The Diaries of Nella Last

by Patricia Malcolmson

  Thursday, 30 November. Mrs Higham spoke of vague unrest in the WVS office and offices. As I get little chance of going in the office I hear little – and feel I care less. When a prim old maid school teacher, fast getting a little ‘woolly’, grabs the news, I feel anything could happen. I feel sorry and understanding for Mrs Diss and her somewhat weary attitude. She wanted to give up long ago, and it’s a mistake to persuade people beyond their feelings or wishes. People got so tired after the war years. New ones were needed and should have been sought. I’d expected a power cut for tea, and prepared candles in my brass as well as glass candlesticks, but the cut must have missed our part of town. Mrs Higham went early, and we settled to listen to the good Thursday evening programmes, but Mrs Howson came in and stayed till 9 o’clock. I felt I’d rather it had been Mrs Higham, for you can discuss any subject with her. Mrs Howson utterly refuses to talk of any war worries, the effects of rearmaments, anything she considers deep or worrying.

  Sunday, 3 December. Everything was thick with snow this morning, and soon after breakfast it began again. I never remember such an odd effect. Big feathery flakes the size of pigeons’ eggs stuck to the windows till the heat from inside melted them off. Poor Shan We sat on the window sill chattering like a monkey, and looking so distressed. I’m always puzzled with the gulls and rooks on really bad mornings, and cannot but think they have a ‘memory’ and also a way of telling other birds they know a place where some kind of a bite will be given them. Always they sit round on the trellis and fence waiting, while none can be seen in the surrounding garden … I felt so bewildered and depressed by the news from Korea. What can we do against such hordes – and such cruel ruthless ‘savages’. I shuddered to think of poor wives’ and mothers’ feelings in America who read of GIs wounded being burnt. My deep fear that another atom bomb will be dropped grows daily as I can see no other weapon against such odds.

  Nella had read John Hershey’s Hiroshima (1946), a gripping account of the ruinous impact of one atomic bomb. On 4 December she heard another opinion about the crisis in Korea. ‘My hairdresser is a young married woman whose husband works in the Yard. She was full of the conviction of the men in the Yard that the atom bomb – or bombs – would be certain to be dropped, that unless they were used American and British troops would be pushed back into the sea, and there would be no Dunkirk rescue.’ The following day, with her sister-in-law, Flo, ‘We talked of the black shadow of war looming’. ‘It’s a queer and mad world when prices rise and rise,’ she wrote on 22 December, ‘and the only things we do seem to be able to afford as nations are armaments and atom bombs to further destroy and kill, not only peoples, but the gracious lovely things of life.’ As a result of the war in Korea, there was to be a major increase in military expenditures, to the detriment of the domestic economy; Britain was under heavy pressure from Washington to rearm.

  Wednesday, 6 December. It’s been an evil day of sleet and rain and North wind and all turning to slush. Mrs Salisbury came round by the bus, which cost me 6d extra, but I felt so glad she came I didn’t grudge it. She has never complained of being so hard up – says, too, that she years ago, when she had two small children and her husband only had the dole, had more in her purse that wasn’t ‘condemned’ and could be ‘spent’ instead of just for weekly bills. A lot of her troubles even now are of her own making. As I often tell her, if she made soup and porridge and baked more instead of tinned soups – for six of them – and didn’t rely on cornflakes always and silly little bought cakes that were stale the next day, she could economise on her Co-op bill. Where she lives there’s only one other shop on the estate and it’s easiest to get all ‘on the bill’ and pay each Friday. I washed a few oddments so as not to have a real wash day with a lot of wet woollens etc. drying in the house, for my cough still keeps bad …

  I’d remembered in the evening that Mr Attlee would speak and Mrs Howson asked if I ‘would bother to listen’. When I said ‘certainly’, she went with something about ‘No time for that’. I listened with real respect for the dignity and restraint of Attlee’s speech. He couldn’t have said less – or more. I felt that never before in the world’s history was so difficult a situation facing men, or countries. Whether to leave all our gallant soldiers with no hope either of more troops to help, or a Dunkirk, or withdraw and lose face but ‘live to fight another day’, always with the sick fear that whatever we did would be wrong, but with the certainty of Stalin’s deep laid plans to engulf Europe, and, if Europe, the whole of the world. Beside Stalin, Hitler seems a boy scout. He is the Anti Christ and not Hitler.*

  The following day Nella and Will were at the Howsons with another couple. ‘We spent a pleasant if a bit grim afternoon discussing Korea and our fears. Jack Hammond is certain the bomb will have to be dropped – “the only way to stem the onrush of Chinese, drunk with power, who otherwise will wipe out our troops mercilessly; and remember those self same troops may soon be needed in Europe”. I see every argument for dropping the bomb, or bombs, yet I grow sick and cold with horror when I think of the results on the innocent as well as guilty – and “guilty” in that soldiers are pawns in a game, hardly considered as human by the ones who wage war.’ She usually balked in horror at the prospect that these weapons might actually be used. In replying to MO’s Directive for early 1951 she stated that ‘I firmly believe that any atomic or H-bomb knowledge should be kept very much to some kind of [international] “control”. It’s a dreadful knowledge and should never be in any way regarded as part of warfare, or come to be considered lightly in any way.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  DEFINING MOMENTS

  June 1952–August 1955

  In June 1952 Nella and Will left Barrow to visit Arthur and his family, who had recently moved from Northern Ireland to London. It was their first train trip together for years.

  Monday, 23 June. I don’t feel I am the traveller I used to be. I felt wearied by the train journey, even more, apparently, than my husband felt. Arthur and Peter were at Euston and we got a taxi to New Southgate. We were agreeably surprised by the really lovely house Arthur bought, and Blake Road all seems to have owner occupiers, which shows in well tended front gardens. Built only 26 years ago, it’s on a ‘modern’ plan, with nice sized rooms, and a French window leads to a long, rather wild but pleasant strip of garden, quite cultivated enough for where two small lively boys need to play. They are little loves. Christopher at 18 months promises to be as ‘old fashioned’ as Peter. They seem little people with ideas and views, pursuits and occupations to busy them. We sat and listened to the wireless before going to bed fairly early. Peter slept with me, my husband in his small bed in the smallest room.*

  Thursday, 26 June. We went out, taking a trolley bus as far as Holborn. All transport seems so easy, but there’s a lot of walking to be done. I set off with a swelling ankle and foot and when I rose in Lyons felt I’d have to be a bit easier on it if I hadn’t to crock up.† We went to Greenwich by boat – a lovely trip as we met a cool breeze – and then sat on the pier, watching river traffic, feeling we were on holiday. Every oddment I’ve read of the Thames’ history seemed to flow through my mind, whirling in a montage of peoples of every nationality and colour, American and German – or Swiss in leather shorts – docks, cargo ships, and the hundreds of school children in parties being taken by steamer. In one huge party I heard at least four names of schools through the megaphone – the proportion of half caste children, or at least with a very strong trace of colour in their parentage – and so widely different. It’s amazing the lack of difference in school age and adolescents there is between South and North – just the different accent. We were in Woolworths about the lunch hour, and the things they chose! I only hoped they got a decent meal when they got home. I’d have awarded top place for oddity, though, to a gentle old world type of man who could have been a country parson or doctor. In Lyons he had a glass of lemonade with ice cream dropped in, and a double portion of ice cream, with four wafers, and by hi
s look enjoyed his odd lunch. I wrote my diary and a letter to Cliff as I sat on the pier. My husband went for a walk. The cool breeze seemed to lessen the swelling on my foot, taking a little of the worried feeling I had, and we had a simple tea at a cafe on Greenwich Pier before setting off for Westminster again …

  As we walked down the hill to the Tube this morning my husband was full of wild plans to sell up as soon as we got home, and buy a house down here. Because he feels lifted out of himself so much, he feels a London suburb would cure him of every ill, not realising we so live in ourselves. I pointed out he hadn’t the energy to take advantage of all the little functions at home – wouldn’t visit, go to a show etc. He maintains it would be different if he lived in London. My remark was that New Southgate was not ‘London’, that going up the river would always mean a journey as far as Lakeside – and home again. I made him pout and he became so moody as I said NO. I’ve not altered my view always held – London means a 2d ride, or higher now of course with fare increases, to Kensington, Forest Gate, Chelsea or the like, not even Hampstead, Chiswick or Putney a second choice, and housing problems terrible. In his present mood he ‘will make a change as soon as we go back – I want to get out of Barrow’. As I’ve always maintained, it was what we should have done at first when we knew he would have to retire, but reminded him how much more money we were spending in Barrow. Any move would have to be down scale, not where we would need twice as much if we were not to be more restricted than at present. I began to feel glad it was my own house as I listened. I’d a growing conviction he would have gone a bit haywire otherwise.

  Saturday, 28 June. Arthur had off work this morning and we went down to Kensington, really to go and see Derry and Tom’s roof garden. A bad day, really, for we didn’t have time to look round much and have our lunch before the shops closed. Still, I’d talked of the lovely ‘unexpected’ place so much to my husband and he was satisfied, though we would have liked to spend more time. We got a really good, well cooked lunch, at just under 6s a head – cream of vegetable soup, two huge portions of fillet of plaice and more chips than could be eaten, and a strawberry ice and coffee – and Arthur and his father had a light ale and Edith cider. The two little boys had a ‘special’ – there was a good choice of children’s meals. Peter was good, but to see Christopher in his high chair, blue eyes blazing and golden curly hair drying in the draught after the heat of his hat, seize his fork and begin was a joy. He had his fish cut up, but refused to have any long chips touched, even if they did need spearing on the fork with his fingers. His look of ecstasy at his strawberry ice in the goblet, with the biscuit still in, amused the waitress and manageress who was near …

  I love Kensington, and was astonished to see so many large maisonette type of houses for sale, and so many dirty, neglected ones as if owned and just shut up. I’d like a good small flat overlooking the gardens, though my first choice would be a small house in one of the unexpected quiet streets off Kensington Church Street. The types, colours and languages which swirled round were a joy. I’d have liked to linger, but Edith wanted to come home and wash! – such a huge pile. We had tea. I’d been on my aching right foot and ankle too much to go strolling round the neighbourhood with my husband, and knew I’d better finish Edith’s sun dress. She looked so nice today – a new navy moiré silk dress, small white hat and gloves – pity she hadn’t a pin in her hat; it blew up an escalator and was only rescued when it had got nearly to the top – and she didn’t bother to change to wash till I tactfully told her my sleeved overall would perhaps fit and she could have it. After 10 o’clock I helped her hang all on the line. I’d washed my dress earlier and ironed it. I’d a sneaking wonder what the neighbours thought of our garden of washing on Saturday night – they seem very conventional.

  Early the next morning, a Sunday, ‘I looked down at the untidy line of washing, and crept down in my dressing gown and brought all in, smiling to myself at my deep conventional streak which made me feel so horrified at the sight.’

  Monday, 30 June. It’s a real heat wave. I think longingly of sea breezes in the rattle and noise of the Tube.* We would have been content to sit in the garden this morning, but the little boys were cross and screamed. Christopher was tired for he had been up before 6 o’clock. I thought of children in flats and closed-in streets. We went down by Tube, already feeling hot, men in shirts and pants and girls in topless sun suits, ladies waving little paper fans, looking as if the two last lots could have been going to the Sales; breaths of coolth and sweetness at Covent Garden station when boys brought huge bundles of green forms, presumably for fish shops, and women and men had even bigger sheaves of gorgeous flowers. We had a light snack of tea and a sandwich at Lyons and got on a boat to Kew – in blistering heat, when to rest arms or back unexpectedly on the rail was to jump suddenly. We had a nice Australian sitting by us – we met him first the other day. He lives in the ‘back blocks’ 100 miles from Melbourne. When he goes on to his verandah he can ‘see two lights and likes it that way’. I felt I understood. The masses of perspiring people and the cross children around and the ‘breathed’ air everywhere stifled me. I’m constantly amazed at my husband’s seemingly inexhaustible fund of ‘go’ and think of Dr Miller’s ‘out of patience’ with his complaints of ‘no strength’ and ‘going all to pieces’ and saying that most nervous illness was no physical illness – it could be thrown off.

  We had a very nice tray lunch at Kew – good salad with ham, a roll and butter and a fresh salad of pineapple, orange, cherries and sweet apple with a little wedge of ice cream. The shade of the trees drew people, the lovely flowers and hot houses only being noticed by parties of people who seemed to have come by motor coach, and dozens of children, with harassed looking teachers seeming bent on telling them everything. A huge though shapely figure moved majestically along alone, a negress really black as coal, in the hottest most shrieking shade of zinnia purple. Our eyes met and she smiled in so friendly a fashion as she seemed to flow down the path. Such interesting people you see – the lovely flower like Eastern women in filmy saris, beautiful as houris,† fascinate me, as I wonder if they are on holiday, knowing their mothers would have been strictly purdah,† making me realise as nothing else the mass movement to ‘freedom’ of today.

  Monday, 7 July. We had the most enjoyable day of our holiday and at the last place I’d have imagined – the Food Fair at Olympia! I knew the right bus to take from Piccadilly for Cliff – I used to use a No. 9 or 73 to go Richmond way and passed Olympia. I’d never seen a big Food Fair, but used to like the travelling Exhibition that came to Barrow. We were in at 11 o’clock and didn’t leave till 4.30. Being Monday, there was no crush, and till mid afternoon not many people at all. We had lunch at the best place of Lyons yet – quite good soup, roll and butter, and good choice of sweet, with a salad extra, made up at the counter … I love gadgets and new ways with food. I use Soreme cream and watched new ways of icing and piping, and a kind of ‘baba’ made out of a piece of cake, small block of ice cream ‘insulated’ with a thick layer of the whipped cream, and scorched rather than baked in a very hot oven. But I pointed out to the two nice young fellows that they hadn’t anything as nice as the ‘butterfly’ cream bun I make, or the sandwich with raspberry jam and thick cream between – ‘Ordinary no doubt, but after all, ain’t we all?’

  It grew hot. We rested frequently in comfortable chairs, watching the ebb and flow around. Even since my last visits, six years ago, there seem a more cosmopolitan crowd, and India and her peoples, with South Americans, make the biggest difference. I dearly love perfume, and nowadays there’s no ‘lasting’ fragrance, even in simple things like lavender, when once handfuls strewn in linen kept it fragrant till lavender time came round again. Some of the expensively dressed, dark skinned ladies in saris have the most beautiful clear oil perfume. I coveted a big bottle. I bought wee oddments of 3d jars of jam, crisps and biscuits for the little boys, and three small 9d jars of Brand’s meat paste for Edith, and I will ma
ke sandwiches of one to eat on our way home. We sat in Kensington Gardens till the rush had gone in bus and tubes.

  The next day they were exposed to a different slice of London life. ‘We went down to Euston to book two seats on the train, seeing our first real “working” part of London. I realised the hopelessness of behaviour and decency of many evacuees was the result of such drab places, where ordinary standards of cleanliness were impossible in the smoke and squalor of railways and big concerns which made smoke and soot.’ Then, on Wednesday the 9th, they were back in Barrow, and ‘I was surprised to find our house seem so small after Arthur’s’.

  * * * * * *

  There were some local happenings to catch up on. Mrs Salisbury, at her first Wednesday visit to Nella’s house, had alarming news to report about one of her boarders, ‘a very odd type’ whose ‘great hobby was model airplanes. He always seemed to have young boys of 14 and 15 around, but they were all interested in model making, and he always seemed busy developing photos’. One day ‘Mrs Salisbury was turning out his room and saw some of the photos and to use her own words “I felt I could have died of shock”. They sounded not only beastly but dangerous. The naked boys in acts of perversion and masturbation were plainly recognised from the group he went about with. Mrs Salisbury was the most shocked by photos of a 15 year old Grammar school boy, a member of the Scouts and choir and one of the two sons of a widow Mrs Salisbury knew. After thinking things over, she took the photos to her, saying “I’d have been glad if anyone had let me know about the dangerous friendship if it had been one of my boys”. There was a big row. The widow wasn’t without the advice of sensible friends, and a condition of not going to the police was that he had never to be seen in boys’ company – and the photos are retained by the one who gave the advice as “guarantee”’ (16 July).