Nella Last in the 1950s

by Patricia Malcolmson

  I met two acquaintances and walked towards the market and we saw a big powerful working man standing by the half opened door. He was asking every woman something. I saw to my horror he had my brown folder under his arm and at the same time heard what he was asking – ‘Are you Mrs Nella Last, please?’ I would have hurried away. I realised I must have been followed to the greengrocer’s, and when I put down the folder to pick up the bags of bananas and the little box forgotten it and it had been picked up. One of the women I was with said before I could stop her, ‘Someone is asking for you, Mrs Last’. I turned in panic, trying to remember exactly what I had written, and realising my name and address were on the top of my diary, felt I daren’t go back and spend the night alone. I decided to go back to the house where we lived before, and the vestibule door was open and I went in, but a woman pushed herself in after me and closed the door to. I said, ‘What do you want?’ And she said, ‘Your shoes for a start, and then I’ll know you won’t get far away’. There was a clatter of horses’ hooves and the creak of some kind of vehicle and the half drunken singing of men, and some kind of wind instrument badly played. I opened the door and looked out, various of the women urging me forward. I saw a high old-fashioned ‘waggonette’ fitted with gaily dressed youths who urged me to ‘come for a ride’. A girl I know paused and looked longingly and said, ‘I’d like to come, Mrs Last’. I snatched at the offer and said, ‘Jump up, Edna’ as a little rickety set of steps were lowered over the back and hooked on. She ran forward and began to climb the steps, but fell with the ‘bang’ that only a hard push could have caused and struck her head with a sickening thud. I heard a voice mutter ‘Fool – that’s not the one’ and I turned and fled, round corners, up quiet back streets. My shoeless feet making no sound let me hear unmistakable sounds that someone was keeping up with me at a distance.

  My mind worked ice cold and clear. As I ran I puzzled where I could find sanctuary, realising I was getting near and nearer the hospital. I saw a policeman in the distance calling from a police box. I put on a last spurt and reached him, falling against him, and heard my voice say, ‘Call an ambulance quickly and get me to the hospital – I’m hurt’ and before I lost consciousness felt his strong arm grip me and him saying, ‘Hold on, a few minutes and the ambulance will be here’, and everything faded. All the ‘knowledge’ of details, of suspicion and fear, were blurred when I woke, and I arose with the shattered feeling I often did in the war …

  Mrs Howson and I both had been interested today when a man from quite a good bakery-confectionery in town rang and asked if he could call twice a week. Never since before the war have we been able to get much at the door, and in a residential area without shops very near, we would have often been glad of a van calling. Both Mrs Howson and I bake, so we did not want any delivery, and Mrs Atkinson and Jessie go to a favourite confectioner’s and wouldn’t change. We wondered if it meant trade was not quite so good in town. We had a visit from what surely must be the ‘gentleman ragman’ today – smart car, well dressed man, small balance scale in hand, asking for old woollen socks, jumpers, etc. I felt I’d seen everything now. Such funny times to be living in. So topsy turvy!

  Sunday, 8 April. I’ve nothing in the sewing line except my moss green two piece and I’ll wait till the cleaning is over, and I’ve got the buttons and belt made. I’ve a tablecloth started to embroider, but I felt tired tonight and relaxed on the settee, to listen to Palm Court. If anyone had said, ‘Remember George Dunnan, the Fleet Air Arm pilot friend of Cliff’s’, I’d have had to consider before recalling his appearance. Tom Jenkins’ orchestra played the Warsaw Concerto. My eyes were closed. I felt if I opened them I’d see that merry impudent lad – and the happy saucy face of Cliff, so young and gay. How they maddened me by playing it on Cliff’s portable gramophone. George bought the Concerto record, one of Brahms’ Cradle Song, and ‘Whispering Grass’ by the Ink Spots – they were a present for Cliff to take overseas. They must have been half worn out in the few days George was here, so long ago. I felt all the sadness of utter futility and waste sweep over me, just as in the war. Our little Peter and Christopher seemed part of the sad montage that swept over me, one of those desolate if fleeting moods when faith burns low, when I felt glad my life was ending rather than beginning, when human hearts feel less powerful than autumn leaves swept along in a gale, just playthings of Fate rather than captains of their souls.

  For several weeks this spring Barrow was abuzz with talk of the fortunes – mostly successes – of its rugby football team, which had reached the Challenge Cup final. Rugby League football, which was widely played in the north of England, was at the peak of its popularity in the early post-war years. Holding the Cup final at Wembley was intended in part to give this regional sport greater national exposure.

  Thursday, 12 April. Mrs Howson called in, really to tell me Barrow was all set for Wembley. She is so little interested in [the] wireless she didn’t realise I’d had it on the Light Programme. Four thousand went from Barrow by train, and coaches and cars swept down the main road at the end of our road till well after 2 o’clock this morning … I was talking to a shopkeeper today and he was a bit gloomy about all the money taken out of Barrow already by the rugby semi-final and replay. In the paper it said 40,000 went to Odsal [rugby ground in Bradford], and 4,000 to Hudders-field for the replay. They couldn’t do it at less than £1 a head on the average, and tonight the fare to Wembley was announced – 54s 6d – and in another column it announced 10,000 tickets for Wembley stadium would be allotted to Barrow. With little or no overtime being worked in the Yard at present, if people do flock to Wembley it stands to reason someone or something will suffer … My husband sat in censure on ‘rugby fans with no sense of proportion’. I said, ‘Well, it is their own money. It is they who catch chills etc., but don’t forget they live, if only in wild enthusiasm, which, after all, is no sin.’

  The next day at the greengrocer’s ‘they were talking of some bridal bouquets being cancelled as the bride and groom had decided against a “posh” church wedding and were getting married at a Registry office, and then with the best man and the chief bridesmaid were going off to Wembley, confident that they would see Barrow win the Cup!’

  Friday, 20 April. I went to the hairdresser’s for 9 o’clock – and there was no power, and none came on for two hours. There was hot water in the geyser from last night so I got the shampoo and set, but sat with a towel round my head, glad of a rather smelly oil stove. I said to the girl who does my hair, ‘Going off to Wembley?’, really to make conversation and not expecting her to say she was. She is working after her marriage to help get a nice home and always has some little ‘buy’ to tell me she has bought since I last saw her. She said, ‘Yes, if the Tradesman’s Holiday is altered to Saturday. My husband says “What’s the good of scrattling† and saving, Edna, when in two–three years we might all be blown up by an atom bomb? And anyway when this job’s finished at Sellafield [nuclear weapons facility], in about 18 months, if we are still living, let’s think of going off to Australia or New Zealand”.’ He was one of many engineers who have left the Yard since there’s the ‘go slow’ with no overtime, etc. She went into the next cubicle to begin ‘winding’ a permanent wave. I could hear all that was said with no buzz of dryers, and I’d caught a glimpse of the customer as she passed where I sat over the oil stove. She spoke of being glad she had decided to have her perm before Whit – ‘It’s going to just work out nice for Wembley’. I gathered she and her husband were going on a ‘Cooks tour’ when everything was included but the ticket for Wembley, and they had those. She said, ‘I was surprised when my husband said after he had been to Bradford, “What do you say if we go to Wembley? Could you scrape up enough to pay for yourself if I pay for myself?”’ And she had said, ‘I’ll get that money if we live on porridge and potatoes till the 5th of May. What with all this talk of rising prices, shortages, armaments for another war, I’m going to begin “living for today”. No use saving for an old a
ge few of us will reach if they start chucking atom bombs about.’ Without altogether agreeing, I felt with a sadness how much in my life I’d been persuaded to let drift by.

  My husband came down for me and brought the library books. He has decided he will read a novel if I ‘get a good one’. As it’s to be large print, no murders, thrills or excitement – and not too sexy – added to the fact I was never a sloppy love story reader, it’s a bit difficult at times to please him!

  Monday, 23 April. Mrs Higham rang up to say she was bringing the car and would pick up Mrs Howson and I.* We went just before 7 o’clock to the same hotel as last year – but a different manager. He couldn’t help having no coal, but I felt it was shocking management not to have electric radiators for the people staying in the hotel – it felt so cheerless and cold. It was a very successful affair, with good speakers, the chief one a Scotswoman called Mrs Darling from London Headquarters. I’ve heard a few queer little dodges to get to Wembley, but one tonight did make us laugh as a WVS member complacently told how she and her husband had managed. They belong to the thriftless type of shipyard workers. When money is good they spend it freely, never having much saved, and tell you openly it takes at least 15s for postal orders for the football pools each week, etc. Lately with the no overtime ban, they have only just managed, so had to think of a plan if she intended going to Wembley. She finally decided to sell her bedroom suite – it couldn’t have been up to much, she only got £20. She took £10 to Cooks for two all-in tickets – railway journey, meals, etc. – and then went to Jay’s, a showy deferred payment store, chose a bedroom suite and paid £10 deposit, and it was delivered the same day. She pointed out in high glee that they were having a day out, and she had got what she had been wanting for some time, and now overtime was coming back she would soon pay the rest of the money!

  Wednesday, 25 April. Spring is coming, even if the wind feels iced as it blows over the snow-clad hills. I got shortbread biscuits, almond cheese cake and mince pies, and worked with Mrs Salisbury. I’d got the living room vac-ed and dusted, and Mrs Salisbury had polished the surrounding lino, and I’d closed the door, feeling one job was done, and my husband decided he would clean some smoky corners with a big soft rubber. Then it showed up the rest of the frieze and he began to tackle one side of the room. Bits of rubber and the ‘dust’ off the paper was everywhere. He said, ‘Now don’t worry. I’ll vac and dust’ – and had the vac when Mrs Salisbury wanted it, and she wasn’t pleased. We work to a strict routine and through it get a really good morning’s work. Mrs Salisbury was full of all the ‘bargains’ being offered in the Yard – 8 pairs of blankets, a washing machine, several rings, a gold wrist watch, and so many pieces of furniture she had lost count. Two Electrolux vax [vacuum cleaners] not yet paid for, a half finished caravan trailer and a small fishing boat on the Channel. It seems nothing is going to keep some people from Wembley! She said, ‘One pawnshop has stopped taking jewellery except gold watches.’

  The following week Mrs Salisbury told Nella that ‘her sister, who is more often than not on Public Assistance when her husband is off work for long stretches with bad abscesses in his knee, is off to Wembley – “and her without a nightdress or change of underwear to her name”! She has borrowed from a money lender, as have many more … Mrs Salisbury said shrewdly, “A lot don’t really care about rugby. They don’t want to see other people going – and them staying at home”’ (2 May 1951). In the Challenge Cup final at Wembley on 5 May Barrow lost to Wigan in (it was generally agreed) a lacklustre match. The reported attendance was 94,262. Barrow did win the Cup in 1955.

  Thursday, 26 April. Mrs Howson came to borrow a pinch of Sylko and stayed a while talking. She ‘never reads the paper’, ‘doesn’t like listening to the news – always something depressing to upset folks, much better not to listen’. Tonight she really surprised both of us by beginning to discuss two items in the papers, one of Russia having submarines equipped with atom bombs, the other a speech by the Head of Civil Defence in America to say Russia had planes and atom bombs ready and could bomb American cities, and the papers had better begin teaching people how to survive in an atomic raid – both secrets stolen from America. The poor dear was so morbid as she sat wondering if life was worth living – if we could go on! I pointed out there was just nowhere else to go, and after all it wasn’t life itself that mattered but the courage we brought to the living of things, but she seemed really downcast. I couldn’t but think of our two little boys when she had gone, wondering what lies round the corner for them, and what life will be like when they are grown up. I’d a sadness as I thought it seemed the way of it that I couldn’t see them often, or my own two, and I was always so fond of a ‘family’.

  Tuesday, 1 May. I’d such a feeling of blissful content at Arthur’s letter, in which he said someone was going over for three days for special Inspections, which will determine his promotion to Senior Inspector within two years. He is my own son, but even if he were not I’d say, ‘Well done’, knowing the honest work he has always done. He was not a natural ‘swot’. Study didn’t always come easy when he first started out. I used to grieve I couldn’t help them more, send them to college etc. Things work out. They are both nice men, with an old-fashioned reaction to duty, their own ideals and rules of conduct. I felt a warm content to think that Arthur’s steady ‘keeping on’ would be recognised, and soon he will get a transfer this side of the water, and soon I’ll be able perhaps to see more of them.

  Tuesday, 8 May. A money row is brewing. I only hope Arthur gets here to give a bit of moral support when the balloon goes up! Although it’s nearly two years since he started to be ill and 18 months since he retired, we have never actually drawn on capital, that is to say, sold savings certificates or shares in the Building Society. I had money in the post office and there was money coming in from paid bills. Now we have a little block of savings certificates matured, and I’ve still the money in the post office. He hides my book ‘for fear you draw money and give it away’. I was very curt, not to say rude, the other day as I begged him not to compare me with his mother who gave to anyone flattering her the right way. You never could reason or argue at all with him. Lately, if he has been crossed at all, he has bad nervy attacks, verging on hysterics. I feel so tired. My patience seems to have dwindled so much lately, as I often wonder how ill he really is, and how much is due to his determination to have his own futile way. The way he gasps pitifully that ‘I won’t be here much longer and then you can go flying off to wherever you want’ nowadays often makes me feel physically sick instead of, as he confidently expects, ‘brings you to your senses’ …

  After a nap I felt a lot better and would have gone shopping but it rained heavily. There’s always such a fuss if the car gets wet I decided not to venture to ask for it to be taken out. I sewed on my woollen dress – it’s about finished – and I’ll have it cleaned and put it away. I made potted meat sandwiches, and there was bread and butter and honey, and shortbread biscuits. I felt happy about Arthur’s letter. He seems to think this special viva lasting three days is a pointer he may get his Senior before he thinks. Whatever he gets or wherever he rises, he has earned it by conscientious steady work, even when ill, even if he is my own dear lad. I would say the same if he was a stranger. He has what is so lacking today – a strong sense of duty, and his own ideals and standards.

  Thursday, 10 May. I felt so worried this morning. My husband says he has ‘worse dreams than ever’ and says he feels as if his heart will ‘race itself out’. Sometimes he feels so dreadfully frightened. He looked ill, and I didn’t know whether it was wise to coax him to go out, but he said suddenly he would like to go to Ulverston. I’d meant to bake bread, but with the announcement there might be cuts in electricity up to 1 o’clock, and going to Mrs Higham’s meant I couldn’t leave baking till afternoon, I said I’d buy a small brown loaf to do till tomorrow. The sun was bright and warm, but snow still caps the hills and puts an icy edge on the wind. It was so nice to wander
round the market and the shops. I’d put a tight bandage on my foot and ankle, so got round better. Bedding plants of every description, plump fowls, noble salmon and oysters – in spite of no ‘R’ in the month! – as well as piles of ‘best’ fish like turbot and halibut, seemed to give a luxury air to the shops, and tinned ham in several size tins, from 10s 6d to £4 10s 0d, and tinned chicken made me realise what a lot more monied people there must be who shopped in Ulverston. On our way back I got my meat and beef and mutton for stewing and 2 oz of ham. I heated cream of tomato soup, made a salad to the two thin slices of ham and made cornflour sweet.

  We went to vote [in the local elections] on our way to Mrs Higham’s. It was so fine and sunny a day. They wondered in the polling booth if Mother had gone to Walney with the children on holiday. Things were so quiet. We saw Mother and Flo, who had been to vote, and my husband said he would take them with him to Walney to sit in the sun while I helped Mrs Higham cut out a dress and two sets of underwear for Gert [Mrs Higham’s sister-in-law]. We had a really happy afternoon. Mrs Higham said she felt the strain of the last few weeks while looking after Gert, and when they go to Liverpool for Whit weekend she intends staying with her parents till the next weekend. She has been buying a winter coat piece, a length for a black suit, two woollen dress pieces, and enough material for a bedspread and to cover an eiderdown, and will be busy at night school and W.I. for some time.