The Diaries of Nella Last

by Patricia Malcolmson

  Monday, 7 April. I heard my next door neighbour talking rather excitedly to her milkman and then she called over and told me ‘Bombs had been dropped in the Shipyard’. I thought it some kind of catch and did not take her seriously but when my husband came in he told me it was true. I went to whist drive and everyone was full of it. Many of them had had their husbands return home as it was two time bombs that had been dropped. The amazing – and to us the really terrible – thing about it was that airplane came with our lights shining and was let pass and we had no Alert, and it was over so quickly none of us heard anything. The amazing thing is that a gypsy woman has been going about telling fortunes and saying that we would have a blitz on the 6th of April! Cards were a very secondary feature and everyone talked of shelter and I was surprised to hear of so many being ordered, to be put up in dining rooms and sitting rooms … We have lived in a fool’s paradise like Glasgow did, a ‘they-cannot-find-us-for-we-are-hidden-by-the-mist-that-always-lies-over-us’!!

  Friday, 11 April, Good Friday. We had intended making an all day outing today and going to Morecambe but with all being so dull we felt undecided and were trying to make up our mind whether to turn back when we saw a very dejected couple by the road side. The man was a tired unhappy looking airman and the woman about ten years older, dressed cheaply smart and with black hat, scarf and gloves. They looked so lost I said ‘I wonder if they would like a lift’ so we stopped and asked them. They were so grateful for they were in deep trouble. A wire had brought them at daybreak from Blackpool to Meathop, a TB sanatorium where the airman’s wife and woman’s young sister was dying. They stayed until she died and the taxi could not be kept as it cost £2 10s 0d to travel straight there and back. Today there were hundreds of Army lorries on Great North Road and all kinds of trade lorries but few private cars and no service buses, and they were trying to get to a station. We decided to take them as far as Lancaster and then they could get a bus straight to Blackpool. She was of that beady black-eyed type who thought it ‘only manners’ to describe her sister’s illness and death, but the poor lad looked as if he could stand nothing more. Luckily I saw ‘Harry Korris’ splashed across a playbill and said ‘I’d like to see him again. He has got on since the days he was at Central Pier at Blackpool.’ The next thing we were talking of BBC shows and I took good care to keep the conversation up and chattered on without a break and the sister-in-law joined in and stopped talking of the horrors of her poor little sister’s illness and death.

  My husband said bitterly after we had dropped them near bus stand at Lancaster ‘I suppose there are bright, amusing nice people who want lifts but my God, if there’s a depressing, smelly or aggravating wretch on the road, you will pick them up’. There was the making of a real row but somehow suddenly all the sorrow of the world seemed to wrap me round and I could have keened† like an Irish biddy at a wake, and tears poured out of my eyes. I so rarely cry – when awake – that it always gave my husband and the boys concern. To save my soul I could not have told why I cried. The futility and suffering, the fear and terror that is about everywhere, the cold and misery, the partings and heartaches, the ‘never to be’ of so many young things nowadays seemed all about me. Perhaps it was the heavy day and the memory of other Easters. Perhaps I’m not very well just now. I never am when my back and head ache so much. It passed and my husband said ‘Is there anything you would like at all?’ and without thinking I said ‘Yes, an orange’. So silly a thing to say – it made us both laugh …

  I felt a bit dim and came to bed early. All is so quiet and still and a mist is over all. I wish it was a mile thick over England and nowhere did the moon shine brightly this full moon weekend.

  CHAPTER THREE

  AFTER THE BOMBS

  May–June 1941

  Barrow had so far largely escaped the ravages of German bombs. This was to change over the Easter weekend of 1941, when, on the night of 13–14 April, Barrow endured the first of two consecutive nights of German air raids. These terrifying experiences, for those under attack, were vividly captured by Nella: the penetrating noise, ‘an inferno of sound’ (15 April), close at hand, from guns, aeroplanes and explosions; the smashed and collapsing buildings; shrapnel pouring down on roofs; fires breaking out around the town; and, of course, the almost universal fear of personal injury or annihilation. Still, the damage sustained was (by the standards of other raids on Britain) modest, and by the end of April, Nella was writing of these incidents as ‘our little blitz’ (26 April). The month of May brought much more destruction; there were three nights of heavy bombing between the early hours of the 4th and the 8th. She and Will were uninjured, though their nerves were seriously frayed – a year later she recalled that ‘when the raids were on I had nerves so bad in my throat I felt choking if I tried to swallow and was sick if I ate much’ (1 May 1942); but by contrast with the crippling fears of others she knew, she later felt that ‘my nerves wobbled a bit and then steadied and I could go on’ (28 December 1942). The Lasts’ house was damaged, several people they knew were killed and a walk about Barrow revealed to its residents what seemed to be a devastated landscape.* Before Barrow’s raids Nella and Will had been discussing the purchase of an indoor shelter (cost, £12) but did not get around to ordering one until the evening of 14 April, after the first attack. Five days later this welcome protective device arrived, and they put it in the dining room. ‘It does not look too bad and I’m schooling myself not to be too fussy’ (19 April).

  Friday, 9 May. Another night of it – and this time the Yard has got it. Thank God the men are not in a night shift under the areas of glass roof. Cliff [home on leave for a few days] and I had a really serious talk. He says ‘It’s all right you taking this “The coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave but one” line like Fred does, but you are not strong and your nerves will only stand so much and you must make arrangements for getting a good night’s rest sometimes. Let’s see what we can do.’ So off we went to Spark Bridge and on our way called in Mary’s, my cousin at Greenodd. After a chat we decided to take a small mattress and a rubber bed up and my three best blankets and we could be sure of a bed for she has only two and if we took one it would mean either Uncle or her sleeping in a makeshift one. The trek out of Barrow was unbelievable. They went on everything, from a big outgoing lorry that had brought half finished machinery parts to the Yard to a push bike and a baby pram. A lot are homeless now and try and get their things where they will be safe. Six grown-ups pile into Aunt Sarah’s tiny cottage and it’s more than a bit galling to have the two Londoners smugly lock their door and go to bed early – and only living there through Ruth Tomlinson’s ‘gesture of grandness’ when she ‘lent them a cottage for a little rest from the London blitz’ and she only paying to have her furniture stored in Aunt’s cottage! Aunt was too kind and too tired to make a fuss and did not like to point out that only storage was being paid and it’s gone on since a month before Xmas. Now with Aunt having so many to worry about in Barrow I don’t know what the outcome will be. The Miss Harts are quite nice women but the type who give up all and scuttle for good – the elder was a Town Councillor at Epping and has resigned from everything.

  I never thought I’d be so thankful to see either of the boys go as I was to see Cliff go, and the trains ran from the Central station in spite of the wreckage. Hundreds of people jostled and milled to get into the train and the London and south travellers had to fight to get into it. The poor things with bundles and bedding were only going one or two stations out and there should have been a ‘local’, and a free one, even if only made up of wagons. It was so pitiful to see the look of terror at being left for so many lived round the steel works and the Yard. In all that crowd I heard no whimpers, no complaining. A few ‘Aye, we got a direct hit in our street’ or ‘Blast made all our houses unfit to live in’. I’ve always been fascinated by words all my life – had a real Rosa Dartle complex [an enquiring, discontentedly sceptical character in Dickens’s David Copperfield] and ‘wanted to know
you know’ not only the meaning of a thing but ‘meaning behind the meaning’ in dictionary. The word ‘morale’ has had a fascination for me lately and I’ve sought and sought its hidden meaning. It seemed a mixture of ‘moral’ and ‘rally’ and now I’m quite convinced it is – all the ‘moral’ bits and bobs we have in our make up being ‘rallied’ and made into something new and splendid, like a new metal from materials that have been there and used for years.

  The damage to station was bad but order was coming out of chaos and tidy piles of planks and pieces of iron were about everywhere on platform. All the railway people have known me for years – my Dad was an accountant at the old Furness Railway. I stopped to chat to one old man who remembered him. I said ‘Do you remember the red geranium in the signal box window in the old days?’ He said ‘Aye – and when a tip of tuppence got you a drink of beer if you wanted it, and now 2s is no use at times for a drink or a smoke!’ Cliff surprised me by telling me that this week most of the hotel bars in Barrow have been closed after 10 – no draught beer and little bottled and little or no spirits or wine. He said ‘One double or two halves’ for the evening was the ration for all the customers and ‘chance’ drinkers only got one – or none!

  When we came home I learned with pleasure that the service buses were all running free after a certain hour to take anyone out to nearby districts. They have been sleeping in hedges and fields all round outside town. No one has any faith in shelters for after first small attacks when people died in bed and amid their ruined homes and the shelters stood up unharmed practically all deaths have been in shelters when houses crashed on them. In the centre of town last night it was dreadful for after the bombs started to fall and crash the poor things rushed from the little box-like back streets shelters into their houses and then out into street, frantic with fear and not knowing where to go. We have no really decent shelters. I don’t think our Council ever really thought we would ‘get it’. I don’t really think many people did.

  Sunday, 11 May. A night without an alert – perhaps for the devil murderers to make a mass attack on London [where there was a particularly deadly blitz]. We were keyed up and waken at the usual time, about 1 o’clock, and puzzled when we heard aircraft circling and yet no barrage – the first time fighters had done sentry go! I have packed all I can in parcels and bundles for ease of removal in case of need. There are hundreds of houses untenanted with no roof tiles or doors and we may too have to seek somewhere for our goods and chattels in a hurry and I’ll plan for a swift handling. Meanwhile I’ve pushed all under stairs and will make small strong sacks tomorrow and put all my tinned goods in them tied up strongly – wooden boxes are quite unobtainable now. If we get a direct hit nothing will matter but if it’s only messy blast that makes a house unfit to live in I’ll want no delay to pick up separate things for I’ll have to work fast. All I can jam under stairs I do so in the hope of salvage and all our decent clothes hang there – several things on each hanger and all suits of my husband’s and Cliff’s have either a nightdress of mine slipped over and pinned or a dust sheet to protect from dust.

  Monday, 12 May. There is no shortage of meat, fish, biscuits, milk – even cigs seem more plentiful this week and it looks as if bombed towns had preference. The streets are littered with heaps of debris put on kerb and people push hand carts or follow carts with their bits of household treasures on. There must be hundreds of houses unfit to live in. Snatches of conversation as I passed were of ‘bombs in parlours’, ‘a tree right on roof and ’im only planted it the day before and it cost him 5s 6d’. ‘I only noticed I’d odd shoes on when I stopped to pick my dropped glove off ground’. ‘There’s martial law in Liverpool – the people have all rebelled.’ ‘They are Polish airmen in the patrol over Barrow. They put them on when there’s extra guarding to be done for they hate the Germans so much and stick at nothing.’ I made some small sacks and my husband has got a few small boxes to pack any stored goods in for easy lifting in case we have to get out in a hurry, but dear knows where we would go. Half the town seems to have taken in someone else and no street or few houses have escaped damage of some kind. I heard talks of Barrow women who still go shopping and grabbing to Kendal and Morecambe and the traders say they are helpless to stop it. Rot! If I was a trader and someone asked for a scarce article I’d politely ask to see identity card – and then not so politely refuse the greedy grabbers. I often feel that we all need a bit more aggressive spirit – the grab alls seem to have wakened to the idea. Why not people who try and do the decent thing and want to help and not hinder? My husband says ‘Always some bee in your bonnet. If it’s not one thing it’s another.’ He is such a pacifist and half the times my ‘bees’ are indirectly buzzing in his direction! He was really furious when I’d not go out of town every night, but just because someone said I had ‘guts and was the type to stick it’ he goes about as if he has grown a tail and talks of ‘It takes more than a few bombs to chase MY wife out of town!’ Men are so odd. I often feel I give up trying to understand them at all. Perhaps they feel like that about us!!

  Tuesday, 13 May. A busy morning and a rush to get washed before lunch and ready for out and down at Canteen for 2 o’clock. I called in the bank and had to wait, with one eye anxiously on clock, until bank clerk had explained in detail the land mine that wrecked his home – same one as Mrs Waite’s – and his reactions and his wife’s and his wife’s mother’s and the Wardens at Post and so on! And I called in a shop and the girls had their heads together swopping bomb stories. Perhaps it’s a good sign really for people up to now seem to have had a sick dumb horror and if they talk of their battered homes and losses they will not fret. It’s really unbelievable on looking round that in the whole week there has only been 50 or so deaths up to now, although there are a lot of casualties. Ruth told me that in big Shop where her boyfriend works at Yard there was a call for fire-watchers last Saturday night, after considerable damage was done in early hours. Out of the hundreds of men and in spite of 30s. a night being offered only five volunteered. They had the laugh on their companions for nothing happened and they picked up £3 easily, for it was for Saturday and Sunday. All the men out of work are put on demolition and tidying up and feeling a bit ‘green about the gills’ over it with it being the first time. There is a Bristol foreman on one shift and he delights in telling real horror yarns and ‘setting their teeth on edge’!

  Wednesday, 14 May. There’s always odd yarns knocking about but it’s not often one hears of a true and funny one at first hand. A tradesman here living in a big house had his two sons and their wives and babies staying – bombed out of their homes. They had no shelter in spite of all their money and plenty of room for one – he was one of the ‘They’ll never come here’ line of thought. Last Sunday when so many high explosives dropped a huge bomb fell opposite their house on Mrs Burnett’s house and wrecked the front. Then there was a lull of noise and they became conscious of a tick tock, tick tock. TIME BOMB someone whispered and they all tore madly out of house and rushed over the hill. They were picked up and taken to Rest Centre and on investigation it was found that vibrations had set metronome on piano off that was used by the children when practising! …

  I’ve been the most popular woman in street today – easily! A shopkeeper has lost his nerve and is selling all and clearing out. He is a nasty piece of work and ran a cut price store and reports said that at times when he went buying to Manchester ‘asked no questions’ where stuff came from. My husband boarded his windows up and said ‘If my wife had known you had been selling tinned milk she would have been down’. Today a huge box of milk syrup, tongue, stewed steak, glassed prawns and chicken – and jam – over £3 worth! I did not want it – I’ve got what will do me in an emergency and it only cost me ordinary prices as I slowly collected it, but other people I asked jumped at chance! The jam and boxed cheese that Allan stored will be a liability. Women with a rather dazed look have carried heaped baskets from his store – there is no ‘one only for each’ �
� they have got all they asked for. He must have had many thousands of pounds of stock saved for a rising market. He paid excess profit on his turnover in the last war.