Two days later Nella and Will were sunning themselves near the breakwater in Walney, and she made ‘a joking remark’ about winning ‘the Sweep’ and visiting Australia. This ‘brought tight lips and a quiet sneer as he said, “We mustn’t forget our clogs”, which made me long intensely for the chance to tell Cliff just how deeply he had hurt and annoyed us by his cheap journalese interview.’
The Australian article that Nella and Will had read was Geoff Waye’s, ‘A Place in the Sun’, Life Digest [Melbourne], January 1950, pp. 25–7. It was probably the following passage (p. 25) about Cliff that was most upsetting: ‘He worked for his father, but should a piece of putty or a strip of wood come his way, his fingers fashioned it into little figures of grace and flowing lines. But the son of a working man was not intended for such time-wasting foolishness and his talents were not encouraged.’ (Waye also wrote of the Last family living in ‘Lancashire, where the smoke from the mills filled the skies’, so it seems he was unaware that Barrow was not a mill town.) Some of the dismissive views on Cliff’s English background that his parents disliked are reasserted in the introduction to Max Dimmack, Clifford Last (Melbourne: The Hawthorn Press, 1972). Cliff, according to this author, who had known him since his arrival in Australia in 1947, was ‘frustrated by his well-intentioned but ill-informed parents who borrowed from the local public library books containing reproductions of the works of the old masters which they encouraged Last to try to copy in crayons and water-colours’ (p. 6). Cliff was portrayed by both these commentators as misunderstood and unfulfilled in his early years. Nella’s anger about the way in which Cliff, apparently, was portraying his family and upbringing resurfaces in her diary entry below for 29 December 1950.
Monday, 20 February. My husband went to the doctor’s and came home very downcast. He said, ‘The doctor doesn’t think I’m improving as I should. He asked if I was a Mason or member of any club through which I could go to a Convalescent Home.’ I felt tired and out of joint. I said snootily, ‘Didn’t you tell him that you thought paying into any kind of insurance for the future was a waste of money?’* I said ‘You could go to Belfast. Edith asked us to go for a holiday when all is settled. You could even go to Australia if you only would. A sea voyage would perhaps set you up – as Mr Richardson set off on his own.’ Perhaps because I felt tired I felt less patience. I thought of something I once read, ‘In life there’s no rewards, and no revenges, just consequences’…
We had our first canvassers tonight, one Labour, one Liberal. My husband went to the door for the first one and told the Labour canvasser ‘As a business man, it’s not policy to discuss elections’. I went the second time and recognised an acquaintance with whom I’d often talked of Liberalism (then almost extinct) versus Conservatism. He said, ‘I’m sure you will give us a chance. Your views were more for us, even when you were Chair of Central Ward.’ I said ‘I’m anti-Socialist, putting my country before party politics, and regard Megan Lloyd’s bid for power as traitorous.** Any Liberal who loves his country would vote Conservative – and I am not one you know, so cannot understand why you think I should vote that way.’ My husband wasn’t suited† because I’d ‘spoken so plainly’. I said, ‘Hell’s blue light. I’ve walked too many miles and knocked at too many doors, canvassing at General Elections, not to prefer a straight answer to a shilly shally statement, and one that showed plainly enough where your vote wouldn’t be given.’
Wednesday, 22 February. We settled down again, talking of past elections. Once a candidate was disqualified, for buying pies for all his helpers – the opponent built up a case against him – and tonight my husband said, ‘Remember Mrs Marsh. She was the girl who started it all by a chance remark, and the result hung on her evidence. She had been the girl who carried the pies from the bake house.’ I remember her as an old busybody till the day she died at 76! Odd how things lie quiet in your mind and then pop up like a Jack in the box. I began to tell of the first election I could remember, when I would be nearly six years old. I’d had the accident that was to make me lame for so long, and my father insisted we move from an outlying fishing village, where we had moved when I was only three months old, so I could have treatment. Nothing ever daunted my gay spirits when I was young, and I was a great novelty in a bamboo rickshaw affair of a go-cart, and older children would always take me along. Mother, so prim and proper, would inspect them and give them strict instructions and then off we would go, generally towards the docks where the ships were such an interest. I don’t suppose my mother gave the election a thought, beyond voting,* though bands of children marched with placards, yelling slogans and singing words fitted to well known songs. I had a marvellous time, rattled over rough roads, my go-cart smothered in blue streamers and bunting. I’ve an idea children must only have had to ask to get red, white and blue rosettes, cockades, placards to carry at the ends of sticks, etc. I ate bits of food from paper bags and newspaper, sang till I was hoarse, bewildered and delighted by all the goings-on of town life, and really frightened when a policeman took me to the police station where mother and Aunt Eliza frantically welcomed me and my father came in looking relieved. I’d been ‘officially lost, a poor little crippled child, who knows what can have happened’ – for about eight hours. As my husband laughed at my first election and the little escapade, I thought with surprise, ‘Why, that was one of the happiest days I had. What a strange elusive thing “happiness” is, to be sure.’
My final bet for the election result is pretty much how I thought at first – a return of Labour with a small majority, with Liberals and Conservatives in enough opposition if they combine to curb them. Personally I hope it’s like that. They should face consequences of all their ‘leap before you look’ actions, and though at times a balanced Parliament would no doubt be a stalemate, no fresh schemes of Nationalisation could be made, and existing ones would be made to run more economically.
In the general election on 23 February, Labour won Barrow and retained an overall parliamentary majority, though just barely.
Friday, 24 February. I’ve blessed the election turmoil of these two days and when results began to come in and the local Mail was delivered, my husband found even more interest.* We had cheese and watercress, toasted raisin buns and chocolate sandwich and then had the wireless on all evening. We once helped at a local election where a fiercely contested seat had to have four recounts before the winning candidate was announced, so we knew a little of the feverish uncertainty that there would be in some places. When I heard that at one time the Conservatives were even and then more Labour victories came along, I thought of a prophecy by Naylor the astrologist I’d read after the last election – that Mr Churchill wasn’t destined to lead the Conservatives back to power. He is the most wonderful, the most inspiring leader any country has known, but I’ve always a sneaking remembrance of Mrs Waite and her utter dominance at Hospital Supply. She towered above us all by her work in the First World War, and could see little good in any of us. Yet it was a good committee – each of us had ‘something’ – which, till the worms turned, was useless.* I couldn’t help but wonder if there were strong men in the Conservative Party who, given their head, could lead. I wasn’t surprised at Labour losing some seats and the Conservatives gaining, but not as much see-saw, or the Liberals losing so many deposits. What troubles me is that no one will do any good, and just when so much outside interest and endeavour is needed, bold ventures and ideas so essential, it looks as if it will be stalemate, the Socialists proposing and the rest saying NO. I wonder if there will be another election soon. One thing, there could never be any coalition. There’s too wide a gulf now between Socialists and the rest. I listened to Mr Churchill’s brave but broken voice with a pity so deep I began to cry bitterly. I don’t cry easily, or often. My husband said, ‘Now fancy you upsetting yourself so over so small a thing’. But somehow that brave gallant old voice got tangled up with my own worries and fears. I couldn’t have separated them as I cried till I felt sick.
&nb
sp; Monday, 27 February. Aunt Sarah does miss her little cat. It was such a clean, faithful little thing, and died as it had lived, at her bedside on its mat, peacefully and cleanly. She says she is too old to have another. I could see today she was upset because a picture had fallen from where it hung over her bedroom fireplace and broken two treasured old china figures. She said, ‘Are you superstitious about pictures falling? Your mother and mine were, you know.’ I said I’d never had any experience of falling pictures, but a magpie on the lawn made me feel really ill, though in the country I never bothered. She nodded as she looked in the fire. I felt sorry for her – till her next remark sent my lips twitching. She shook her head sadly and said, ‘You know, Joe has never been really strong. That’s why he never married and I promised his mother to always look after him.’ (He is her cousin.) As Joe must be about 80 to her 85, I thought there was little fear of him being cut off in his prime! …
Mrs Howson brought Cliff’s papers across and stayed a while and her first words were ‘Well, what did the doctor say today?’ He began about the Convalescent Home proposal. Our eyes met. I knew she wondered, like I did, if he would go when the time came. He used to go to Buxton Hospital for six to nine weeks at a time, but under great protest. He hates things more nowadays that in any way upset his routine. Mrs Howson looked curiously at me and said, ‘What will you do with yourself?’ I had a passing idea I’d have had a little holiday in Belfast. I so long to see little Pete and feel a change would do me more good than a tonic. Then another thought had crossed my mind – of doing all the Spring cleaning, and having the back bedroom papered – the man said he would come soon after Xmas – and of having lazy afternoons after a busy morning, relaxed on the settee with a book, and no reading aloud. Luckily I didn’t mention going to Ireland, for my husband said quickly, ‘Ah, Nell can have a good rest. I’ll soon be back and she will have to write lots of letters to me, like she used to do when I was at Buxton. She wrote every day and told me all she had been doing.’ I sniffed as I said to Mrs Howson, ‘So, if you see a cheap line in chastity girdles, let me know’. He wondered why we both set off laughing. He said, ‘You’ve just got new corsets. What do you want another girdle for?’ Which made Mrs Howson laugh till the tears ran down her face. She wiped them away, powdered her nose, and said, ‘You are a pet Mr Last’.
Tuesday, 28 February. I’ve not felt well at all lately, just a low vitality feeling I get in February, and however I try to be bright – how I hate that word – I cannot rouse or interest him much. His moods were always difficult. I never in my life could cope easily with them. We listened to Ray’s a Laugh and then to Take It From Here. I enjoyed them, but no smile came on my husband’s face, and I suggested he would rather I read to him, but even then I couldn’t interest him. When I talked I could see he wasn’t hearing. It was one of the days when he was sure he wasn’t going to get better. As I sat sewing, I suddenly realised I’d never once heard him say – or agree with – anything at all about his belief in the future life. I’ve always had a strong belief in life going on – not a Heaven where there’s singing and walking by green pastures, but somewhere where we got the chances we threw away, or never had, to ‘grow’. When the boys grew old enough to read fully, they developed more or less their own religion and way of thought, which always annoyed my husband. He is bigoted about any RC, Jew or NonConformist, yet never chose to go to church after we were young and it was the general custom. When most people get older they get their convictions clearer as a rule. It’s odd to think anyone can know so little of their own husband’s mind, beliefs, or convictions. If anyone ever talked seriously he would listen with wide eyes but would never be drawn into any discussion, and his irrelevant remarks after they had finished always showed he hadn’t taken the interest I thought he was doing. It’s so distressing when you cannot reach to a person, try and calm the fear in their mind, which you fully realise, looking back over the years, has always been full of fearing something. I can understand people who love life, who have achieved things, know they are needed to rear little children, or have a good time and enjoy life, looking forward to leaving it, but whether we go when the party is at its height or linger till the candles are guttering, we do have to go some time. I try to get him to talk when he has his black moods, but unsuccessfully. If he says anything, it’s only ‘I don’t want to die’.
Wednesday, 1 March. I worked with Mrs Salisbury and cooked lunch – tinned mushroom soup, bacon and kidney, sprouts and potatoes and a steamed raisin pudding and custard. Mrs Salisbury feels quite well off now. Her boy of 15 is working, taking milk out for the Co-op, and when his round is over doing odd jobs at grocery and seed shop branches. He gets 37s 6d a week and it’s a blow to his labourer father who, when insurance etc. is stopped out of his wage, hasn’t £4 10s 0d a week! Last week I gave her a very good working overcoat. My brother bought it and it was too tight and he sent it for my husband, who didn’t wear it much. She got it cleaned and says, ‘It’s just like new and I’m going to buy him a real new suit too. It will be the first suit he has ever had bought, for anything new before has been odd jackets and flannels.’
Saturday, 4 March. Soon the plumber and his boy mate came. †[The lavatory was blocked.] I was a bit taken back to have a screw† of tea and sugar given and asked to make tea before they started. But then the plumber said, ‘I’ve not had a drink of tea yet this morning – I’ve not a very good landlady and she sleeps in and I’ve got some bread and jam, love’, and he pulled out a repulsive-looking newspaper packet, soiled with being in his pocket. He was very tall with that sick monkey look that some people get through pain, and as he unpacked his kit mentioned casually he had duodenal trouble. Any stomach sufferer has my deepest sympathy. I asked him if he wouldn’t sooner have milk and I heated him some and began to advise him to take slippery elm food [a laxative]. I neither hindered him, nor did he stop work, only to take a drink of milk and a mouthful of bread and jam. A bit dropped and separated and I could see no butter or marg was under the scrape of jam. I marvelled at any woman being so mean and greedy. When I went down my husband was holding forth to Mrs Howson, who had called, and was telling her all about my ‘cooing over the plumber’. I pursed my lips and shook my head a little behind his back, meaning ‘He isn’t too well this morning – take no notice’. She had refused to sit down, saying she was in a hurry, but the kind little thing did sit down, and began a string of silly Canteen reminiscences in which to hear her talk I’d always gone ‘starry eyed’ over enough Merchant Navy men and very young sailors whose clothes looked too big for them. She got my husband laughing before she went. I blessed her visit …
The plumber’s boy had interested me by saying he liked singing and he had been in two talent shows, and offered to sing the song for me he had then. I was in the kitchenette and heard the hiss of the upstairs cistern and thought they must have finished – till I was horrified at water pouring out from above the door leading into the garage. My husband had touched the handle as he got up off his knees, and with no pan fixed it had flooded the floor and found its own outlet. I hope none has lodged over my nicely enamelled kitchenette ceiling. When a pure passionless boy’s voice rang out ‘This is my lovely day’, I felt I echoed the savage ‘If you don’t shut up I’ll clout you’ of the plumber! …
I became conscious [at teatime] my husband looked wild-eyed and distraught and before I could ask if he felt ill he burst out, ‘I’m losing my senses, I know I am’. I felt startled, then dismayed, then really angry. It seems he had upset Billy’s arrangements for the partnership* by telling Billy the man must be a real shark to want half of all profits, and had told Billy to ask his father to lend him the money to buy the stock and machinery – and offered to lend him £100 to ‘work on’. I said, ‘If you have as you say hinted that you would take the money for the stock etc. at several times, and on top of that offered to lend Billy £100 – with no security, no business sense, and a retarded development generally. How are you getting rid of your busine
ss worries? You are adding to them. What guarantee have you that Billy won’t use up all stocks and then fail, before you have got the money for it, or your £100 back?’ I was really angry, but his miserable bewildered face checked the tirade I felt I could have given him. He said, ‘What will I do?’ I said, ‘You mean “What will I do?” I will see Billy and make the situation plain and I hope you haven’t done too much damage by your crazy interference. If that man was backing Billy in every way he would naturally want some security of return, and all this talk you seem to have had about how the rates and bills for light are to be solved – darn and blast it, they’re not your problems, dear – it’s a matter for the Rates Office.’
Cross and angry as I was outwardly, in my heart was sick fright. I do try and take each day as it comes and not look ahead to the days ahead. I nerved myself to be really brutal as I drove a hard bargain. ‘I’ll get things all straightened out on one condition – that in future you won’t talk business unless I am there. You are tired and ill and cannot think things out properly. I’ll have to do it, and get Arthur if I cannot.’ He agreed so eagerly, so pathetically, I could have wept in despair. I tried to cheer him with little silly ravings, saying, ‘If soap could stick in the lav’ like that, in what the plumber called a million to one chance, I might get such long odds again and win the Irish Sweep you know and I’d have off to Cook’s and book a cruise and we would be off within a week.’ His lips trembled as he suddenly thought of something and said, ‘I’m sorry I was nasty about you “cooing” over the plumber’, and I brought a watery smile to his poor face by saying severely, ‘You’re not, you know. It’s just you think I should only “coo” over you, you big baby.’ I felt so heart thankful Arthur is coming on the 31st. Dear God, what would I do if it wasn’t for the thought of my two sons in the background. Cliff gets me cross and he loses patience so often with some of my ways – oddly enough those same ways are amongst the ones Arthur likes – but I always feel the strength of his affections cropping up. They are both ‘always there’. ‘What we have we lose, but what we keep in memory is ours for everlasting.’
Nella Last in the 1950s Page 5
