by Adam Thorpe
Wed. April 1st 1953
Cool, snow up in Buxton as usual. Potato soup.
Typing all day. Frayed (that’s the word) after last night: front door banged 4.30 a.m.! H. slept in till 11.15. Unfortunate, as had usual April Fool boiled egg joke up my sleeve. Sat there for ages, waiting. Something about that spoon going straight through always makes my year. Falls for it every time, Herbert does. Superstitious about that sort of thing not coming off. Took a tumble on the Dry Fly bottle on rug, completely empty. Nearly brained myself against the mahogany drop-side table – that antique claw-footed one Mrs Dart left her mark on, as you might say. Somebody has to hold the fort. That’s how that man died when I was at Mather & Platt’s on the shorthand. Slippery floor. Went flying. Caught the edge of something. Mr Ryland, I think. Mr Ryland. Looks right. Or was that that dreadful Works Accountant at Jackson Heywood’s? Never let me alone. Awful George Formby imitations. Put rubber bands around his teeth or something like that. From his teeth to the top of his head, that was it. Awful. Looked a bit like Herbert did this morning. In a bit of a rumple this morning are we? as Mother used to say. Lunch-time kept my mouth shut. It pays. Tea-time was just cups and gas fire popping till I brought up the Tampax issue. I think I ought to mention that I believe you have been borrowing certain items from my intimate drawers, Mr B. You only had to ask. Growl from Herbert: not now, Violet. Told him I had to say it or burst. You only had to ask. Herbert suddenly leaps out of sofa. Ask did you say? Ask? Ask Violet Nightingale for a pack of bloody sanitary towels? You didn’t have to be so explicit, Mr B. Exactly, Violet, exactly! My God, I’ve not realised a damn thing! What thing, Mr B.? Oh, never mind! Go to the pictures! Go to the bloody pictures! I was not planning on visiting the cinema tonight, Mr B., but if that is your wish, then so be it. Looking straight out. Exit Herbert with a large snort. Only sound in living room my tea-cup trembling in its saucer. And gas fire of course. I can see it. Six years of work heading for the gutter. Sliding off. Horrible. Horrible.
Thurs. April 2nd 1953
Cold, grey. Kidneys.
Shopping a.m. Mrs Hobbs said her Marjorie has complete set Brooke Bond butterfly cards. Wd like to donate it to Project. I said that wd be too great a sacrifice for a little girl. Mrs Hobbs insistent. Cd go into ‘Hobbies & Pastimes’ I spose. Or ‘Wild Life’. That’s the trouble. Fuzzy edges. Indexing p.m. Postcard from Mother: Bexhill-on-Sea with Manchester Spiritualists Social Club. ‘I’ve heard from Father.’ Why can’t folk leave past alone?
Fri. April 3rd 1953
Cold, grey. Haddock.
Typing & collating all day. Fingers hurt. Lumbago?
Sat. April 4th 1953
Cold, showery. Poached egg.
Typing all day. Second ribbon in a week. Some bits of Herbert’s teenage years every bit as bad as Mr D. H. Lawrence’s works. Quite unnecessary, but greatness knows no bounds, as Gladys Unsworth wd say. Too busy supporting Mother & Gordon to get up to that sort of nonsense. Except for that time with Kenneth and Gordon’s cat. On the settee at home. Mother opposite. You make a nice cup of tea, Violet, when you do. Thank you Mother. Gordon’s big fat tabby on my lap, though I didn’t like it a bit. Esmerelda I think its name was. Smelt. Kenneth stroking it. Stroking it on the back, pressing it down on my lap, flattening it almost. I hear you’re in dye-stuffs, Kenneth. That’s right Mrs Nightingale. Pressing it down but it seemed to like it. Purring fit to kill. Then a finger around the ears, so they flicked. Violet’s second cousin is at Trafford Park in the labs there, isn’t he Violet? Our Vernon. But I don’t think it’s dye-stuffs. Do take a biscuit. Thank you very much, Mrs Nightingale, I think I will. Then back about the neck (of the cat of course) which they like, cats do. Heart thumping away and room getting hotter. I thought my face wd catch fire. He was in the East Lancashire Tuberculosis Colony at Barrowmore before that of course, as a lab assistant, our Vernon. Wasn’t he Violet? Though they’ve never been close. (Always that line, always that.) Was he really, Mrs Nightingale? Then hand suddenly under, tickling the tummy. Just tickling its tummy on my lap. Just tickling its tummy. Knuckles rippling in and out, in and out. Big knuckles, had Kenneth. Big strong knuckles. In and out. I’m glad to see you like cats, Kenneth. Our Violet prefers birds. Oh I’ve always liked cats, Mrs Nightingale. But his hand came out slowly oh it did. Room so hot. All blurred. Birds. Isn’t that right, Violet? Mother’s voice all echoey and then the cat jumps off. Like stripping almost. All cold suddenly. I don’t suppose Kenneth ever realised
Herbert all gloom. No sign of Miss W. Ought to go up to mansion tomorrow for that canvas. Or they’ll be on at me. Queer without that knocking
Oh Kenneth
Sun. April 5th 1953
Damp, bright intervals. Packed lunch (meat-paste, Marmite). Cod, roly-poly.
Holy Communion. Sermon lost me. Palm Sunday used to be simple. Young Rev. Appleton much too smart & most likely lefty so will empty church soon. Not that Bew’s Lane Chapel looks up to much. Spotted a cobweb across door the other week. Got back to find note from H.: Gone Out for Day. Love Herbert. First time ‘Love’. Decided to make Ulverton Hse visit into proper outing. Wore wellies in case. Mistake: rubbed bunions almost raw. Sloes in bloom already up Deedy Lane. I’m still only halfway thru last year’s brew! Got to big iron gate, pushed it, got stuck in gravel, pushed it again & Ministry of Works sign fell off catching little toe. Poor mite. Ever so painful. Cut across park to mansion. Mistake: covered with rubbish and tore skirt on nail from collapsed Nissen hut. Will be forest of nettles in summer. So-called lake stinks to heaven. Used to drive the tanks straight through it, I remember. Saw them many a time thru trees at back: big roar and splash, little chaps wobbling on top, heck of a din they made. Got all the birds going. Had to practise somewhere I suppose. Fell over big boot (Size 12) probably off big German P.O.W. Reminded me of Herbert’s classic ‘Stamp Him Out’ cartoon in ’41: tiny Adolf trampling Europe map in shadow of enormous Allied boot. That was greatness all right, said so much. And so painstaking. Stone steps only a bit chipped, but loads of green glass bits all over terrace, & burnt patches. Never believe they’ve been gone three years. And almost ten since those Yanks! Time’s more than a twin-prop, as Father wd say. Young Doris Ketchaside’s no doubt counting every day, with those twins of hers. Some cheeky chappie put ‘Colour courtesy of the 101st Airborne Division’ on her pram one time, acc. to Mrs Dart. The father might have fallen on the Normandy beaches, I said, never mind his skin. It always takes two, as Mother wd say. Maybe tramps camp in the House now. Thought made me shiver. Had a sip of coffee from thermos & that helped: kept my innards warm at least. Such a lovely classical front, despite all: sun broke through & beautiful tall golden stone columns soared all glowing – Palladian? Like huge sad temple. Doors had dreadful creak, like horror film. Gloomy inside: practically every window covered in plywood, nasty slivers of glass. That’s Ulverton youth for you: no respect. Even had a stone thrown at me once, just for ticking off bad language. Need a flick on the ear-hole from P.C. Trevick, I said. Went into very long room (dining room originally?), absolutely running with damp. Cd almost mangle the air, as Grandma used to say on fog days. Smelt of urine. But electric torch showed rather attractive ornate ceiling (plasterwork, of course). Cricked neck slightly, looking. Lilies, ivy, wild clematis and I think a pelargonium but rest too chipped. Pity somebody had lit fire in one corner – big black scorch marks above, carved oak (?) panelling all buckled & paint bubbled off. Lovely old fireplace taller than me with pink and white roses inlaid in middle, once I’d wiped away filth with my hankie. Very good detail on the roses. Heavy shower suddenly outside: water dripped into fireplace! Peckish, so ate lunch on one remaining wobbly chair next to portable wash-stand bang in middle of room chock-a-block with cigarette stubs. Soldiers so careless. Echoes of my thermos flask each time I placed it on floor made me feel rather too far away from everyone for my liking, for some reason. Room too big. Must have been magnificent (no other word) one time – big mirrors, chandeliers, footmen, cryst
al decanters etc. Mr Rose serving up. Declined, everything has. Herbert’s quite right. Sinking ship. Had to go upstairs, of course: huge marble staircase. Pretended I had long silk dress rustling up behind me. Lord Kenneth in bow-tie at top. Turned left (South Wing, one time). Corridors pitch-black, thank goodness for torch. No electrics at all that worked. All rooms locked! Mice scuttling behind. Come on, Violet! Bet Ministry of Works locked up just out of habit. Torch revealed filthy graffiti, unfortunately, all over walls. Though a little pencilled ‘Mutti’ which I think means Mother in German, which was rather touching, next to the light switch. And rather snarly griffins (?) on ceiling in landing. Rest ruined. Went into North Wing and one door at end slightly open, cd see streak of light. Peeped in & sun just sneaking thru windows where plywood had come off. Three metal beds, torn-out magazine pages (females without a stitch, needless to say) on wall, electric light-bulb on long wire in middle. High ceiling with v. chubby cherubs flying all about & cheeky smiles, rather worse for wear, paint a bit flaky like my pastry. One with a Hitler moustache which is just vandalism really. Amazing to think this was once ever so posh bedroom. Nice view of that beech wood behind, Mr Dimmick’s farm, downs etc. Gaudy wallpaper but soldier must have attacked it with knife – hanging off in long strips as if grated. Crimson colour underneath. A bit like meat at the butcher’s. Crimson colour actually silk. Still smooth. Knife had cut silk to ribbons in one place – no respect – dull brown underneath. Original layer I spose. Reminded me of my own room in Mortlake, after the flood: bottom layer bright red poppies or something. Distempered the lot pale violet (of course!). Just putting a finger on the silk when heard creak like bed-springs behind. Heart in mouth. Neck prickling. Turned round eventually: not a soul, as you might say. Then saw big lump under Army blanket on middle bed. Don’t know why, prodded it first with the umbrella. Soft. Ugh. Reminded me of bodies after bombing raid on Newbury. ’43. Tea with vicar of St John’s. Shudder, boom. Plaster on hair. Went out. Church completely flattened thru smoke. Vicar (can’t remember his name – Simpson?) just broke out in huge sobs. Stood there like about to start a running race, arms dangling, great loud sobs coming out of him & a rather tall thin man. Wd have put my arm round him then but had very full cup of tea & didn’t want to put it down in middle of road, understandably. Left cup & saucer on nearest low wall but he’d gone to wreckage of nearby houses by the time I was back. Always regretted not putting arm round him. Bodies brought out & all soft but stiff also. Horrible. Anyway, prodded blanket again with my finger, felt sick, ran STRAIGHT out of bedroom, DOWN stairs & into marbly entrance hall quick as a flash. Cd have sworn heard Miss W.’s giggle at some point, maybe at beginning, but mustn’t start imagining things. Dark flashy eyes might have sort of deep influence, as Mother wd put it. BUT just about to go out of front door when saw big white bundle in corner: huge long roll of bandage. Cdn’t bear to go round the back to check the canvas, anyway, given my state. White muslin bandage perfect for bunting: can dye it all colours of rainbow if they want. Got a bit soggy on way back in shower. Meat-paste repeating. H. got in at 8.15. Said how was the mansion? I said pleasant, thank you. Don’t remember telling him I was going. Big smile from Herbert. How was your day, Mr B.? Oh, satisfying, Violet, very satisfying. Another big twinkly smile. His face completely changes when he smiles. Said nothing more. He was rather wet, hadn’t taken the Hillman, had faintly familiar musty smell about him. Well, I don’t like to probe.
Mon. April 6th 1953
Cold, blustery. Pork pie.
Typing all day, back where I left off before on ‘The Life As Lived’: no more teenage years, I said to H. over lunch. You can only have seven, you know. He didn’t even chuckle: a world of his own. His memory is amazing, though. I spose the inner life of the great visionary (and H. is that, whatever people say) as important as the outer, but I would like to know when he eats now and again! Magnetic tape recorder holding up. Feel I know Herbert better than myself, sometimes.
Tues. April 7th 1953
Milder, showery. Lamb chop.
Typing all day. Fagged out!
Wed. April 8th 1953
Mild, showery. Cheese potato.
Typing all day. Stiff. Hip again. Mr Sedgwick the stonemason over from Fawholt. He was the one did last lot on war memorial and missed the ‘b’ on Cecil Scablehorne’s, acc. to Mrs Dart. Typed out Location Stone lettering in block caps, just in case. Nice man. Asthmatic, like Gordon.
Thurs. April 9th 1953
Nice & sunny. Yorkshire pud.
Typing ‘The Life As Lived’ all day. Up to p.1530 (1938). Butterflies about it, but I am looking forward to ‘my’ years. Can be hard on folk, mind you. Just as well his father’s passed on, in a way. Though no one alive will ever read it. Presume they’ll still have scholars about, in 3,000 years, to translate it all! His Mother wd be pleased. Butter obviously cdn’t melt in his mouth. Hip eased a bit with the extra cushion.
Fri. April 10th 1953
Damp, overcast. Cod.
Typing all day. Mummy seed shoots appear to be sweet peas. House-martins back, scrabbling away above the study. Wonder where they’ve been?!
Sat. April 11th 1953
Damp, cloudy. Boiled egg.
Typing a.m., H. out all day. Shopping p.m. Much more in shops than a year ago, I realise. Mrs Hobbs onto me about those butterfly cards again. Sniffily. Very stiff. Quick walk up to Bayley’s Wood. Primroses lovely. First wood anemones in usual spot. Oxlips! Wood lark. Fox? MUST get on with essay, though fingers agony. Don’t know whether shd mention ‘naughties’!? (You must be completely honest, my dear, for the sake of posterity. For the sake of truth.) Naturally, Mr B.
Part 2
The Project Years
For the last six years I have dedicated myself to the ‘Project’ on a daily basis – much of my work involving ’phone calls to public lending libraries (especially the British Museum Library) experts in all fields, inexpensive hotels and so on; card-indexing, filing and cross-referencing; collating and binding; and typing the material as it comes. I have left the ‘creative’ work, of course, to Mr Bradman. The merry tap-dance (see ‘Mass Entertainments’) of these keys have kept many an unwanted knife-grinder (or whoever) kicking his heels at the tradesman’s entrance, while in his ‘studio’ Mr Bradman has drawn and written until the smoke metaphorically comes out of his ears!
Given the task in hand, it is not surprising that Mr Bradman has neglected his professional career, and many believe that he has di has either passed away or has retired completely from the pages of the ‘shinies’ and the children’s annuals. If they could only come to little Ulverton, and watch him burn the ‘midnight oil’ in a fog of pipe-tobacco, their assumptions would quickly be dashed. I should really
I really ought
Mr Bradman is not a ‘la
Although
I ought to say at this point that our professional relationship, while clo intimate, has never impinged on our private domains. I am quite I am well aware of the ‘Freudian’ implications of an employer and his female ‘assistant’ living toge living under the same roof, but apart from our Sunday ‘roast’ and sandwiches at lunch-time, meals are taken quite separately. I have my own gas-supplied kitchen in the flat, and a separate entrance behind a small fence. Now and again questions are there are prying typ inevitably the lo I do find the ‘locals’ rather trying, espec most parti although Miss Enid Walwyn, the young teacher at our village school, has a way with words that Herbert, for one, finds alluring. She is well versed in English literature, and many is the time we have argued the respective merits of Mr Edmund Blunden and Mr T. S. Eliot over a jam doughnut. or two. Herbert Bradman’s unique qualities are such that many find his comp He does have a way with I must say, there is however still however despite there is no one else who knows Herbert E. Bradman as well as myself.
At this poin
Something of his
Opening a drawer one day, I was rather star
I think I’ve already mentioned that H
erbert drew illustrations for ‘glossies’ like ‘The Tatler’. They especially liked his abilities in the human torso direction; no one could rival Herbert in that line. Flicking through those magnificent colured pages of the Twenties and early Thirties, it is quite obvious to me that Herbert’s double-spreads exceed all his rivals. ‘Cleopatra’s Bath-House’ or ‘The Nymphs Laughed At Their Reflections’ (not in a pool but in the bumper of a white Lagonda motor-car!) rival Mr Bestall’s more languid creations. The female frm, in Herbert’s hands, looks so light and slim (whether clad or no) that one might almost believe it is truly angelic. Apart from anything else, of course, his drawings undoubtedly promoted our very light, hygienic clothing that did away with the clumsy garments of yesteryear, and that are, in the opinion of the Ministry of Health, highly beneficial to health to general well-being. But like Mr D. H. Lawr
But there are
Sun. April 12th 1953
V. dark, spitting. Chicken & stewed apple.
Easter service odd with it being so gloomy outside. Angel on wall of church subject of sermon. Has big dark eyes like Miss W.’s, unfortunately. Philis Punter-Wall says its wings are grey heron if you know what you’re looking for. She does like to show off her expertise. I said I thought angels were above all that. Used to nest on the river in my grandfather’s day, she said, all sniffy. Chill. Old Bidem (don’t know his real name!) rather eloquent on flowers in churchyard, or wd have been if I had understood the half (thick accent). Got onto fruit. I said was it true about the Squire under plum-tree? Said wrong thing, evidently: he went all silent & big brown face twitched all over. Never know what you’re touching sometimes. Well, I said (to save the situation), at least he enjoyed a last drink, acc. to Mr Webb. That Martini. Sheila Stiff’s baby looks definitely mongoloid. Doesn’t move a muscle and it’s nearly five months. The obvious joke came into my head just as I was taking the wine (she’d brought him up to be blessed) and I felt so evil. On Easter Sunday too. Sometimes Communion makes me feel strong all over though. I think it’s the taste apart from anything else of course. The bread and wine in your mouth, and you can smell it off the others back in the pew, all part of the same thing. I don’t know. Herbert thinks it’s all rubbish of course. But he won’t dissuade me. Miss W. still goes, at least. His eyes rather sparkly at moment – new lease of life, but doesn’t mention Project very much. Has just about finished illustrations to last chapter of ‘The Life As Lived’, he told me over lunch. I’ll interleave them with the typescript myself, Violet, when you’ve finished it. Oh, I think I can manage that, Mr B.! No no, Violet, leave it to me, leave it to me. Rather sternly. I mentioned how much I was looking forward to typing out next instalment. Blank look from Herbert. Didn’t say any more. Struggled with my ‘essay’ all afternoon but hopeless. Gardened. Looked at the Pharaoh’s sweet peas & suddenly felt tearful & small. Nice talk on old waggons on wireless at moment by a Mr Ewart Evans. Quite poetic. Never knew harness was so complicated.
