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Rachel Gould
Iexpectyou’dhavemitchedoffschoolifyou’dhavebeendoing
Thucydides.You thought nobody any more, I suppose?
Well,whenIwasdoingmyAlevels,somepeoplestilldid:twoofus,
tobeprecise, andThucydideswaswhatwestartedon.Idon’tknow
howmuchyouknowaboutThucydides.Ihad
him(that’s,Iknow,andperhapsI’llcutitoutlater,but
atthemomentI’mjusttryingtotellyouthestory).ThePenguintrans
lationIwasusingashadsomethingintheintroductionabout
hisstylebeingobscure.Hecertainlywashellishlydifcultattimes.If
he’dbeenalivetoday,he’dhavebeenthesortofman—anacademic
probably—whospeaksininordinatelylongsentences,andwhofor
getshalfwaythroughquite whatthestructureof hissentenceis,so
thatitendsinawaywhichistotallycontradictorytothebeginning.
Allverywell,youmightthink?Yes,buthewasn’tspeaking,hewas
writing, so why didn’the correct himself afterwards? I never quite
it.
But on the other hand he was a fascinating man. I don’t know
whether you’ve seen Edward VI’s diary in the British Museum,
theonewhowasElizabeth’sbrother—Ithinkhewassixteenwhen
hedied?Well,it’sfullofgures,Imean:listsofallthecar
goescomingintoLondonwithallthedetailsofthenumberofbarrels
ofsaltshandballastandthetonnageofeachvessel.Heobviously
hadapassionfordetail.I’mtellingyouthisbecauseThucydideswas
the same. When you read about the battles in his War,you always
knewhowmanypeoplewere on eachside,howmanywere cavalry
and how many hoplites, and what sort of shields they had, so you
couldhavemadealmaboutit,therewassomuchinformation.Ifhe
couldndouttheexactdetailsfrompeoplewhowereinthebattle,he
gavethemtoyou.Andifhecouldn’tndoutexactly,hemadethem
up, so they would t in. I don’t think that matters, do you? (Some
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peopledid.Theysaidthiswashistory,andhistoryshouldn’tbemade
up. But I had a good answer to that: that the Greek for history is
thesame as the Greek forstory,whichis true.)Andthen, if you’re
agirl—Iam,andIneverwantedtobe–it’susefultondouthow
you stake a harbourbottom to sabotage an incoming enemy eet,
and things of that sort. I became very interested in military tactics.
Thucydideswasageneralhimselfatthebeginningofthewar,soyou
knowhegetsthingsright.Lateronhewasinsomestrange
way which he never , and was fromAthens —
that’soneofthefewdetailshedoesn’tgiveyou.
Sothat’swhyIlikedanddidn’tlikeThucydides.
Idon’tthinktheproblemsstartedinmyrstAlevelyear.Iworked
veryhard—of courseIwasdoing othersubjectsaswell asGreek.
IntheeveningsafterIcamebackfromschoolwehadteaandwatched
some television and then I went up to my room. I don’tremember
workingonmyothersubjects,butIrememberThucydides.Ihadmy
bookcaseonmyleft,oppositethebed,andmydesk—onlyatable,
really—nexttothat,withmyvolumeofThucydidesandavocabulary
bookandthe two hugevolumesof the LiddellandScott dictionary.
Iworkedslowly.Atthe beginning Iwas prepared togloss over dif
culties.IknewtherewasalotIdidn’treally understand,andmyvo
cabularywassmall,andsometimesIhadtolookupalmosteveryword
inasentence.ButasIgotbetter,Ibecamemoreperfectionist.Iwould
worryovera sentencefor minutes, halfan hour perhaps,until Inot
onlyunderstoodthegistofwhathewassaying,buttherelationship,
grammatically,ofeverywordtoeveryotherwordinthesentence.And
thatwasdifcult,becauseThucydideswassoobscure,asIsaidbefore.
Sometimesmyfatherofferedtohelpme,butIrefused.Hetaughtclas
sicsattheUniversity,hewascleverandapatientteacher,butIwanted
toconvincemyselfthatIcouldwithGreekonmyown,without
help.
Sothatwashowtherstyearwent.Itwasinthesecondyearthat
things started going wrong. Not right at the beginning of the year,
Ithink,butafteratimeI’dmyselfahellof.Ihadboy
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problemstoo,butIwon’tgointodetailsoverthat.LikeThucydides
I shall leave something out. It’salways more interesting, don’t you
think,whenawriterleavessomethingout?Youcanmullitoverand
wonder,andthenitgivesthecriticsachancetohavetheirdifferentin
terpretations.Anyway,somehowIstoppedworking.Ithappenedlike
this.Oneday,Ihadn’thadtimetoprepareanyGreek;Ifelt,and
Ididn’tgotomyclass.Thenthenextclass,Ifeltevenguiltier—not
onlyhadInotpreparedmyGreek,butIhadn’tgonetotheprevious
class,andthosetwothingstogetherwerehardertoexplainthaneither
ofthemseparately.SoIdidn’tgotothatclasseither.Andsoitwent
on,untilithadescalatedtosuchapointthatIhadto
intheschoolassemblyhall,inthecorridors,everywhere.So
thenIhadtomitchoffschool.Perhapsit’snotcalledmitchingwhere
youlive,butthat’swhatit’scalledinSwansea.Itmeansstayingaway
fromschoolwithouthavingaletterfromyourparentstosaythatyou
wereill,orhadtogotothedentist,orwerelookingsopalethatyour
motherthoughtyousurelywould beill,
ifsheinsistedonyourtaking
thathorridlongbusjourney.Ijustmitched.
PerhapsIshouldhavementionedbeforethatIlivedinSwansea,
butit’snotreallycentraltothestory.Sufceittosaythatit’swhere
DylanThomaswentto school —youprobably know that.Butnow
I’dbettergiveabriefdescriptionofwherewelived,becausethatwill
explainafewthings.Youprobablythinkthatdescriptionsareboring.
Idotoo,butyousee,Iwanttobeawriterlateron,andwritersalways
givedescriptionsatsomepointinthenarrative,andsoIthinkIshould
practise,andyou’llhavetobearwithme.
When we came to Swansea, we looked at all sorts of different
houses—oldonesintheoldparts,onesneartheUniversityandones
out beyond the Mumbles on Gower Peninsula, but what we chose
wasaholeintheground.Imeanthatliterally.Bythetimewecame
tomove,thehousewasmoreorlessnished,butwhenwerstwent
tolookatthesiteitwasjustaholewithabulldozerinitamongstlots
ofotherholes.Sowhydidwechooseit?Becauseoftheview.IfIwere
Tolstoy I could wax lyrical about that view.The house was almost
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atthebrowofahillwhichledontoawild,marshypatchofcommon
landwheresometimes,intheveryearlymorning,yousawfoxes,and
thentoagolfcourse.Theotherway,towardsthesouth,itlookedover
Swanseabay to the crooked Mumblespeninsula withits lighthouse
and the coast of Devon beyond, and on the other side out towards
theenormous PortTalbotoilrenery which grew plumes ofsmoke
inthedaytime,andbrilliantorangeamesin the night, burningoff
thewastegases.Itwasn’taviewyouwouldcallsublime,Isuppose,
butithadsomethingofeverything,anditwasneverboringtolookat.
Theseawasthebestthing.Intownsyoutelltheweatherandthesea
sonsbythegreennessofplantsandthetimesthatowersgrow.But
inSwansea youtold theweather fromthe moodof thesea aswell.
The sea is more extreme. Sometimes an intense blueness with tiny
foamcapstoeachwave,butsometimesathickangryoilygrey,and
enormouswavesbreakingovertheseawallatMumblesandooding
the shermen’s cottages. I didn’trealize how much I loved the sea
untilIleft.
Thendown the street and roundthe corner fromthe house was
the park. It had been the grounds of a large house at the bottom
ofthe park which now belongedto the University. Itwas a strange
park,abitfantastical.Thepeoplefromthehousemusthavehadagood
headgardener,amanwithabizarre imagination.Atthetop,nearest
ourhouse,wasanareaofdogs’graves,abouttenofthem,alllabeled
withtheirnamesanddates,withdaffodilsandvioletsgrowinground
theminthespring.Thentherewasalongwidesweepofgrassthatran
straightdownthehilltothesearoad.Ononesidewasthebighouse,
ontheotherawood,andbeyondthatanareawithacuriouswinding
streamplantedthicklywithrhododendronsthatgrewlusciousjungle
owersofredandwhiteanddarkpink.Inoneplacetherewasafolly,
andinanotherasortofChinesepagodawithaChinesebridgecrossing
apondcoveredwithwater lilies. Nothingcouldhavebeenmore in
congruousinaparkinSwansea,anditwasoneofmyfavouriteplaces.
Isaidthatthisdescriptionwasgoingtohelpyouunderstandhow
thingshappened,andthisiswhy.Everymorningwewalkedthrough
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that park down the grass slope to the sea road where we waited
forthebustoschool.Weismyselfandmybrothersandsister.Ifor
gottotellyouuntilnowthatIhadanybrothersorsisters—itdidn’t
seemnecessarybecausethisstoryisreallyaboutme,andalittleabout
myfather.ButIjustwantedyoutoknowthatIwasn’tanonlychild,
incaseyouthoughtinthatridiculousFreudianwaythatitwasbecause
IwasanonlychildthatIworkedsohardandlettheworkgetontop
ofmeandthenhadtomitchoffschool.Sousuallywewalkedtogether
andcaughtthe bustogether,butsometimes one orother ofuswent
early,toplayfootballbeforeschoolstarted,orcopysomeone’shome
workifwehadn’thadtimetodoitthenightbefore,orithadbeentoo
difcult.WhenIgotintothisdreadfulmuddleatschoolitdidn’tseem
oddtoanyofthemthatIstartedgettingupabitearlierandgoingoff
tocatchanearlierbus.In fact, thatisn’twhatIwasdoing.Iwalked
downtotheparkgates,turnedrightjustinsidethefenceandwalked
totheChinesepagoda.IfitwassunnyIsatonthestepsleadingdown
tothepool,andifitwasrainingIsat inside the pagoda.Sometimes
Ispentthewholemorningtherereading.Youmustn’tthinkthatIwas
lazy,andthatthatwaswhyImitched.ItwasjustthatThucydideswas
soobscure. Isaid just now that Iwant tobe awriter,and probably
alreadythenIhadanideathatthatwaswhatIwantedtobe,soIread
voraciously,especiallypoetry.Butifitwasverycold,Icouldn’tbear
awholemorninginthepagoda,andItimedonmywatch,carefully,
thetimeswheneveryone should haveleftthehouse — mybrothers
and sister to my school, my mother to the junior school where she
taught,andmyfathertotheUniversity,plushalfanhourforall
(the car breaking down, or someone oversleeping). Then
Iwentbackupthroughtheparktothehouse,letmyselfinandspent
therestofthedayincomfortinmyroom.
Well,thisiswherewegettothemainpointofthestory,where
youwillseehowindirectlyThucydideswasthecauseofmydisco
veringsomethingawful.Ifhehadn’tmadehisPeloponnesianWarso
difculttoread,Idon’tsupposeIeverwouldhavediscovered,and
ifIhadn’tdiscoveredIprobablywouldnothavedonealotofthings
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Ididafterwards.Becausethediscoverymademechangemyviews
aboutagreatmany things.IfyouweregoingtobeFreudianabout
things, you would probably say that it caused my transition from
pubertyto adulthood.And everyoneknows how painful thattran
sitionis.
Itwaslatespringbythistime,butinSwanseathespring,instead
ofbringingtherstneweatherandbeingtheharbingerofsummer,
wasoften thebeginning ofa rainyseason thatI sometimesthought
couldn’tbe much worse than the monsoons. As the alarm went off
inthemorningyouwereimmediatelyawareoftheconstantsoundof
water,falling fromthesky,pouringdownthegutters andthedrains
andinstreamsdowntheroad.Thelawnsinfrontandbehindthehouse
were waterlogged, the trees sprouted moulds on their trunks, and
intheparkitwasdifculttoavoidtheslugsthereweresomany.On
thisparticularmorningtherainwassoheavyIconsiderednotleaving
thehouseatall,butthatwouldhavebeendangerous,andIgotmyself
upandtotheparkintheend.
Idon’tknowwhy,butwhenIgotbacktothehouse,myfather’scar
wasstillinthedrive.PerhapsIhadn’tallowedthefullextrahalfanhour—
itwassowetandIwassocold.Theonlythingtodowastowaitinthega
rageuntilheleft,andthat’swhatIdid.Itwasacaseofmakingthebest
of a bad job. Some people’sgarages are so neat you could quite hap
pilyliveinthem,butourswasn’toneofthose.Theoldbookcaseofmy
grandfather’s,withitsjamjarsfullofrustingnailsandscrews,tinsofoil
andcoilsoffusewire,wastheneatestthinginit.Therestwasachaotic
jumble— the lawnmowerand thestepladder,toolsand aat tyre—
andtherewashardlyenoughlightcomingthroughtheonelowwindow
toreadby.SoIsimplysat,listeningtotherushingrain,andthroughthat
forthescrapingofthefrontdooragainstthemetaldoorsill,whichwould
signalmyfather’sdeparture.Afteralmosthalf anhourthe rain seemed
toeaseoffalittle,andthenthedoorscrapedandIheardtheclickingofmy
father’sshoes—hehadrecentlytakentowearingapairofoldfashioned
blacklaceupshoes,withmetalhalfmoonsatthebackoftheheeltostop
them wearing down. But then as I stood up and tried to
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,IthoughtIheardotherfootsteps.Iprobably
wouldn’thavebeensure—therainwasstillswirlingdownthegutters—
butthenIheardvoices.Onewasmyfather’s;theotherawoman’svoice,
notmymother’s.
‘Getin,’hesaid.I’lldriveyoutothebusstop.
‘Couldn’tyoutakemealltheway?I’vegotaclassatelevenand
theweather’slthy.’
‘Sorry.Wemight be seen.You reallyshouldn’thave comehere
either.Itwasastupidthingtodo.’
‘Ihadto.Iwas miserableafteryesterdayeveningand I thought
youmight...’
Her voice trailed off, the doors slammed, and aftersome damp
rumblingstheenginestartedupandthecarreversedupthedriveand
thendownthehill.Thequietnessoftherainowedslowlybackand
Istaredblanklyattherustonthebackofthegaragedoor.Ithought
ofmymotherstartingonthethirdlessonofthedayontheotherside
ofthetown.
Itwasattheendofthatweekthattheschooltelephonedmypa
rentstotellthemthatIhadn’tbeentoschoolforsomeweeks.Imust
havesuspectedthatthingswerecomingtoahead.Ihadgonetobed
withaslight temperatureandthebeginnings ofacold, arealone,
butonewhichstemmednotsomuchfromsittinginthedampgarage
asfrommystateofmind,whichwasasdismalastheweather.My
parentscameupseparately to talk to me.Mymotherremonstrated
quietly,andmyfatherlecturedmeslightly.Icried.HethoughtIwas
cryingaboutThucydides,inrepentancefortheworkIhadn’tdone.
ButIwascryingabouthim.Iwasseeingthingsinadifferentper
spective,andThucydidesdidn’tseem so muchofa problemashe
hadbefore.
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T a sk s a n d e xe r c i s e s
Children beginby loving their parents.After a time they judge
them.Rarely,ifever,dotheyforgivethem.
Thucydides, a Greek historian and
general;EdwardVI,Elizabeth’sbrother;SigmundFreud,thefounder
ofthepracticeofpsychoanalysis.
1. The “I” of the story hates Thucydides with all her heart.
2.Thucydideshad apassion forstatistics. 3. Thucydidesappealed
to the girl because his works were easy to follow and his style
wasexplicit. 4.Thegirl’sproblemswith Greekstarted inher rst
Alevelyear.5.Themaincharacterkeptnaggingherdad,ateacher
ofclassicsattheUniversity,tohelpherwithherGreek.6.Thegirl
hadtoavoidherclassicsteacherbecauseofherboyproblemsinher
secondyear.7.Playingtruantprovedtobequiteachore.8.Notonly
didsheplaytruant,butshewasutterlylazyaswell.9.Herbrothers
andsisterknew about thegirl’struancy.10.Thegarage belonging
tothe girl’sfamilywas thepicture ofneatness. 11.Thegirl’sbad
coldstemmedfromherlongsittinginthedampgarage.12.Herpa
rentstoldheroffseparately.
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1.WhatmakesthegirlhaveamixedfeelingaboutThucydides?
2. What was characteristic of his style? 3. Would you call the girl
a conscientious student of Greek in her rstAlevel year? 4. How
comethatshefoundherselfhavingtostayawayfromschool?Wasn’t
shemakinga mountain outofa mole hill?5.Does thegirl,inyour
opinion,soundliterallyinclinedjudgingbyherdescriptions?6.Why
does the girl stress the factthat she wasn’t an only child in thefa
mily?7.Howwouldyoucharacterizethegirlintermsofherdeeplaid
scheme? 8. What was it that made the girl change her views about
agreatmanythings?9.LikeThucydidesthegirlleavesplentyofthings
unsaid.Whatexactlycouldshehavesaidifshehadchosentobemore
explicit?
The Penguin translation I was using as … had something
intheintroductionabouthisstylebeingobscure.
a)adictionary b)amanual c)acrib
Ifhe’dbeenalivetoday,he’dhavebeenthesortofman—…
probably — who speaks in inordinately long sentences, and who
forgetshalfwaythrough quite whatthe structureofhis sentenceis,
sothatitendsinawaywhichistotallycontradictorytothebeginning.
a)aschoolteacher b)anacademic c)ahistorian
Heobviouslyhadapassionfor….
a)detail b)tactics c)statistics
Thucydideswas…himselfatthebeginningofthewar,soyou
knowhegetsthingsright.
a)aprofessor b)asoldier c)ageneral
Lateronhewas…insomestrangewaywhichhenevermakes
clear,andwasexiledfromAthens—that’soneofthefewdetailshe
doesn’tgiveyou.
a)disgraced b)awarded c)dismissed
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Andthatwasdifcult,becauseThucydideswasso…,asIsaid
before.
a)particular b)obscure c)explicit
Sometimes…offeredtohelpme,butIrefused.
a)myclassicsteacher
b)mymother
c)myfather
Oneday,Ihadn’thadtimetoprepareanyGreek;Ifelt…,and
Ididn’tgotomyclass.
a)guilty b)outofspirits c)feverish
Idotoo,butyousee,Iwanttobe…lateron,andwritersalways
givedescriptionsatsomepointinthenarrative,andsoIthinkIshould
practise,andyou’llhavetobearwithme.
a)aheadgardener b)awriter c)aplumber
Sowhydidwechooseit?Becauseof….
a)theview b)theneighbours c)thepark
ButinSwanseayoutoldtheweather…aswell.
a)bythegreennessofplants
b)bythetimesthatowersgrow
c)fromthemoodofthesee
Thepeople fromthehouse must havehada goodheadgar
dener,amanwitha…imagination.
a)bizarre b)poor c)rich
ButIjustwantedyoutoknowthatIwasn’t…,incaseyou
thought in that ridiculous Freudian way that it was because I was
anonlychildthatIworkedsohardandlettheworkgetontopofme
andthenhadtomitchoffschool.
a)anonlychild b)anidealchild c)aspoiltchild
You mustn’t think that I was … , and that that was why
Imitched.
a)lazy b)diligent c)neglecting
OnthisparticularmorningtherainwassoheavyIconsidered
notleavingthehouseatall,butthatwouldhave been … , and I got
myselfupandtotheparkintheend.
a)marvelous b)risky c)dangerous
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