Nella Last's Peace Read online

  Monday, 19 April. We went out in the car. My husband dropped me at his mother’s home, while he made various calls. I looked round in desperation, wondering what will have to be done. My husband and I are the only ones to bother at all and beyond always paying them £2 10s each week tax clear, he doesn’t really feel concerned. His quite understandable reply to anything I’ve said is, ‘Surely the other four can take something on their shoulders.’ Trouble is they don’t want anybody round, and are happy in the dirt and disorder. In the dining room there was a little heap of coal in the corner – ‘It was handiest there.’ I said, ‘You are not fit to do any housework at all, Mother. Let me come down with Mrs Salisbury, who will scrub through.’ She said, ‘I never do any housework. It never wants doing, and I won’t have anyone in the house poking about, you or anyone else.’ What worries me is what will be done soon – very soon if I’m not much mistaken. They are both failing fast. I’ve neither strength nor endurance now to tackle taking them over. As we came home I said, ‘Would you agree to shutting up our house for a few weeks and moving down into your mother’s house to take charge? I would do, if I could get a competent woman to come in every day.’ He shook his head and said, ‘No. You have done more than your share for my family. I’ve not been as blind as you think. One of the girls must take charge and we will do our share.’ What puzzles me is where all their little private income goes, but wonder if my husband’s remarks about money going where the clothes coupons go is correct. Flo was always a ‘grab’, though if she is getting them, she should do something in return. I can see we will all have a share in the big problem ahead.

  We were back by nine o’clock. I don’t know whether it was the peaches or the feeling of worry I came back with, but I was sick again. My husband actually said tonight, ‘Why don’t you go to the doctor’s?’ But as I pointed out, I had the stomach mixture he gives me, made up by my brother-in-law, and know well what he would say – ‘You must stop worrying, lie down after every meal and cultivate that sense of humour you are in danger of losing.’ I don’t consciously worry, but it’s times like these I realise how nice it would be to have a little social circle which didn’t depend so on my own efforts. No one drops in. They come with that ‘Where’s Mr Last?’ if they come in, and if he looks busy or quiet, they never stay. For one reason and another, I’ve fought rather shy about making a close friendship. Jessie was an exception. I felt as if I opened barriers, didn’t care whether my husband would approve, and felt Jessie belonged with me. She used to say, ‘Kathleen, we will have such a lot of kindness to repay, but we will, my darling, won’t we?’ and smile so sweetly over the wee thing’s head, lovingly. The baby always seemed to know me, even when I’d not seen it for a day or two when they went to Broughton for weekends. Its wise dark eyes looked widely. Its wee hands clasped in a little gesture all her own. She had such pleading always in both eyes and gesture, as if begging to be loved. Poor George. It’s so difficult to understand why this heavy blow has fallen on him.

  Tuesday, 20 April. George called early. He had come down to tell Jessie’s aunt that he had left her in Lancaster, and was very cut up at the brief, not to say callous, reception they had got. A woman friend of the family went with them and Jessie was perfectly docile and allowed them to wash and dress her and get her ready, never speaking a word to anyone, but she took notice of the signposts on their journey. When they got to the mental asylum, Jessie was led into another room and they were asked to wait. A little later all her clothes from her vest to her coat were handed out, with every little toilet requisite, even her comb and toothbrush, and they were told they would be communicated with, by post …

  I had a pleasant afternoon at the cricket pavilion, and not a bad game of whist, and hurried home to make an early tea, for my husband had said he might come home early enough to go to the pictures. I wanted to see Mrs Miniver again. I only made a simple tea, peaches, new buttered tea cakes, wholemeal bread and butter and jam and sponge sandwich. I often get so out of patience, knowing so well we both need more gadding about, but he won’t go to last house shows. He insists if he is not in bed before 10 o’clock and gets eight or eight and a half hours’ sleep, he feels too tired in the day. I say, ‘Well, I don’t and never will see how you cannot plan one evening so we can go to a show.’ Now the variety doesn’t start till 6.30 – it’s all right – but mainly owing I think to the stoppage of the last bus service before the old time of coming out, we stick to the wartime picture showing, 5.30 first house, and the second always starts before eight o’clock.

  Last time I saw Mrs Miniver was in wartime, when we had worry and fear, but high hopes and courage – hopes of all the good we would do, the feeling we could do as much for peace as for war, never realising the queer frustration – frustrating everything – everybody would find when the ceasefire sounded in Europe, and certainly never thinking of the flare-up in Palestine, or that Stalin would replace Hitler in his bid to rule the world. I loved every minute of the picture, wondering again just why futile silly pictures are made, crime and sex glorified, slime and mud flaunted, when a simple picture of nice people packs the cinema, as I’d not seen it for a long time – first house at that! My husband enjoyed it thoroughly and had that ‘we must do this often’ air. I bet if he could see a few comparable pictures he would! We have booked for the variety tomorrow night. The first week was a triumph for the promoters. The second, with the all-male cast and memories of the queer set-up of some of the leads when it was in Barrow once before, must have made them wonder if it would meet expenses. Yet the Five Smith Brothers and a goodish support packed both houses in that big place, and it looks as if Sid Millward’s ‘Nit Wits’ is going to do even better, for those who went last night are saying, ‘You mustn’t miss this show, it’s a yell.’ Barrow is unique in many ways. If word goes round the Yard a thing is good, or bad, men seem to rely on their workmates’ word, and a failure or success relies on the huge Yard crowd.

  Mrs Howson brought in such a lovely little worn coat for Mrs Salisbury, who is always glad to give coupons if she can get good clothes without money. I looked at this non-utility coat – I recall the material was very expensive, and Mrs Howson insisted she ‘must have silk lining, as she had always been used to it’. She went to Manchester in her search, and it’s a coat little worn, and younger than either of mine, yet to hear Mrs Howson talk is ‘quite unwearable’. She was in such a queer prickly mood tonight. I bet she will be difficult to live with. The jealous skitty way she always had in a pawky malicious manner, which once made us laugh at Canteen, is settling on her, and like a bag of pepper on a piece of meat, tends to utterly spoil any goodness or niceness. I saw my husband stare in blank amazement as she talked so shrewishly of anyone who had pinched and scraped to buy houses while their men folk had been at war. She said, ‘I believe in enjoying life while I can. Doesn’t it make you sick to think of the way women worked and saved every penny, and grew old before their time?’ My husband rubbed the top of his head in perplexity. I know he was searching for words. He said, ‘Well, I cannot say much. I know it’s what Nell would have done. She was a grand manager in the last war and managed to save £100 for us to put on our house.’ I felt the glare she gave us both. I could have giggled wildly. As long as I’ve not to work or live with her, I can see a funny side.

  Someone of my own blood will die soon. I had Gran’s old dream of carrying flowers for someone. As I didn’t feel very sad, perhaps it will be one of the old ones. It’s a long time since I had the flower dream. Poor Dad joked about it, when I told him, and said, ‘For goodness sake, don’t get the same silly ideas your mother had about dreaming of flowers’, but he died very suddenly, and the daffodils I’d carried in my dream were in the wreaths heaped on his coffin. I’ve not been sick once today and had only faint butterflies. Perhaps my rest after meals is helping.

  Wednesday, 21 April. Mrs Salisbury came, and we had a busy and unhindered morning, and I found time to slip round to Aunt Eliza’s before lunch and t
ook her a little bottle of damsons, some papers Cliff sent and a bunch of such lovely spring flowers out of the garden. She was looking bright, but felt neglected – nobody loves her. I said flippantly, ‘What the heck, ducks, you’ve got your parrot’, and to my horror she said, ‘I’ve decided you must have Colchester when I die.’ I said, ‘Now you know darn well I detest birds in cages’, but as she pointed out he rarely went in his cage. I said, ‘He wouldn’t have much fun with my two cats’, but really meant my poor cats would have none at all if that wretched bird was round. He delights in biting their tails or tweaking their ears, and his raucous voice and really terrible laugh has always kept any of Aunt Eliza’s cats well under his claws. I said firmly, ‘Now don’t wish that bird on me. You are worse than my mother-in- law. She wants me to promise to look after Granddad if she goes first, and no arguments made me falter. Have that nasty parrot – I WILL NOT.’

  I had tinned soup to heat and sausages to fry and I did steamed fish for myself, cooked cabbage and potatoes and made a semolina sweet to go with bottled apples. Mrs Salisbury washed up and I got washed and changed, for I wanted to do some shopping before going to a big Social and Moral Welfare meeting in the Town Hall. Two bishops, Lady Fell and most of the clergy in Barrow and Ulverston, as well as a good number of subscribers, made the meeting a big success – and me feel like a fish out of water. I nearly disgraced myself by falling asleep, as the Bishop of Carlisle’s sonorous voice boomed platitudes. To my embarrassment the Bishop of Penrith thought he recognised me and warmly shook me by the hand. I’m sure he mistook me for someone else. I’ve only seen him twice when he was at Hawks-head and we went to church there in wartime. I didn’t feel at all interested somehow, good cause or no, and I looked round at the best workers and thought how dull, not to say sour, some of them looked. I’d a little game with myself, trying to pick out the ones I’d turn to if in trouble, plainly recognising that much as I like and respect Mrs Higham she wouldn’t be amongst those I’d feel would understand passion and temptation.

  ‘It’s been such a lovely day – we longed to be off in the car,’ Nella began on Sunday, 25 April. Often in the first half of 1948 she and her husband took car trips on Saturdays, for he could usually find some business-related excuse for these journeys on a Saturday but not on the Sabbath, when virtually no business could be done. ‘I do long for the time petrol can be used,’ she had written the previous day, after an outing to Ulverston. ‘Even to go and sit by Coniston Lake would be good for him, and now there is the wireless in the car, he would settle happily.’ Since the petrol ration was about to be restored, initially at a lower level, their Sunday motoring could soon be resumed. Petrol rationing was not entirely eliminated until mid 1950.

  Sunday, 25 April. It was so warm and lovely I took a chair out and sat in the sun. I could see George and Jessie’s cousin busy in the garden and later he came in, looking a little happier. He had a letter from Lancaster, saying Jessie had spoken to the nurse, and asking permission for some electrical treatment to be given. He gave me the address so I could write each week, saying letters were allowed but didn’t know about flowers or papers. He said the baby was unbelievably good, and Jessie’s mother was having no trouble at all looking after her, and he will travel from Broughton each day. He said sadly, ‘Eight years married and I’ve only been able to look after her for less than a year, and a sorry job I’ve made of it.’ I said, ‘You may find that Jessie is better sooner than you expect. They said she was in such poor physical condition, you know, and she will get the very best of care for body and mind.’ I prayed my words could be true.

  Friday, 30 April. Early this week I heard the cuckoo, and the Howsons disputed it, but this morning both she and Steve had heard it. We talked of when the nightingales sang so sweetly from somewhere near. The gun batteries seemed to frighten them away, and the last time I heard one round here was the night after our heaviest raid. Cliff was home unexpectedly, and we had just heard that little Kath Thompson had died in the hospital from bomb injuries. It was the first death like that that had touched us closely. I was standing listening to the liquid bird notes, in the still, sweet evening dusk, and Cliff came out. Perhaps something in my attitude kept him from his cheery ‘Come in for your supper’. We stood quietly till the bird moved away from the nearby tree, and he put his arm round me, kissed me lovingly and we came indoors without a word. Both of them had such an ‘understanding’ way. We didn’t need words.

  I fried fillets of plaice for tea and they were delicious and my husband was in at just the right time. He does look so tired and worn out lately, and I know well how his parents worry him, his mother especially. If I’d my way, I’d get a good daily help – a rough and ready type, used to old people’s odd ways. I’d not give in to them in the spineless way all the family do. When I was in town I took time to go and scare the pants off a woman who occasionally visits. She was once kind when my mother-in-law had a dizzy turn and took her home, and I know would get a good return. Her story is that she is sorry for them and keeps calling to see if she can do anything, but things have been missed out of the home, and my husband said doubtfully, ‘Mother might have given them to her’, though as I said, ‘Old people have to be protected.’

  Nella confronted this Mrs Ellis, threatened to report her, and insisted she not visit the elder Lasts again. Later, Margaret visited.

  We talked of poor Jessie, and when she went I listened to The Clock. I think the productions dealing with mental kinks and illness the wisest, most worthwhile features ever put on by the BBC, Lamentable Brother especially. To unthinking or ignorant people, who have never come into contact with breakdowns, they give an insight and understanding. Years ago I had a very bad breakdown after a major operation and a lot of worry. I said to my doctor, ‘Do you think I’m going mad? I feel I’m losing some kind of protecting sheath off my mind, and feel people’s emotions, thoughts and fears, have queer clairvoyant dreams and can tell fortunes in a really odd way.’ He said, ‘No, lassie.’ (He was a Scot.) ‘You are not the type to have melancholia.’ But it made me realise deeply how minds can change and grow perplexed. I once told him a dream I had, so queer and arresting it did me as much – perhaps more – good than the long sea voyage he said he would like to prescribe. I thought I was standing leaning over a low parapet, looking at a wide, strangely green river. As I looked closer I saw it was closely covered with leaves of every possible shape, colour, condition and variety. I stood dreamily gazing, growing more conscious of each separate leaf. Some were jostled by others, some sailed calmly and effortlessly, some were battered and bruised, carried in cross-currents, some actually seemed to be trying to flow upstream against the stream. For one I felt real contempt – it seemed to be so determined to be bruised and broken and to go any way but to glide serenely. Then I knew I was that leaf, broken at the edges, getting nowhere at all. I felt conscious of a pulsing Rhythm, of the countless leaves sweeping by me. I lifted my hands off the parapet where I had gripped so tightly and, not praying, not conscious of any plea, held them outstretched for help. So moved was my whole being, I felt strength flow into me. He was a nice doctor. He didn’t laugh or make fun at all.

  Jessie Holme, though absent, was often in people’s thoughts and conversations. On 10 May George ‘told Mrs Atkinson that Jessie was fretting badly to come home, that she looks perfectly normal, and worried about her house getting dirty and dusty, and the house being too much for her mother. I felt again that the poor girl should never have got to the beaten state she did. Most people I’ve heard visited for the first time in a mental home have either not known their visitors or bitterly reviled them for “shutting them up”.’ On 29 May Nella reported that ‘Jessie is worrying and pining to come home, but the treatment is for three months. Someone told George that he had not to build up too high hopes on the sudden recovery Jessie had made – it could only be temporary. What cruel people there are. It took the light from poor George’s face.’

  Meanwhile, Mrs Higham ra
ised the possibility that she and her husband might move to Ulverston, which led Nella to have, she wrote on 20 May, ‘a queer feeling that I always had to “walk alone”. I felt loneliness, as I rarely do.’ She had lots of contact with old people, and on 26 May, after visiting troubled 80-year-old Mrs Waite, she ‘wondered sadly how anyone could wish to be old. I’d a longing for the peace and beauty of old Jocelyn Forsyte in The Man of Property.’ Nella’s parents-in-law were increasingly a worry, partly because her mother-in-law was suffering from dementia. On 7 June she spent several hours dealing with her. ‘By teatime I felt a wreck, a completely wrung-out rag. I’d answered simple questions – the same ones – dozens and dozens of times, things like when Cliff was likely to be in for tea, and if Arthur and he were both working now, when my fat old Murphy expected kittens, and so on … Her mind is like badly set jelly, with hard pieces of fruit in it.’