Some months before her move to Old Thatch, she had been forced to suggest that letters stood more chance of a reply if they came together from schools, rather than individuals. But even the ‘school envelopes’ soon contained between twenty and fifty separate letters and she decided to inform her readers that she would put ‘a penny into a box for the Children’s Hospital in London’ each time she failed to reply. This resulted in ‘quite a tidy sum’ being passed on to the Great Ormond Street Hospital – the first of many contributions it was to receive as a result of Enid’s writings in subsequent years.
In the early ‘thirties, she asked the children if they would help to collect silver paper and foil for the hospital to sell and, within a few days, bundles of flattened paper and rolls of foil began arriving at Old Thatch. This continued for several years and one of her many daily tasks was to help her staff fill sack after sack, ready for forwarding to London. From time to time she wrote a progress report in her column on the number she had sent and the money that had been raised in this way ‘to help sick children’, and by 1935 she was able to tell her readers that they were the ‘largest collectors’ in the country.
Nothing, it seemed, was too much trouble if it was for a worthy cause. Her readers appreciated this and eagerly took up every suggestion she put forward. She happened to mention in a 1929 ‘letter’ in both Teachers’ World and Sunny Stories, that she considered the Pug Pups (Pick Up Glass and Pick Up Paper Society) was a very worthwhile organisation and gave the name of the founder – a Mrs Jean Brodie Hoare. Within three weeks, much to her astonishment, thousands of children had joined the Society and the factory which supplied the badges had to work overtime to keep up with the demand. Four months later, Enid was able to report that twenty-five thousand badges had been ordered, seventy-five thousand Pug Pup postcards had been sent out and orders were still pouring in, many from overseas. ‘It wasn’t my idea’, she wrote, ‘but I wish it had been. Perhaps one day I’ll think of a good society too, one really my own and we’ll all belong together.’
At Old Thatch, Enid was moving in rather more sophisticated social circles than hitherto and her pattern of life changed accordingly. Bourne End in those days was a quiet residential area, consisting of a few shops and several large country houses, some of which were used as weekend retreats by businessmen from the City. Life was leisurely, with a plentiful supply of servants to help make it so, and Enid and Hugh soon found themselves drawn into the social round of cocktails, bridge, tennis and dinner parties. It was not long before she was persuaded to leave her writing for a few hours and play bridge two and sometimes three afternoons a week. She took up tennis again and one of the lawns at Old Thatch was converted into a grass court, to which she invited her new friends for return matches. It was all ‘great fun’, she wrote in her diary, and in complete contrast to the quiet times she had enjoyed with Hugh at Elfin Cottage.
Even the pattern of their previously cosy evenings alone together had been changed, for a promotion from Newnes now meant that Hugh occasionally returned late and, with her own increased social activities during the day, Enid found she had sometimes to resort to catching up with her proof-reading or writing after dinner. Nor did she have the time to give much attention to the garden at her new home, although she managed to do some of the planting and sowing which she always enjoyed. The rest of the work she now delegated to her gardener-chauffeur, Dick Hughes. A young cook-general continued to relieve her of most of the household tasks, but there were several changes in this quarter during the Pollocks’ early years at Bourne End.
Enid’s rather unsympathetic conduct towards the young girls who came to work for her, many of whom were given notice after barely a month’s work, is apparent from her diaries, and contrasts sharply with the warmhearted, friendly personality projected by her Teachers’ World columns:
D… was still feeling bad so I had the doctor. He says it is just an ordinary cold but as she is feeling so sorry for herself she had better go.
Another maid was given notice because the friend she had been out with the previous week had since developed scarlet fever. Enid commented:
She is now isolated in her bedroom and I have had to put off all the Whitsun parties. The girl is a fool to run straight into danger as she has done.
The young woman never did contract the illness but she was still expected to leave on the termination of the quarantine period. Enid was not, it appears, always the perfect employer, but her attitude was not an uncommon one in those days and she also had her share of dishonest and unsatisfactory maids. One young girl was arrested by a police superintendent in the drawing room at Old Thatch, after being discovered making off with the family silver and other articles. Enid recorded the episode with some relish in her diary and, like so many other incidents in her life, it was to re-surface many years later in one of her stories.
The move to Old Thatch certainly brought about changes in the Pollocks’ life together and another, even greater, was not far distant when the pair embarked on a cruise to Madeira and the Canary Islands in October 1930. Some weeks beforehand Enid had informed her readers of her intention to make the voyage and had included a photograph of the ship – the Stella Polaris – on her weekly page. Her page of 8 October, when she and Hugh were already away on the high seas, showed a map of the proposed route, drawn by Enid, and once again the teacher in her could not resist the opportunity to give a minor geography lesson:
I am going to tell you exactly where I am going and you can find all the places. Perhaps you can read a little about them in your geography or reading books …
After writing that she would have to take a train to Southampton and then ‘start out over the sea, past the jutting-out piece of France and across the Bay of Biscay’ she suggested the children should find her first port – Lisbon. ‘Do you see the river it is on …?’ Madeira, Tenerife, Las Palmas, Casablanca, Gibraltar and the city of Seville were all placed and commented upon. The following week she caused great excitement in many a classroom for at the head of her page was written ‘By Air Mail from Lisbon’ and underneath was a photograph of the port.
She was, she wrote, hundreds of miles away on the blue Atlantic:
England is now only a little island somewhere in the North and Old Thatch and its birds and animals nothing but a lovely dream which will come true when I return home again …
The rest of the page was taken up with describing the beginning of her voyage: how small tugs had pulled their Norwegian ship out of Southampton, passing the Mauretania – ‘one of the fastest afloat’ – and the Armadale Castle: ‘one of the ships that takes the letters to Cape Town. I am sure my little friends in Port Elizabeth know her very well.’ There followed a description of her cabin and then she told of how sea-sick she had been in the Bay of Biscay.
The second of the four columns devoted entirely to her cruise was sent from Las Palmas and was headed ‘The Cruise of the good ship Stella Polaris’. Once again she described the events of the previous few days, including how, at Lisbon, she had twice been ‘almost killed by the world’s worst driver’ and she had sharp words for the treatment of animals in Portugal:
The dogs and horses looked thin and ill cared-for, not a bit like ours … Bobs is lucky to be an English dog instead of a Portuguese one, isn’t he?
She was, she wrote, much taken with Madeira: ‘the prettiest place you can imagine – flaming red creepers, trees with pink and purple flowers and houses painted white, pink, yellow and blue.’ She had ridden in a bullock sleigh through the cobbled streets and a photograph of a ‘carro’ was included for the children to see. On the way to the Canary Islands she had seen some sharks and flying fish ‘looking like very big and beautiful dragonflies’. ‘I wish,’ she finished her column, ‘that I could stuff a bit of this glorious sunshine into the envelope for you.’ Morocco and Seville were the subjects for her final despatch from the Stella Polaris. In this she told of how she had bargained with Arabs in the bazaars of Casablanca over th
e price of their wares. ‘The natives love it, so do I! It is great fun!’ She drank mint tea ‘sitting on carpets and bales of fine silk with Arabs looking like pictures of Ali Baba in the story of the Forty Thieves.’ Seville, with its orange trees and a shop that had ‘eight thousand different shawls’ was described with her usual flair for detail that she knew instinctively would appeal to her young readers.
Her ‘letter’ on the closing stages of the cruise stretched over three columns, and Bobs’ contribution was reduced to telling only of his pleasure at having his mistress home again. The children were told how she had won ‘two prizes in the sports competitions’ and of how rough it had been through the Bay of Biscay:
… My soup flew out of my plate, my glass turned a somersault, my bread disappeared, and there were crashings and smashings all round … I couldn’t help thinking how much you would have enjoyed it all …
The whole holiday, she wrote, had been ‘glorious’ –
… but I hadn’t seen any countryside anywhere that I thought was lovelier than England’s. I had seen no animals nicer than ours, and no children that I liked better than English children … and I know that, no matter where I go or what I see in other countries, I shall always love England best …
That she broadened the horizons of hundreds of her readers with her travelogue there is no doubt. But it seems a pity that her own rather insular attitude, by no means uncommon in England at that time, should also have crept into so many of her despatches – even her final summing up. Only once did she set foot out of the country again, and that was many years later, in 1948, for a short holiday in America, yet this single cruise in 1930 was remembered by her so vividly it provided her with nearly all of her foreign settings for subsequent stories.
Back home at Old Thatch, Enid was soon caught up again in her round of writing, bridge parties and other entertainments. It took her some weeks to read the hundreds of letters which had accumulated while she had been away. A special mailbag had to be collected by her from the small local post office where it had been held, pending her return – along with several more bundles of silver paper. But, unusually for Enid, her mind was not entirely on her work.
She had not felt well since returning from the cruise and on 14 November she called in the doctor. Considering all that had gone before, her diary entry on his diagnosis seems surprisingly unemotional: ‘… he thought perhaps I was going to have a baby.’ Without further comment she went on ‘I worked till tea, then wrote letters and read till bed.’
Perhaps she hesitated over showing any excitement until she knew for sure that her longed-for child was on the way – though a similarly matter-of-fact entry appeared a month later:
The doctor came and examined me and said for certain I am pregnant, just about three months. I am so glad. That explains the horrid sickness. Hugh and I went shopping in Maidenhead. Back to tea. Read 11 p.m.
No plans. No mention of Hugh’s reaction. No hint even at any suppressed emotion.
Except for visits to the doctor and increased periods of rest, her days were spent pretty much as before. But the pregnancy was not without its uncertainties. On a visit to Mabel at Beckenham, she called in to see her old doctor who, it appeared, disagreed with the proposed date of birth. According to her diary, Enid was surprised to be given between 5 and 10 June by one doctor and another set of dates – more than a month later – by the other. Eventually, however, both agreed that the baby would probably be born during the first week in July and in view of this she and Hugh decided to take an extended Easter holiday at Bournemouth.
On their return, Enid’s excitement over the coming birth was more apparent and she set about making baby clothes. She was clever with her needle and usually made most of her own lingerie, with fine lace insets and embroidery. Now she turned this skill into smocking the tiny garments and stitching and embroidering pillow cases and linen for the nursery. She was, however, rather apprehensive over the actual birth itself as the time drew nearer. Dick Hughes’ wife was also expecting a child and Enid confided to her that she was frightened that the birth might not be easy for her because of her age. She was almost thirty-four years old.
At the end of June the local midwife, Nurse Lane, moved in and Enid prepared for the baby’s arrival. From then on, each day appeared to follow a similar pattern for, according to her diary, she either ‘went for a walk with Nurse and rested until tea’ – or she read, sewed, talked or ‘did Children’s Page’. On July 15 th, however, there was a very different entry:
Gillian was born at 6.30 this a.m. – 8¾ lbs. in weight, 21½ inches in length, a lovely child. Hugh is delighted. A very easy confinement all over in five hours. Dr. Poles delivered baby and Dr. Bailey gave chloroform. I came round about 7 feeling very hungry and comfortable. Baby sucked as soon as she was put to the breast. Hugh went up to town in afternoon.
The child the Pollocks had so long awaited had arrived and yet another new chapter was beginning for Enid.
7
Because of the impending birth, Enid had written several of her children’s pages in advance so it was not until 26 August 1931 that her Teachers’ World readers were told of the baby’s arrival. She began her letter:
A lovely new pet has come to Old Thatch. Some of you have heard the news already, but I know a great many of you have not, because the pet arrived in the holidays. You can have three guesses – what is it? I am sure you are nearly all wrong, so I must tell you. Well, the new pet is a little baby girl! As many of you know I am not really Miss Blyton, because I am married, and I am so pleased that a baby has come to live with me, because you all know how much I love boys and girls – and it is lovely to have one that really belongs to me and not to some other mother and father …
There then followed a description of ‘Gillian Mary’ – of her eyes ‘like two pieces of deep blue sky’, dark brown hair ‘such a lot of it’, a ‘funny little smiling mouth’ and a pointed chin ‘like a pixie’. Even Bobs referred to the ‘new pet’ in his letter. ‘I do hope the Mistress won’t forget to love me, her oldest pet, now …’
As was to be expected, hundreds of letters arrived following upon the announcement and Enid was forced to apologise some weeks later for not answering all of them ‘because, as you can guess, the new pet takes up rather a lot of time at present’. It was taking up a great deal more time, in fact, than Enid had anticipated.
She had started off happily enough, feeding the baby herself – ‘I love it’ – and attending to most of its needs, but within a month Gillian had been weaned on to a bottle and once the midwife had left for her own home, the repetitive round of bathing, feeding and changing the baby had began to pall. She enjoyed the long afternoon walks along the country lanes and by the river, wheeling her daughter out in her pram, the dogs at her side, but she found there was little time left in her busy day for writing and even her diaries were neglected. It was all she could do to keep up with her commitments for Teachers’ World and bridge and tennis were now quite out of the question.
Towards the middle of September, she took a day off from her maternal duties and met Phyllis Chase in London. She told her friend of the difficulties she was having and Phyllis came up with a possible solution. She had living with her a young girl, Betty, who had helped to look after her son, Barry, but – as she pointed out to Enid – she was hardly more than a child herself and by no means a trained nanny, so any help she could give would only be very basic. However, if the girl was willing and Enid would like to take her over on that understanding, at least she could keep an eye on Gillian for part of the day and give Enid a chance to get her writing done. Betty was duly invited down to Old Thatch to talk things over and by the end of the month she was installed.
Within a few days of her arrival it is apparent from Enid’s diaries that Betty was put in full charge and was entrusted with the baby for most of the day and night too, for she also slept with Gillian in the nursery. Enid took up her writing and social life once more and although she
gave periodic progress reports and photographs of the baby to the young readers of her page, she only took full charge of her daughter on the days the young nurse took time off. By November she was writing harder than ever and recorded in her diary that she had ‘worked all day long at getting ready six readers for Evans Brothers’ and as time went by, even ‘played with Gillian at teatime’ became a less frequent entry. It was not that Enid did not love her daughter but, during this – to her – rather uninteresting stage of her child’s development, other matters seemed more absorbing.
The new year of 1932 had scarcely got under way before she was involved with an exciting new project – her first full-length adult novel. This was something she had long wanted to attempt and her excitement was difficult to conceal even within her diaries and from the book’s commencement on 6 January, she referred to its progress daily. By the 15th she had completed a third and on the 25th she recorded that she had written some seven thousand words during the day, only stopping for a midday meal. By 5 February – just under the month from the time she had begun it – she recorded: ‘Finished my novel! About 90,000 words. It’s called The Caravan Goes On.’ A few days later, while in London for a business lunch with the directors of Evans Brothers, she left the novel with the literary agent, A. P. Watt. Within a fortnight, however, there was another of Enid’s inadequate and tantalising entries in her diary: ‘Watt sent my novel back.’ There was no further explanation and Enid was never to mention it again. Her family have no recollection of ever having seen this manuscript but, as Enid was never one to waste anything over which she had spent time and effort, it seems likely that the novel eventually reappeared, in a shortened form, as a children’s book. The title suggests it may well have been transposed into Mr Galliano’s Circus (George Newnes, 1938) which contained several strong, adult characters – unlike most of Enid’s other books in which children figure in the dominant roles. The agent’s comments when he returned the novel must remain a matter for conjecture, but the only stories she ever wrote from then on were for children. She put aside her disappointment and set to work on several new commissions for Birn Brothers, Newnes and Evans.
Enid Blyton Page 9
