Nella Last's Peace Read online

  Wednesday, 29 August. I used to think how happy people would be when the war was over, but beyond thankfulness that it’s over, I see few signs of the brave new world. People are beginning to have that fear they will be paid off. Women are not settling down very well after being at work. I hear many cases where they have lost touch with little children who have learned to do without Mam and turned to a granny or older sister, of wives and returned soldier husbands feeling the strain after living apart. After the last slump a lot of people in Barrow who had considered their job secure in Vickers got a nasty shake-up when they were sacked. I hear odd remarks or parts of them which show how women’s thoughts are on ‘whether Dad will get the sack’, if this or that department is busy or likely to be. The stocks lie stark and empty – no big keels laid to make Barrow people feel secure. Only Sir Charles Craven’s [Chairman of Vickers-Armstrong 1936–1944] keenness and foresight kept Barrow being like Jarrow or similar dead shipbuilding towns. He is dead now and things are different altogether. Little sleeping worries have risen after six years when work was assured for all-comers. People ask the prices in shops lately. There’s none of their ‘Give me a couple of pounds of those’ but rather it’s ‘How much a pound?’ and a consideration before saying how much is required, and flowers are not quickly bought regardless of price. The moneyed folk are beginning to see that war jobs don’t last for ever …

  When things went wrong with Gran – and so little in her overworked life seemed to do for long – she had a funny little way of rising on her toes and drawing a deep breath as she said, ‘Ah well, we must do the best we can and pass on.’ At times I feel her simple creed is my standard of life and living. I feel like a grain of sand on a seashore, feeling and knowing my utter, utter limitations; that however I try, I can do so little; feeling a strange loss when I cannot work directly as we did in the Red Cross shop; wondering what I will do when the Centre closes with its purpose and Canteen† with its service, making me feel I’m keeping things moving in the right direction, however small.

  Sunday, 2 September. If I had pleased myself today, I’d not have got up at all, for after my usual Sunday rest I felt I’d forego even a drink of tea – never mind lunch – to just lie in bed. I had a bath and felt a bit better, and lunch was soon ready, and the good mutton soup reviving. The mutton was nice and tender, and I made a shredded cabbage salad with sliced tomatoes and a shred of grated onion, and chopped mint for a wee difference. As I drank a cup of tea afterwards I realised what a tea dope I’ve got since the war, rarely drinking coffee and never cocoa. I could drink many more cups a day than I do. My husband feels as out of sorts as I do – not ill, merely not well.

  He said, ‘Would you like a run to Ambleside?’ I’d only expected to go on the Coast Road and felt a trip up the length of Windermere was a treat. I packed tea, taking a little loaf, butter, jam, tomatoes and cake, and we set off. Everywhere now there is a little hint of autumn, a golden tassel of one turned branch of beech, curled fading plane-tree leaves, vivid red of hawthorn berries, and blue-black elderberry, and far up in the woods on the slopes of the hills, cherry trees gleam like a torch in the dull green. The last of the corn sheaves were being carted and they looked as if they had only been waiting for transport. The shorn grain fields have already tufts of green grass springing up.

  We stared in amazement at the Bowness car and chara† parks. Never did we see so many before war, for an adjoining field had had to be used and was full of private cars. The odd part was that most of the charas were from Blackpool and Preston and from the other direction from Cleator Moor and Cockermouth – twice the distance allowed for travel in coaches – but no one bothered and everyone looked happy in spite of there being no accommodation for tea as there once would have been. As there were no signs of picnic meals we wondered if they had had tea on the way. The big motor launches were packed and the small ones were doing a good trade. It’s made Bowness very busy with the petrol allowance. My husband said, ‘What will it be like when the rationing goes and cars can be bought again?’ I said, ‘Perhaps no more crowded. It’s exceptional just now – VJ trips and little outings so long denied.’

  We went on to quiet Ambleside – too far for Blackpool coaches to go. Yet it too was full of parked motors, wherever they could be squeezed along the lake front. But we found one unused spot – had just room for us to edge in. I’m always attracted by the carriers with one child in and the fearless way they handle them, shooting cleverly about, never bothering about big motor launches or rowing boats with the two elders moving strongly. I’d taken a bit of sewing and a book, but I just sat quietly watching the boats and sailing ships, till I dozed off to sleep for over an hour. We had tea and a little walk along the shore and were home by 8.30.

  Mr and Mrs Atkinson were very cool when we spoke over the fence, although we did not say we had been to Ambleside. I know they think it odd when we don’t fill the back of the car whenever we go out. They cannot be happy unless someone is with them. I feel my husband’s moods are best if he is quiet, and somehow lately I’ve felt more than ever the need, the real necessity, to relax. Perhaps it’s with being at Centre and Canteen, and the shop when it was open, and having to study so many, keeping them happy, joking little squabbles away. But whatever it is, lately I’ve felt glad to escape into the quiet of the countryside, or to sit by the sea. Mrs Atkinson likes to know exactly what each day brings. Three evenings she goes to a whist drive, and two afternoons as well. On Saturday evenings they visit relatives, also for cards, and she has tried to persuade me to ‘make a date’ every week for cards or to go to the pictures, as she thinks I need a ‘bit of a life’. I feel I gain more life by relaxing with a book after my busy days, that an evening which is good for her after a day’s housework and shopping is not suitable for me; and anyway, beyond a pleasant neighbourliness there is no friendship, nor could ever be, for we have no tastes in common.

  Margaret is different. We have so much in common, both in ideals and views. Her mother said one day, ‘Our Margaret is more like you than me.’ I thought of the lonely evenings little Margaret always had till she began to come in our house, bringing her little problems, reading my books and discussing them, picking up little cooking and sewing ways. It grieves me sorely when I feel Margaret cheapens herself with her many light friendships, tearing away a bit of her affections each time and giving it away, feeling sure it’s the right one every time. She came in tonight looking a bit dim. Her latest friend is an Australian airman, son of a very prosperous farmer who gave all his children a good college education (agriculture) and sets them up when they marry. While he is in England waiting to go home, he has been given leave to go to a farm somewhere in the Midlands where he can study artificial semination and then he will take it up in a big way on his return, as ‘the old man will be highly delighted’. Margaret said dolefully, ‘I’ll never see him again I suppose, and if he had asked me, I’d have gone out to Australia. I would make a good wife for a busy man you know, Mrs Last!’ I hugged her and gave her a kiss, feeling so sorry for her. I said, ‘Perhaps, ducks, you are too adaptable. You know men like a girl to be a little aloof.’ She said a bit surprisingly, ‘Oh, things are so different nowadays to what they were when you were a girl.’ I agreed in my mind. I remember the tidal shock I got when one moonlight night when I was drawing the bedroom curtains, I saw a young airman kissing Margaret with a fervour generally only seen on the screen, and later found out she had only met him that evening, and was told ‘Don’t be silly – a boy always expects to kiss you if he brings you home.’

  I felt so shaky and ill. I was glad to come to bed. This little epidemic going round seems to follow its course – sick and bad pains, followed by about two days of intense weariness and aching bones, and then a cold comes on with sneezing and nose running.

  Wednesday, 5 September. We ought to have gone down this morning to the WVS really but it was no use. It was beyond me, and Mrs Howson called in and did not know the ones working, putting up the s
talls, and she is too shy to work with anyone she doesn’t know. We were to have the ice cream and jelly, but the scoop was very stiff and my small hand soon tired – arthritis has sapped the strength from my knotting fingers. A friend offered – she said laughingly as she spread her hand, ‘My fist won’t tire’ – and because I went on to refreshments, Mrs Higham wouldn’t stay on the ice-cream stall. Not that I minded. We work well together and the ones in the kitchen, while well-known WVS, were unknown to me by working together. We had the little buffet where people who did not want the sit-down tea of 1s 6d could buy what they wanted. All passed off well, except that we were so held up at the Mayor’s non-arrival. We let the Matron open the proceedings, and then the fat ill-bred woman who is our Mayor waddled in beaming, saying she was sorry to be late but she had been listening in to the big race. Shades of Labour mayors of the old school – and women – ugh. I detest women in power unless they are something out of the ordinary.

  We gave Matron a big teddy bear instead of a bouquet after she spoke, and we have decided that the Children’s Ward badly needs decorating and refurnishing and our £500 target will be used for that, and the WVS always takes an interest in their ward. The Mayor got a lovely little begonia in a pot – such a jewel bright thing, covered with buds, which would have lasted for weeks. It did not endear her to us when she swept it off and broke the pot, and after breaking off two bright flowers for her buttonhole, left the rest lying. Perhaps she thought we would have put it down to her having greenhouses full of plants, forgetting that we who were Barrovians remembered her upbringing in a back street and knew her very well. When I saw the giver’s face as the little plant was trodden and swept aside, I felt I’d have enjoyed stuffing it down the Mayor’s too-elaborate silk dress! When she came to office she applied for more coupons, to ‘dress the part’, and got the answer that ‘in her position, it was up to her to set a good example’! It’s very easy to spot people who buy things without coupons in Barrow. They have the ‘Jewish’ stamp – over-decorated and doll-eyed† bits and pieces of fur and tucks. How the authorities have failed to find out about Davidson’s racket I don’t know – a dress without coupons is £1 more. Quite openly a girl will say, ‘I had to go for my wedding dress to Davidson’s as I’d no coupons to spare, but I got my going away costume at Ireland’s. After all, you only wear a wedding dress once and you can always sell it and if you’ve not given coupons it’s no loss at all.’

  Friday, 7 September. Such a lovely nostalgic September morning. At this time of the year I’ve always such a craving to be off and away over the hills and far away, an urge that when I was younger used to tear and weary me with its intensity. The smell of chrysanths, smudge fires, sun scorched grass, the long shadows on the grass, and the autumn colouring in hedges and woods was a delight and a torment to me. I knew I’d be too tired to cut the lawn when I came in from Canteen, so went out as soon as I’d washed up, to do it before I vacced and dusted. I seemed to find weeds and twitch grass to take up more of my time, but I made a real good job of it, in spite of the fact that the shears were red rust and I had to clean them up, sharpen and oil them before I could trim the edges. For a man who has to use tools, my husband is careless over any for the garden. Everything is let get rusty and dilapidated and I always tell him it takes more time with bad tools. I brushed all the fallen apple tree leaves off and I did feel so suited with my job and thought how glad my husband would be when I’d done it, and he never ever noticed I’d done it all! I had soup and cornflour for a sweet from yesterday and I made a really tasty casserole out of the kidney, onions, carrots and sliced potatoes, and boiled a little cauliflower, vacced and dusted, packed Cliff’s clean laundry and just managed to get washed and changed for Canteen before lunch.

  Mrs Howson and I stared when we went into the greengrocer’s. There were such heaps of things, onions, tomatoes, pears (not so good and too ripe), eating and baking apples, cucumbers, runner beans, celery, carrots – quite like a pre-war shop – and the flowers were a glory. It’s not a shop I’ll patronise. I hate their furtive passing of bags of indifferent fruit – third-rate at top-rate prices – and their ‘biggest in the window’ way. It had rather that name before the war but lately everyone complains. Yet at present, unless you are a regular customer, there is little chance of getting even furtively handled goods, kept for ‘customers’ so they don’t have to queue. Today I refused to take three pounds of apples the girl had weighed with two half bad ones and calmly insisted she replace them with sound ones, and when she had got her breath back she did so. I was always a keen shopper. I’d always a little more to do with my housekeeping money than most, with so many doctors’ bills and illness. And then again, I love managing a house and the best of everything as far as freshness and quality go. To go round the market with a big basket was a real delight to me. No shopkeeper gets my custom who sells inferior food.

  Mrs Howson laughed when we came out. She said, ‘Don’t you feel in a good mood today?’ and I said, ‘Perhaps not’, but it suddenly struck me how darn sick I was of controls and shortages of little ordinary things – ‘Do you know, I’ve only one comb and that has two teeth out.’ She said, ‘We have one between the four of us!’ There is not a scrap of soap in town, no matches or cigarettes; even regular customers are not able to get any, and I’ve only had sweets off one book† yet. When Cliff was here for ten days I let him take one emergency ticket back to London, in case he had to stay with friends, but said to send any remaining coupons back. He had not used any, had stayed two and then three days at a hotel. So I had his full rations. I thought I’d get the sugar, tea and points† (five) and put it away for another time he came unexpectedly, use the fats and swap the meat for fresh eggs off Mrs Whittam, who has plenty of eggs but prefers meat. I let her go for her meat herself and she had to go into five shops before she could get any. I’d made out with my rations of meat when Cliff was here, and we were never fond of a lot of meat, so the eggs will do for tomorrow’s lunch with chips – I got three.

  We found Canteen in a real bustle – sailors booking beds who had just come into town and some nice Americans going. It’s really amazing how small-town Americans come back all the way from Germany for a few days’ leave – and recommend their friends. This lot had been somewhere in the Midlands, but heard so good a report of Barrow they came here and stayed at the tatty Canteen to sleep, going round the country in buses and swimming at Walney. I found some string for one who needed it and he said, ‘It’s sure a swell place. I’ll come back if I ever come to England for a holiday. The folk here are just like home folk.’ He gave me all his little tinned goods – jam, cheese and a wee tin of butter. I drew lots for us all to have one, but kept the wee tin of butter for myself as well as the jam I drew … We were kept on the go all the time, but no big rushes, and we peeled a lot of potatoes for chips, for the evening squad, before we left. Mrs Howson came in for a cup of tea because her mother was out and we sat talking idly. She suddenly said, ‘How lovely your lawn and garden look. Do you have to cut it often?’ My husband shook his head and then took another look at the lawn and noticed it had been done, but never said anything. I thought, ‘You tiresome ungrateful thing’, but didn’t comment on it, and neither did he. My back ached and I felt very tired, so beyond ironing my one and only cotton frock to go blackberrying if it’s fine tomorrow, I rested till supper time, glad my busy day was done. I’ve often talked of the rest I’d get when the war was over, but as yet it hasn’t come along.

  Saturday, 8 September. I woke with a feeling of real terror – bells clanging and a steady stream of heavy traffic down the main road at the corner of the street. I recognised the clang of fire vehicles, and getting out of bed I went into the back room and looked over the town, lit up as bright as day. I thought it must be a big fire but could only tell it was over in the direction of the Shipyard. Later I learned it was a big liner, the Empress of Russia, ablaze in the dock. It will be a very great loss. She was due out next month after a refit and had
stocks of oil and food, wines and spirits aboard. Mrs Atkinson wanted me to go and see it but I had to go to the hairdresser’s for nine o’clock, and anyway I am not a sightseer. I’d have hated to see that proud ship in distress. I thought anxiously of the crew and hoped they would get off safely.

  This vessel of almost 17,000 tons, a former Canadian Pacific liner, had been used recently for war service. The fire, in which two men died, was reported to be the first major disaster of its kind in the Barrow shipyard for over thirty years.

  Many stayed at Canteen when they first came. Several shops have had no cakes all week, claiming they had no sugar left, and a cafe is advertised in the Mail† as being shut for a week as they have no foodstuffs. With ‘Closed’ on pubs and hotels, it makes me wonder if VJ celebrations are to blame! Such nice fish, but very long queues. As I passed the open window and saw they had big fish, I asked for a head for old Murphy, only 4d today. I jokingly apologised for going out of my turn, and showed the waiting women it was just a fish head, so escaped censure! Still a glut of tomatoes – it’s rather spoilt the sale of the lovely home-grown ones – and flowers are in such profusion that our local gardeners are suffering. I’d changed my handbag at the last minute as I went out and found I’d left my ration books at home. I felt cross when I saw a tin of grapefruit. I hope they have not sold out by Monday. I wonder how much longer points will have to be given up for things, if shipping will increase. It’s all right saving, but the eternal contriving and queuing is getting us all down a little. Aunt Sarah has a quaint saying which has always been a joke – ‘As we get older, Dearie,* our heads won’t stand it’ – and she is not far wrong …