Nella Last in the 1950s

by Patricia Malcolmson

  It grew dusk rapidly in spite of the lovely day. [Summer time had just ended.] At least no one can say the weather kept them from voting.

  Friday, 26 October. Few were optimistic enough to expect to return our Conservative candidate – about 12,000 majority [for Labour] last time. [The Labour majority in 1950 was only c.9,500.] I thought it showed the trend of thought in Barrow when that majority was down to 6,000 odd. We went to Ulverston after shopping in Barrow, only because it was such a nice morning, and I left vegetable soup simmering and prepared potatoes and sprouts. I was glad we had gone out, for a bitter wind blew up, and heavy clouds made it a gloomy afternoon, and I’d been longing to sit and listen to the election results. I worked busily at Peter’s coat – tailored garments want much inside work if they have to look at all well on little boys. We got so thrilled and excited, and our spirits began to droop a little when, after climbing to a majority of about 40, we began to drop. I was tickled, though, at the faith my husband had in my forecast of 25 to 30 majority [for the Conservatives]. If it hadn’t been for that faith he would have been downcast.

  Gradually a feeling of security stole over me, difficult to explain except a feeling that competent people would soon be in command. Mr Churchill has a place in our hearts no other mortal could have had, but it’s not just his leadership that is needed, but the decisions of wise experienced men. No groundnuts scheme, Gambia eggs and so on with Government money.* If big business want to launch out, well, let ’em, if they use their own money. They won’t waste it or pay big overhead wages for ‘supervision’ and doodling round, with their coats on. Not that I’ve great hopes of much betterment in the near future. Without undue pessimism, clouds seem to be rolling up rather than dispersing, but always there will be confidence in knowing men of experience will be at the helm. I was amazed at the light-hearted feeling that came over me. Dear knows I’d nothing really to make me suddenly feel more cheerful about the future …

  When on the 9 o’clock news it was announced that now we had 25 of a majority, my husband looked thoughtful and then said so mournfully I burst out laughing, ‘To think of you wasting a hunch on an election result when you could have used it when filling up your football pool!’* Last week the treble chance prize was £7,800 or so. I would like to win that amount better than ten times the amount. A quarter of it would mean Arthur had no worry about buying a house – he earns enough for everything else. Cliff’s share wouldn’t overwhelm him, and our shares would be riches. I’d book a passage on a cargo ship going a long voyage – round the world if possible. No frills, just ordinary comfort, just to sail away somewhere warm and interesting in the dear hope it would give my husband that interest he so needs, and so utterly lacks.

  Saturday, 27 October. Mrs Howson was so annoyed. They were none of them pleased at the WVS office at the remarks of two newcomers. They seemed to have moved round the country a lot with their ‘Vickers’ Metropole’ husbands, always making for a WVS office as a means of fresh contacts. They are both only young – under 25 – and had rather cruelly ‘taken off’ the people in various WVS offices, but somehow given the impression that this one in Barrow beat the lot! I bet it would too. Mrs Newall, the part-time paid secretary, has a lovely gay and generous personality, but looks like a tinker’s wife. She wears no corsets on her spreading figure and as she says as she looks down on it, so fat and shapeless, ‘I cannot get anything ready made to fit, but handkerchiefs and hats’, which she rarely wears on her badly cut and kept ‘urchin cut’ hair. Her lovely melodious voice can string more weird cuss words than any but a bargee, and her cigarette ash seems everywhere.* Mrs Diss, in spite of her money and lovely house, always makes us squirm when offcome† visitors come so trim and neat, for her shoes always look run down and dirty, her permed hair always looks as if it needs a trip to the hairdresser’s, and she is so erratic in her manner and leaves far too much to Miss Willan, a retired school mistress who finds a queer satisfaction in wearing the shabbiest WVS uniform I’ve seen outside London and Manchester, where uniforms got so much hard wear in the war. Miss Willan took a cottage in the country, and she and her sister never came to Barrow if there was any danger of a raid, and never slept in Barrow. She was always a little power-crazy when at school, and tries to run every effort in her own personal way. Miss Mawson belongs to that queer school of thought when any kind of trade, even that of a wealthy jeweller like Mr Diss has, was outcast. Her family were solicitors, and a few of them, if not exactly shady, were on that road, and in addition plain to ugliness. She is no exception.

  I’m always wildly amused by both her and Miss Willan’s attitude to me. As the wife of a businessman, I’d be amongst the untouchables, but for the fact my mother’s people were ‘the proud Rawlinsons’. The fact they were as poor as jack turkey – and Granny must have worked like two farm servants rolled in one to raise her family when she was left so young a widow – doesn’t seem to count! She spends most of her time when she and Mrs Howson are not busy on clothing, reckoning up whether to class people as sheep or goats, and no one could class Mrs Howson as more than a little eccentric, always clinging to home and her mother, condemning every action of more venturesome women, anyone who has saved money or anyone with a different point of view of any kind.

  I listened to all Mrs Howson had to say and felt a little chuckle as I wondered if I was in the bunch of ‘funnies’. I must have some kind of affinity with the feather-brained little thing or she wouldn’t seek my company as often. Tonight my husband complained she wearied him and said when she went, ‘You know, that bunch at the WVS office are odd’. I didn’t want any offcomers to point out that fact.

  Tuesday, 30 October. We set off and got to Ambleside, taking rests, first to eat lunch by Windermere Lake, and then to stroll round Bowness in the sunshine and the serenity of an off-season day, so lovely and peaceful. The shops were as usual so well stocked, every kind of luxury from good fur coats, Shetland woollies and tweeds, handmade toys, antiques – just everything if you had money. Taste was all round. There never seems anything trashy in country shopping centres. The sun was warmer than it often was in July or August. We strolled by the Lake at Ambleside, the water so smooth that when swans sailed majestically across in hope we had bread for them, their wake was like a crack on its surface. All the rowing boats were washed and stacked in sheds, while boatmen dismantled large craft and washed seats etc. in the Lake. The trees were a glory of gold, yellow, russet and red. Holly trees were covered with scarlet berries, yet sheltered gardens still had lovely roses and marigolds as well as chrysanths. Such a lovely colourful day, such a treat to be out in the warm sunshine. We were back home before 4 o’clock. I made a fire and fed the disgruntled cats. They hadn’t liked the fire going out evidently.

  Thursday, 1 November. We went down town and I called in the Library. Last Thursday I was talking to one of the girls and the under-Librarian and gave my bet for the election. I’d forgotten today and wasn’t prepared for the welcome I got from them, the girl especially. I don’t know her very well. She is just one of the very nice pleasant girls in the Library, but today I might have been a dear friend as she came up to the table where I was turning the books over. She said, ‘Are you psychic in some way? Do you often have “hunches”?’ I laughed at her earnest expression, but when she went on to say, ‘I wish you would join with me in doing a football coupon every week’, I burst out laughing as I said, ‘I do two lines of treble chance every week, and I never have any luck’, and thought to myself, ‘Well, who would have thought a girl like you would have gone in for pools’. She said wistfully, ‘I do want a lot of money’, and I said, ‘Why?’ She said, ‘To get married. I’m not really a business-minded person. I want to be married and have children and a home of my own, and my boy and I say however we save it will be three years before we could have even a reasonable sum for deposit on a house, and the minimum of furniture.’ Poor dear. I wondered how many of the sixpences and shillings of the pools are made up from people like her.


  Saturday, 3 November. Mrs Woods called to see if I’d heard a disquieting rumour that was going round town – that Mrs Diss’s son’s wife, Sheila, had polio. [She was also pregnant, as was later learned.] She was on a visit to her people near Birmingham and had complained of feeling queer and ill in the train, and had looked so ill they got the doctor. Mrs Howson came in before Mrs Woods left and said it was true, but only one leg was badly affected, and the doctors said she ‘will be alright’. As Mrs Howson had got the news from the WVS office and Mrs Diss had left it there, we felt relieved. Sheila is such a charming vital girl, so capable, so keen to dance, swim, motor and play tennis. The thought of her even being a little crippled is saddening.* It’s a very queer thing that the man who died from polio the other week only lived a few doors from the young Disses. It’s very noticeable that any cases I’ve heard of or seen should be of the best types from a health view. It seems to leave a weakling in a family to attack the strongest.

  Tuesday, 6 November. Cliff said last night he had a huge pile of washing. He scorned the idea, though, that he needed help.** He is the handiest and most thorough doer of odd jobs. He had seven shirts, bathing togs and towels, ten pair of socks as well as a week’s change of underwear, and no woman could have washed them better or with less upset. It was a lovely morning, too fine to wear out the day, and he was a bit late getting them out, but mangled well. They did blow sweet and fresh before it began to rain …

  A letter from the art master of the studio where he attended before he left England wrote and offered him a corner of the studio and use of any models, and Cliff said it was a ‘Good chance, and anything I do can go back to Melbourne when I go, to form the nucleus of another exhibition’, but it means going back this Saturday. I said, ‘I thought you would have liked to go to Ken’s wedding [the son of Will’s brother, to be married on 17 November]. I know an invite will come when they know you are here.’ He gave me to understand his relations didn’t interest him much and ‘that lot especially’. I laughingly said, ‘Family ties don’t mean much to you, do they?’ He scowled as he said, ‘I remember when we were small that we were frightened when we saw you cry – you so seldom did – and Arthur and I always say that the rare times you did cry was trouble of some kind with Daddy’s family. How could they “mean anything” when we crall† so much!’

  Thursday, 8 November. Mrs Higham came. She had grave news about Sheila Diss. Mrs Howson so lightly discussed the subject, saying, ‘Oh, she’ll be alright. Only one leg is affected.’ Cliff heard last night that the crisis would be today. Mrs Diss had told Mrs Higham, ‘Sheila is helpless, both legs in plaster, unable to lift one arm and hand, and also so helpless she cannot hold anything or lift it as far as her face. She lies staring helplessly up at the ceiling and at the weekend was so depressed they let her parents and husband stay for several hours.’ We were puzzled, thinking it was so very infectious. Two more children have gone down with polio, but no child is really ill. It’s adults who have fared the worse …

  The previous day Nella had read in the paper that a cousin of her husband (William Herbert Forrester), ‘a clever civil engineer’ and ‘one of the men in charge of the building of the new power station, had died of infantile paralysis, leaving a wife and four tiny children. He was only 30, an only son – only child – and his mother is a widow. I thought sadly how difficult it is to understand why strong youth should go, and old people like Mother seem to grow stronger and more difficult every day.’ Polio was particularly prevalent in the early 1950s.

  Friday, 9 November. I got a dollie finished off to let Cliff see it finished. I made a baby dollie, with golden hair, and bought a mask for its face. It has woollen vest and booties, a nappy, long pale pink slip under long puff-sleeved nightdress with blue ribbon threaded through a lace slot in front for a sash, a scrap of blue ribbon round one wrist and a small handkerchief tucked in, and a Mother Hubbard bonnet and cloak, tied at the neck with blue ribbon. With a cellophane wrapping to keep it clean, it looks tempting for some little girl’s stocking, and the money is badly needed at St Paul’s.* I made a salad to the rest of the tinned beef and there was bread and butter, fruit bread, gingerbread and crispie. It’s such a delight to see Cliff so enjoy his food – well chosen food like salads and vegetables. Arthur enjoys his food, but eats far too much starch and fat – he so likes cakes and things like chips. We sat talking. I made a list of any oddments Cliff will yet need in his bag …*

  John Myers came up – Cliff should have gone out with him tonight. He scorned the idea that Cliff will be able to travel – on Monday, never mind in the morning – knowing that self-willed Arab. I reserve judgement! Jack works in a bank and, like Arthur, takes a keen interest in the economic side of things as a whole. He affirms, ‘If Labour had got in, England would have been sunk – every way’. He holds a fairly prevalent opinion that Attlee never wanted to rule any more – he was badly frightened and that was why he had so sudden an election. We talked of future hardships, of how much better it would have been to face things firmly and not let the American loans go to bolster up a false sense of security of employment, etc. He is far from a pessimist, but tonight he was really fearful in his gloomy outlook for the next year. I wondered as he spoke of ‘less and less coal’ how Mrs Howson’s mother would fare. Their coalman has never been for over two months, and the agent said civilly, ‘Oh, you will get all your back coal’. I’ve kept urging her to go to the fuel office and report that the monthly ration hasn’t been delivered, telling her what my coalman said about ‘A wagon load comes in and gets bagged and delivered to as many as possible who are next on the list. When that’s done, no more can be done. There’s NO stock of coal in town, except a small one at the Co-op yard, and a growing pile of fire bricks made like small coconuts.’

  Saturday, 10 November. Today an Army cadet spotted me and said, ‘Have a poppy, Mrs Last?’ I said, ‘I’d like three for this, Jim’ and showed him I was putting in a silver coin and not a penny each. He grinned as he said, ‘I’ll make you a little posy for that’, and I passed one to Cliff and one to his father, as I’d heard them say they had no small change. My husband got well away with his complaints of ‘The way Dearie throws money away sometimes, you would think we were living on a good income and not out of capital’ etc., but he had his match today as Cliff pointed out I ‘could cook like a chef’ – he had ‘never tasted plain food with such flavour’, ‘had been amazed at her thrift in every way’, and ‘I know that half crown won’t come out of anything you should have had’, till his father decided to change the subject. I’d left soup simmering – such good bone stock with a sliced kidney added to the mixed vegetables. I fried bacon and eggs for them. I’d an apple fried, and we had bread to it. Cliff insisted on a double helping of cold cabbage being fried up for him. Together we could eat our way through a well kept plot of garden!

  It got out a lovely afternoon, like an early January day when the sun has crossed the line. My husband relaxed a while, and to my surprise I heard them discussing going to Bowness. Cliff insisted he felt well enough and took three cushions to pack behind his back. I felt it was folly, really, but he so longed to see the Lake and hills in their autumn tints, saying it would be his last chance. It was one of those dream days for the Lakes, so beloved and well described by Walpole. Fells and hills, small islands on Windermere seemed to float in the soft crystal air. The Lake was like grey metal, fringed by shadows of trees and hills, a golden day for enough colour lingered in the bracken and in many of the trees to catch every gleam of sun. I bought some Windermere toffee and some little sugar mice wrapped in silver paper for my little boys. This year happy gay little Christopher can suck a sugar mouse. We were back just before 5 o’clock, just as dusk fell swiftly. I made up the fire. Cliff lay on the settee with a grimace of pain, still protesting he was nearly alright but thought he wouldn’t go back till Monday …

  Mrs Howson came in. I sat and plaited crepe paper to make little baskets and put sweets in. Her news of Sheila
Diss was distressing. She lies helpless, cannot turn her head. Only her hands have a little power, but at that she cannot raise them to her poor face. There has been a lot of talk about the two adult deaths from polio in Barrow recently. People are saying, ‘If they had been in Birmingham they would have had a chance’, inferring our town’s doctors haven’t the skill or knowledge of those in Birmingham, but Mrs Diss was told it depends where the infection is. Two more children have been taken to the Isolation Hospital. When the first adult died, the undertaker told of a by-law which prohibited bodies taken into church who had died of polio. Yet Sheila Diss still has her husband by her bedside, and her parents come and go, trying in every way to move her from the depths of depression from which the poor girl suffers, so there must also be degrees of infection.