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.’ (British Railways and the Post Office were delivering relief parcels free of charge.) 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 the 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.
* * * * * *
In the mid-1950s passing scenes of daily life continued to attract Nella’s notice, and her diary was (as it had always been) sometimes an outlet for feelings that otherwise she kept mostly to herself. Here are a few snapshots of life from her sixty-sixth year, in 1955.
Monday, 14 February 1955. When my husband said he would like to go down to the Bank, I hurriedly got ready, and shopped for flour and yeast, and a packet of deep freeze cod fillets and one of boned kippers in the serve-yourself Co-op. The yeast is at the counter where bacon and fats, eggs and cheese are sold, and I was looking round, rather hoping I’d see a small ham shank. Monday is a good day as a rule. The manager – not been there so very long – a quiet, courteous type, was talking to the four girls at the long counter and I heard ‘Never “luv”, or never, never “ducks”. Try and find out each customer’s name and memorise it. Avoid Christian names. In doubt, remember to say “madam”.’ I’d a ‘came the dawn’ feeling. Co-ops have always been a free and easy, often slap-dash kind of shop. Brought up to the quiet easy courtesy of shops in Ulverston, where generations served generations so of course knew all customers and still do, I always had a little distaste for the ‘I’m as good as her anyway; who does she think she is complaining of so and so?’ familiarity of the Co-ops – above all their impersonal manner. But to hear a little lecture on deportment made me think of the changes in policy the Co-ops are adopting. The girls in this shop are all extremely nice, eager to help if asked. No one could find fault and say the service was in any way off hand, though the shop where Mrs Higham deals – Co-op – has a very rude manner. I would never allow a trader, man or woman, to speak to me as Mrs Higham does. I’d quietly say ‘Please don’t bother. The dividend you pay doesn’t make up for the discourtesy.’ And I’d go elsewhere, and let them know at the Office why I was leaving.
Friday, 18 February. I felt so despondent all day. I use that word for want of a better to describe the cold dread in my heart and mind after reading we are going to make H-bombs in Britain. Common sense says it’s imperative – we must ‘keep up with the Joneses’ – but I think of the article I once read in a ‘Digest’ before they were more than in the experimental stage. It alleged that while atom bombs could be ‘broken down’, H-bombs, once made, could never be used for anything but explosions. Where will they store the dreadful death-dealing things? They will never be buried deep enough in land or sea. While I’ve always maintained I thought the term ‘when’ rather than ‘if’ should be used about a third war, it’s a shock to see one’s own convictions becoming more plain in other people’s views and articles.
Friday, 26 March. Cliff’s letter came, with such good photos and articles about the open air Exhibition he is doing for a Melbourne newspaper. He seems to have got a nice looking group to help him, but oh dear, how we laughed at Cliff’s beard! He told me he intended to grow one. He knows my opinion of beards – and those who grow them – but couldn’t let well alone, and complained I’d not made any comment. When my next letter was written I put ‘Remarks on growing a beard noted – I pass’! Still, I must confess he looked pretty good, and so very happy. The piece of sculpture he had in the Exhibition of his own was terribly, terribly Henry Mooreish. In an article to a reporter he explained the odd looking thing with one side of its (alleged) head scooped out, ‘It’s man in abstract, showing how little perception he really possesses’. And he expects to get £50. I often feel like the hen who hatched out a duckling. I utterly fail to understand any type of modern ‘art’. Appreciation of it has been totally denied me, whether it’s painting, sculpture, or some of the so peculiar noises made as music.
Monday, 23 May. I wonder who advises Royalty. I feel they were unwise when, if there is such a person, he or she agreed to Billy Graham preaching in the Royal Chapel. Democracy can go too far. Royalty should bend, not stoop, for there is a dividing line. Maybe it’s my own reaction to any kind of hysteria or mob thinking. Perhaps it’s an inborn horror of revivalist meetings – in my teens, with no films, youth centres, etc. we found interest in ‘meetings’. Energetic ones easily the top attractions, cheap jack vendors in the open market a good second, but failing such, Kensitites, ‘Gospel Tents’, etc. were not to be scorned as words and more words poured from inspired mouths. Yet I could never follow friends to the ‘mercy seat.’ I felt, as I saw all reticence and reserve cast away, the same reaction as I would if clothes had been shed to show a stark, twisted body. My reaction to any type of nudity was relative to the grace and beauty of the undressing. What can be more revolting than the jelly bag type going in swimming? Private reactions or not, I do not approve of the Billy Graham, Danny Kaye ‘get together’ with the Queen. I often think her husband enjoys such little rebellious actions.
Tuesday, 24 May. We went to Spark Bridge … Aunt Sarah had been hanging some tea towels on the line and had a light woollen scarf over her head as she came in the back door as we came in the front. She took it off as she greeted me – my husband took the dog for a walk straight from the car. I looked at Aunt Sarah – just couldn’t believe my eyes. She has cut her hair – in a real Audrey Hepburn ‘snaggle’† – and looks astonishingly like Audrey too, with her wide dark eyes and small elfin face. I seized my writing pad and pencil and wrote ‘You look like a film star. Whose idea was this?’ She positively simpered as she said ‘Ah, I cut it myself one day, and Ruth [from next door] tidied off the back. Makes a change.’ I laughed and laughed – she took it all in good part. I think so many had admired her ‘urchin cut’ she was a bit conceited! It looked as if she had held a lock of hair and snipped it off about 1½ inches from her scalp. She looked a good twenty years younger from the prim Edwardian with upswept hair. I never remember her changing her hairstyle! …
I was very interested in an article in tonight’s local Mail of a marvellous piece of engineering by the Japanese – a bridge at Nagasaki. I recalled the first Japanese battleship to be built here, and the smiling, friendly, but so odd little men. I had an aunt whose son was threatened with T.B. – nowadays he would have been treated in a sanatorium but I don’t think the seriousness of T.B. was recognised. He had to sleep with the window frames taken out, and a light muslin covered screen instead, to break the cold winds, and have milk, cream, eggs etc. beyond her means, and as she had a fairly large house she decided to take boarders. My father’s people were Londoners and had a kind of inborn tolerance as regards people of other countries, so when she was told at the Yard bureau that only Japanese were on their list, especially when she heard the terms they would pay, she took three. That’s about 50 years ago – or a little more perhaps – not long in a country’s history. They had come to watch their ship being built and to learn all they could about engineering, and they stayed about two years. They addressed her always as ‘honourable mother’, were unbelievably good to the little invalid, gave no trouble of any kind, even keeping to their own custom of removing outdoor shoes and putting on straw slippers just inside the front door! When they went back, they and their families kept up correspondence and exchanged little gifts till World War One, when they seemed to lose touch.
Thursday, 14 July. Such a nightmare day, and I feel I dare not look forward to tomorrow. My husband
was down first. He called ‘Do come quickly and look at Garry’ and I ran down in my nightdress. As I took the little, limp, grey body with wide staring eyes, I knew if he wasn’t dead, he hadn’t much chance. I gave him a drop of whiskey in tea, got dressed, and rang up the vet at Ulverston, who said he would call as he had to come into this district. There’s five of them altogether, but they have a wide ‘beat’. He didn’t come till after 11 o’clock, and the little dog had one convulsion after another till he couldn’t stand. I nursed and soothed him, took him out and laid him on the cool lawn in the shade, helped him to the flower beds when he seemed to want the feel of earth under him – a bad sign when primitive people or animals want the feel of mother earth. I grew cold with dread as I saw my husband’s ashen face and trembling hands, recalling the bad nerve storm he had when Shan We died. Somehow it was as if all the heartache I felt then rolled over me, and my terror grew as I remembered that my husband’s health had worsened in the last three years. He had to go round to his mother’s on business. The dog hadn’t been so very bad till then, and I hurried upstairs to make the beds. I made them very sketchily, and didn’t dust, so wasn’t long out of the living room, but could hear a queer rattling sound and I feared the worst.
I was glad the vet came just then and saw him shaking and twitching. He gave him another good examination, saying again ‘his heart and lungs are alright, his eyes don’t show bloodshot and strain of infection. I’m frankly puzzled’ – but he gave him an injection and left tablets. I said ‘I’ve got both brandy and whiskey in the house’, and I held up the little ‘winter’ bottle of my husband’s of the latter, with about a tablespoonful in. He said ‘I’ll leave it to your discretion. I see you understand animals.’ I said ‘Not really, but I reared two delicate little boys and found the value of quiet, warmth – or coolness – lots of water, and above all a lot of petting.’ He said he would come in tomorrow, and reflected as he went out that he was ‘completely baffled’. It was rather curious as the day wore on how I kept remembering my old cairn’s last days, though he was about fourteen and Garry is only three. I’d rung up Mrs Higham and explained we wouldn’t be round. I said ‘I couldn’t leave Will. It would upset him beyond belief to cope with poor Garry.’ My so often, almost frantic prayer rang through my heart and mind. I often find myself ‘bargaining’ – if I can only live the longer, I’ll take anything. If the loss of a little cat and the threatened loss of his little dog could so distress my poor man, the mere thought of his helpless abandonment choked me.
We had had a sketchy meal at lunch time. Nerves often seem to settle in my throat and make me feel I cannot swallow if I chew food. My husband had soup and the bit of meat that was left and two sliced tomatoes, ground rice, and some fresh picked raspberries. I didn’t take much of anything on my plate knowing I’d only pick at it. I made strong tea in the middle of the afternoon, and had a surprise call from a WVS friend, who wanted to borrow my WVS suit. She is taking some of the Darby and Joan club† to London. She is as clean as I am myself. I felt ungracious as I grudgingly lent it. I don’t like wearing [others’ clothes] or having others wear my clothes. She is the daughter of a nurse I had when I had my first baby and was brought up to all kinds of sickness, and is a St John’s ambulance member. I could see she thought very little of poor Garry’s chance to get better. He was very sick after taking his half tablet. After we had had bread and butter and several cups of tea – neither could eat – at tea time, I gave him a tablespoonful of warm water, and about half a teaspoonful of brandy in it, and crushed another of the sedative tablets in. Thank goodness for the peace that came over his little racked body. We took the piece of carpet and old coat from his basket and laid it on the mat in the garage. Poor little dog. He couldn’t even climb in and out of his basket – and he slept peacefully. His convulsive jerkings and twitching stilled …
12.30. The little dog was sleeping so peacefully when we came to bed. I’ve just been down – I found he had died quietly in his sleep. Dear God, how I dread morning.
Friday night, 15 July. Sleep fled altogether last night. At 2 o’clock I could tell if I lay thinking and thinking, it would only end in a blinding headache, and I knew well I’d need everything in the way of courage and energy later, so I gathered up my clothes and went downstairs. I didn’t want my husband to find Garry lying dead, even if he did look peaceful and serene with an easy crossing. I still cannot believe that coaxing, restless little dog has gone out of our lives. I’d a little sadness. I’d never been able to return his love in full. I went out into the garden at dawn and walked on the lawn. Time did drag, for I could not read or sew, and I didn’t want to waken my husband by any noise.
He seemed to know the worst without me telling him. The outburst I’d dreaded didn’t come – but so much worse. A leaden bluish look came over not only his face but his hands. I’d made strong tea when I heard him stirring. He took it, spilled half, and looked blankly at the cup and saucer, as if seeing them for the first time. I began to be really frightened. I talked of the little dog, his cute ways, his cleverness, his love of a joke, talked myself to a standstill, powerless against the stunned, icy silence. He drank the remainder of his tea, and rose slowly to his feet, swayed slightly, and then went into the garage. I let him go alone. No one but me ever realised the deep and happy love they had for each other. I heard choking sobs and gentle coaxing talk. I went in, to see him stroking the little dog, but the dreadful blue look had gone from his face. I said ‘I’m going to ask the vet when he calls if he knows where I can buy another – today if possible’. There followed passionate assertions he would never have another dog – another animal at all. I said flatly and firmly ‘We are going to have another dog. Do you realise how very friendless and alone we are? Rarely have visitors. And the pitiful and tragic result is we are going to grow more narrow, and pity help us. We are getting too old to change.’ He dug a little grave at the bottom of the garden. There was a lot of overblown roses needing cutting off. I saw two big buckets of fragrant, glowing roses, by the grave, and one was tipped into it, and I knew the other bucketful was to cover little Garry …
My husband ate a good lunch, but I’d so nervy a throat I just could not swallow. Loss is a strange thing. I looked round for Garry, feeling with a sadness that ‘never again’ were perhaps the saddest words, and ‘everything passes’, if not happy sounding, carry vague comfort.
Saturday, 16 July. I packed sandwiches, tomatoes and bananas and we were out by 10.30. I felt like nothing on earth – and looked it too! My husband had the look of nervous energy and talked of the kennels where we were going, the prizes Mrs Drummond had won, how her dogs went all over the world – the Windsors have had three – and what an atmosphere of ‘kindliness’ there was amongst all the dogs – and the kennel maid. He showed no signs of fatigue! We rested after lunch under some shady trees on the roadside and called at ‘Blencathra’ at 1.30. We had a choice of two out of two slightly different litters. A really nice dog, fourteen months old. I kept out of the discussion, wouldn’t give an opinion, though liked one plump little fellow with merry eyes and a vague resemblance to Garry at eight weeks – and he was the one my husband chose. He is a sandy blue. His undercoat is camel colour and the longer hair rather brindled.† I suggested his name could be Sandy. We paid eight guineas and the kennel maid’s usual ten shillings and after a short rest we made for home …
We have been very little on the Great North Road, even on the winding road to Levens Bridge to where all the Scot and Lakeland transport and cars throng … Perhaps as I grow older I’m ‘reverting’, as I long for the peace and quiet of country ways of life and living, but at last I said ‘I don’t know if it’s my fancy, but there seem at least four times the huge vehicles and large – unnecessary – wide cars’, and my husband agreed. I said ‘And never, never say to me again “I wish I could go off for long day trips and long holiday journeys” – it would be a penance rather than a pleasure’. Poor dear, just as so little upsets him now, even
less uplifts. He glanced lovingly at me and said ‘You are so wonderful, so kind, never complaining or finding fault with me’. Being tired and worn out – and I felt the strain and worry of the last few days beginning to creep over me – I said as tears pricked my eyes, ‘Well, if you ever feel you would like me to start, just try bringing me along this hell fired road often’.
We stopped for tea, and discovered a little, really good trait of the pup. He had whined and squeaked on my knee. I put him in the box saying ‘Now you are a nuisance already’, but pitied the poor scrap, in the heat and his loneliness, and lifted him out on to the cool grass – where he passed a stream of water! Later we caught him in time several times … If I’d needed confirmation that my husband was rapidly becoming more childlike I’d have got it, to see the way he mussed and played with the little trotting pup who, to his delight, retrieved a golf ball thrown for him and laid it at his feet. When, tired out so utterly, it crept between his feet and went to sleep, such a wave of gratefulness swept over me. I so want it to be my husband’s own dog – it came easily when Garry was a pup – and I felt I mourned intensely for my Siamese. Beyond caring for and training Garry, he really repelled me. His ways and doggy smell, the touch of his coat after the soft fur my little cat kept so fragrantly clean, made me shudder. Not to make a fuss of little Sandy will be difficult, but until his affection has been firmly directed on my husband, I’ll be very careful.
The Diaries of Nella Last Page 48
