Nella Last in the 1950s

by Patricia Malcolmson

  Nella was in a ruminative mood at the end of 1952, and she wrote of the way Will thought of her. ‘My poor dear talked as if I was a cross between an angel, Mrs Beeton* and a kind a Pollyanna, which combined to make some kind of anchor in his mind.’ She was deeply aware of the tension between the image that others had of her, as a strong, cheerful, confident, even serene person, and how she felt inside, which was so often weak and tired – ‘I feel sometimes like a hollow shell’ (31 December 1952). Life was wearing her down. ‘I often feel of late,’ she wrote on 2 June 1953 (the day of the Queen’s coronation), ‘I’m a goldfish in a bowl, never achieving anything in my round of days, the bowl a little wall that shuts out every outside interest or dims and distorts’ (M-O Coronation Directive, June 1953). Will’s mental fragility was a continual concern (on 9 March 1953 she spoke of the strings of his mind loosening); constantly trying to soothe him and buoy him up was a strain; she often felt drained and ‘tired beyond words’; and ill health darkened many of her days. Nella, in fact, predeceased her husband. She died in June 1968, in her 79th year; Will outlived her by eleven months.*

  ‘I’d a note from M-O this morning’, Nella wrote on 14 October 1952. ‘It rather set my mind at rest. At best I could never see any value in my scribblings but nowadays nothing seems to happen. My life is so narrow. Arthur said “Don’t give up your diary. It must be of some interest in some way.” Odd a nice little “Thank you” note should come soon after he said it.’ Nella’s self-assessment was not inaccurate – her life had narrowed, and, as a rule, there was much less going on to stimulate her pen. The best of her writing was over. Still, this vigorous diary writing, which began in August 1939, had been sustained for more than a dozen years – she continued to write for M-O until February 1966 – and has now yielded three books. During the years up to the early 1950s Nella Last was, at her best, an astute observer of English life, and often of herself and her relations with others. She wrote colourfully about her family and neighbours and community, her daily movements in and around Barrow, her household affairs, her visiting and meetings with others, the sights and sounds of nature – and also about what she and others said to each other, in both private and public spaces. Sometimes, too, she pondered deeper questions of war and peace, civic duty and individual responsibility, pleasure and prudence, freedom and self-control. Her diary, indeed, stands out as something of a triumph of dedication, discipline and self-taught sensibility. It also stands as a tribute to Mass-Observation, the organisation that both gave Nella Last the incentive and encouragement to write and, by archiving her writing, assured it an unanticipated permanence, to the benefit and for the pleasure of later generations.

  FEBRUARY 1953: HELPING THE

  VICTIMS OF FLOODS

  On the night of 31 January–1 February 1953 there were monster storms in parts of the British Isles (and elsewhere, especially the Netherlands). A car ferry went down off the coast of Northern Ireland and 128 people lost their lives; there were also over 300 other deaths as a result of the massive floods that night, almost all of them in settlements in, on or near the Thames Estuary and in coastal areas of East Anglia (Essex and Norfolk were very hard hit). ‘Thousands were rendered homeless,’ according to the Illustrated London News of 7 February (p. 193), ‘and from every quarter of the flooded districts poignant stories were recorded. Some were drowned in cars on the roads, dead were found on roofs or caught in trees, and families were marooned in flooded houses, crouching in lofts and upper storeys in their night attire. Public services were disrupted and fear of epidemics was an added anxiety.’ Some 32,000 people were flooded out of their homes.*

  This was a major disaster, and it summoned up the sort of relief efforts that Britain had witnessed a dozen years earlier. ‘It is “like the war all over again”’, wrote Tom Driberg in the New Statesman (7 February, p. 141), ‘not only because of the troops, but because of the spirit of comradeship and hospitality among the thousands of voluntary workers who have “mucked in” – the hotel-keepers and yachtsmen at Burnham-on-Crouch who have looked after evacuees from Foulness and cooked meals day and night, the boat-builders who have crossed to the islands dozens of times every twenty-four hours bringing off boat-loads of the homeless, the ladies who have made the Royal Corinthian Yacht Club a model rest-centre.’ Help also came from more distant places, including Barrow-in-Furness; women there threw themselves into work that was highly reminiscent of some of the wartime efforts of the Women’s Voluntary Services. Nella’s diary for the first half of February testifies to the aid organised in Barrow for the unfortunate victims elsewhere.

  Tuesday, 3 February. I didn’t feel so well and my face ached badly. The thought of all the homeless cold people in the flood areas haunted me. I packed a pair of shoes I can do without, some shirts Cliff once sent, two old but well mended vests of my own and two of my husband’s, some underpants with worn knees – I cut and machined a hem and made them into shorts – and packed a little cretonne bag I made with a drawstring with a few sylkos, cotton, darning wool and the necessary needles. I’d the good heart to pack up nine-tenths of my clothes, but they will have to do me much service yet, before I can part with them. I’ll send 5s to the Mayor’s Fund, and more if I can scrounge it out of my housekeeping. I can never interest my husband in giving anything away. He wouldn’t have parted from his old underwear if I’d asked him … [Later] Mrs Atkinson came in and said, ‘I’ve a big pile of things if you will pack and send them off for the flood victims’. I said I would, and stared at the two big armfuls she brought, costumes, coats, overcoats and suits that had belonged to a brother of Mr Atkinson’s who died last year, and shoes of her own and Norah’s.

  Wednesday, 4 February. A ring brought me to the door, where a strange young woman stood smiling. She said, ‘Will you put these children’s rubber boots and clothes in your parcel? Someone told me you would be sure to be sending something for the flood victims or would take them to the WVS office.’ Then for the rest of the morning phone calls to ask if parcels could be brought or if I’d pack things and send them, and rings at the door with parcels, till before lunch my front sitting room looked like a second-hand shop! I’d soup, and stewed rabbit enough, and cooked sprouts and potatoes, and we finished with a cup of tea. I planned to relax a while when my husband went to lie down, but there was no rest for either of us – more knocks, rings and phone calls. I wondered wildly wherever I’d get paper and string to pack all, and thought of the sugar sacks I once bought off my grocer, and rang him to see if he would let me have some – they are doled out sparingly to people on a list usually, and he isn’t a really pleasant man. I felt it just another part of my odd day when he gushed, ‘Certainly, Mrs Last. How many will you have? It will be a pleasure to send you as many as you want. Would you like some today?’ I said, ‘Well, I think I could get them in four of those small sacks or three of the larger ones’. He said, ‘I’ll send what I have and you must let me know later if you want more’. I went over all, and stitched all buttons on even if they were not a perfect match, and did little repairs.

  My husband came down and when he saw what I was doing he offered to clean and polish all the shoes, and we will get some laces to replace worn ones. I asked everyone to spare odd bits of flannel and toilet soap, needles, cotton and mending wool, and packed them in little bags, if only paper ones. We were both tired by the time I made a late tea. There was a notice in the local Mail tonight saying the [WVS] office would be open every day this week for gifts, so perhaps people will send them there. Mrs Higham has a lot of oddments left at her house. There was toast and cream cheese, Turog† bread and butter and cake for tea, and it was nearly 7 o’clock before I rose to clear the table and wash up. I felt a bit tired, but unravelled two good home-knitted sock legs and two big balls of darning wool. Mrs Higham said she had a huge pile of goodish socks if they were darned.

  Thursday, 5 February. Another hectic day. I got four sacks packed neatly, folding and packing tightly all garments in an effort to avoid
crumpling, if not creasing. I decided that any more things could go down to the WVS office, for big sacks have been provided from Regional. We went to Dalton for the meat. I left a note pinned on the curtain to say, ‘Back about 11 o’clock. Parcels of clothing for WVS can be left in garden or at no. 7.’ … We went into town when we returned from Dalton, the back of the car piled high with some quite good car rugs, a big old blanket that could be torn into babies’ blankets, nappies tied up in a bundle, little woolly coats, little boys’ clothes and some elderly women’s clothes that had a note pinned on to say ‘Call in later if these are suitable – have lots more of mother’s clothes’ and the name of a neighbour in the road behind whose mother died recently. The scene at the office was a surprise, even though I’d expected a good response – looked as if there would be a van load when packed. We stayed. I’d have stayed over lunch time, but said Mrs Higham and I were coming down with a car load of things she had collected and took back an armful of pants, feeling really scornful of a woman’s mentality who would send pants without buttons enough for decency, never mind use. I pictured a distraught man who felt hopeless and lost being handed pants with one button on the flies, and felt a ‘Bad end to you’ to the thoughtless person who sent them.

  Friday, 6 February. We took parcels of clothes to the WVS. I longed to join the busy workers, sorting and packing. There’s such a different atmosphere since merry capable little Mrs Woods took over, and she has nice helpers. Never was there so friendly a feeling. When old Mrs Manson and Mrs Howson were Clothing Officer and Deputy someone was always offending one or the other. Such good garments have been sent in, two quite wearable fur coats amongst the pile on the counter. Miss Willan asked if Mrs Higham and I could collect one night next week at the Odeon – most of the picture houses are having a Relief Fund collection. She asked in my husband’s hearing and he said, ‘Of course you must go’. So I took him at his word! …

  I’d more buttons to sew on, and more clothes came in. They have had such a wonderful response at the [WVS] office they are keeping open till 8.30 each evening. It’s such a small place to work in. The Railway van calls each day. Everyone is so eager to help. Collections at rugby and soccer matches tomorrow, dances, collections at others and efforts in every direction. The Round Table are canvassing for money if no clothes are available. In Barrow we won’t have much coal for a few weeks. Householders are asked in an article in the Mail to ‘use other available fuel, including nutty slack’, as our supplies will be diverted to the East Coast. I scrambled eggs and made toast and there was Turog bread and butter and greengage jam and cake. I kept wishing I could have been at the WVS office helping. When I looked at them working so cheerily my mind went back to wartime, when, whatever our worries and anxiety, there was ‘always tomorrow’ … I thought wistfully as I sat sewing I’d have liked to recapture, however slightly, that comradeship.

  There was a ring and Mrs Higham’s voice said, ‘I’m down at the office. Mrs Woods is off to London tomorrow to help with clothing. Will you lend her your [WVS] overcoat?’ I couldn’t refuse, and she is a very dainty person, but I don’t like wearing anything of anyone else’s, and that goes for my own that anyone else has worn. She will be away four days at least. I’ll have it cleaned when she returns it, and wear my WVS suit for collecting at the Odeon. I felt mean to have that ‘shrinking’, but it’s one of those things that, if you have it, it’s as much a part of you as the colour of your hair. Mrs Woods came just after 9 o’clock. I’m only about 5 feet 1½ inches* – in my shoes – and she is nearly half a head less! Still, shoulders and sleeves were all right. She said, ‘Never mind it being too long. It will be warmer for travelling. Thank you so much, and I’ve already borrowed Miss Willan’s dress. It’s good of you both to lend them. I’m so fussy. You are the only two WVS I’d have liked to wear anything belonging to.’ I felt I chuckled as I realised there were others as odd as myself! She is a merry little thing and laughed as she told of her rush to get ready. I said, ‘Your husband doesn’t mind you going, then?’ She said, ‘Dear me, why should he? I’m only going for a few days, and he knows enough to look after himself if all is in the house. He’s not a child.’ I didn’t glance across at my husband, knowing darn well the fight I’d have had to put up, and if I’d insisted on going, the reproaches and recriminations, the feeling of guilt that spoiled enjoyment. I felt she didn’t realise how lucky she was.

  The next day she and Will drove to Spark Bridge to pick up some clothes that Aunt Sarah had collected. Her ‘bundle was a bit old-fashioned, but there was a good thick cape with a hood, and a grey homespun suit of Joe’s I’ve remembered for years. All had a sweet musty smell. Wood smoke, lavender and smoke of tobacco struggled with the sweetish smell of stored apples, for Aunt Sarah has all her boxes and oddments in the attic. In two black bodices she had stitched white frills in the necks, crisp and freshly starched and ironed. I wondered if there were any old dear who would wear them – women like herself who had stayed still as regards fashions.’

  Sunday, 8 February. A ring took my husband to the door as I was dressing. I heard an oddly pitched voice saying something about ‘Looking for a little WVS lady who lives hereabouts’, and felt a bit surprised to hear my husband asking him in. When I went into the living room a huge young fellow rose and said, ‘Good morning, ma’am. I’d like your advice about some clothes I have for the flood folks.’ We began to talk. He is in one of the small flats made from several of the big houses on the main road into which our small road runs. I’d have said he was an American with his slow drawl, but he is a Canadian, working just now in the Yard. I said I’d gladly take charge of them, thinking, ‘I’ll ring up Miss Willan and get her to send up for what I have if she wants all down before we get the car back.’ He went and then I heard a car, and looking out saw a huge low-slung grey car with two young men in. The boot was opened and a very large parcel lugged out. The one who had called said, ‘These are mostly boots, ma’am, but wrapped in a heavy coat to keep them together’. Before I could say ‘Thank you – leave it in the hall there’, his companion appeared from the open car door with his arms full of rugs, coats, suits and bright plaid hip-blouse† things Canadians wear. When they had finished I felt a bit dazed as I looked at the huge pile, women’s clothes amongst them. I said, ‘How generous of you to spare all these marvellously warm garments’, but the friend in a curious ‘Hush your mouf’ honeyed tones gave me to understand it was a relief to be rid of them. They had brought all as a matter of course and realised they ‘would be a real “noosense” and expensive to store or tote round’, and left me with the impression I was doing them a favour! …

  I had a rest on the settee after my husband went to lie down and then mended socks and put some elastic in two good pairs of corsets. I felt they would be better than with an ordinary lace, giving a wider fit. They are both made to measure corsets, only needing a bit of repair, but I wouldn’t have insulted anyone by offering them before I soaked and scrubbed them. When I think of the giver I marvel – so beautifully turned out whatever she wears. I’ve heard her boast she can ‘Never use any other than Elizabeth Arden toilet requisites’ and ‘I never buy anything off the peg. I am so particular about fit and cut.’ Yet I lightly touched them as I poked the sleazy greasy things into hot Tide suds!

  The next day, ‘Shoes and scarves and some good little pants and shirts came in a parcel from my brother – none needed any attention – but I made some garters from oddments of elastic in the parcel … When I was talking to Miss Willan over the phone, she said 327 huge cigarette cartons and parcels nearly as large had just gone. The Railway man had been “staggered” and had had to make several trips.’* On Tuesday the 10th ‘I packed the last of the oddments ready to go to the WVS office, and then had a rest on the settee after taking a codeine.’ By end of the week the rush was over for Nella and the other ladies of the WVS, who had been kept uncommonly busy for nearly a fortnight, re-experiencing some of the solidarities of wartime.

  GLOSSA
RY

  Allenburys

  Diet a fortified, dry, milk-based nutritional supplement

  Arab

  someone wandering, unsettled (referring to Cliff)

  backened

  retarded, put back

  bank

  to build up a fire with a tightly packed fuel so that it burns slowly

  basque

  continuation of a bodice slightly below the waist

  cachous

  lozenges to sweeten the breath

  Chypre perfume

  heavy perfume made partly from sandalwood

  conchie

  slang for ‘conscientious objector’

  cornflour shape

  a blancmange, or milk pudding, mould

  counterpane

  bedspread

  crall

  to behave obsequiously or abjectly

  crock up

  break down

  crying jag

  intense period of crying

  cut

  hundredweight (112 lb)

  diamanté

  given a sparkling effect by means of artificial gems

  dibble

  a pointed instrument for making holes in the ground for bulbs, etc.

  Disprin

  painkiller, sedative

  Directive

  questionnaire sent by M O to its volunteer Observers