Tuesday, 27 February. I felt I could have ‘sat the fire out’ as I pondered all the little issues that flooded my mind. Such undercurrents there seem in life today, such upheavals. I reflected on the changed path in life of many country people I’d known from childhood, where it was an accepted fact that the girls went into one of the several big houses near Greenodd, and the boys were gardeners, coachmen etc. One old gardener, long since retired from ‘gentlemen’s service’, has a son, a veterinary surgeon, and two daughters went in for domestic science, and one has a ‘super’ post in South Africa and helped put her brother through his schooling.
I thought nearer home of Mrs Salisbury, my faithful kind little help who comes half a day a week. She belongs to that desperately poor type of family. The mother was left a widow with a delicate lot of children, and they were reared by grudging charity of relatives, themselves grudgingly poor. I doubt if I’d have had the courage to have Mrs Salisbury for domestic help if I’d not been so in need in the war when a very good girl I had had to go into the Yard. It’s about 8 years ago. A friend passed on some answers to an advert, and Mrs Salisbury came. Small and ragged in appearance, quite frank in her admission she was ‘only used to farm service’ but with a family and no farms very near she couldn’t get day work, or offices to scrub. Something about her bodily cleanliness and her anxious strained expression made me say, ‘Well, if you will try to do my ways, you can come, and see if you can get used to domestic work’. She nodded vigorously and said, ‘Ah, I will. I’d like to work for you.’ Herself a half gypsy creature, her husband a big uncouth illiterate countryman, they had few standards of living, but a fierce honesty and pride. She has been a jewel, only leaving me to bear and part rear a baby, before [being] glad to come back. One boy is a bit unteachable, but she was determined he should have a trade and he is now serving his time as a joiner in the Yard. Her plans are now for the next boy of 14, and she hopes the only girl will fancy a ‘nice trade like confectionery or hairdressing’, while little Billy is only 7 as yet. Everything she can do to ‘give them a good start off – not just be farm servants with nothing, like me and their father’. No thought of herself as she goes out working and has two men boarders. She too belongs to that ‘uplift in aim and thought’ that is the ferment in life today.
Saturday, 3 March. My husband announced he would like to go to Bowness, 30 miles or so. I could only stare, but I never cross him in any effort he proposes. It was a heavenly late winter day, no buds of course on the trees, but every living branch was vibrant with life. I saw my first little clump of coltsfoot flowers. We had halted to admire the long vista into Windermere – like looking into a dream today, as a faint haze half obscured hills and fells, but left all in misty perspective. I bent to pick the vivid yellow daisy like flowers, and then changed my mind. They were growing on a little heap of gravel-soil by the roadside, where passers-by couldn’t fail to see them. It seemed greedy to take them for my own tea table in my little crystal vase when they could flaunt and shout their yellow joy to motorists passing. Bowness shops were gems of ‘luxury’ goods – grocers’ windows with every size of tins of ham, chicken, hors d’oeuvres of every kind, liqueur and wines, marrons glacé†, etc., little gift shops stocking already for Xmas. I couldn’t walk round as I’d have liked. My feet weren’t so good. We went into a little café and had tea and biscuits. I generally take a thermos flask of tea but we left in a hurry and I forgot my little habit of last year.
We were home soon after 4.30, sunshine all the way on our faces from the westerning sun. My husband looked tired but not nagging tired. I made up the fire and made tea. Thousands of people had flocked into Barrow from all Cumberland to see Workington play Barrow [at rugby football]. I never remember seeing such a number of cars and coaches, and they thundered up the main road at the end of the street for some time after we came in – and there were five special trains as well. I said to my husband, ‘There’s something lacking in me – and Arthur and Cliff. I don’t think we would get a scrap of pleasure standing or sitting all afternoon on a cold day to watch anything. We would have to be “in” a thing for that.’ And I began to reflect just how true my passing remark was. Even to walk or read a book was preferable to just watching. I think just that lack in us would account for us never being wild about television. Me, I like to sew happily, with a discussion, play or music as a background, seeing something grow or take form under my fingers.
Tuesday, 6 March. I started the day badly. It was bitterly cold with sleet falling. I’d had my windows open and the room was like a vault, and I couldn’t dress by the electric fire for there was a power cut. I heard the announcer’s voice say Ivor Novello had died suddenly, I’d a sadness as I thought of so many men who could have been better spared. We need gaiety, and some world of make believe and ‘happy ever after’ today. Yet as when Tommy Handley died, I thought how good God was to them, and to let them go on the crest of the wave, never to let them feel their power to entertain fail them … We listened later to Ivor Novello’s In Appreciation programme. A queer thought that this time last night he was so well and gay crept into my mind.
Ivor Novello (b. 1893), composer, actor and playwright, had been an entertainment star for three decades. He died overnight. ‘I never thought Ivor Novello’s plays and music came up to Noel Coward’s,’ Nella wrote two days later, ‘but he had one thing the latter always lacked – the ability to get on with others and make friends of all with whom he worked.’
Saturday, 10 March. We were at the Hospital before our appointment so my husband didn’t get that lost and bothered feeling he so soon gets, and Dr Wadsworth was there in the consulting room, and I waited for what seemed such a long time, and other patients began to arrive. When he came out I saw he was very upset, and we had to sit in the car for 15 minutes while he stopped shaking and trembling. He said, ‘Dr Wadsworth is very concerned with the way I’ve worsened in health, and still have those dreadful dreams’. I said, ‘Could you remember one to tell him?’ And he nodded and said, ‘Yes. I told him of that very bad one I had last Saturday night, that I was walking in an ordinary street when there was a loud explosion and people were all flung about like sawdust stuffed dolls. I was thrown onto a narrow ledge and was clinging tightly to the edge when a woman was flung up and dropped on top of me, and her dreadfully mangled face was near mine and I couldn’t move to get away from it.’ I wondered if he did worry about atom bombs and another war, in spite of his lack of interest in the paper or news, and his refusal to discuss or listen to any.
Dr Wadsworth had apparently looked distressed and said ‘That’s bad’, and when my husband spoke of his heart either racing or hardly beating at all after similar nightmares, Dr Wadsworth had said, ‘It’s such a pity, Mr Last, that you cannot mix with others and get into cheerful company, go to the cinema, a football match – or a pub’! My husband had answered, ‘I never could. I never liked or wanted to go.’ Dr Wadsworth had said, ‘And your wife? I think she has a friendly way, and would like the company of others.’ My husband said, ‘I told him we had always been such good pals and you didn’t have people in when you knew I didn’t like it, and didn’t want to go anywhere I didn’t, except WVS meetings.’ (!) I said, ‘And what did Dr Wadsworth say to that?’ And he answered, ‘I don’t think he said anything. He just screwed up his mouth as he does, and looked at me, and then wrote something on those pages of foolscap he seems to keep for each patient.’
There will be another appointment next weekend, to try to hypnotise him, and endeavour to find the real root of his terror dreams. He always amazes me by being able to drive – cautiously and well.
That afternoon, Nella reported, ‘I drifted off to sleep, and was roused by the sound of whistling, and feet coming downstairs. I was astounded to see how he had thrown off his mood and by the suggestion we went to Ulverston and “took advantage of the sunshine”’, which they did, and he returned home in brighter spirits.
Wednesday, 14 March. I felt really worried as I h
obbled downstairs. I’d bandaged my foot before dressing or I couldn’t have borne the weight on it. I felt a bit better when I’d got my low shoes on, the right one tightly laced, and I managed to bake, kneeling on a stool most of the time. I got brown and white bread made, some oat crispy, shortbread biscuits and a little cake for Easter, with some candied pineapple, cherries and sultanas in. Mrs Salisbury was very excited. Recently a bachelor brother of her husband’s died and at the funeral it was said he had left his money to be divided between his sisters and only brother, and it’s £117. Mrs Salisbury’s great hope is that they could go in for a smallholding. She was always used to pigs and hens, ducks and geese, and Mr Salisbury misses an allotment he gave up when they moved to the house they are in. She said, ‘Edward is set on being a farmer too. He is only 14 but knows a surprising lot about poultry, animal feeding and gardens. He reads a lot and will always give a hand to the farmer up the road.’ I intended managing my spring cleaning, or rather each half day a week letting Mrs Salisbury do the cleaning – I’d manage with what bit of help my husband felt like doing. Now when my foot and ankle make my knee bad as I walk awkwardly, I felt I’d have her an odd half day. Suits her – she said she would stay on [till 3 p.m.] each Wednesday beginning Easter week …
I’ve no sewing cut out, and I decided to begin embroidering dollies’ faces. They only want doing once anyway, and if I have them done when I want to start making dollies, it will be a help. We listened to part of Henry Hall’s Guest Night and then to the Charlie Chester Show, and then to the debate between [Tom] Driberg and Randolph Churchill, the least interesting pair so far, and I feel no pride in the latter. He ‘blathers’, as an old Scots neighbour used to say. Poor dear – it must be a great handicap to have so forceful and brilliant a father.
Saturday, 17 March. Yesterday when Mrs Atkinson was in, we discussed the case of the Southport man who had been stopped an hour’s pay when he left his job painting the pier and went to the assistance of a man trapped in a sand bank. We only discussed it shortly – didn’t give a lot of time to it – and I’d not realised my husband was listening or else, perhaps, I’d not have said even as much as I did. I have to guard every remark. I often feel like a child chewing gum, who pulls it out in a string, looks at it carefully, and then takes it back into its mouth. I have to count ten before I give an opinion, and be careful never to disagree with anything he says, but I wasn’t prepared for the terrifying nightmare of drowning and sinking deep into quicksands, and the pitiful cries ‘Oh save me – I cannot swim’ that were so difficult to soothe. He rose this morning looking like death itself. I felt sick with despair, though glad we had to go and meet Dr Wadsworth this afternoon. He felt better after a shave, and decided he wanted a very light lunch and offered to go for fish. He could only get a tart piece of Aberdeen cod and a very small handful of scraps to boil for the cats. Fish is very scarce this weekend. I packed the parcel to send to Ireland and tidied round. My foot was painful. I rewound the crepe bandage after massaging it again, feeling I walked on the bare bones of my right foot, and walking a bit awkwardly made my knee ache. I heated cream of chicken soup, poached the fish in milk, made custard and stewed apples, and we ate bread and butter to the fish. My husband wouldn’t hear of any vegetables being cooked today.
I felt glad to see my husband wasn’t in one of his worked up moods when we set off. I’ve insisted he took his mild sedative these last few days and it has helped his nerves a little. I was glad too that Dr Wadsworth was there when we got to the Hospital so there was no time to get edgy. After a while I heard a monotonous murmur and tiptoed nearer to the consulting room door and could hear Dr Wadsworth’s voice repeating ‘Sleep without dreaming’ again and again, and breathed a sigh of deep relief as I knew at last he had succeeded in getting my husband ‘off’. When the door opened and he came out, he looked really happy, and when Dr Wadsworth came out and said, ‘Well, Mrs Last, I’ve at last succeeded in getting to your husband’s subconscious mind and now may be able to help him’. I felt a ray of hope, though sighed when I saw my husband’s worsened appearance in the strong harsh light from the uncurtained windows, so much more noticeable than in our own house. We went on the Coast Road as a little run out.
Wednesday, 4 April. A tiring but worthwhile day, and Mrs Salisbury bustled in, in one of her working moods. She is a treasure. I always feel so grateful for her. We had a good laugh this morning. The Channel pilot on the other side of the road suddenly decided he would paint the woodwork on the front of the house. He borrowed ladders and bought black and white paint, and got two fellow pilots to come and give a hand. They came in cars and brought a dog each, and old Tippy, the pilot’s chow, has been touchy, and dogs snapping and being scolded and loud happy laughter has filled the quiet road. I’ve known one of the pilots from a schoolboy, and this morning when I answered the bell he stood grinning, his cap on the back of his head. He said, ‘Hallo Mrs Last – like to save the lives of two poor sailor boys?’ I said without a smile, ‘Nice sailors?’ He answered and said, ‘Nicest lads you could wish to meet’. I said, ‘Ah, that’s alright. I thought at first you meant Andrew and yourself.’ He roared at what he thought was a real joke and then said in a wheedling tone, ‘Lend us some tea. Em hasn’t time to go to the shop. She is busy painting. She said you can have it back by tomorrow at the latest.’ I filled a little cup with tea from my caddy, and then was asked if I could spare matches, so I let him have a box. A ship must have come in on the tide. After lunch we saw one of the pilots go off, and before tea he was back, returned the tea, and brought a string of small codlings ‘for the lend’.
We all seemed busy this morning, and I only fried bacon and eggs and heated soup, and there was creamed rice I’d kept from Monday’s lunch. Mrs Salisbury worked till 3.30, and had a cup of tea and plate of sweet biscuits and cakes. She chased the last chocolate crumb round the plate and sighed, ‘I wish you could win that bloody pool – I could come more mornings a week, couldn’t I?’ I said, ‘You could’ and she nodded. I gave her half the fish and a bit of dripping to fry them. I steamed two for our tea – lately my husband has shunned greasy food as much as I do for my often fickle digestion. The cats got one between them. I felt I wished those lads would be round oftener and want to borrow something. I thought over some of the day’s conversation. Mrs Salisbury loves to talk over things that puzzle or worry her. Today we talked of rising and ever rising prices and costs. She said, ‘Them there fellows are all liars. If they say “Only 8½ d each ration book” it very likely means two bob, and we can’t live on just rations. Another thing – bread going up means at least 1s 6d, and I’ve had to stop the kids’ school meals. I can feed them cheaper at home – it would have been another 1s 3d with the 1d rise, and I’ve no more money coming in. I’ve these two lodgers but am paying for a bed and mattress and a vac at the Co-op.’ I felt glad it was at the Co-op, and not at one of the big Jewish syndicates. She had read, too, that the jump in the cost of wool had nothing to do with the jump in the cost of raw material, that when that was taken into account, knitting wool, and of course bought socks, would be twice the price. She said, ‘How are folks like us going to live and clothe ourselves?’ I felt it was indeed a problem – for all of us. I know we hadn’t foreseen present circumstances when we spoke of living on capital …
I got 100 fire bricks unexpectedly today. Although Mrs Atkinson and I got them for a number of years, lately none have been delivered. The coalman who has the agency has let all he has go to his reg’ coal customers. At 13s 4½d they are not cheap, but they burn a long time, and one put at the back of the fire and covered with wetted ‘stacks’ means a fire for hours. Again, I feel I must try and get a stock of fuel, not only for ourselves, but to help Arthur and Edith. They have been desperately short this winter, and when they come over will start from scratch. Even if I had to send a box of fire bricks by rail, I’d gladly do it if it meant warmth for those two little boys. Arthur shares my dear love of a fire. This winter when his health hasn’t
been good he would miss a fire more than ever before.
Thursday, 5 April. Often I’ve noticed when I reached a certain stage of exhaustion I’ve ‘stepped into a picture’ rather than had a dream. I felt last night as I used to do sometimes in the war years – utterly at the end of myself, not ill as much as quite spent. Being sick was the last straw.
I dreamed I was in the dining room. [This was unusual; Nella rarely wrote about her dreams.] My husband seemed to be away. I’d just got washed and changed and was wondering whether to go down town. I seemed to remember there was something going on in town and thought, ‘I’ll go and see what’s to be seen. I never have any interesting things to write in my M-O. It would be just the thing.’ I made a cardboard folder to hold a small pad of typing paper. I write on one side, turn it over and write on the other, and place each leaf at the bottom, ready for tying together. Its light brown folder is not suitable for carrying out to make notes, but I put it under my arm and went down town. The town was thronged by Austrian-German type of youth, in leather breeches, embroidered braces and alpine hats. I’ve never seen any in real life – only pictures – but in my dream I knew every little variation in dress, the meaning of every scout like badge on shirt arms, and I began to feel very perturbed as I noticed the gay rollicking high spirits when groups walked in the centre of the road in full view, and the different attitude when small groups met on the sidewalks and dropped their gaiety. In the queer ‘wisdom’ I had about the different types, I drew into a doorway and made a few brief notes, then walked slowly down the street and called in my greengrocer’s and got bananas for Jessie and ourselves. The proprietor said, ‘How’s that little Clifford of yours getting on?’ I said, ‘Little – he’s 32’. He said, ‘No, I meant the new baby. Wasn’t it called Clifford?’ I said, ‘No, Christopher’. He said, ‘Perhaps this will do for his birthday cake. I turned it out of the showcase the other day.’ It was a rather awkward little ornament with figures on top, and he put it in a box for me and I went out with it and my two bags of bananas.
Nella Last in the 1950s Page 15
