This is cross-posted from NeglectedBooks.com.
Verity Bargate wrote three short, savage novels — No Mama No (1978), Children Crossing (1979), and Tit for Tat (1981) — before dying too, too young at the age of 41 just as reviews for her third novel were coming out. I found three cheap, battered Fontana paperbacks of Bargate’s books in a London bookshop years ago, but something about the cover of No Mama No gave me the impression that it was about child abuse and so for years I was put off from reading it.
I deeply regret my reluctance now. Not only was my impression quite mistaken, but once I started No Mama No a few months ago, I soon discovered why Lynda Lee-Potter once wrote in the Daily Mail, “I can only read Verity Bargate at one sitting without stopping for secondary considerations like food or sleep.” I read No Mama No at a sitting and did the same with Children Crossing and Tit for Tat the next two days. It helped that all three books are under 160 pages each, but with this year being dedicated to wafer-thin books, I have an office full of such books, most of which I manage to ignore as the months pass.
But there is something so gripping and unique about Verity Bargate’s fiction that I fell into her world for three days and came out wondering how these little sticks of dynamite have managed to be so forgotten. I don’t use the word dynamite lightly (or originally). This is what Isabel Colegate wrote of her approach: “Verity Bargate has her machine gun on her hip and is spraying bullets before she even dynamites open the door.”
I generally dislike the queasiness of some readers and reviewers at anything that hints of being a plot spoiler, but this is one time I must take care not to disclose the gut-punches that await anyone who picks up one of Bargate’s novels. For not only are they all unexpected and powerful, but each embodies the special quality that makes these books seem decades ahead of their time. In her TLS review of No Mama No, Anne Duchene aptly described what Bargate does in each story: she “opens, very calmly and very skillfully, like a blade going through flesh, a door from enraged normality into raging perversity.”
Jodie, for example, the narrator of No Mama No, having given birth to a second son, finds herself not just feeling no love for the child but actively repelled by him: “that rather old aubergine they had thrust at me in the name of motherhood.” With one son still a needy toddler and the other an unwelcome addition, with an unsupportive and uninterested husband (of course, she became pregnant so quickly because he finds birth control in any form an assault on his manhood), with the weight of post-partum depression crushing down upon her, Jodie is on the brink of what I dreaded when first inspecting the book: neglect, if not violence against the children.
Then an old beloved schoolmate reconnects after years and invites Jodie to come down to Brighton for a day. On the train to the seaside, Jodie takes her boys into the toilet, changes their outfits, and begins to feel suffused with happiness. When she meets her friend Joy at the station, they embrace warmly and Jodie says, “Oh Joy, I forgot to tell you. This is Willow and this is Rainbow. My daughters.” It isn’t entirely a conscious decision: “It wasn’t I who had changed their clothes, it was someone else, and that someone else had effectively blocked off my escape route.” That sense of detachment in the act of taking a bizarre, irreversible step, is shared by all three of Bargate’s heroines.
But this is not the spoiler. Over the next weeks, the visits to Brighton become a regular respite from the domestic tedium of life in London with two unloved boys and a mostly-absent husband. Is Jodie’s lie about her boys being girls pathological? As Bargate tells it — through Jodie’s perspective — it seems palliative, the one way she can find to get through this difficult time.
No, the spoiler is how David, Jodie’s husband, reacts when he learns of Jodie’s deception. His reaction is not that different from that of some reviewers. Selina Hastings found the improbabilities of Bargate’s plots “monstrous.” Stephen Glover felt that Children Crossing suffered from “a vein of unlikelihood and angst which would make the deepest sceptic blanch.” In his review of Tit for Tat, John Braine showed himself an Angry Young Man become a Fussy Old Critic. The book, he wrote, “breaks the prime rule of the novel, which is that we must be able to sympathize with the central figure.”
Reading Bargate’s reviews now, I saw that her critics fell into two starkly divided camps: those who found her heroines and their actions horrifying and incomprehensible; and those who “got it.” The “it” that Bargate’s enthusiasts got was the possibility — no, the probability — that women could have less than gracious and compliant responses to betrayal. Jodie in No Mama No feels betrayed by a husband who sees a family as something his wife is obligated to produce with the predictability — and the lack of effort on his part — of a worknight dinner. Rosie in Children Crossing feels betrayed by her pianist husband, who finds her the drudge who makes life away from the excitement of concert tours an unpleasant burden. And Sadie in Tit for Tat feels betrayed by Tim, the boyfriend who pressures her into getting a dangerous abortion and then escapes into an affair with another woman with whom he’s decided he wants to form a family.
Perhaps part of response of critics who found Bargate’s books disturbed and disturbing was a reaction to what they saw around them as the assault on conventions of sexuality and marriage by second-wave feminism. The world, especially the male one, was still tightly bound to those conventions. In Children’s Crossing, for example, Rosie says of her husband, “He thinks, by leaving me, he will regain his freedom. What he doesn’t realize is that he never lost it. I dread him discovering that.” But for Bargate, those conventions have become almost farcically hollow. When Sadie tell her boyfriend Tim that she’s pregnant, he tells her flatly, “You are not going to have this baby. I will marry you, but no baby now. Okay? Deal?” At which she thinks, “I half expected him to pust a contrat towards me. But my silence is not my signature.” That could almost serve as a slogan of passive resistance: “My silence is not my signature.”
From a distance of forty-plus years, the behavior of Bargate’s heroines seems far less bizarre and more understandable. Anyone who’s seen Emerald Fennel’s Promising Young Woman, for example, will likely recognize the need of a victim to seek revenge for violation — even if the need, as in the case of Cassie in Promising Young Woman or of Sadie in Tit for Tat goes beyond the bounds of sanity (or the law).
The toxic waste of lies is the central theme in Bargate’s fiction, as she readily admitted herself:
The kind of lies I use in my books are ones which I don’t approve of. But I try to show the motives. I’ve been the recipient of a lot of lies and a lot of half-truths. In a way it’s may me almost honest: that sounds really wanky, doesn’t it? But I think I know how hurtful they can be — more than a theft or physical abuse. There’s a conspiracy of lies. Liars recognize each other. They don’t like to each other but they lie in front of each other. I don’t know what you call it. A leprosy of lie.
This attitude was an outgrowth of her own experiences. Bargate’s parents divorced soon after her birth and she grew up in what she once called “a middle class version of a child in care”: placed in a boarding school run by nuns before she turned six and shuttled off to holiday camps and homes to minimize the time her mother or father had to spend around their daughter. Her father was a high-ranking who “was always telling me that I was ugly, that my hands were huge.” Her mother considered her homely and slow. Her mother died when Bargate was a young nursing student; she cut off all contact with her father after their last meeting at the funeral.
In her mid-twenties, having left nursing, burned out from too many contacts with death and suffering, she married Frederick Proud, and with him founded Soho Poly, a ground-breaking theater devoted to one-act plays by rising young writers. After having two sons, she and Proud divorced and she took over running the theater on her own. Though a critical success, the work took a toll and in her late thirties, Bargate developed cancer. Bob Hoskins, who performed and wrote for Soho Poly, remarked to a reporter at the time, “A bird is running a theatre, the top one-act play theatre in the country, probably the world, she writes three novels, she’s running a home, bringing up two kids, and dying of cancer — she’s got my toast, anyway.”
One of the playwrights spotlighted by Soho Poly was Barrie Keefe. He and Bargate fell in love and began living together. She credited him with encouraging her as a writer. “I wrote the book because I was in love with Barrie and he wanted me to. It’s like winning the fruit machine.” Even so, she worried that readers would think that No Mama No was autobiographical, that Jodie’s attitude toward her sons reflected her own feelings toward her own sons Tom and Sam.
At the same time, the parallels between Bargate’s protagonists and her own life are unmistakable. In No Mama No, Jodie is a child of boarding schools whose only positive relationship is with her old classmate, Joy. Sadie in Tit for Tat has also grown up in the care of others, ignored by her mother and loathed by her father. As Andrew Sinclair, who knew Bargate, wrote of her books, “they spring from a deep well of early pain and dread that goes beyond the immediate circumstances and suggests the operation of some malignant force from which there is no escape.”
The pain that Bargate may have harbored from her own childhood, perhaps exacerbated by the experience of divorce and struggle with the theater, enabled her to distill in her fiction a tremendous intensity of emotion that clearly scared off some in the first generation of her critics. But a few, like Hermione Lee, recognized what makes her fiction exceptional: “What Bargate can do like no one else, is to tackle head-on, with controlled dramatic force, the relationship in her women’s lives between physical and emotional pain and deprivation. And it hurts.”
Sinclair suggested just what was lost with Bargate’s death in 1981: “The author might achieve almost anything if she were to leave the scrutiny of the anatomy of melancholy for the surgery of society.” And it’s heartbreaking to think of the novels that Verity Bargate might have produced if that passion, that intensity, and that courage to follow a story into very dark places had survived to take on larger subjects. Nevertheless, even with the three slim sticks of dynamite she left sizzling on the shelf, I think today’s readers, today’s women in particular, will find that Verity Bargate is a writer of unforgettable and unique power.
