Auto da Fay: A Memoir

Overview


Fay Weldon, one of England's best-selling and most celebrated authors, looks back on her life as wife, lover, playwright, novelist, feminist, antifeminist, and bon vivant in this funny and engaging memoir. She writes brilliantly about her upbringing in New Zealand, as young and poor girl in London, as an unmarried mother, wife, lover, playwright, novelist, feminist, anti-feminist, and winer-and-diner: there is little ground she's failed to cover.

Brought up among women-her ...

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Overview


Fay Weldon, one of England's best-selling and most celebrated authors, looks back on her life as wife, lover, playwright, novelist, feminist, antifeminist, and bon vivant in this funny and engaging memoir. She writes brilliantly about her upbringing in New Zealand, as young and poor girl in London, as an unmarried mother, wife, lover, playwright, novelist, feminist, anti-feminist, and winer-and-diner: there is little ground she's failed to cover.

Brought up among women-her intrepid mother, grandmother, and sister-Weldon found men a mystery until the swinging-sixties London introduced her to the indecent, the hopeless, and the golden-footed. A central figure among the Bohemian writers and artists of the sixties, she has maintained this unique position through four turbulent decades. An icon to many, a thorn in the flesh to others, she has never failed to excite, madden, or interest.

Born Franklin Birkinshaw in Barnt Green, Birmingham, in 1931, most of Weldon's childhood was spent in New Zealand. Her glamorous father, a philandering doctor, played only a minor role as was generally absent. Fay's intrepid mother and bohemian grandmother raised her along with her sister, Jane. Weldon's family, it turns out, has an impressive literary pedigree; her grandfather, Edgar, Uncle Selwyn and, for a brief while, her mother were all novelists. Arriving in London from New Zealand, just after the Second World War, her mother kept the brood together by working as a servant in a grand house-the experience of living below stairs later helped Weldon to script the television drama Upstairs, Downstairs.

After graduating from St. Andrews University, Weldon worked in the Foreign Office until becoming pregnant. Defying the conventions of the times, she remained a single parent. She struggled, living in poverty in post-war London made all the more grinding since she was trying to maintain respectability. Following a stint at the Daily Mirror, she drifted into advertising before desperately entering into a crushingly awful marriage of financial (in)convenience-a marriage so dreadful she writes of it in the third person as if writing about characters in a novel. With cool, unwavering honesty she details the truly crushing experience of being hitched to a celibate, Masonic headmaster who encouraged her to work in a seedy West End nightclub. She escapes eventually, and finds true love at thirty after meeting Ron Weldon at a party. When this union, too, comes to an end, Fay's packed enough experience into her life to begin her career as a writer. She develops into a bohemian intellectual, and works alongside poets such as Edwin Brock, David Wevill and Peter Porter, pens winning advertising slogans, and truly begins writing seriously. Fay closes her riveting memoir as she drops what will be her first success, a television play, into a Regents Park mailbox on her way to the hospital to give birth. The play will be the first of many triumphs for a writer whose provocative oeuvre has never failed to excite, madden, or interest.

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Editorial Reviews

The New York Times
Though she announces at the beginning of Auto da Fay that she's looking for the patterns of her own experience (and finds them), she's a woman so ''rooted in the carnal and instinctive world'' that she can hardly bend her life-so-far to a single narrative arc. Her portrait of London in the 1950's and 60's is intricately evocative. Her treatment of her adulterous father, who might have been given short shrift as a character, is generous: he's roundly forgiven and clearly beloved. Herself-as-heroine is multifaceted, nuanced and self-judging. Although, like many memoirists, Weldon ends her book just at the point when her career is about to take hold, her story of a lost girl on her way to finding herself winds up having heft as well as lift. — Janet Burroway
The Washington Post
Beginning with its deliciously witty title and ending with its staunch final paragraph, Fay Weldon's autobiography is from first to last a wonder. Incredible though it may seem, the forever-youthful British novelist is now in her early seventies, from which vantage point she looks back upon her early years with fondness and regret, with the occasional brief glint of malice or flicker of astonishment, with protests against fate's cruel surprises yet a stoic acceptance of their inevitability. — Jonathan Yardley
Publishers Weekly
Readers who think Weldon's provocatively clever fiction (The Bulgari Connection; Wicked Women; etc.) is also highly improbable need only pick up this frank, irreverent memoir to discover her own life has been far more strange and dramatic than any novel could credibly convey. All the characteristics of Weldon's fiction-stinging wit, jaunty prose, memorable bon mots-are present in this kaleidoscopic peregrination through six decades of picaresque adventures. The racy narrative begins with older generations of Weldon's family and continues with Weldon, her mother and her sister. Her family history on both sides is eccentric and troubled. Fay was christened Franklin when she was born in 1931 in England, where her mother had fled temporarily, leaving her adulterous husband in New Zealand. Eventually she took Fay and her older sister back to Christchurch, but the reconciliation didn't work, and they returned to England for Fay's secondary and college education. She was always drawn to the wrong men, risky behavior, chronic impecuniousness and even promiscuity. In addition to being routinely victimized by men, the women in Weldon's family were susceptible to seeing ghosts and succumbing to emotional breakdowns. How Weldon made her way as a poor unwed mother (in the 1950s, she lived in a house without heat, water or an indoor bathroom) through several bizarre relationships into a job as an advertising copywriter, is a riveting story; the book closes as she's beginning a career as a TV scriptwriter. This memoir will be read by some for the real "dirt" on a popular novelist, but it will last longer as a reflection of a time when feminism had not yet released women from the careless perfidy of feckless men. Photos. Agent, Emma Parry. (June) Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Weldon relates how a tough little girl from New Zealand sailed into the Swinging Sixties and emerged a famed author. Copyright 2003 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
An acerbic and affectionate memoir from the prolific novelist, satirist, short-story writer, playwright, essayist, and chronicler par excellence of the war between the sexes. Weldon (Rhode Island Blues, 2000, etc.) was born in 1931 and speedily given the name Franklin Birkinshaw, which caused some initial confusion for teachers and bureaucrats. Soon her parents were calling her Fay, though, and she went through a couple of other married names (Davies, Bateman) before marrying Ron Weldon in the early 1960s. She grew up in New Zealand. Her physician father left home for another woman, and her mother took a variety of jobs (including novelist) to keep herself and two daughters alive. Young Fay was a voracious reader (she broke the code at age three) and survived childhood bouts of polio, sibling rivalry, brainless and humorless teachers, and crushes on classmates, mostly other girls. After a variety of family crises and an unexpected inheritance right out of Dickens, the Weldon women moved in the late 1940s to England, where Fay continued her schooling and began to think about being a writer. By 1952 she had an MA in economics and psychology; thereafter she held so many jobs that a list of them could form a sort of Yellow Pages of failure. She wrote ads for eggs, bras, and hair conditioner. She wrote the pilot for Upstairs, Downstairs but was fired, she claims, when the producers decided they wanted to dull the edge of her satiric blade. She experimented sexually, found many men wanting, found herself pregnant, and made a number of other mistakes with a potpourri of inappropriate partners, the most bizarre of whom was Husband #2, who eschewed sex and opined that many married couples had nosexual relations. Amusingly, Weldon writes about herself in the third person in these passages. Fact or fiction, Weldon still draws blood with her biting prose. Agent: Emma Parry/Carlisle & Co.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780802141422
  • Publisher: Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
  • Publication date: 6/9/2004
  • Edition description: First Trade Paper Edition
  • Pages: 384
  • Product dimensions: 5.54 (w) x 8.26 (h) x 1.04 (d)

Read an Excerpt

Auto da Fay


By FAY WELDON

GROVE PRESS

Copyright © 2002 Fay Weldon
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0802117503


Chapter One


I long for a day of judgment when the plot lines of our lives will be neatly tied, and all puzzles explained, and the meaning of events made clear. We take to fiction, I suppose, because no such thing is going to happen, and at least on the printed page we can observe beginnings, middles and ends, and can find out where morality resides. Real life tends to fade out into entropy, all loose ends, and grief for what should have been, could have been, had things turned out just a little differently. Yet probably the life that was lived was the best that could be done: even, to the outsider, better than could have been expected.

This is an attempt to narrate a real life, my own, and to find the pattern within it. The pattern can't really be completed, of course, until death, when autobiography so rudely turns into biography, but so far as I can do it, I will.

There seems to be a general overall pattern in most lives, that nothing happens, and nothing happens, and then all of a sudden everything happens. You are swimming out to sea, you're rocking gently in the wake of a wave, all seems tranquil, but water is mounting beneath you, unstoppable, and suddenly you are the wave, breaking and crashing, sucking back into a maelstrom-and then all is tranquil again.

When I was three months in the womb, in a period no doubt of nothing happening and nothing happening except a general warm all-pervasive dullness, an earthquake in Napier, New Zealand, had my mother Margaret running from the house with my two-year-old sister Jane in her arms. The year was 1931. My mother was twenty-three. Our house stayed upright but the grammar school opposite and the hospital down the road, both made of brick and not New Zealand's usual wood, collapsed. Everything else seemed made of matchsticks. My mother, in search of my father, one of the town's few doctors, ran past the grammar school and saw arms and legs sticking out of the rubble. But with a small child in your arms, what can you do for others? Everyone else was running too, some one way, some another: the ground was still shaking and changing and whether you were running into more danger or less how could you be sure? But still she ran.

All the water swept out of Napier harbour that day and never came back: the town had to be entirely rebuilt, and became the Art Deco gem it is today.

Dr Frank Birkinshaw, my father, was too busy with the injured to take care of his young wife. He was a man of great charm, tall, well built, blue-eyed, adventurous and impetuous -at the time in his mid-thirties. Margaret was small, dark, fastidious and very, very pretty, with high cheekbones, big brown eyes and a gentle manner. The Birkinshaws were recent immigrants from England. He was from the North, had joined the army when he was sixteen, been invalided out of the trenches, and qualified as a doctor in the face of many obstacles. She was a bohemian from the softer South, an intellectual by birth, breeding, and temperament: her father a novelist, her mother a musician. She kept the company of Evelyn Waugh and his gang of friends, she was at home in literary soirees and in fashionable nightclubs, not in this harsh pioneering land. But she was also clever, determined and tough and failing to find my father, she left word for him, and by nightfall she and Jane had taken refuge in the tented city that went up overnight on the hills above Napier. The town was uninhabitable.

The stars had never seemed so bright, my mother said, as if nature were showing off its beauty to make amends for the terrible thing it had just done. But the lice, she added, were very active. I have met others who mention these two things about the tented town, the brightness of the stars and the liveliness of the lice. And they smile and seem to prefer not to go into detail. Perhaps licentiousness reigned: it would not be surprising; the ordinary answer to death is to create new life, and the normal inhibitions of small town life had been suddenly and drastically removed.

My mother was rescued from her makeshift tent by a sheep farmer and his wife, grateful patients of my father. They took her and little Jane to their homestead, where there was, my mother said, mutton for breakfast, mutton for dinner and mutton for tea. She helped around the farm, and cooked and ate the mutton with gratitude. I inherit this gift from her, I daresay, in that I do what is under my nose to be done, without too much lamentation.

Although the ground shook and trembled for weeks after the initial quake, meals continued to be served in the cookhouse, which had a tall brick chimney. My mother lived in fear of it collapsing and killing everyone inside, but no one would listen to her. She was dismissed as an alarmist. She was right, of course. There was another bad shock. 'I felt the trembling begin beneath my feet. I snatched Jane from her cot on the veranda and ran for open space but I was flung to the ground by what seemed a wave of dry land. I saw the hedge flick first one way and then the other. And then I watched the chimney fall into the cookhouse and destroy it. I always knew it would. I had already seen it happen.' As it fell out, dinner had finished just minutes before, and no one was killed, though for a time meals had to be eaten in the open air.

I have not inherited my mother's gift for prophecy: true, as you grow older you may begin to know what is going to happen next, but this can be put down to experience, not second sight, k is not a happy gift to have: because of it, for one thing, my mother never learned to drive, seeing too many scenarios of disaster ahead for comfort, too conscious of what might be going on over the brow of the hill. My father was very different: he was over-confident: he saw to the pleasures of the here-and-now and let the future go hang. I was born more like him than her, in this respect. She prophesied that it would land us both in trouble, and she was right.

There was no word from Frank for three months. My mother became alarmed. He knew where she was. It was true that, post-earthquake, communications were near-impossible: civil structures had broken down, there was no working telephone system for a time and no post-but surely in three months he could have managed some kind of message? Perhaps in the second big shock the earth had swallowed him up? Perhaps he'd run off with another woman? Women were always after him. Perhaps he had amnesia, and didn't remember he was married? Or perhaps this was just the way men were? She had no friends of her own age to talk to. The Birkinshaws had not been long in Napier: she'd been too busy adjusting to pioneer manners to make friends: in London people left calling-cards in the front hall: not here, where luxuries like hall-stands were rare.

The truth was hard to avoid: that here she was alone, penniless, on the wrong side of the globe, with no past, no future, just the shaky earth beneath her feet and two children, one born, one yet unborn, and no one to look after them but herself. Pregnant, she must for the time being be dependent upon the comfort of strangers. But once I was born, somehow, she would get us back to London. There were advantages to having no husband-at least you could make your own decisions. In the meanwhile she had better make herself useful and help in the kitchens and try to hold her tongue when her hosts started rebuilding the cookhouse chimney just where it had been before. It did not do for 'homies'-immigrants-to put on airs or offer advice.

She made mutton stew for the farmhands. Trim and cut the meat, brown in beef dripping-better than mutton fat-add onions and carrots, stew till the meat is on the point of disintegration, thicken with flour and serve. She learned to make the basic cake which accompanied my childhood. The weight of an egg in sugar, the same in butter, a cup of liquid, a cup of flour, and never close the oven with a bang or it sinks. This is the same sensible basic cake which she now has every evening for supper in her retirement home seventy years on. Sometimes, for variety, they put sultanas in it, sometimes not. She looks at it and shakes her head. How can they make something which ought to be so light, so solid?

She would write home, of course, though it hurt her pride. Margaret had married, at nineteen, in the face of a great deal of advice to the contrary. A letter could go no faster than the ship which carried it: five or six weeks to get to London-via Panama or Suez-and the same for a reply to come back, and supposing Frank turned up in the meantime? Her parents would send her money if they could, but supposing they couldn't, all she would succeed in doing was worry them. Because back home in London, needing no earthquake to achieve it, or only those of the emotional kind, the Jepson family too had collapsed in disarray.

Her father Edgar, at the age of sixty-nine, had made his mistress Lois pregnant. Her mother Frieda, unable to bear it any longer, had fled the marital home and gone to be with her own mother, Mary Francis Holmes, widowed and in San Francisco. Frieda, now in her early fifties, had no income of her own and lived by her mother's courtesy, and anything Edgar could afford. It was not much. Edgar was a prolific writer: he wrote seventy-three novels in all-light but popular: Lady Noggs Assists, The Reluctant Footman, The Cuirass of Diamonds and so on-but hard as he worked, his age was beginning to tell against him, public taste was changing, and the financial depression of the times affected everyone. Now he must do the decent thing and marry Lois, and he would have another child to keep.

Nor could there be any support, either financial or moral, from my mother's elder sister Faith, whom Margaret had loved dearly and greatly depended upon during her childhood. Faith had gone 'mad', and was now locked up in the lunatic asylum where she was to live out the rest of her short days. Only their big brother Selwyn, then a fashionable young man about town, already making a good living selling articles and short stories, was prosperous enough to offer any help. But it seemed doubtful that he would. He had been very much against Margaret marrying Frank and it was his general principle that if people made their own beds, they should lie in them.

I have a photograph of Selwyn at this period. A wraith of cigarette smoke curls from an elegant ivory holder. He does not look the kind of young man to see earthquakes as an excuse for failure. In the Second World War he was to become a major in the SOE, in charge of recruitment, his task to find and send agents to a likely death in occupied France. I think he became kinder then: certainly he was to develop an air of benign consideration, and to be of great help to us, until my mother quarrelled with him over a matter of principle. But as it was, my mother chose to write to Edgar.

No sooner had she done so, of course, than through the post came a letter from Frank. He was apologetic: he had been looking for work and hadn't liked to write until he had something good to report. Now he had. This was the Thirties, the depression had hit New Zealand badly: there was massive unemployment, and the professions were not immune. But he had finally found a job as houseman in the hospital at Palmerston North, a township further inland. True, it was a live-in job, there were no married quarters, and he had had to pretend he was single, but he had found her and Jane lodgings in a nearby boarding-house.

My poor mother: out of the frying-pan into the fire. She had her husband back, at least when he could slip out unnoticed from the hospital, and all the energy and exhilaration that accompanied his presence, but it wasn't enough. She was lonely, traumatized, uncomfortable because I kicked a lot, unable to sleep at night because of the trains which in those days ran through the middle of the town, Jane's crying and the landlady's suspicions about her respectability. When a letter finally arrived from Edgar telling her to come back home, no matter what, and enclosing money for the fare, she took ship back to England.

She did not stay in London because now Lois was installed in the family home as Edgar's new wife, and Margaret saw it as an act of disloyalty to her mother to stay there. It would upset Frieda too much when she heard of it, which she would undoubtedly do. Instead my mother went to Frank's parents, Herbert and Isabel Birkinshaw, then living in Barnt Green, outside Birmingham. And that's how I happened to be born, on 22 September, 1931, in a nursing home in the village of Alvechurch, Worcestershire, and not in Napier, New Zealand, as everyone had expected.


Franklin Fay

Before I was so much as named Edgar had drawn up my horoscope. I was never to meet him, other than for a few weeks when I was newly born. He was a Balliol man, a classicist, a collector of Chinese antiquities, something of a dandy, neat, small of build and a favourite of the ladies, as the euphemism went. Like many of the literati of the time, he was greatly interested in the occult; a fashion, or habit, or curse, kick-started by Annie Besant and the Theosophists, side-winding into the Cabbala and diabolism and ending with Aleister Crowley, Number 666, the Beast, with whom the movement expired from its own excesses.

Edgar was a good friend of Arthur Machen, writer of 'stories of horror and evil' and a member, with W. B. Yeats and Crowley, of the Order of the Golden Dawn, a secret society dedicated to cabalistic magic. I do not think Edgar was very serious about any of this. In his autobiography (Memories of a Victorian, written in 1933, and dedicated to 'his wife', by whom-poor Frieda!-he must mean Lois) he complains that 'in these degenerate and sinister days few are at pains to learn how they stand with the stars' but notes that he himself is pleased to be born under the sign of Libra-'for they have fine hair, and a beard less bristly to have than the beards of any of the other children of the universe, and write a more lucid prose'.

I was born at 5.30 in the afternoon, when the sun was just moving out of Virgo into Libra, and it was hoped I too would have the gift for lucid prose, though according to Edgar the position of the stars made this marginal. I certainly have fine hair, which has proved very difficult and costly over the years.

It was Arthur Machen who introduced my grandfather to the practice of astrology. Edgar taught my mother, my mother taught Jane, and Jane declined to teach me.

Continues...


Excerpted from Auto da Fay by FAY WELDON Copyright © 2002 by Fay Weldon
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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