Nella Last in the 1950s

by Patricia Malcolmson

  I felt glad to relax when my husband rested, and then we went down town and I shopped, and then we went over Walney for a while to sit by the sea. Huge waves crashed on the shores and shingles, and the wind was high. It was amusing to see everyone collect good scraps of wood and tie them in a bundle to take home. Fire wood is so scarce and fuel of any kind so precious that no one bothers about ‘what it looks like’ as they would have done at one time. Men on bicycles came on their way from work and loaded up with good long planks and heavy wood, and pushed them back laden, as if a high wind and following tide was taken full advantage of.* I’d only a salad to make when we came back. Cliff had been on another part of the beach all afternoon and had sunbathed in a sheltered spot. It looked a bit threatening for rain. I felt secretly glad when Cliff saw the way my husband decided he wouldn’t risk the car getting wet. Cliff said cynically, ‘Why? Has it got a sugar top?’ My husband looked so blank and then said, ‘No, but I don’t want to have to wipe it down’. Cliff said, ‘It must spoil any pleasure when you have got such ideas of it being so precious. You never bothered with any of the others, did you?’ ‘No’ was the answer, ‘but the cars today have to be taken great care of’. I can plainly see, if Cliff had his way, he would be out and about in it every day, but I can tell, too, he sees how it would worry my husband, and he uses the bus.

  Thursday, 12 July. I made a nice savoury on toast, beat an egg into a small tin of macaroni cheese, and cooked it till thick and put it on toast. My husband has got into a poor eating way lately, refusing to have a cooked tea, etc. Cliff said shortly, ‘You fuss too much, Dearie. Put it on Daddy’s plate. Don’t ask him. You make him think far too much of his symptoms with fussing so much’ – and my husband ate his tea with enjoyment. Cliff is strangely sweet with his father, an attitude that makes me sigh. Cliff has an impatience with sickness or pain, most of all if he feels illness himself – dear knows he has conquered pain and illness in himself. [Cliff had sustained serious injuries in the war.] He shares my inborn feeling that to talk about sickness or pain or complain gives it strength, and that it’s best to ignore pain if possible, not pretending it’s not there, but not letting it grow by thinking to much.

  Friday, 13 July. I was looking in a shop window while waiting for my husband when I saw Ruth, the dear sweet girl I had, for a while, before war broke out as morning help. She has been married ten years and has five children now, but has the sweet serene way she had at 17 when she first came to me. I was so pleased to see her. Her husband works away – Derby, and then Barnoldswich at the Rolls Royce factory – and they still haven’t found a house. Ruth spends time with him, taking two of the children who don’t go to school yet, and her auntie lives with her still and minds the other three …

  Cliff suggested a game of dominoes and I was glad my husband agreed to join us, but we were all a bit hazy about the proper way to play, and Mrs Howson came in and told us a few rules to be recalled, and we felt more muddled! To my great surprise my husband suggested a game of whist, and we played 12 hands. I did so enjoy it, especially when my husband played such a good ‘clear’ game and didn’t seem to be at all upset or complain of his head aching. I’d like to think of him playing again – with no bad results.

  Saturday, 14 July. Beyond his usual early morning symptoms, my husband didn’t complain. I often think with a little sadness I’m not really good for him. Cliff ignores little pettish ways with a ‘now now’ and an air of ‘You cannot do that, you know’. Little old habits are laughed at gently, and whims like ‘I don’t want toast with a poached egg’ etc. just don’t get by. When we are alone, I’ve either to give way to moods and whims or start an argument that gives him a nervy attack …

  We went to Coniston Lake – such a treat. I often look back with longing to the time when we used to go so often. Although there was a keen little breeze off the fells, the sun was warm enough to spread a rug and relax. Few cars passed. Peace flowed over the hills and quiet water. I was too tired to sew or read. I just relaxed thankfully – really relaxed, as Cliff talked to his father and I didn’t have to feel I was obliged to worry about anything. We lingered till the sun went down behind the hill. Cliff should have met Jack Myers, but he was loath to leave, and it was 8.30 by the time we reached home. It’s been a very poor week for our Festival of Britain week. Cliff went off to Walney to see a show in the outdoor bathing pool, and the fireworks display. He said the latter was by far the best he had ever seen. Nothing seems to interest my husband sufficiently for him to go to anything in the evenings. There’s a recital of operatic music tomorrow night. Cliff wanted us to go, but I knew it was no use. Leo and Mrs Howson are going. Cliff booked their seats when he got his own.

  Thursday, 19 July. There’s times when I feel so worried and down and also think of the queer frustration Arthur has. I feel there’s a kind of cloud over us, but the feeling deepened this morning when a letter from Australia for Cliff from the tenant of his flat, saying he was leaving, made me wonder if Cliff was coming under the family jinx. Cliff let it to an artist friend, but he said he had misgivings soon after when people told him ‘He won’t stay a year. He is very changeable.’ It meant a morning of letter writing – to the tenant of the flat, to Cliff’s solicitor enclosing a copy of the letter as well as a copy of the answering one. Another to someone likely to hear of another tenant, one to the holder of the property who let the flat on lease – the loft, rather – from which Cliff has made a living as well as working place, at his own cost. Then an afterthought letter to two other friends in case the first one was too busy or away. My husband and I went into town to pick up some clothes from the cleaners for Cliff, and I took a hat I was tired of to be reblocked another style,* ready for autumn, and then we went to Dalton for meat…

  Mrs Howson came in soon after tea. I know she hoped for another game of whist – as I did – but Cliff was edgy and restless. He hadn’t been out except to the post, and he went off for a ‘tramp’, though it looked like heavy rain, and he refused to be bothered with a mac – and came in very wet. I don’t think it’s really good to live alone. I feel sometimes that Cliff is fast developing into a very self-centred person, and more and more like my brother in many ways. He is very intolerant – he always was in small ways. While wishing he would get married, I fail utterly to visualise the woman who would suit him – or, I must confess, could stand his ups and downs of moods. He plans to stay in Barrow for another fortnight before going to London, but I can tell now his tiredness is passing. He is anxious to be off and away. This affair of the flat will take at least a fortnight to hear anything in the way of a reply to his letter – another source of worry.

  Sunday, 22 July. Soon after tea, Margaret and Arthur Procter brought the baby [their daughter Lynn, born in June] in for us to see. Such a dear little mite, dark-haired and deep blue-eyed, its nose and long flexible fingers so like Arthur’s. It nestled in my lap for the evening, sleeping and then waking to stare up at me. Margaret looks thin and pale, but was her gay lively self as she and Cliff joked and laughed over old times, and Arthur and Cliff had war memories of Palestine, Egypt and the desert, and we had a very pleasant evening, till they went to bath and feed the baby.

  Cliff was to remain in Barrow for a few more days – and not all of them were free of tension, as far as his parents were concerned (or perhaps Cliff either).

  Thursday, 26 July. Tonight Cliff was going over to Doug’s so had the excuse to have to go out … My husband looked very down. His head ached and he spoke so sadly about Cliff’s impatience with so much. He shows he thinks we have grown old, narrow-minded, ‘slow’ – mainly because, I suspect, we cannot whip up any enthusiasm for ‘modern’ art. I must confess appreciation of most of it has been denied me.* My ideas of beauty and grace are old-fashioned, but it is the way of me, and no intolerant impatience would alter me or my ideas. Poor dear. I felt vexed as he spoke of children turning out so different to what one hoped. I said, ‘Well dear, we no doubt affected our parents the same. You know
my mother never liked me much.’ He gazed into the wood fire without speaking and I went on, ‘You know, Cliff was always a cat that walked alone. Few could understand or bear with him for long. Let’s just love him and realise he is odd, and can only go his way. Let’s look forward to when we can see our little boys, and be very thankful we haven’t got to live with Cliff for always.’ He nodded and then said, ‘But I don’t like him acting as if you were stupid and dull, and incapable of appreciation of all he thinks perfect’. I burst out laughing as I said, ‘By the wee man,† if that lad could read my thoughts he’d get a jolt. He doesn’t realise I’ve still got the insight of old and see that he shows a sad “inferiority” or he wouldn’t want to bully anyone to make them different. He doesn’t realise that if a person of 61 hasn’t come to the realisation of life and living and can see all their own follies and mistakes as well as their associates’, they must be dull-witted. Cliff’s opinion of me doesn’t bother me one scrap. He has his own path in life. We can only wish him luck.’ But I did sigh to myself as I thought how very like my self-centred bachelor brother he was – priding himself on being so tolerant yet so narrow in many of his ways and thoughts. Rain is beating against the windows and the wind is wild, giving a feeling that summer will soon be fleeting and autumn and dark days with us.

  ‘Cliff grows more restless as he watches every post,’ Nella wrote the following night, ‘to hear when his Australian friend is back in London. He wants to borrow his flat for a fortnight while his friend is up in Edinburgh for the Festival.’ When a phone call on 31 July left word that this London flat would be available from 12 August, Cliff made immediate plans to visit his brother’s family in Belfast and ‘cancelled a few engagements he had made for the coming week’. The next afternoon, Wednesday, 1 August, Cliff ‘went over Walney and lazed in the sun. He is a sun worshipper’, his mother thought, ‘and has grown brown as an Indian and never feels any chill in the air. We too went over Walney for an hour, but returned to cook fish for tea, and then Cliff got packed ready, and went back to Walney till it was time for him to catch the mail train, which would enable him to catch a connection for Heysham for the Belfast boat. I’d a queer little feeling of parting. Somehow I’ve got so used to him at home. I’d forgotten all the years of war and the time spent in Australia, and a little chill seemed to come over me as I realised it was only a visit.’*

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  COMINGS, GOINGS AND PUBLIC AFFAIRS

  September–December 1951

  Friday, 7 September. I certainly couldn’t complain today was dull. We both slept later than usual, and it was after 9 o’clock when we had finished breakfast. There was a letter from Paris from Cliff – from another address – and he said he would be there for a week, and forward any letter. As it was written Wednesday, and I wasn’t sure how long a letter would take, I thought I’d better write by return, and enclose Cliff’s letter as he asked in Arthur’s letter. I decided to finish off Arthur’s letter and post it today, to give him a chance to write this weekend. I dusted round and vac-ed the living room, cut fresh roses for two vases and sat down to write. My husband had been out for fish, and I prepared a simple meal of cream of chicken soup, poached cod in milk, and a raspberry blancmange to finish.

  I’d been out into the garden to tell my husband lunch was almost ready – he was cutting back some brambles – and I heard a ring at the door as I came in. A sweet-faced, rather short girl stood on the step. She said, ‘I’m Ruth’ – I didn’t catch the name clearly – ‘from Australia. We were motoring down from Edinburgh and saw “Barrow-in-Furness” on a sign post and decided to come and see if Cliff was still at home.’ I looked beyond her. A big light fawn car with luggage on the roof was by the gate, and a dark-haired young man at the wheel. I said, ‘I’m sorry – Cliff is in Paris – but do come in. You are just in time for lunch.’ Although they demurred at the ‘trouble’, I knew they liked the idea. I said, ‘Not a bit of trouble. I’ve only to open a tin of meat. I’ve lettuce and tomatoes in the fridge and can soon make a salad.’ They chose corned mutton from the tins I had, and I quietly opened a tin of macédoine† of vegetables and added it to the icy crisp lettuce and tomatoes, and added a handful of sultanas, and I’d still some of Cliff’s salad dressing. I opened a tin of strawberries to eat to the blancmange, and there was a plate of almond queen cakes and tea to finish. I do love to see a meal appreciated and enjoyed, and have never seen anyone enjoy a meal more.

  Such nice people, both artists. She is older than she looks and has two daughters over in London, 19 and 18, and Peter, who drove her to Scotland with two other friends, is a friend of the elder girl – he looks 23 or so and he is a painter. As soon as lunch was over my husband proposed taking them to see the Shipyard where all the P & O liners are built, and as they went out of town we took them over Furness Abbey, and then called for meat. They were such nice friendly people, and I always feel I owe Australia and Australians a lot for their kindness to Cliff. I told them they would always be welcome if they liked to pay a visit – and to bring the girls, we could manage somehow. I could see they were the type who wouldn’t mind sharing beds or sleeping on settees. I felt so sorry to part with them after so short a visit and I could tell my husband felt at home with them.

  Saturday, 8 September. Just 15 years today since we came to this new house. I still feel the joy of the wide windows to open wide and let in sunshine and breezes. Whenever I go into my husband’s room I think how our tastes have widened apart since he had his own room. If there is the least wind he closes every window – casements and transom – and has the door shut, saying there’s enough air coming in from the small grating ventilation in the wall, while as long as I’ve warm bed clothes, it doesn’t matter if the curtains whip and billow in the wind as long as I feel I can ‘breathe deeply’. He wasn’t in a good mood this morning, and began to gently complain that visitors upset him, hoping no notice was taken of my ‘gushing initiative for them to come again’, etc. I felt edgy and tired – I don’t sleep well lately – and stood up to him, not caring if I did upset him. I said, ‘When I said I hoped they came again, it was you who mentioned Xmas. When I said I’d always plenty of tinned food so they needn’t trouble about eating our rations, and that I’d plenty of fuel to make all comfortably warm, it was you who said, “And we can soon get plenty to drink”.’ So he went off on another tangent – that we were spending too much money. Again I reminded him that any small extra of mine I’d got out of my own tiny income or housekeeping, and that any cut would have to be made elsewhere – the car would have to go. I knew it was really more than we could afford, and I often thought so. It took the wind out of his sails completely. And when I went up to finish dressing – I’d breakfasted in my dressing gown, really because I felt it warmer than the thin dress I’d have put on – he started to vac the living room for me! …

  My husband said he would like to go to Coniston Lake to see if there were any blackberries and I suggested we go to Spark Bridge on our way home for I worry about Aunt Sarah and Joe. She writes such bright uncomplaining letters, but rarely tells me how they really are in health. (It’s odd how you can see hereditary streaks. Cliff has exactly her reaction to personal illness – ‘Don’t talk about it; it’s over and done with’ etc. – when I used to be curious about his war injuries.) It was a glorious day for motoring. I thought wistfully of the days when we used to take long weekend trips round all our favourite places in the Lakes, both in autumn and spring, when hill and fell have their loveliest views. Everywhere tractors and lorries rolled along the roads, laden with stooks of grain – never a kern baby† left nowadays. The fields are shorn and arks of fowls or ducks wheeled on, or geese turned out, to glean every stray grain. We drew in for one large tractor had to pass on a narrow part of the road. An old man sat beside the driver, and suddenly I longed to talk to him, and to exchange reminiscences of Harvest Homes, kern babies, and dancing to a couple of fiddles. I wanted to know if he remembered all the fun, and to ask if he had
ever been a Harvest King for a night and sat by the Harvest Queen and the kern baby dressed in gay ribbons. I wondered if my memories were ‘general’, or that old tradition had lingered longer in quiet corners of Lakeland, in old upland farms like Gran’s. Yet I’d a faint memory that at all Harvest Homes where I’d been taken as a small child Irish and Scottish harvest labourers joined in with everything, as if they had the same customs.

  By the look of the blackberries they will take a couple of weeks to be anything – if at all. They are wizened greenish red berries with a very rare black one where the sun has ripened them. The Lake was grey and still except for wind ripples. At last Donald Campbell has come when there was a real chance of the complete calm he needs for his trials.* I grieved to see that one little clearing by the Lake – where perhaps three cars could park – was littered with paper, tins and bottles as if untidy picnickers had swarmed in the hope of seeing the speedboat come out. I wondered what kinds of minds people would have – or homes – when they left such a place worse for their visit. We had our tea and read a while, and then called at Spark Bridge on our way back. Such dirty tired old people, but quite happy. They had got all their potatoes up and carried from the little vegetable plot about 150 yards away at the river’s edge – Joe had dug them, Aunt Sarah carried them, a half bucketful in each hand – the ground was so wet they feared to leave them in the ground any longer …