Rattigan’s post-war drama highlights the voracious nature of woman’s passion, and his use of language brilliantly conveys the unsaid, which lies behind the politesse of formal speech. Hester’s desire for Freddie has no reason to it, other than itself, the force of her passion is an ind in itself, serving no purpose than to blaze and consume. Freddie’s desire for Hester does not come across; he is merely portrayed as a shallow and inconsequential fellow who has no purpose in his life since the end of the war. Lost in peacetime he has turned to drink and playing golf as escape mechanisms for his inability to ‘live’. As a result, his character fails to engage. In strong comparison, Hester’s veers from ladylike self-control to almost demented frenzy and back again. Her physical pain comes close to the primitive, and the conflict between the primitive and the civilized is wonderfully captured. There are times when her focus on the need for Freddie in order to be able to live seems like weakness of character, but that would be to fail to understand the very primitive nature of such strong desire. It is an emotion that cannot be civilized. It needs to be repressed in order for Hester to survive the ordeal of life, which she ultimately does. Love is simply not enough. Would woman choose steady, gentle love and affection before experiencing a collision with her spiritual equal? I think not. She seeks solace after the fire and torment of such meteoric explosion. Hester decides to return to her art studies and finds the strength to let Freddie go, and she forces herself to access the strength to do so. Freddie is the weaker half of the pairing, and one wonders how he will fare. Hester is to be admired for her commitment to him, despite the sense of it, as she is following her instincts and her heart, but surviving such an ordeal will leave her tempered, not happier, or even fulfilled, merely able to exist. Thought provoking.
An email from a friend of mine arrives; she complains that, at work, she is routinely subjected to gruesome accounts of female colleagues’ intimate medical procedures and gynaecological problems. I am all commiseration because I, too, have had years of listening to workplace chats about periods, childbirth and sex lives. Oh please. Later, I wander off for a walk in the early evening sunshine and it is so silent and so beautiful that I flop down on the grass and lay awhile gazing out over the rolling fields, and the mouth of the river, and fall into a reverie. Two men pass by. A few minutes later sounds of women’s talk float nearer and, by the time the two females of the species draw level with me, I have risen up from my deliciously recumbent position in the meadow, alert and tense, something like a meerkat. “I do feel for her. Going down that IVF route is such an emotional roller coaster. I was never prepared for how terrible it was going to be.” I remain frozen in my meerkat position...
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