance the night away until the early hours, and I can’t remember my teenage years without conjuring up an image of our house echoing with the sounds of people having fun. I have spent my whole life wanting to protect my father. I didn’t know that un unttil I bega gan n to write this book. In Inttrod oduc uceed to strangers with my pedigree thrown in as an icebreaker, I long to run away. The complexities of the opening line ‘Mervyn Peake’s daughter’ create a minefield of awkwardness and embarrassment. Will they stare at me blankly, will
4
they say something clever or will they be nice? I never know. The reason I wanted to protect him, and still do, is because his illness was so awful and pervasive that, as a child, I saw him una nab ble to pr pro ote tect ct hi him msel elf. f. He sh shrrank bef efo ore my ey eyes es and I felt it my job to straighten him up, to shield him from those who might want to hurt him, to protect this towering man – my hero – from the world. I don’t exaggerate when I say that Maeve and Mervyn’s life was one of extremes, the greatest of happiness and the lowest of despair, but with a love so deep and a friendship so enduring it allowed them to believe they’d been lucky. They retained a lack of world-weariness and cynicism that to a child was magical. It was not borne out of naivety but of something else – a belief in people and a genuine love of life. I have tried to recapture the feeling of a time that is drif iftting farther and fa farrther away, but fo forr now see eem ms as cl clo ose as ever. Despite the sadness that coloured our lives, I can only look back with fondness at a time that, unrealistic as it may sound, was glorious. I knew then, as I know now, that what I witnessed was unique.
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Chinese Whispers
B
ehind ehin d the co com mpo poun und d wa wall llss sto too od six id iden enttic ical al gr greey st ston onee houses, built for the missionaries and their families. Beyond lay China. In one of these double-shuttered, threestoreyed houses, the fourth one along, nearest the tennis court, Mervyn sat drawing at the dining-room table. When I visualise my father as a child, I see him at this table, lost in concentration, an endlessly replenished supply of paper, pencils and crayons spread in front of him, as he draws any an ythi hin ng, rea eall and im imaagi gin ned ed,, that he sees es.. Fr Fro om the moment he could clasp a pencil his parents recognised their son’s prec pr ecoc ocio ious us ta tale lent nt,, an and d en enco cour urag aged ed hi him m in hi hiss pa pass ssio iona nate te lo love ve of dra rawi win ng. I kno now w tha hatt the co cons nsttan antt in inte terr rrup upttio ion ns fo forr mea eals ls irri ir rita tate ted d Me Merv rvyn yn.. Th Thee ob obli liga gato tory ry ti tidy dyin ing g aw away ay of pe penc ncil ilss an and d paper to make way for another round of food was to him a hated irrelevance. I’m told he had to be dragged from the table to go to bed. I see him glancing out of the dining-room window, his senses bombarded by the sights and sounds of Tien Ti ents tsin in,, no nort rthe hern rn Ch Chin ina, a, wh wher eree he li live ved d un unti till he wa wass twelve. It was a happy ch chiildhood od,, a live velly, af affe fecctio ion nate hom omee wit ith h hiss Co hi Cong ngre rega gati tion onal alis istt me medi dica call mi miss ssio iona nary ry pa pare rent nts, s, ‘Do ‘Doc’ c’ an and d 6
Bessie, and elder brother Lonnie, a conventional, middleclas cl asss up upbr brin ingi ging ng in th thee mo most st un unco conv nven enti tion onal al of se sett ttin ings gs,, an and d the very English wordplay, puns and imagery Doc used in his everyday speech were to influence my father for the rest of hi hiss lif ifee. Mer ervy vyn n was fa fassci cin nat ateed by his fa fatthe her’ r’ss wor ork. k. Eve very ry day on his way to school – by mule and, later, bicycle – he passed hordes of injured people queuing for Doc’s surgery, and an d th thee cu cure re th that at wo woul uld d mi mira racu culo lous usly ly he heal al th them em.. Do Docc performed over a thousand operations a year with Bessie, a nurs nu rse, e, an and d lo loca call as assi sist stan ants ts by hi hiss sid ide, e, spe peak akin ing g Ma Mand ndar arin in to his local assistants, training them in all aspects of medicine. Sometimes Mervyn hid in the viewers’ gallery, surreptitiously watching his father performing his operations, once fainting as he watched Doc sawing through the leg of a young Chinaman, the severed limb being carried off on a tray of sawdust. I would give anything to have known Doc. Whenever his name was mentioned there was a change of texture to the conversation, conversatio n, and the warmth his name provoked made me sorry I ne neve verr met him. One of ten ch chil ild dre ren n, Ern rneest Cromwe well ll Peak Pe akee wa wass bo born rn in Ma Mada daga gasc scar ar in 18 1874 74 to mi miss ssio iona nary ry parents. A slow-talking, sweet-natured man, he read medicine at Edinburgh University, said goodbye to his parents and nd,, age ged d tw twen enttyy-fo four ur,, em emb bar ark ked on a jo jour urne ney y tha hatt to took ok him slowly and perilously up the Yangtze river and into China. He didn’t see his family again for fifteen years. For one lonely year, he didn’t speak to another European. The first Man and dar arin in he le lear arn ned ed,, ‘H ‘Hav avee yo you u ha had d yo your ur ri rice ce to tod day ay?’ ?’ bei eing ng the Chinese equivalent of ‘Greetings’. Four years on, and by now speaking Mandarin fluently, he lived and worked in the Western medicine centre he had set up in Hengchow, in the central Hunan province. On a 7
break from his busy practice, his lingering loneliness finally disa di sapp ppea eare red d wh when en he me mett Am Aman anda da El Eliz izab abet eth h Po Powe well ll (Bessie), an assistant missionary, and in 1903, five months aftter thei af eirr fi firs rstt mee eeti tin ng, th they ey marr rrie ied d in Ho Hong ng Kon ong. g. In 190 904, 4, their first son, Leslie (Lonnie), was born. During a summer leave seven years later, in the same mountain resort of Kuling, Central Southern China, where Doc and Bessie had first met – a place so remote and inac in acce cess ssib ible le th that at bo both th co comm mmun unis istt Ma Mao o Ts Tsee-Tu Tung ng an and d nationalist Chiang Kai-shek sought refuge there at various times in their careers – the family awaited the birth of Mervyn. Bessie had a weak heart and it was thought that the mountain air would do her good. She had given birth to still born twin daughters daughters some some time earlier and it was important important that she rest. A few days after my father’s birth on 9 July 1911, sudden and bloody revolution broke out. As the Peking-based Manchu and the Chinese battled it out in flaming Hankow, Doc set off to join the Red Cross. The numb nu mber er of ca casu sual alti ties es wa wass en enor orm mou ouss an and d the here re wa wass hu huge ge lo loss ss of life. In improvised hospitals and on a commandeered, priv pr ivat atel ely y ow owne ned d st stea eam m ya yach cht, t, Do Docc an and d hi hiss co comr mrad ades es tr trea eate ted d thee wo th woun unde ded d un unti till th thee de defe feat ated ed Ma Manc nchu hu re retr trea eate ted d to Pe Peki king ng and Doc could rejoin his family. Even so, it was still not safe enough for them to return to their out-station home in Hengchow, and when they finally did go back, Mervyn was already five months old. They w e r e no t t o s ta y l o ng . T h e r e v o l u t i o n m ad e l i f e t o o dang da nger erou ouss fo forr fo fore reig igne ners rs in Hu Huna nan n pr prov ovin ince ce an and, d, wi with th gr grea eatt sadness at lea eavi vin ng the plac acee wher eree Doc had live ved d sin incce 1899 99,, thee su th surg rger ery, y, th thei eirr ma many ny fr frie iend ndss an and d th thee ex exot otic ic-fr -frui uite ted, d, flowered and herbed garden he and Bessie had planted, they, their two sons and their belongings sailed a thousand 8
m i l e s n or t h . D o c w a s t o t a k e o v e r a s d i r e c t o r o f t h e MacKenzie Memorial Hospital, Tientsin. It was there that Mervyn was to spend his formative years.
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