A.S. Byatt is Margaret Drabble’s sister and they’re both among
the best contemporary novelists of family life. Not surprisingly,
they both write well about sibling rivalry, and this novel is
not only not an exception, but a virtuoso piece of writing about
sibling relationships in two generations of several families.
On the day of Prosper Cainâ€™s wedding, Peter Pan, or The Boy Who Wouldnâ€™t Grow Up, opened at the Duke of Yorkâ€™s Theatre, in St. Martinâ€™s Lane. It was late: it should have opened on the 22nd, and had been delayed by the failure of some of the complex machinery for its special effects. There was to have been a â€œliving fairyâ€ reduced to pygmy size by a giant lens. There was to have been an eagle which descended on the pirate Smee, and seized him by the pants to carry him across the auditorium. At the very last moment a mechanical lift collapsed, and with it racks of scenery. Much that was to become familiarâ€”the Mermaidsâ€™ Lagoon, the Little House in the Treetopsâ€”was not yet constructed. And there were scenes, on that first night, that were later excised. It had all been kept a darkly veiled secret. That reconvened first night audienceâ€”an adult audience, at an evening performanceâ€”had no idea what it was about to see. And then the curtain rose on an enclosed nursery, with little beds with soft bedspreads and a wonderful frieze of wild animals high on the walls, elephants, giraffes, lions, tigers, kangaroos. And a large black and white dog, woken from sleep by a striking clock, rose to turn down the bedclothes and run the bath.
Both August Steyning and Olive Wellwood knew James Barrie, and were part of that first audience. Their party filled a whole row: Olive, Humphry, Violet, Tom, Dorothy, Phyllis, Hedda, Griselda. The light flared in the fake fire. The three children, two boys and a girl, all played by young women, pranced in pyjamas and played at being grown-ups, producing children like rabbits out of hats, having clearly no idea at all where children came from. The audience laughed comfortably. The parents, dressed for the evening, like the audience out in front of them, argued about the dog, Nana, who was deceived by Mr. Darling into drinking nasty medicine, and then chained up. The night lights went out. The crowing boy, who was Nina Boucicault, another woman, flew in at the unbarred window, in search of his/her shadow.
Olive Wellwoodâ€™s reaction to theatre was always to want to writeâ€”now, immediately, to get into the other world, which Barrie had cleverly named the Never Never Land. It was neither the trundling dog, nor the charming children, that caught her imagination. It was Peterâ€™s sheared shadow, held up by the Darling parents before being rolled up and put in a drawer. It was dark, floating lightly, not quite transparent, a solid theatrical illusion. When Wendy sewed it on, and he danced, and it became a thing cast by stage lighting climbing the walls and gesturing wildly, she was entranced.
The amazing tale wound on. The children flew. The greasy-locked pirate waved his evil hook. The Lost Boys demonstrated their total ignorance of what mothers, or fathers, or homes, or kisses, might be. Dauntlessly, they sunk their knives into pirates. There was a moment of tension when the darting light who was the fairy began to die in the medicine glass, and had to be revived by the clapping of those who believed in fairies. The orchestra had been instructed to clap, if no one else did. But timidly, then vociferously, then ecstatically, that audience of grown-ups applauded, offered its belief in fairies. Olive looked along the row of her party to see who was clapping. Steyning yes, languidly, politely. Dorothy and Griselda, somewhere between enthusiasm and good manners. Phyllis, wholeheartedly, eyes bright. Humphry, ironically. Violet, snappishly. She herself, irritated and moved. Hedda, intently.
Not Tom. You would have wagered that Tom would clap hardest.
The penultimate scene was the testing of the Beautiful Mothers, by Wendy. The Nursery filled with a bevy of fashionably dressed women, who were allowed to claim the Lost Boys if they responded sensitively to a flushed face, or a hurt wrist, or kissed their long-lost child gently, and not too loudly. Wendy dismissed several of these fine ladies, in a queenly manner. Steyning spoke to Olive behind his hand. â€œThis will have to go.â€ Olive smiled discreetly and nodded. Steyning said â€œItâ€™s part pantomime, part play. Itâ€™s the play that is original, not the pantomime.â€ â€œHush,â€ said the fashionable lady in front of him, intent on the marshalling of the Beautiful Mothers.
After the wild applause, and the buzz of discussion, Olive said to Tom
â€œDid you enjoy that?â€
â€œNo,â€ said Tom, who was in a kind of agony. â€œWhy not?â€
Tom muttered something in which the only audible word was â€œcardboard.â€ Then he said â€œHe doesnâ€™t know anything about boys, or making things up.â€
August Steyning said â€œYou are saying itâ€™s a play for grown-ups who donâ€™t want to grow up?â€
â€œAm I?â€ said Tom. He said â€œItâ€™s make-believe make-believe make-believe. Anyone can see all those boys are girls.â€
His body squirmed inside his respectable suit. Tom said â€œItâ€™s not like Alice in Wonderland. Thatâ€™s a real other place. This is just wires and strings and disguises.â€
â€œYou have a Puritan soul,â€ said Steyning. â€œI think you will find, that whilst everything you say is true, this piece will have a long life and people will suspend their disbelief, very happily.â€