Nella Last's Peace

by Patricia Malcolmson

  I felt my laughter and the feeling of happiness in my little gay decked house had recharged me, making me more vital than I’ve felt for a while. I like bustle and happy people round me. I don’t mind work, and dearly love to see people round my table enjoying the food I’ve cooked – much better than I enjoy eating any of the goodies – thriving on fun and laughter, and seeing happy faces, more than on what I eat extra. I felt the war years and worry had rolled back like a soiled curtain and let sunshine in to flood my little house. I felt as I walked upstairs there was a different atmosphere, not altogether the fragrance of Egyptian cigarettes. I didn’t tell Jacques I didn’t smoke – the packet he left me will go into Edith’s stocking. She loves good Egyptians.

  Tuesday, 18 December. Cliff looks a lot better. He had been working hard before he came and I feel he is worrying a little about getting a start when he is demobbed. I hope he gets into interior décor and likes it. He has a queer streak of instability that has stayed from childhood and not been outgrown with his somewhat artificial life in the Army. Seven years nearly out of his life by the time he is demobbed – six and a half at any rate – and at the most important time. Maybe he would have had somewhat muddled values if he had not gone in the Army. He is very like my father’s family. I see it very plainly when he is talking – that under their circumstances he too would have roved the world, to ride the crest of the waves, or sink below them.

  I told him a few things of my father’s family as we sat yesterday, more as a hint of where his footloose fancy can lead than anything else. They were all East India men, sailors or traders, up to my great-grandfather’s day, who ‘saw these new-fangled engines being used freely – even put in ships, maybe!’ – and advised his sons to learn all about them. Some made good. My grandfather was one, but never happy. He married early and got tied down with responsibility. I recall him as a darling old man who loved to read of foreign parts, and his collection of oddments bought off sailors were a joy to us children and a curse to his wife and daughters. One of my father’s brothers ‘rode the crest’ and crashed, and spent twenty years on the Cape breakwater for illicit diamond-buying, a savage sentence only possible in those days of De Beers’ monopoly in South Africa. I feel my Cliff has so much hidden conflict from his ancestors. I try to be patient when he gets difficult, praying always he will be true to the best in himself. Beyond that, there is little to be done. Any influencing has been done when he was growing up and any lessons learned then may be remembered.

  On 20 December Arthur and Edith arrived from Belfast.

  Friday, 21 December. There was a one o’clock dance at a nearby hotel and the Atkinson girls were going, so Cliff decided to go and my husband settled to his books and we three to read and later play solo, with two, three and four of each suit picked out and the five of diamonds. Arthur’s back troubles him. It could have meant an attack of lumbago, but I got him some pills we find good and he is being rubbed with wintergreen and menthol and says he doesn’t feel any worse. He doesn’t strike me as being in very good health. I feel he works at too high pressure, and he worries about things in general. He has no personal worries to bother him. He said, ‘I know what you mean, Dearie, when you say you felt at times as if you were “a skin less”, and felt outside worries and troubles perch on your head and seep willy nilly into your tired head.’ I thought to myself that when I’ve felt like that I’ve been in a pretty poor shape. He thinks things out to a degree, trying to find a solution, a way out of today’s perplexities. I said, ‘It’s no use, love. It’s much the best to take your eyes off the horizon and see the pot holes and stones of the road we tread, lifting them or trying to mend the road, leaving the rest to the clever ones – or God.’ We have neither ability nor opportunity to do big things – yet I know how he feels at times.

  Cliff finds life a problem too. I feel he is always trying to run away from himself. His pleasures are cheap and must at times leave the taste of ashes. He flares up and contradicts and argues blindly and vehemently, at times almost with a note of frenzy. He cannot talk things over and has a real phobia about relaxation or concentration. I feel life for him should be that of a dispatch rider, always rushing from place to place!

  We all felt tired and I made supper early, leaving a flask of coffee and a banked fire for Cliff.

  Sunday, 23 December. My husband had been writing invoices as usual on a Sunday morning, and as the sun shone, Cliff said, ‘You all go out, I’ll get the table ready’, and knowing how he loved arranging things I went off gladly for I felt a bit whacked. We went round Coniston, always my choice if I’m asked. The lake lay remote and grey, but a strong sunset drew tearing red fingers of pinky red across it, as if trying to rouse it to friendly movement. Its light touched the hills to gold where the bracken dried so valiantly this year. Arthur said, ‘The bracken must have been a glory this year. Even now it’s more colourful than I remember it.’ Somehow I felt it was the last touch to our happy Xmas, to take that little loved run out.

  Everything was ready. I had only to brew tea and cut bread and butter and scones … The little tree in the corner, the lights lit round the arch of the bay window and the plentiful spread would have all been pre-war, only my lads were men and only Edith’s and Margaret’s faces fresh and girlish. I had a bit of sweetened milk for cream, rum butter and loganberry jam, Xmas cake, chocolate biscuits, mince pies and shortbread. My cloth with the embroidered hollyhocks picking up the red of the little tinsel baubles on the tree. Happy laughter and gay voices. Even my little cat purred extra loudly and blinked happily from someone’s knee. He is growing too heavy to nurse for long and gets passed round! We pulled the little crackers – and everyone who did not take sugar in their tea insisted on a sugar lump to suck, saying it was ‘the next party’. I’d saved my crackers, as I said. Seven years old or not, the tiny things went off with quite a loud pop, and wee lead charms were in each – tiny horses and spinning wheels, squirrels and horseshoes. Everything was soon cleared away and we started to play pontoon for a while, but got so interested we played till 10.30, when I made supper, as Doug had ordered a taxi for 11.30 … I love parties – best in my own home.

  Monday, 24 December, Xmas Eve. Mrs Whittam was very upset. Her best friend’s daughter had been cut to pieces on the railway line and she was going to her funeral. Such a bright clever girl who worked in our public library and whose fiancé shot himself a few weeks ago. He was in the RAF and badly injured but they ‘repaired’ his poor face and his other injuries mended, but later he found himself going blind. A letter, not published, was to her mother, begging forgiveness but saying she could not face things without Bob, saying she knew she was acting wickedly in killing herself but that she chose that way to be with him – that ‘it would never be Heaven unless she was with him’. Another of war’s tragedies – one amongst many that we will not hear anything about …

  We all felt we would like a breath of good fresh air and went in the car over to Walney. I walked along the beach. The huge waves rolled and crashed. Suddenly I felt my old love of the sea return. I felt as I looked that in spite of mines yet around in some places it was sweet and free, that the fear and menace of death had passed, leaving the ordinary risks and turmoil natural to it. I had a few calls to make – two on old people who visit Aunt Eliza and are over eighty …

  All the buses are stopped for Xmas. They refused flatly to even run a skeleton service to enable people to visit or go to church. It’s odd how high handed public servants like dockers and bus people can be. They say NO and that’s that.

  The following days featured customary seasonal celebrations, exchanges of gifts (including a single banana for the whole family from Australia, ‘which had ripened perfectly’) and socialising with family and friends. The Lasts enjoyed a goose for Christmas dinner, and Nella got ‘a really lovely diamond ring from my husband’. On Christmas afternoon she visited the hospital where she had volunteered during the war, and later had fourteen people for tea, with even more visitors in the
house in the evening, many of them people of her sons’ generation, and very much in a party mood. ‘I felt I could have sat down and howled for sheer happiness,’ she wrote on Boxing Day morning, ‘for joy that in spite of everything young things could laugh and be gay’. Later that day they had ‘a little run in the car’ and at five o’clock were entertained by the Atkinsons for tea. ‘Not a single thing has spoiled or marred our Xmas,’ she thought (written early the next morning); and during that day, the 27th, she prepared a hearty breakfast for Cliff (who was taking the morning train to London), saw My Friend Flicka at the cinema, and in the evening accompanied Arthur and Edith to the station, who were travelling from there to catch a boat to Belfast. Returning from the station, ‘I felt as if my little house still vibrated with love and happiness, laughter and gaiety. I felt as if all my little worries had been sorted out tidily … I feel I have got things a little more in focus. Perhaps I’ve laughed a few mully grits away!’

  Sunday, 30 December. I felt really thankful it was Sunday. I could hardly bear to stand on my right leg [twisted the previous day]. After I’d had the tea and toast my husband brought up, I knelt in very hot water in the bath and bathed in it, afterwards rubbing it well with wintergreen, and it was a little better. I had a very busy morning with letters and rose at twelve to make lunch – good mutton soup in which too were some goose bones. There was cold mutton, as tender as chicken – a nice chunky bit of chilled mutton, and much better meat than I’ve had lately – chutney and wholemeal bread and butter, egg custard and bottled apples and then a cup of tea when I made some to put in the flask to take out. All was white with frost. It never lifted all day, and we went to Spark Bridge to wish Aunt Sarah and Uncle Joe a Happy New Year and take a jar of good dripping, a bit of marg, a glass of sherry each and a big slice of Xmas cake.

  We went on for a little run to Coniston Lake, and I never saw my dear lake lovelier. The bracken-clad hills were mirrored on the silver surface till it was a fantasy of gold and grey, with patches of blue sky in the mosaic. My husband stopped the car to pump up the tyres as he thought the pressure too low, and I sat with the windows wide open with the sun on my face. Such utter peace and beauty. I felt it was enough for all the troubled world. No sound save the gentle murmur of a wee beck as it hurried to lose itself in the placid lake. I could have sat all afternoon just listening to the silence, caught in the Rhythm I always feel in that quiet spot, nearer to God than anywhere else I know. I sat so quiet and still, thinking of the New Year, longing for a job of some kind. There seems so little to do in Barrow and so many to do it. Women like myself who have been busy and useful, feeling they were helping, cannot find a way to help the peace as we did in wartime. With 2,000 women on the Labour Exchange, it would not be right to do anything they could do, yet I know many who, like myself, long to do something. I felt I put my name down as I sat – my New Year resolution formless but willing.

  We were home by 4.30. All was white and lovely with frost. It looked as if the trees and bracken-clad slopes were sprinkled with a powdering of snow. I had left a good banked fire. I put slippers to warm and made tea while my husband covered up the car. We had been eating chocolate this afternoon and so did not feel very hungry. I had some good Kraft spreading cheese a friend had sent from Canada and passed on to me, and I made sandwiches and we had rum butter. My husband can always eat cake, particularly Xmas cake, but I felt I did not want any more sweet stuff. We settled down quietly by the fire. I had a good detective book I had started last week, and my husband had some bills to make out. The cat settled on my knee and all was quiet till 8.30 when we listened to The Man of Property.

  I keep wondering how Arthur’s back is, fearing he is letting himself drift into the rheumatic state which so tormented my husband and his father and really clouded their lives for years. When he was home he told me he didn’t want the piano after all, that he wanted to sell it and spend the money on something he would need for the going into their new house. Secretly I felt vexed. I’d certainly given him it years ago and often wished when they left home and there was no one to play it that I could sell it and buy the china cabinet I needed but had no room for in this small house. I could have done with the money for many occasions, but would never have thought of selling it when I’d said Arthur could have it. He said, ‘Cliff can have half the money’ and I’ll see he does. Sometimes I’m appalled to see that Arthur and Edith are waiting for their money every month. Arthur never had any financial sense at all. I feel Edith could budget better if he would let her.

  Monday, 31 December, Hogmanay. Such a bitter morning. My leg ached but was quite a lot better, and I went down town early for my rations and to pay my bill at the wine merchant’s, and was offered a bottle of whisky and one of rum, both of which I accepted, for whisky is my standby in either gastric attacks or flu colds while my husband prefers rum, and there’s no telling what we will need before winter is over. I was so lucky. I got two big fresh Bay plaice; they were rather large – 2s 4d the two – but I gladly bought them for tea. It’s not often I have to ponder how to spend my points. My problem is generally to get what I want, but today I had difficulty in spending my last nine. I got a tin of beans and one of peas, and carried the other one till Monday. I felt really ill with cold when I got in, and made a cup of hot strong tea and sat by the fire to drink it, reflecting gratefully that the war was over and our soldiers and airmen didn’t have to rough it so much, thinking of the poor cold and hungry people of Europe where the weather might be colder still. I had good soup, Xmas pudding and cold meat and made gravy, and while my potatoes boiled put slices of cold meat on a plate as a lid in the gravy to heat through. I boiled cabbage and made pudding sauce – and a hot tasty lunch was waiting for my husband when he came in.

  I took the bus and went up to wish Mrs Waite a Happy New Year – and got in this time! Poor old dear. She is so disagreeable and is worried about her husband who, the doctor thinks, has something rather malignant at eighty-two. I looked at them both. They are so difficult and aloof. No real love or friendship. No interests. I hope and pray I don’t live till I’m eighty, unless I can be like Aunt Sarah or Aunt Eliza, whose mind seems to keep their body in check and who plan ahead as if they had years and years to live. I didn’t stay long. I hurried home gladly to do my ironing and some mending with my machine.

  Tuesday, 1 January, New Year’s Day. I keep wondering and wondering what will be the effect if the loan to Britain doesn’t materialise. Prospects didn’t look too rosy with it. I always thought a few bombs should have fallen in America – real big ones! Last war the same. They lost men like all countries but as a percentage it was not proportionate, and again they seem to have all the money in the world. All the brave talk of a ‘new world’ seems to be dying slowly. People have not changed one bit. Many in fact have turned selfish and self-seeking, and grown hard and bitter. Me – I never put a lot of reliance on uplift talk. We could start something, plant a tiny acorn which we might not see beyond the seedling stage, but that is the best we can hope to do …

  Nowadays many talk as if atomic energy was a kind of philosopher’s stone to turn everything into something new and wonderful. It may well be so – in material things. But that prayer ‘And renew a right spirit within us’ is the real and only solution in human relationships. I’d hate to live in a world where I had only to press a button. If I had a job to do outside my home I’d be grateful for any help, but the world is largely made up of everyday folk like myself who have to weave their lives and jobs and efforts for home comfort into one whole pattern, and not only have bright tinselly bits all over but the solid yarn of service and the joy that comes from a job you have done in your own particular way. ‘Beauty’, ‘the Arts’ and ‘appreciation of literature’, etc. come after. They are the parts that show – the simple things the foundation.

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘NICE TO BE LOVED’

  January–May 1946

  On 3 January there was a big party for the Women’s Vol
untary Services, held in the British Restaurant† next to Barrow’s Town Hall, with nearly 300 women in attendance, and as the event ended Nella ‘thought what a great pity it was that those of us who were so willing to help could not find something. The Regional WVS representative, who came from Manchester, said the same. She said in Manchester even, few as yet had found a niche in the peace as they had done in war, and she “regretted it deeply”.’ Still, Nella wanted to check any drift to discontent. That evening, back at home, ‘As I sat feeling warmth steal through me, I felt again what a lot of blessings I had. I thought of others who had lost all, who had seen their lives crash in ruins.’ Certainly, she had cause to be grateful. The next day, 4 January, after chatting with Mrs Whittam, ‘I thought suddenly of my dear lads, as well as my husband’s love, which, if at times is a bit “possessive” and demanding, is sincere. I realised how blessed I was. Edith loves me too. It’s grand beyond words or price to be loved.’

  Saturday, 5 January. I never recall anything which has caused such a stir in town as the Newalls’ matrimonial troubles. Everyone takes sides who knows them. This morning Janet was all for Mr Newall. She said, ‘It’s all right talking of Mrs N.’s kindliness, good singing voice, being such a good mixer and so forth, but she was a fat careless lump wherever she went. My husband would never have taken me out if I’d looked like she did at several really good dinner dances. And her home was as happy go lucky as her appearance.’ Now with fretting and not being able to eat, she has grown really slim and she seems to look nice in her clothes. I suppose a woman’s general untidiness could start something.