by Linda Lear
There had been changes in the Heelis family. James Nicholson, Esther and Nancy’s father, died, leaving his wife, Grace, in serious financial difficulty. As sister-in-law, there was little Beatrix could do, and she never meddled. She remained in touch with Nancy, encouraging her career as a Norland nurse; happy to hear her news or to have her at Castle Cottage. With characteristic downrightness, Beatrix told her, ‘Do not be puffed up, but I begin to think you Nancy are the only one of the bunch with any heart or proper feeling.’3
A different sadness came with word from the Borders in February that Mary Potter, Bertram’s widow, had died. Although Beatrix was in the middle of clearing out Belmount, she and William set off in wet weather for the funeral at Ancrum, leaving the pekes with the spinsters next door. Beatrix took charge of burying Mary next to Bertram in the picturesque Scottish cemetery in the tiny village. She wrote to Daisy about the funeral, calling Mary ‘a nice Scotch body; homely quiet and sensible.’ Beatrix now had to help Mary’s niece Hetty, and her sister Ina, who stayed on at Ashyburn, settle Mary’s estate, which included an enviable collection of Potter family art and furniture, and substantial income in securities. She brought back a few more of Bertram’s paintings which they hung at Hill Top.4
On 29 March 1939 Beatrix entered the Women’s Hospital at Liverpool for a serious operation. She told very few people about her surgery. To Joseph she wrote simply, ‘I am going away from home for a few days next week, so I left it with Walkers to fix up the date.’ Surgery the previous November had not satisfactorily repaired the caruncle and for several weeks Beatrix had experienced serious vaginal bleeding. She surmised on her own that she was probably in for more than the curetting that Dr Gemmell first suggested, since she realized ‘anything in the womb is apt to be the beginning of the end’. ‘I have not been well this six months…’ she admitted to Nora Burt. ‘We all have to reach journey’s end, and I am a stout cheerful old person so I may get through curetting, — but it is rather like the “writing on the wall” to see haemorrhage.’ To Marian Perry, she confided, ‘I have felt very tired and aged the last two years. Maybe the surgeon will put me right — but he cannot put me young again.’5
Mrs Rogerson, Beatrix’s housekeeper, was left in charge of Castle Cottage and the precious pekes, Chuleh and Tzusee, while Beatrix was away. Before Beatrix and William arrived at hospital that Wednesday, Beatrix dictated her will and legacies to her husband, who wrote it all down in pencil in his tiny, fine hand, and she signed it on 31 March. She had also made enquiry as to whether there was a crematorium in Liverpool. She explained to Nora without sentimentality, ‘Apart from my poor old husband — I don’t care. Its wonderfully sudden & easy, going under with the new way of injection — and how very much more convenient for cremation than Sawrey; then the clean residue would go back to the intake looking up the fell.’ Her sheep and her farms were always at the centre of her concern. Before her surgery, she wrote to Matheson, the Trust secretary, just in case William was ‘too upset to remember to write’, giving formal notice that she intended to give up her tenancy at Tilberthwaite and Holme Ground Farms in the spring of 1940, but asking that this decision be withheld ‘for a time till we see whether I survive…’ She further instructed the Trust to ‘purchase a sufficient landlord’s stock of sheep — it would be wicked to let them be dispersed a second time after the labour and profitless expense incurred by the shepherd and me, in founding a new heafed flock.’ Matheson assured her that her wishes would be carried out. William did remember to give the notice, but did not mention ending the tenancy until after the surgery, bravely telling Thompson, ‘I am very anxious but if she gets over the next few days I have every hope of a complete recovery.’6
Surgery was not scheduled until Saturday, 1 April, and Beatrix used the time in hospital to write letters to friends to whom she wanted to say a final word. Her letters to Daisy and Cecily, to Marian Perry and to Anne Carroll Moore reflect both her apprehension and her courage at facing what was in 1939 quite dangerous and somewhat primitive gynaecological surgery. It is clear that Beatrix feared becoming an invalid more than death. ‘I have failed in strength more than people know this last 2 years. Most times it has been an effort to walk to Hill Top. I am so glad I was feeling particularly well last week; and I have seen the snow drops again… [T]he whole world seems to be rushing to Armageddon. But not even Hitler can damage the fells.’ She gave Daisy and Cecily a list of instructions, mainly to do with how she wanted furniture and china arranged at Hill Top, should she not survive, voicing her frustration that she had not done more of it herself. She admitted, ‘I am conceited about arranging china.’7
Clearly concerned about William, she told her spinster friends,
I hope that Cecily and Wm will walk out little dogs on Sundays; they are old enough to face comment! Could she learn picquet or could you play 3 handed whist? It would be far best for the poor man to follow Willy Gaddum’s example and remarry, provided he did not make a fool of himself by marrying, or not marrying, a servant. The misfortune is that I have acquiesced in such slovenly untidyness and unpunctuality that I am afraid no old maidly lady would put up with it; and he is old to remodel.
Mindful of their loyalty and friendship, Beatrix assured them, ‘I have very great confidence in the good sense and kindness of both of you. If I did a kindness in providing a nice house — a lovely house — you provided me with my delightful neighbours.’ She closed with instructions about the disposition of her clothes to the Friends of the Poor and some particularly historic costumes to the Manchester Museum.
To her two American friends, Beatrix wrote rather more anxious letters. She told Marian Perry, ‘I am in no pain or discomfort, but awfully worried about my husband. You might have noticed I am the stronger minded of the pair, also the money is mine; death duties would make it awkward for him and the servants. He belongs to a family who have the privilege of dying suddenly — in their sleep. I have always hoped to survive!’ She was reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin, recalling how her nurse had read it to her when she was a small child. But she also shared her love for the Lake District, and the comfort she drew from the ‘lonely hills’. ‘What a pretty country it is at the Lakes is it not? Hitler cannot spoil the fells, the rocks and fern and lakes and waterfalls will outlast us all… I want to say how much pleasure I have had from knowing you and other delightful New Englanders.’8
To Anne Carroll Moore, whom she had seen more recently than ‘dear Mrs Perry’, but who would always be more of a professional than a personal friend, Beatrix voiced her anxiety about the sorry state of the world. She expressed her regret that not all the ‘Caravan’ stories ever ‘got hatched’, but remained resolute in her decision not to publish more. In 1932 Beatrix had allowed Alexander McKay to publish Sister Anne, a rather grisly version of the tale of Bluebeard, which had been among the second group of ‘Caravan’ stories. It had not sold well. ‘I have always felt that the New Englanders understood and liked an aspect of my writings which is not appreciated by the British shop keeper,’ she explained to Moore, ‘though very possibly children the world over appreciate it, without consciously understanding that there is more in the books than mere funniness. They circulate anyhow; more than 150 thousand [little books] sold last year. Astronomical figures! How ever will the nations pay their debts?’ Sending her regards to Moore’s doll Nicholas, she wrote, ‘good-bye if we don’t happen to meet again. Keep on the safe side of the Atlantic. Remember me to all friends.’9
On Saturday, 1 April Arthur Gemmell performed a subtotal hysterectomy using a mid-line vertical incision. Whether there was evidence of carcinoma of the uterus at the time is unknown. William kept vigil at the Adelphi Hotel in Liverpool while Beatrix remained very ill indeed. About one week after the surgery, Beatrix experienced severe vomiting, undoubtedly a reaction to the ether/chloroform anaesthesia, and burst the stitches of the incision, requiring more surgery to repair the damage and significantly delaying her recovery. She was in considerable discomfort bu
t tried bravely not to be discouraged. ‘As to whether I am thankful I refuse to make any observation before seeing how it lasts,’ she told Moore. And to Daisy, she wrote, ‘I do not think it is merciful to put an old woman through such an experience.’10
After spending a nervous Easter with her in hospital, William went back to Sawrey with his laundry and a heavy cough and cold and a month later Beatrix returned to Sawrey. She felt remarkably well considering, and was happily occupied sorting through Miss Owen’s papers, having satisfied herself as to the progress Miss Mills had made on reconstructing Belmount’s perennial beds. She complained only of swelling in her ankles and of tiring easily. She had done a bit of weeding, and was looking forward to going to the sheep farms when she was stronger. She was intrigued by the possibilities for bracken control offered by a Holt’s bracken breaker, a device for wounding the bracken fronds, and she corresponded with her cousin Caroline about the best time to attack the bracken beds on the farms.11
In early July the drought had broken and haymaking had begun. Beatrix was going about with the aid of a stick, happier walking than being shaken about in a car. Her greatest pleasure, however, was finally getting back to Troutbeck Park. She told Marian Perry about it: ‘I went to the Troutbeck sheep farm this morning and watched the men clipping, and afterwards had the cattle driven into the “West fold,” a fine sight, about 30 black cows with their calves at foot, and a magnificent white bull. He is a lovely beast and so far he is very quiet.’ Beatrix’s appearance at Troutbeck was warmly celebrated by her farm manager George Walker, his wife, and the farmhands. Lucy Walker told Joseph Moscrop of the visit two weeks later. ‘Now you will like to hear of Mrs Heelis. She was up here on her first visit a fortnight gone Tuesday… [I]n fact she looked wonderful when she was up here, no doubt she is an old lady with plenty of grit!!! She told us it would be twelve months before she could say if her operation had been a success, if so the doctors told her she could “be good for 10 years”.’12
But the evening after her visit to the Park, Beatrix experienced violent stomach pains. A few days later, she was taken by ambulance back to Liverpool. The local doctor’s initial diagnosis was an appendicitis, but that was most likely incorrect. Beatrix referred to it as ‘digestive trouble’. She explained to Miss Choyce that the doctor had chided her for eating too much food too soon, although she thought privately the abdominal pains had come from the extreme changes in temperature from very hot to very cold weather. She stayed in hospital nine days and was given what she described as a ‘thorough overhaul’. It seems likely that her incision split open again, since Gemmell would not release her until he had ‘observed’ the result. She was ordered extended convalescence as she had been very sick and her pulse was rapid. Writing to Nora Burt at the end of July, she wondered if it had been gastric flu, which had been going around the village, a more likely explanation than appendicitis. Nearing her seventy-third birthday, Beatrix realized she was much weaker than she had been in April.13
Beatrix never seemed to really mind being in hospital. ‘There could not be a pleasanter place to be ill in,’ she had written to Miss Choyce after her hysterectomy. ‘I have been twice in Catherine Street hospital, and both times I have been heartily sorry to leave!’ She was observant of the nurses and enjoyed the company. Her natural instinct for story-telling and her childhood practice of eavesdropping were talents that she employed there with favourable results. She enjoyed listening to the stories told by the other women in the ward, telling her cousin, ‘There are 2 other women in the small ward; one very cheerful party who seems to have had vast experience; and another — the wife of a sea-captain-mate or engineer, who is a bundle of nerves. She admits to smoking 300 cigarettes per week… The nurses & sisters seem very pleasant.’ In April she had been befriended by a ‘little Jewess whom I found so interesting to talk to…’ The two must have continued to correspond, for the woman came to visit Beatrix when she was hospitalized again in July. This time Beatrix was fascinated to learn her views on the Palestine question. Eternally curious about people and the world around her, she used her curiosity in the most trying of circumstances.14
Beatrix had been interested in nursing all her life and had great regard for her care-givers. Nora Burt was working as a nurse in Scotland, and had come to visit Beatrix in November 1938. Beatrix wrote warmly to the young woman while recuperating again in July, particularly interested in her work in the Scottish countryside. ‘I will not be able for going away,’ she wrote wistfully, wishing she could see Scotland again, ‘its evidently my job to keep within reach of Liverpool! though they say I need not expect to have it again.’ She confided, ‘I suppose I shall recover — its getting a bit wearisome.’15
Beatrix’s recovery from this secondary illness was slower than from either surgeries. Over the course of the next months she suffered further complications because the vertical incision had weakened her abdominal muscles and the abdominal wall bulged. She wore a wide elastic as a sort of girdle to hold herself in. As the years passed, Beatrix became increasingly stooped. Neighbours attributed this hunched posture to arthritis or curvature of the spine, but it was primarily the result of the failed incision, and the source not only of considerable pain, but real inconvenience in going about or doing any outdoor tasks. Only occasionally did she complain, and then it was usually to despair of ever finding a new, clean piece of elastic to hold herself together during wartime when such things were extremely scarce.
Beatrix’s surgeries required some inconvenient domestic adjustments. Nurse Edwards, who frequently clashed with the outspoken Daisy Hammond, came to Sawrey to help care for Beatrix and took over the spare room at Castle Cottage. A hospital bed was set up for Beatrix in the big upstairs sitting room. When Nurse Edwards left, Beatrix needed to find different sleeping arrangements. ‘I have always sneered at married people requiring 2 beds! but now don’t know what to do,’ she wrote to Miss Choyce. ‘W. H. is an uneasy bed fellow, in the habit of rolling up the whole of the bedclothes — so much so that the last three winters I have hit on the plan of having a thick separate rug. There is not room for 2 beds in our old bedroom and the spare room is bitterly cold in winter, perhaps it will be better to sleep in the piano. It is a pleasant outlook.’16
When war was declared in September 1939 Beatrix was in the midst of gathering the harvest. Sheep fairs, which had barely begun, were quickly cancelled. William was busier than ever. He had been appointed to the County War Agricultural Committee, an important and powerful group and well suited to his talents. He made the rounds of local farms, estimated food reserves and helped make decisions on what crops to grow and how much pasture to plough. He continued serving as a magistrate’s clerk and later he took his place as a rather elderly, but altogether willing, reserve policeman, with a ‘tin hat’. Beatrix observed that the ploughing committees were ‘more sensible than the last war’, and was pleased that the district had been designated for stock raising rather than corn growing. Beatrix explained to an American friend, ‘Mr Heelis & I are both busy with useful work, but not hard work this time. I am too old to take charge of the pigs & calves this time.’17
Although not many farm lads had been called up, enough had volunteered, so that there was a shortage of farmhands. ‘The lads want to go,’ Beatrix lamented; ‘they regard the war as a pic-nic. I only trust and hope they won’t be gassed. Hitler is an awful brute; and what a mad mistake to invite the Russians in. I think they are a rotten country.’ The early months of the war had little impact on the farm economy. ‘So far there is no shortage at all — though butter will be a perplexity,’ she wrote to an American friend in November. ‘I don’t know who will stop us eating our own but I suppose conscience will prick. There are no evacuees in this village. We see a good deal of activity overhead being near the coast, but so far no raids have come so far as the west coast, and every one runs out when we hear a plane.’ Beatrix and William were both dismayed by the flood of government forms that greeted them. ‘I put down to gro
w oats & potatoes, and I am being circularised to know why I object to grow an approved crop?’ Beatrix bristled; ‘If he writes again I shall ask him if he wants the address of rabbit holes? I am licensed to sell milk butter potatoes rabbits and margarine!!!’18
Beatrix was better at the end of the year than she expected to be, and complained only of occasional sciatica and of feeling the cold in her bones. She told Choyce, ‘I am very well now; but aged. W. H. has not been standing up well to the worries of the times.’ He was out late in the cold making his rounds as a reserve policeman, checking that houses were properly blacked out. ‘I am always thankful to see W. safe back! he has never liked driving at night, even with lights. He has been overworked lately — one clerk is called up; another seriously ill.’ To Nora Burt she confessed, ‘I am not very comfortable about my husband — we are getting old! Whether he is really unwell; or whether he saw and heard too much about hospitals & operations last April I don’t know. He has been laid up twice this winter. A big strong man(?) Takes badly with it.’ But she was ‘thankful to have fires indoors and food, when one reads of the awful suffering. And no end in sight, the war seems to spread.’19
Both William and Beatrix were happy to see spring come in 1940. ‘The bluebells are very lovely and the hawthorn blossom like snow on the green hedges and the cuckoo calling; a world of beauty that will survive… whatever happens to us.’ Their domestic tranquillity had been disrupted once again, but not entirely unpleasantly, by new lodgers at Hill Top. Beatrix learned that her second cousin, Sir William Hyde Parker, Ethel Leech’s son and Stephanie Duke’s older brother, had been badly injured in a car accident in the blackout, near his ancestral home, Melford Hall in Suffolk. Melford Hall itself, where Beatrix had spent so many lovely days sketching, had been commandeered by the army. After surgery in London, William, also known as Willie, together with his Danish wife Ulla, their son Richard, and infant daughter Elizabeth, were homeless. Ulla, a tall, large-boned blond woman, who had visited Beatrix on several occasions since her marriage in 1931, telephoned asking if she could help them find lodgings.20
