Nella Last's Peace Read online

  We went round by Ulverston and then sat all afternoon on the Coast Road, my husband writing and I had my books and dipped into them, mended some stockings and had a nap with the sun on my face. We were home for eight o’clock and made a wood fire and we listened to Music Hall. Mrs Howson came in with her husband who is home on leave, and they had a drink and a chat. I feel sorry for Steve. He will soon be forty and is a warrant officer whose time is up about February. His pension will not be enough to keep them – he has only been a warrant officer a short time – and he says he will be up against young, well-educated men in the wage market. There is a possibility of him staying on till he is fifty, but that means he would have to give up his dream of a real home of their own for over ten years. I feel Mrs Howson has not been as careful as she could have been. She could have had a well-paid job all the war – she is a very expert dressmaker – and saved money instead of spending all on non-utility materials and making lovely unnecessary things, always for herself. They haven’t by any means enough to set up much of a home, and she whines about it a lot, blaming poor pay and treatment by the Navy for them not having more money saved. I wondered as I looked at her tonight what she would do if compelled by circumstances to live on Steve’s pension.

  Wednesday, 5 June. Down town I met several people I knew, and they and the women who hurried from shop to shop looked so harassed, all speaking of ‘more difficult to get things than in the war when U-boats were sinking our ships’. Not one word about V celebrations. No one seems to be bothering in Barrow. My mind went back to last Peace celebrations. We were in Southampton. Cliff was only a few months old, Arthur five and a half years. I recall the happy feeling, the wonderful parade where Southampton history from prehistoric to 1918 was wonderfully portrayed, the lavish decorations, the fireworks, the fun and gaiety. We went out before lunch and came back about three in the morning, with Arthur curled up asleep in the big pram by Cliff. I’d taken flasks of tea, and Glaxo† for Cliff, lemonade and sandwiches and fruit. We bought ice cream and hot baked potatoes, and hot Horlicks as we trailed home to where we lodged. Such a wonderful day. I recall my happy heart as I looked at my sleeping boys, the feeling of deep thankfulness that the war was over, that we will never have another war. Now no one feels gay or happy about this one being over. People feel suspicious about ‘war to end war’ and no one talks like that now. Rather there is that feeling that discord is spreading, that given the opportunity, there would be an even bigger war, where ‘nerves’ and atomic bombs would wipe everyone out. We have so little to look forward to. As I came home I felt my little loved house more welcoming than ever. I closed my front door with the feeling that not even the raids ever took from me, as if I shut all discord out and entered a little corner of peace. It’s such a nice house somehow. I feel it likes me.

  Thursday, 6 June. Mrs Higham said, ‘I hope I’ll not begin to grow old as well as fat.’ I said, ‘Steady on. What about me? I’m ten years older than you and never had your good health.’ Her answer gave me a little sadness. She said, ‘You will never be old. You have your two sons and are too wrapped up in them to notice such trifles as passing years.’ She and her husband would have made such good parents and could have done much for children, both with their understanding and money. It’s been a great grief to them. We had buttered malt bread and shortbread and parkin biscuits by the fire, and she went at five o’clock and I made my husband tea, savoury sandwiches, lettuce, baked egg custard, honey and wholemeal bread and butter, malt bread and shortbread. He said he would cut the lawn in spite of it being rather too damp, and I got a bit of ironing done and some mending.

  Margaret sat down for a chat when she ran in to show me some lovely Fair Isle gloves and berets she had knitted – at work, of course! – and I took down our small suitcases and laid them on the back-room bed ready to pack at leisure. I cannot think that we will be in Ireland this time next week. I’m not looking forward to the journey. I wonder how my wretched tummy will stand the sea trip, and a week is not very long to get over any upset and enjoy things, and my husband is NOT a good traveller. It seems to bring out the worst possible in him! He doesn’t like a change in any habits, hates strangers, especially if they talk to me, gets excited about things left undone at home, and is sure he left a light on or a door unfastened, etc! When he goes anywhere in the car it’s not so bad. But memories of holidays by train come back – after weeks’ battle to go at all. I’m glad we are going to Arthur and Edith, though, for the boys never stand nonsense.

  Whit weekend was approaching, and Nella and her husband had plans to enjoy themselves (drives to Morecambe, Ambleside and Kendal) – though on the Friday morning she had another reminder of the war when ‘I woke in terror at a loud bang which shook the windows, wondering what it could possibly be. Later I learned it was a big sea mine that they had exploded, and as the crow flies we are not far off Walney beach on the Irish Sea side. ’Then they were off to Northern Ireland.

  Tuesday, 11 June. I’ve all packed except my costume jacket and my husband’s sports coat. I’d put the two suitcases on the back-room bed and my poor little cat seems to realise he will be left on his own, to sleep in the garage at night and wander in the garden and into the Atkinsons in the day. Tonight when I came up to bed he had curled up between the two cases as if he had packed himself up to go! It’s so long since we had a holiday and didn’t go in the car. I feel strange packing all in two small cases, and thinking out carefully what will do rather than what we might need, and my husband has not the slightest idea of packing anything, for I’ve always seen to everything. When I’m not well I often feel pettish and think that next time I come on earth I hope I’m beautiful and dumb – someone always looks after them, and I’d like a turn! It’s not looking promising. The wind is backing to west. I hope it’s not a very wet journey to Heysham, but anyway rain would be better than a north wind storming the Irish Sea.

  Thursday, 13 June. We had a smooth passage. No one seemed to be ill anywhere. When we docked we saw Arthur and Edith and we got a taxi and were soon at ‘Lowick’. It’s a beautifully planned house in lovely surroundings. A group of shops serves the little estate, and a bus stand for the city is handy. I never saw such a well-planned kitchenette, both for size and handiness of cupboards, shelves, etc., and for now nothing stands between the wide window and the rolling hillside at the back. We had breakfast, a little rest and then went down town. I gasped at the show of chickens and ducks – many roasted brown ready for serving; crayfish, lobsters and crabs and every known kind of good fish; cream cakes and shortbread; fruit cakes and pastries in all the confectioners; lovely toys and a wide choice of couponless net curtains; sweets and chocolates in pre-war profusion – fancy boxes of the latter. I felt I’d stepped back into the days of plenty. Edith said meat was scarce – since she had only had her joint and 1½lb chops and a kidney this week! Even the ironmongers, Woolworths, and fancy shops where things like gloves, beautifully crocheted collars, yokes and cuffs, and children’s things were sold, showed not only more variety on their well-stocked shelves than Barrow or any Lancashire and Westmorland towns, but I didn’t see the like even in London.

  Tuesday, 18 June. We caught the bus to go to Portadown as we thought it would be nicer than the tram. There are a lot more new houses since we travelled that road on our way to Armagh, but the thatched cabins still gleam as white with the spring coatings and look as happy go lucky, however well kept. In the country poverty doesn’t look as brutish as in the poorer streets of Belfast. I never recall seeing such half-civilised types anywhere, unless in Glasgow slums – heavy faces and vacant eyes, and ugly protruding lips hanging apart. The potato fields stretched in every direction, but Arthur said the grain was oats – wheat is little grown in Ulster …

  I never saw so little make-up, even in Belfast, and none on Por-tadown girls. We came home on the 9.30 bus and the sun shone all the way. They seem very fond of inviting folk to ‘Prepare to Meet Thy God’, on barn ends and house sides and even on plac
ards carried and sandwich boards. There was a good sprinkling of American soldiers about. They seem to be on leave. Some had Irish wives and babies. Edith knew many Irish girls who married Yanks in Portadown alone.

  ‘We have met with such kindness and friendliness that I feel it’s been the best holiday I’ve ever had,’ she wrote at night on Wednesday 19th, as their visit was winding down. ‘I’ve not had to worry if my husband was enjoying himself, for Arthur has been there and I’ve been “paired” with Edith.’ She felt it had been ‘a long care-free week’.

  Two days later they were back in Barrow.

  Friday, 21 June. To our surprise, Cliff met us. He had travelled all night. I think his main object in coming was to bring me a Siamese kitten. He always promised me one after the war but I always put him off, for I didn’t want to hurt old Murphy’s feelings – he is a very odd cat. Between his running wild for a week, Cliff and Mrs Pattison being about, and the kitten, he has held aloof and sulked in the garden all day. I’ve left the garage window open for him and his supper on a plate. I had to set to and do a biggish wash for Cliff – he goes back tomorrow night again …

  This wee kitten is like a baby. He cries bitterly if cold or lonely, but in spite of only being eight weeks uses an old tin lid with ashes sprinkled as if very accustomed to a lav of his own. I felt so sorry for the little lonely orphan, I put an old tea cosy in my basket and tucked him up nice and warm. I brought him upstairs and put him on a chair by the bed. He was quite happy till I got into bed. Then with a joyful whoof he sprung on to the bed and settled himself close to my side as I write, beaming up happily through his slitted blue eyes and purring loudly. I hope the two cats settle down peacefully. I don’t want old Murphy to feel pushed out for the little newcomer.

  Cliff wants to ‘buy everything you have ever wanted, Dearie. I’m going to see you never stand aside again for any of us.’ I looked at my little cat with mixed feelings – he is a darling wee beastie, perfect in every way – but I had old Murphy. I wonder what Cliff has in mind – about things I’ve wanted in the past – and have I rather outgrown them if I get them now, I wonder? I cannot recall a real crave, except to travel and see the world, and who would want to do that just now? I’ve my little modern house, shabby, it’s true, but things like carpets, etc. will come round in the ordinary way – be bought. I’ve simple tastes and little clothes sense. If my clothes are reasonably good I wear them long and carefully. I loathe ‘amusing’ styles. I’ve the garden – and the car, which, if it is 1934, to me is as good as a new model, and gets me to my loved hills and lakes. A Rolls Royce could do no more. I’m puzzled to put a name to one thing to add to my content, unless it’s a fridge, and that’s for family comfort on the whole. As to denying myself, it was never a hardship if it was for my two lads. It was a pleasure and privilege to help them in any way – and still is. Old Cliff over-rates me, I fear, but I looked at him in slight surprise when he spoke of ‘making up’ to me some day. I felt very touched.

  Sunday, 23 June. Margaret came in with a friend who married and whose RAF husband has just been demobbed. He was going to be an architect but thinks ‘there would be more in photography’ and plans to set up in business, and he has only a small folding camera, and never handled a studio one, done much developing and no touching up. I felt amused as I thought of another young fellow – also married – who has bought a horse with his gratuity and plans to begin a riding school and teach people to ride, running by the horse and rider presumably till he gets another horse to ride himself. I often feel a sadness when I hear of the many cases of unreality this war has bred in young fellows – girls too – who have lived a sheltered life and had no chance of trying out their mistakes as they went along. I felt glad Cliff has a vein of practical common sense. He told of many ex-servicemen who had lost their gratuity and very hard-earned savings in get-rich-quick methods, toned down till they sounded genuine in the ears of men who had not been in the rough and tumble of life for a few years.

  Another thing which Cliff was very bitter about – he says ex-servicemen are being exploited. ‘You cannot expect a real wage till you get into civvy life and you have your allowance for a few weeks’, and then are only kept for a few weeks and another mug comes along. He said, ‘I never realised myself how dear things were, or the many food problems. I honestly don’t know how I’d have managed if it had not been for the way you shop and plan for me. Money goes nowhere in London. I’ve a good stock of clothes too, thanks to you keeping them free from moths and dodging new collars on to shirts and letting out the jackets. Some fellows I know have no civvies but what they get when they come out of the Services, and have to build up a wardrobe, both for work and “best”, and I don’t know how they manage for that either.’ Cliff is like Arthur in that he thinks that the danger spot in human relations has yet to be reached; that high hopes and joy at being free again is carrying men along, but when they realise the scraping and pinching to start a home as well as keep on, men will grow bitter, and if things don’t quickly stabilise will tend to turn to anything that holds out more hope, from crime to Fascism or Communism. Arthur is convinced that we are on the road to inflation; that already there show plain indications of it; and the news in today’s Sunday Express that inflation, in America will cut down the loan granted so niggardly is not good hearing. It seems a sorry business altogether. The seeds of ill feeling are not only being sown but show signs of sprouting.

  Sunday, 30 June. I never saw so many people at Bowness and Ambleside even before the war. Hundreds had come by charas, more by trains and then steamer and even motor launch. Boat and rowing boat were reaping a good harvest of half crossings as at one time it would have been 6d or 1s an hour and 1s a shot per trip with the boatman. South Lancashire crowds don’t behave ‘trip-perish’ in the Lakes as they do at Blackpool. The quiet dignity of the hills and lakes seem to welcome and impress them. There never seem loud raucous voices raised in song. Perhaps, though, that type don’t come. It may be that they who come have a love of calm serenity. Some who sit on seats in the sun look as one with we who feel the hills and fells holy ground, where all the peace and wisdom of life lie, ready for us if we can only reach out for it and claim it.

  The heavy rains of yesterday had been a blessing to the little streams and falls. Everywhere the sound of running water, and cattle and sheep never lifted their heads as they busily cropped the sweet damp grass. Keswick was full of visitors. Moneyed foreigners always make for there. When we stayed at the Royal Oak last year, there were many who had been all winter. We picnicked in a quiet spot. Shan We had water and some minced cat meat and romped happily in the grass. This golden day will pass into rain. The purples and grey, green and brown of hills and bracken moors were too sharply etched against the blue of the sky for it to be fine for long. It was even lovelier motoring back than going. All was quiet on the roads. The charas had left. Only holidaymakers sat about and boatmen dressed up rowing boats and covered motor engines, and the two last steamers down the lake were crowded to capacity. As they passed I felt a God Bless in my heart, a wish that the memory of peace and beauty would linger through the busy week of bustle, queues and general worry.

  My deep love of the Lakes never makes me want to shut out trippers. I feel ‘Come and share it. Hold up your arms to the everlasting hills and draw their peace and beauty and healing calm into your tired minds.’ To many heedless people I feel ‘Go to Blackpool – you will be happier there’, but I could never shut people away. My uncle is a rabid ‘Friend of the Lakes’ man. He would put a wall round if he could, so high that no one could see over. I would be very stern with people who wanted to build jerry† houses, make wide motor roads, build factories or works, or run a railway through, but I don’t understand or agree with him in other ways. People who are shut in ugly soulless towns need our lakes and fells. I know I’m not consistent for I wouldn’t ‘tear down the ugly pylons’ as he and his friends would. They are not too obtrusive, and I can only see the beauty and comfort
they take to people whose lives have lacked much in amenities.

  People have to live and work in far-off places. The farmers who are so important should not have to live like medieval peasants, their women folk slaves to hard work and having less comfort than the people whom they feed. I can see beauty in a tractor’s moving its way over a hilly field as much as a horse straining out its heart. School buses to me are only a blessing. I never would long for the ‘good old days of the village school’. My gran as a Quaker was well educated by Friends and believed in her children being taught at home and then sent to school, but mothers of that day could not always teach their children. My husband’s grandfather, who was reared on a lonely sheep farm, could not read or write till he was eighteen, and only his insistence and the fact he had a little money to pay for an adult school run by a retired school master in Bowness educated him in about eighteen months. Everything must be shared in tomorrow’s world, beauty and peace, education and all that goes to make a happy child and good citizen.

  Friday, 5 July. Jim Picken is eagerly looking forward to being demobbed next week or the week after, and I felt he didn’t realise the difficulties he would be up against, poor lad. He talks as big as so many did. A fellow went into my husband’s workshop and said he dreaded demob and scrambling for a job, as so many of his pals had been glad to take anything, whether suitable or not. Jim went off cigarette hunting when he had had his meal. He says the cigarette and beer problem is acute at Blackpool – long queues form for both. I thought of the oceans of drink of all kind I’d seen in bars and pubs at Blackpool, where it seemed as if one type spent their whole holiday! It beats me altogether. There seemed no shortage of many things in the war, and any temporary shortage was blamed on things going for the troops. There’s bound to be a queer undercurrent of frustration in people’s minds. We used at least to be able to say ‘after the war’, and use it as a cheer-up for everything. If all get demobbed by Xmas, as I saw in the papers, and have to come on the labour market and share in the scanty supplies and rations of so many simple everyday things, there will be more discontent than ever.