Nella Last in the 1950s

by Patricia Malcolmson

  We were glad to light a wood fire when we got in – when the sun went down it was so chilly. My husband was looking at next week’s Radio Times and gave a snort of disgust. He said, ‘You’re right. Gilbert Harding is coming back on Twenty Questions’ I’m not and never was an admirer of his particular style of ‘arrogance’ in quietly – or otherwise – slapping people down. To me it was a curious blend of arrogance that seemed a hangover of childhood ideas. When I read his parents had been workhouse Master and Matron I wondered if he had grown up with an ingrowing superiority complex.*

  We had another by-election yesterday in a real Labour ward. I knew this morning a Conservative had been elected, but felt very surprised to see 1,006 majority – it’s not a very large ward. That makes four new Conservative candidates. With the main one and two by-elections, I wonder if it’s a straw in the wind.

  Wednesday, 12 September. When it was time to get up I felt like chewed string. I was so glad Mrs Salisbury was coming. She complained of feeling tired. She seems not to realise there could be such a thing as overwork, and this last morning’s work she took had lengthened to a full day. I hinted pretty strongly this morning that if she took too much on there was the danger she wouldn’t be able to please people for whom she had worked for years, and pointed out she had a lodger and one son working so couldn’t say she was ‘doing it for the children’ for they were having to make more meals for themselves, and out of tins at that, and more bread instead of cooked vegetables. They are all going to see Morecambe Illuminations, at a cost of 6s a head, train and bus fare and 6d of chips each. She will pay for one child – 9s – and the other two not working are picking rosehips and selling them at the WVS office for 3d a pound.* I said ‘You could spend that 9s on having your shoes soled’ – she had said all the ones she had let in the wet – but she said, ‘Oh, Mr Salisbury says he’s bound to “get a coupon up” soon – it’s about time he won something in the football pools’, a remark which made me stare. It’s the first heedless remark I’ve heard her make, for while hoping for luck, she has never banked on it.

  Saturday, 15 September. After a wild night of gale and rain, there were piles of leaves and twigs to sweep up. We rose rather late, too, so with dusting and vac-ing the morning passed very quickly. … The sun shone very unexpectedly [in the afternoon]. I packed bread and butter, honey, tomatoes and cake and made two flasks of tea and we went over Walney to sit by the sea. The shore was littered with good wood – too big for putting in a car boot. People sought smallish pieces – we were amongst them – and were laughing and joking at themselves for ‘beachcombing’, but with fuel problems ahead, such additions were welcome. A few farm carts were further along, loading big awkward pieces. We ate tea and listened to the 6 o’clock news. I’d taken the Express with the lists of football teams as read by the announcer. I had seven draws and one away win, making 23 points on one 6d line, and six draws, one home win (1) and one away (2), making 21 points on the other lines. I checked as carefully as I could. I may have made a mistake and will see in the morning. Last week with 23 points each, six people divided £92, 120! My husband said, ‘You take it very coolly’. I said, ‘Well, there’s quite a lot of draws this week. A lot are bound to have 24 never mind 23 points. I’ll start getting excited when I see if I win much.’ I don’t suppose it will be much, but if my coupon is correct when rechecked, I’ll win something, and won’t have the worry of wondering it it’s a lot. Cliff told me frankly he would be ‘better without a lot of unearned money’, but it would be a help to Arthur, and I could do so much for my husband’s health if I could take him on a long carefree holiday. If it was my own money, I could insist on spending it. He wouldn’t be able to nag about ‘Our money won’t last out if …’

  Earlier, in Cliff’s presence, Nella had written of the ‘help’ that she and Will and their sons could get from winnings from the football pools. Cliff ‘pursed up his lips, thought it over and said, “No, I don’t think so. I’m sure any artist is better without security. I sometimes think it would be better if I had not even my [Army] pension.”’ Nella then admitted that this low-level gambling gave her more pleasure than she had previously allowed. ‘I certainly get a lot of entertainment from the 1s, plus 2½d for a stamp, which I spend each week’ (18 August 1951), and later still she wrote of doing the weekly pools as ‘grand fun’ (18 April 1953). As for these prospective winnings of mid-September, she discovered the next day that she had miscalculated and in fact stood to win around £2 10s 0d (16 September 1951).

  Once, when Margaret Procter told Nella that her husband, Arthur, “understands football and studies hours over the different forms”, I said gravely, “Oh, that’s no use, Margaret. You have to have a real system – like me, for instance. I pick towns I’ve visited, places where I’d like to go, Barrow always because it’s our own town, Southampton because I was so happy in the short time I lived there – Scunthorpe just for the hell of it. I think it has such a sinister ring.” For some reason it struck us on our silly side and we laughed so much Mrs Atkinson came out’ (21 April 1953).

  Friday, 28 September. I rose feeling like a boiled owl. Aspirins always give me that effect, and my cold was so heavy, I felt I wheezed as I breathed. I felt I’d have liked to stay in bed longer, but after several cups of scalding hot tea and some bread and butter, I ate my cornflakes and milk as usual and didn’t feel so bad. The morning mists rolled away and it got out a lovely September day. Suddenly my husband decided to go off, take lunch, and go as far as Bowness again. I didn’t really feel thrilled for I ached all over, but I knew my husband wouldn’t have settled. He would have nursed a little resentment all day, which would have shown itself in a ‘hurt’ manner. I made tea and put it in two thermos flasks, cut bread and butter and put it in the picnic box, and took sliced potted meat – really delicious, made from slim beef simmered tender with two tomatoes and run through the mincer. There were peeled tomatoes and tender stalks of celery, and cake and two pears to finish off.

  It’s going to be a real ‘Woolworths almanack’ of an autumn, one of those impossibly lovely, slightly garish ones. There’s not many leaves falling, and already crab, wild cherry and elder trees flame pink and red on wooded hillsides, and on the fells the bracken gleams dull gold when a shaft of sunlight strikes it, and the grass gleams emerald green with the heavy rains. Streams run along roadsides; pools in low lying hollows of the roads are like ‘splashes’ needing fording, and down hillsides and slopes water cascades – Lake Windermere was higher than we remember. Bowness was itself serene and peaceful, everywhere gay dahlias, chrysanths and marigolds made up for the backward summer. A number of visitors were about, older people on the whole, though at least three young couples looked on their honeymoon as they passed our parked car, oblivious of everything but themselves.

  Friday, 5 October. We went to Coniston. Never have I seen that quiet Lake more serene and lovely. Its glass-like surface was a phantasy of shadows of fell and hill, difficult to tell where shadow ended and substance began. Such a wonderful day for Donald Campbell – a country man answered us there had been several such days – a real worry for him and his staff when they are away fixing up yet another something or other. A lovely ageing golden retriever hovered round as we ate lunch, begging eagerly, but patiently. The country man saw me looking at his collar, but it had no name, it was just a leather strap. I said, ‘I wonder who owns him. There’s no house near, is there?’ He shook his head sadly and said, ‘I think some hard-hearted person brought him here and left him. Several men working on the road have taken him home in pity, but he hasn’t stayed and has come back to this stretch of road.’ I looked down at the noble-looking old dog with whitening muzzle. He looked up at me and gravely offered his paw to shake, a detached look in his eye as if to thank me for bothering. But he would be alright. I saw a policeman a little further on. He had stopped for a chat at a cottage door. We stopped and I mentioned the dog – such a well bred and well trained dog – to be ‘lost’. I asked if nothing
could be done, and he told me of the road men who had taken him, first to a nearby farm house, and then to two other ‘homes’, but in the morning, when let out, it had gone back to one stretch of road and wandered anxiously along it. He said, ‘It’s fine weather and the bracken is dry for a bed. Two bus conductors and several of the road men give it food – a few crusts of bread more often than not – and there’s lake water for drinking. If he won’t be taken to a fresh home, a nearby gamekeeper will shoot him. Don’t worry – he won’t be left wretched and cold as well as lost.’ Our puzzle was – how could anyone so train a dog in good dog manners yet be so unkind when he was growing old? He didn’t seem to have any of that wonderful homing instinct often recorded.

  ‘Loudspeakers boomed round the streets,’ Nella wrote on 12 October, ‘inviting people to a Conservative meeting in a nearby school room, the first sign of an election except for the picture of the Conservative candidate and his election address.’ The nation had just embarked on its second general election in less than two years, and political developments were sometimes on her mind during the following fortnight, though probably rarely as much as Will was.

  Monday, 15 October. I was getting ready to go downstairs when there was a ring. It was Mr Lawton, the father of our candidate. He made a surprising jump in the Conservative vote and got into the Council for a very strong Labour ward recently. He wanted my husband to help take people to the polling booth, but I wouldn’t agree. I pointed out he was never well, and I wouldn’t like any extra excitement. I could tell he thought excitement was hardly to be expected by taking people to vote, but I’ve seen enough of elections, particularly parliamentary ones, to know it wouldn’t be wise after all. I have to live with him and dear only knows the difficulty sometimes when so little upsets him.

  Tuesday, 16 October. We timed our shopping to include going to see a big oil tanker launched, and the lovely thing glided gracefully down the slips into the Channel, with her name World Unity catching a fitful gleam of sunshine. Six tugs – four from Fleet-wood – nosed and pushed her gently round into the Dock, where she rode proudly, far out of the water under the big crane, ready for engines and fittings.*

  Wednesday, 17 October. I put my coat on and took mats out to shake and leave on the line to air in the breeze, and Mrs Atkinson called over to tell me she had had a ‘really good evening out last night’ – a whist club she attends on Fridays. She had gone a few miles out of town onto the Coast Road in a motor coach, had a chicken dinner followed by a whist drive, and she had won first prize. She mentioned her brother-in-law had the same kind of bronchitis cough I had, and the doctor said it was a germ that seemed to be attacking people who were run down. My ‘gossiping’ only took a few minutes while I brushed the mats on the line. I was not prepared for my husband’s attack when I went in. He always had a curious way of hoarding up ‘slights’ and ‘snubs’, but since he has been ill it’s grown worse. His mind acts like a stopped up drain, slowly gathering odds and ends of tea leaves, and odd scraps of vegetables that putrefied slowly – anything and everything that would tend to block a drain. Then when it’s unstopped, it’s amazing what has gone to the accumulation!

  I know he hates me to talk to anyone unless he is there, but his rage took the form of ‘Fearing you will catch more cold – you never think of the bother you give people’, etc. etc. I didn’t feel too good humoured, and when I heard him talk as if he was the most neglected, abused and misunderstood creature imaginable, I let fly, especially when he raked up about me having been so lame and not able to go walking and he ‘Always had to trail about by himself if we went over Walney’, and I knew how he hated going for walks on the sands by himself. It takes me quite a while to really get on my top note, but by Gad when I do so, fur and feathers fly. I was the only one to quell that Arab of a Cliff and pull him together, and I was really nasty. I told him he was so spoilt and pampered and so full of self-pity he was his own worst enemy. I couldn’t but recall how I’d had to crawl down last winter when I had flu, or I’d have soon been unable to do so. Weak half cold tea, half warmed soup and milk brought with an offended offhand manner, and knowing he was boiling up for one of his ‘dos’ wasn’t any inducement to stay in bed. I couldn’t but recall either, when shaky and ill, I got down to the fire, and he went off in one of his nervy fits and I told him if he persisted in having hysterics I’d throw cold water over him. He pulled himself quickly together and has never had an attack since.

  Mrs Salisbury was upstairs. It was just as well I heard her coming down, or once started I knew I’d have said things I’d have regretted. Then he turned his attention to Mrs Salisbury and picked and found fault with her work till she began to look thunderous. I gave her an old shirt and some old socks as a little reward for taking things as well as she did, not liking either her pity or advice to ‘Land him one. I would if my husband went on like that.’ I could only hope with a sigh he had got it out of his system, and he ate a good lunch as usual, while I felt what I did ate nearly choked me.

  Occasionally Nella was satisfied with something Will did. The previous week, on 9 October, ‘I was delighted to find my husband had cleaned my wine-coloured court shoes – when I had them soled and heeled they had been handled with dirty hands, and I’ve never got them as nice.’

  Saturday, 20 October. We had two lots of canvassers. My husband’s pious attitude has always made me chuckle. For years he has said the same ‘I’m a businessman and it’s not policy to state my views’. As I pointed out he might just as well do so. As one who has done a lot of canvassing in years gone by, I’d have known enough to put the ‘opposition’s’ mark against his name. I knew the two men who came for the Conservatives and asked, ‘How do things look?’ He rubbed his ear reflectively and said, ‘I’m blest if I can tell you. We’ve had no startling results, either from meetings – rowdier than ever I’ve known – or house to house talks. Perhaps things will warm up after the weekend.’

  Monday, 22 October. After my husband had his rest we went out a while and round the Coast Road to Ulverston. Across Morecambe Bay the Yorkshire hills could be seen covered well down with snow, though the Lake hills were only white-capped. In the bright cold sunshine, ploughing, potato lifting – and mangels too – hedging, and gravel spraying along a long stretch of road, and sheep were being brought down to fold, ready for lambing. Their feeding troughs had turnips and kale, but I noticed they preferred and could find grass to nibble … We were only out an hour. Some coal had been delivered just before we went – 3 cwt at 4s 7½d a cwt. I didn’t think it looked up to much, but put a few pieces on the fire, and when we came in it had put the fire out! Before it had done so, the coal had been scorched white, just like chalk. What beats me is what they did with all this rubbish before the war. We exported more, and coal moved ships before oil was used, yet every coal cart had at least three grades of coal and at the colliery shops you were bewildered with choice and variety … Even with a good fire of coal and wood, there seemed no heat in the room. The coal man spoke of empty coal boxes everywhere. He said, ‘That trip to Wembley is having to be paid for by many silly folks. No coal taken when they could have put it by, money even being paid off and vacs paid for that were sold straight away. You know I’m sure folks get dafter. It’s no wonder children get to the problem stage when they have no lead from parents.’

  Tuesday, 23 October. Heavy frost covered the lawn like a light fall of snow this morning. The herbaceous border looked odd with its bright bank of flowers. I’d an appointment with my hairdresser and we went down town early so I could go to the grocer’s and the greengrocer’s. The grocer’s wife served me. She is rather a grumbler, and I’ve noticed the shelves keep a bit too well stocked – tinned ham in small tins, crayfish, chicken from 3s 6d to 24s, the latter ‘guaranteed to contain a whole fowl’. This morning she was so gloomy as she complained, ‘Things have never picked up since we had such bad trade when the town went mad to get to Wembley’. I thought, ‘Well, I didn’t go, but my money shrinks. I�
�d love to buy a lot of things I see but I dodge up something tasty, as even in the war we did, but with cheaper food on the whole.’ Women complained of it being cold, but added, ‘One thing, there will be no power cuts till after Thursday and women have voted’. It seems the general opinion that women will sway the votes. I suppose they won’t want to irritate anyone! I see by the notice in the local Mail every district in Furness as well as Barrow are ‘charted’ for different days. Our bad day will be Tuesday, so I can plan a plain meal of soups to heat and perhaps fish to cook, or bacon. Even a four-hour cut ends at noon, so men from the Yard can have a quickly prepared meal.

  Wednesday, 24 October. I finished Edith’s letter, and put my bet in for Arthur about the election. He takes rather a gloomy view. ‘Conservatives in by 25 or 30 majority’. [This was Nella’s prediction.] He has the quite popular view ‘It’s a pity the Labour Government isn’t returned – to clear up the mess they have got into’, forgetting the old adage ‘While the grass is growing the horse may starve’, and not taking into account how near the edge we are and only wise statesmanship, especially a good Foreign Minister, will gain us respect again in the world. The very look of [Herbert] Morrison [successor to Ernest Bevin as Foreign Secretary] makes me think ‘Here we are again’ of a circus clown. He cannot help his features but he could get his hair cut differently and use hair oil to make him look less irresponsible!

  Thursday, 25 October. A perfect autumn day. The sun would have been warm in early September. We went to vote on our way to Ulverston, and things were very quiet about 10 o’clock. We went through Dalton and didn’t see one sign of voting – not even a car or house with colours showing, not even children in processions as often. I got 2s 2d of undercut, and is 9d of rather poor mutton ‘best end of the neck’ to make a one-pot meal, some very good soup bones, only 3d, and a bit of lights for the cats. As we left Dalton we saw the first signs of election day. From the upstairs window of a small terraced cottage flaunted a big blue tablecloth tied on to a prop! Not another sign till we neared Ulverston and saw a blue-edged card ‘Vote for Fraser’ in a window. Ulverston was busy – not election, but a rather bigger cattle sale had brought people in from the countryside. I went into a very old established draper to get a buckle to match Peter’s buttons. One of the partners served me, a pleasant man of about 40, and we got talking of bygone elections when they had bought blue and yellow ribbon in different widths in thousands of yards, when part-time sewing women made rosettes from sizes taking a yard of ribbon to huge ones taking up ten yards, to put each side of horses’ blinkers, when everyone sported a rosette, yards of ribbon decorated horses, pony chaises and carriages of all description, as well as the décor of house and shop windows. I said with a little sigh, ‘So much enthusiasm is passing. We don’t seem to have those clear-cut convictions.’ He said, ‘No, more’s the pity. It’s not good to let toleration grow into apathy. That’s what is wrong with our foreign policy, in my opinion – and who benefits? We don’t or the half-baked agitators whose undeveloped minds have been dominated by underground Communism.’ All Ulverston people are said to be ‘local preachers’ and ‘debaters’. I felt I could have settled on that high old-fashioned stool and talked and talked …