Nella Last in the 1950s Page 25
I turned out my oddment drawer in the dressing table, where I keep cosmetic oddments, beads and jewellery, toilet oddments, etc. There was half a bottle of Chypre† perfume, which ranks with garlic in my faddy† nostrils. I’d put some shabby handkerchiefs, ditto felt buttonholes and a comb I didn’t want, to give to Mrs Salisbury for her girl of 12. Holding up the perfume I said doubtfully, ‘Would you like this scent?’ The look of rapture on her face was startling, and she said, ‘Would you really give it to me? I’ve never had a bottle of scent and I do love it.’ In her delight she sang the rest of the morning - a fearsome noise, she is tone deaf.
Thursday, 5 June. Margaret came in with the baby, and the wee thing romped and rolled with Shan We. It often surprises me how he adores babies and small children. There was a hoot outside and Margaret hurried off. They were going to the Fair, and later we saw them there. Last year two long rows of luxury motor trailers and caravans had palmists’ and clairvoyants’, crystal gazers’ and phrenologists’ signs, and I didn’t see a single person having their fortune told. This year only five fortune tellers – and no one in the least interested! My husband was quite huffy last year when I firmly refused to have my hand read. It was always my custom before the war to do so, when I went to Blackpool. There was a Madame Curl in Olympia who was uncannily good. It’s 16 years ago since she rather shook me with what she said, as she told me of my removal, dark shadows and bitter tears which I would shed with many others (the war), and, ‘Just when things look brightest for you, when the shadows have passed, deeper trouble – you will be a widow, and for signs, when your two children cross water to live’. Today when my husband kept teasing me to go, saying he would pay, if that was stopping me, I pointed out if he was all that keen, he should go!
My memory of Whitsuntide Fairs at Ulverston goes back as long as I remember and it fascinates me to see the changes the two wars have brought. From gypsy booths and music, and ‘freak’ shows, horse-drawn caravans, wrestling, log splitting for ‘silver shillings’, soft-voiced, dark-eyed half clad children whose glistening teeth and shining curls were the admiration and envy of so many, steam roundabouts to electricity, when a different type of people took over, to the well dressed business type of today, with a very small coterie of real gypsies, who I noticed kept aloof. Balloons and comic hats were the chief lines at small stalls. People to take home in Woolworths and [there†were buying ‘fairings’† to take home in Woolworths and [there were] two big furniture vans with loudly 'spieling' Manchester Jews, selling towels and pillowslips, pairs of sheets ‘all direct from the mills’. That the standing crowds made traffic jams was a detail. It was Fair day, when no one bothered about much – they rarely do anyway in that quiet market town – when, if the powers that be suddenly take the notion that cars must not be parked on each side of the road and in every side street, busy farmers, in for a brief market day, blandly refuse to take notice. Not one side show, no wrestling booth, no ‘freaks’ like bearded ladies or ‘the fattest girl on earth’.
We laughed again at a family yarn. One of my father’s brothers was a restless, nosy child, as Cliff was when small. He had been to the Fair, which then came to Barrow, and seen all the sights. The one that took his fancy was ‘a lovely mermaid with a real tail’. The next day he had gone with a friend, snooping round the tents and caravans, and a voice had called from an open caravan door and a lady with yellow hair had asked him to go for some musk cachous† for her. When they came back with the sweets, she was busy sewing, and to poor Walter’s horror, she was stitching sequins on her tail! It shook that 8-year-old’s faith in things. His mother, a gentle sweet soul, used to say sorrowfully, ‘Our Walter has never been the same little lad since’.
We had a cup of tea, and I met several old friends from the country, including a cousin I’d not seen since the beginning of the war. It was a really happy afternoon. My husband wasn’t at all cranky at me gossiping. I made toast and scrambled eggs for tea. It was nearly 6 o’clock when we got in. I felt tired and sat sewing, after writing to Arthur. Comparisons are supposed to always be odious. Every Thursday evening I think of the old ITMA days – Ted Ray’s show falls very far behind it – or else, like other features of the war years, they have a kind of halo, never again to be recaptured.
Saturday, 7 June. Mrs Howson called on her way to town to say we had better go before 1.30 to the church to see Julia Diss’s wedding, as there was 200 invited guests and she knew most of the WVS she had met wanted to go into church. Mrs Atkinson, who always rushes off at the last minute wherever she goes, set off with Margaret at 1.45 – ‘plenty of time’ – but had to stand outside. It was one of the most fashionable weddings in Barrow since the war – men in morning dress and grey top hats, the women in model gowns. But I had a good laugh to myself, and shared it with a few WVS friends afterwards. THE best and smartest dressed woman amongst the crowd, made up largely of Julia’s young friends, was a school friend of mine, so she must be about my age. She is very slender and looked more so in a straight and narrow-skirted dress in fine black woollen material, black court shoes and almost transparent black nylons. She had a string of pearls and earrings to match, a short ‘full’ coat the colour of made mustard, with wide sleeves, showing black chamois ruffled on her thin wrists, and a shallow-crowned, wide-brimmed black straw hat. She stood out like a rare hot house flower amongst cottagey flowers, models or not; and knowing Brownie of old, I knew her outfit would have been made by herself.
Mrs Diss is a kind person; so that poor Sheila should not feel out of it, the reception was held in a big marquee on the lawn. A leading hotel did all the catering – rare for them to do outside functions when they have large beautifully equipped rooms and every convenience at hand. It kept fine but I thought of those short-sleeved dresses with a shudder. I’d a thin woollen dress and my new woollen coat on and still felt chilly. I didn’t get in until after 3.30. There seemed so many people I knew. My husband had been to bed and had a sleep and felt a bit better, but looked ghastly and made no mention he would like to go out. I sat and told him all the news of the wedding, though he didn’t seem very interested. I made a salad to cheese. The tomatoes are almost as nice as local grown. There was bread and butter, honey and cakes.
I’d half expected Mrs Howson to be in, but she didn’t come in till nearly 7 o’clock, and, I was very much relieved to see, in a much less prickly humour. She has such a snob complex. She wouldn’t join Margaret and Mrs Atkinson as we came out of church, saying plaintively, ‘I know it’s snobbish of me, but I don’t like to walk down the road with people like Mrs Atkinson’, and she glanced down at her really lovely jacquard suit in soft blue, with gloves and shoes the exact shade. I chuckled spitefully as I thought if it had fit better and hadn’t had the absurd modern bustle effect at the front where she already had one of her own, she would have looked nicer. I wonder if her spitefulness springs from the knowledge she has nothing behind her. She has always spent everything she could get hold of, in a kind of gesture. It’s not as if she has been used to anything when young, and her insistence on perfection doesn’t extend to her ‘underneaths’ – she even buys the cheapest girdle or corset. She gazed at the lovely dresses, the really gorgeous summer fur or soft evening fur capes of some of the older women, at make-ups and what she calls ‘hair dos’, really in covetous admiration, but on the surface with contempt. Nothing was ‘suitable for her age’, fiwith contempt. Nothing Scotswoman, whose †or height, weight, colouring, etc. A pawky† scotswoman, whose dry humour has enlivened many a dull committee meeting and who stood rather behind Mrs Howson, looked very critically at the too wide armholes that gave a baggy instead of smooth fit across the back of the lovely blue suit, and glanced at me with an ‘As others see us’ look. She scoffed at the men in morning dress as, with a toss of her head, she said, ‘Catch me letting Steve make himself look so ridiculous. I bet they are hired anyway.’ I pointed out if that had been the case, they would have been more immaculate and not looking so well worn. Why she pu
ts up with my company is always a puzzle. I rarely agree, and often, not very tactfully, infer she is jealous.
I longed to hear her say this afternoon that she couldn’t come in this evening, feeling I’d had my ration of catty remarks today, but she was quite different. What remarks were passed were, if not exactly complimentary, at least only critical and not so utterly destructive, and we laughed in rueful sympathy at two near enemies who both had the same on, not only the same dresses in deep blue and white, but exactly the same hats, gloves and wide reversible scarves. I doubt if they could see each other in church. We know them both and pictured their feelings when they met.
Saturday, 14 June. We went down town. In the market I saw a wide choice of lovely, slightly flawed ‘export’ remnants, and I could have lengths of from 3 to 4½ yards, at prices ranging from 17s 6d to 25s. I’d have liked two glazed chintz lengths to make Edith and I dresses, priced at 5 and 6½ guineas in the shops, costing less than 30s to make. I’ve read articles from time to time about American comics and the like, thinking of the day when my two little boys loved ‘Tiger Tim’ and the like. I was looking at a big magazine stall, hoping to buy a couple of light novels for my husband to read, knowing none of Arthur’s books would interest him.* I saw rows of Life in the Future, Tales of Thrills and Horror, True Love Stories, etc. I’ve often said lightly ‘My breath nearly stopped’, but felt it true this morning. I never imagined such sexy, pornographic pictures and captions, such sadistic, grim torture, such ‘Might is right’ type of trash. How they got past the censors who ban books is a mystery.
I watched two ‘half baked’ working lads of 13–15. They had that uncertain look of slack mouth, gaping open, pimples and ‘oooh-er’ manner that ‘half baked’ fits so aptly, and which seems to affect a type of boy at the age. One being over a magazine I’d leafed through, where a woman crook of peculiar build, mostly long shapely legs, sensuous bust, rolling eyes and a mane of untidy blonde hair, seemed to solve the remarkable situation she got into by showing her legs from heel to buttocks, or jabbing a revolver into people with the tense remark, ‘If you don’t talk, my gat† does, big boy’. I felt slightly sick to see his tongue licking his loose lips and hear his little snicker. I could see the page of the magazine the other boy was looking at – Japs torturing American G.I.s, twisting wire round their necks till their eyes bulged, or round their wrists till blood spurted from each finger tip.* He seemed to quiver slightly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The stall holder came up and snarled, ‘How often have I told you two not to touch those books. If you want one, buy it, and be off.’ They sidled round the corner, evidently knowing the man would soon be going to the other end of the long stall. When I think of the so-called ‘French’ novels he used to sell so furtively – I saw one of Godfrey Winn’s ‘Oh So Sweet’ novels with a lurid paperback – I marvelled again at the stacks of American ‘fifth column’ to youth being brought into the country – bought, too, with dollars.**
Later that month Nella and Will left Barrow for London – it was their first train trip together for years.
Monday, 23 June. I don’t feel I am the traveller I used to be. I felt wearied by the train journey, even more, apparently, than my husband felt. Arthur and Peter were at Euston and we got a taxi to New Southgate. We were agreeably surprised by the really lovely house Arthur bought, and Blake Road all seems to have owner occupiers, which shows in well tended front gardens. Built only 26 years ago, it’s on a ‘modern’ plan, with nice-sized rooms, and a French window leads to a long, rather wild but pleasant strip of garden, quite cultivated enough for where two small lively boys need to play. They are little loves. Christopher at 18 months promises to be as ‘old-fashioned’ as Peter. They seem little people with ideas and views, pursuits and occupations to busy them. We sat and listened to the wireless before going to bed fairly early. Peter slept with me, my husband in his small bed in the smallest room.*
Thursday, 26 June. We went out, taking a trolley bus as far as Holborn. All transport seems so easy, but there’s a lot of walking to be done. I set off with a swelling ankle and foot and when I rose in Lyons felt I’d have to be a bit easier on it if I hadn’t to crock up.† We went to Greenwich by boat – a lovely trip as we met a cool breeze – and then sat on the pier, watching river traffic, feeling we were on holiday. Every oddment I’ve read of the Thames’ history seemed to flow through my mind, whirling in a montage of peoples of every nationality and colour, American and German – or Swiss in leather shorts – docks, cargo ships, and the hundreds of school children in parties being taken by steamer. In one huge party I heard at least four names of schools through the megaphone – the proportion of half caste children, or at least with a very strong trace of colour in their parentage – and so widely different. It’s amazing the lack of difference in school age and adolescents there is between South and North – just the different accent. We were in Woolworths about the lunch hour, and the things they chose! I only hoped they got a decent meal when they got home. I’d have awarded top place for oddity, though, to a gentle old world type of man who could have been a country parson or doctor. In Lyons he had a glass of lemonade with ice cream dropped in, and a double portion of ice cream, with four wafers, and by his look enjoyed his odd lunch. I wrote my diary and a letter to Cliff as I sat on the pier. My husband went for a walk. The cool breeze seemed to lessen the swelling on my foot, taking a little of the worried feeling I had, and we had a simple tea at a café on Greenwich Pier before setting off for Westminster again …
As we walked down the hill to the Tube this morning my husband was full of wild plans to sell up as soon as we got home, and buy a house down here. Because he feels lifted out of himself so much, he feels a London suburb would cure him of every ill, not realising we so live in ourselves. I pointed out he hadn’t the energy to take advantage of all the little functions at home – wouldn’t visit, go to a show, etc. He maintains it would be different if he lived in London. My remark was that New Southgate was not ‘London’, that going up the river would always mean a journey as far as Lakeside – and home again. I made him pout and he became so moody as I said NO. I’ve not altered my view always held – London means a 2d ride, or higher now of course with fare increases, to Kensington, Forest Gate, Chelsea or the like, not even Hampstead, Chiswick or Putney a second choice, and housing problems terrible. In his present mood he ‘will make a change as soon as we go back – I want to get out of Barrow’. As I’ve always maintained, it was what we should have done at first when we knew he would have to retire, but reminded him how much more money we were spending in Barrow. Any move would have to be down scale, not where we would need twice as much if we were not to be more restricted than at present. I began to feel glad it was my own house as I listened. I’d a growing conviction he would have gone a bit haywire otherwise.
Saturday, 28 June. Arthur had off work this morning and we went down to Kensington, really to go and see Derry and Tom’s roof garden. A bad day, really, for we didn’t have time to look round much and have our lunch before the shops closed. Still, I’d talked of the lovely ‘unexpected’ place so much to my husband and he was satisfied, though we would have liked to spend more time. We got a really good, well cooked lunch, at just under 6s a head – cream of vegetable soup, two huge portions of fillet of plaice and more chips than could be eaten, and a strawberry ice and coffee – and Arthur and his father had a light ale and Edith cider. The two little boys had a ‘special’ – there was a good choice of children’s meals. Peter was good, but to see Christopher in his high chair, blue eyes blazing and golden curly hair drying in the draught after the heat of his hat, seize his fork and begin was a joy. He had his fish cut up, but refused to have any long chips touched, even if they did need spearing on the fork with his fingers. His look of ecstasy at his strawberry ice in the goblet, with the biscuit still in, amused the waitress and manageress who was near …
I love Kensington, and was astonished to see so many large maisonette type
of houses for sale, and so many dirty, neglected ones as if owned and just shut up. I’d like a good small flat overlooking the gardens, though my first choice would be a small house in one of the unexpected quiet streets off Kensington Church Street. The types, colours and languages which swirled round were a joy. I’d have liked to linger, but Edith wanted to come home and wash! – such a huge pile. We had tea. I’d been on my aching right foot and ankle too much to go strolling round the neighbourhood with my husband, and knew I’d better finish Edith’s sun dress. She looked so nice today – a new navy moiré silk dress, small white hat and gloves – pity she hadn’t a pin in her hat; it blew up an escalator and was only rescued when it had got nearly to the top – and she didn’t bother to change to wash till I tactfully told her my sleeved overall would perhaps fit and she could have it. After 10 o’clock I helped her hang all on the line. I’d washed my dress earlier and ironed it. I’d a sneaking wonder what the neighbours thought of our garden of washing on Saturday night – they seem very conventional.*
Monday, 30 June. It’s a real heatwave. I think longingly of sea breezes in the rattle and noise of the Tube.** We would have been content to sit in the garden this morning, but the little boys were cross and screamed. Christopher was tired for he had been up before 6 o’clock. I thought of children in flats and closed-in streets. We went down by Tube, already feeling hot, men in shirts and pants and girls in topless sun suits, ladies waving little paper fans, looking as if the two last lots could have been going to the Sales; breaths of coolth and sweetness at Covent Garden station when boys brought huge bundles of green forms, presumably for fish shops, and women and men had even bigger sheaves of gorgeous flowers. We had a light snack of tea and a sandwich at Lyons and got on a boat to Kew – in blistering heat, when to rest arms or back unexpectedly on the rail was to jump suddenly. We had a nice Australian sitting by us – we met him first the other day. He lives in the ‘back blocks’ 100 miles from Melbourne. When he goes on to his verandah he can ‘see two lights and likes it that way’. I felt I understood. The masses of perspiring people and the cross children around and the ‘breathed’ air everywhere stifled me. I’m constantly amazed at my husband’s seemingly inexhaustible fund of ‘go’ and think of Dr Miller’s ‘out of patience’ with his complaints of ‘no strength’ and ‘going all to pieces’ and saying that most nervous illness was no physical illness – it could be thrown off.