Nella Last in the 1950s Read online

  Sunday, 5 March. I went down to see Billy and his wife. I’ve known and ‘mothered’ Billy for well over 20 years. He served his time as apprentice and always worked at the shop, except in the war years when he was afraid he would have to go into the Services and went on cement barge construction – very rough work, only knocking wooden shells and frames together – and though his wife and I haven’t met often, I’ve always known her as a shop assistant in each of two shops I occasionally went, so I felt I could speak plainly. Billy has a queer dense spot. I’ve known all the time he was spinning out the work and either wouldn’t or couldn’t see the need we stressed for an early close down. Today I made everything clear – no strings to the business. Billy knows at £250 he is getting stock and machinery for many times that value and it’s not that he quibbles, it’s just that he will have to get the money from somewhere if he doesn’t take that offer. I pointed out that the ‘half of the profits’ could mean a fraction of what the interest from borrowed money – from one of the firms that lend money on security – would be. We talked together. Ida has a more sensible head and could see my point when I suggested getting proper advice – a given period for this ‘half profits’, and the money to be returned at a given date. I can see Billy has no idea of book keeping, estimates, etc. or that people take their own time to pay bills, while monthly accounts are sent out by wood yards and travellers.

  Slight contempt and dismay filled my mind when I looked round their decent but poorly furnished home, everything of the cheapest and poorest. Ida had no stockings on and her toes showed through holes in tawdry velvet slippers. Both had the cheapest and most worn indoor clothes, really ragged. The lovely little girl woke from her nap and cried to come downstairs. She certainly was no film star today. She had ragged woolly slippers on and a torn outgrown frock.* Only half rent for the little house. It’s not as in the case of so much ‘indoor’ poverty. Nowadays, they are struggling to pay for a house. When they talked so pitifully about never saving I said, ‘You will have Savings Certificates, haven’t you? You would be in a street saving group.’ When Ida drew the corners of her mouth down and shook her head, saying, ‘No. Billy and me said it was only a way to prolong the war and as long as mugs† scraped and saved “they” would keep on.’ I thought † of how they had both prospered all the war, and how the poorest had bought 6d savings stamps, thinking ‘it will help the boys’. They hadn’t any one fighting or suffering. I looked back on my own struggles, when the only money that could be saved was for years what dividend I got at the Co-op – and an old metal box I’d had from a child. The first ten years of our married life was bad going, for I’d never been used to thinking of money, or the shortage, but I and every friend and neighbour I ever had could have the feeling of security ‘a bit behind us’ can give. I wondered if this state of affairs was the new way of life for young people. Yet, on reflection, both Margaret and Norah Atkinson have that same attitude to ‘independence’ I had when young – ‘If you have a pound you have a friend’ feeling.

  I rose to go. My husband was sitting in the car, round the corner. His poor head wouldn’t have stood any more. I ran through all we had decided – the £250 had to be paid, no money lent, my husband had never on any occasions to be worried, he would never have to be regarded as the boss or adviser whatever happened, and I had to be approached always first in any little business matter that would arise before all was finally settled. I said, ‘I hated to come and talk like this. Thank you both for being so nice to me. Things aren’t any too easy just now.’ Ida took my hand and said so kindly, ‘Thank you. I’m glad we have got all settled on rock bottom level and we know exactly where we do stand. You know, Billy seems to have come back with some different yarn every time he has seen Mr Last.’ I thought with a little sadness ‘I’ll bet!!’

  I suggested we go over Walney and sit in the sun, but my husband rather surprised me by saying, ‘No, Coniston Lake. I know now why you always want to go there and leave all your troubles. You know, I used to think you were fanciful when you said that.’ We parked at our usual draw-in where the road widened a little and walked along the edge of the Lake in the sunshine, the beauty of hills and fells with the sunshine picking out greys, purples and tarnished gold of last year’s bracken, the nut trees so laden with dancing goldy green catkins. The gentle lap, lap of the quiet water on the pebbly edge wove a magic of peace and serenity, making a quiet on my troubled mind. I’d have liked to sit quiet and still, letting it wash over me. It was one of those days when you felt if you did so sit, things would be made plainer, values get sorted out, dross washed out of mind and heart. We walked further than we thought and both were tired by the time we got back to the car. We walked with the westerning sun shining over the hill into our faces, and it picked out the branches of trees, etched against the blue skies. Suddenly I stopped and pointed to a lovely birch tree. Sure enough, tiny buds showed faintly on the slender spidery twigs and branches.

  I was so ‘away’ with the beauty that was like a blessing, I had hardly noticed my husband’s silence. He didn’t seem any quieter than usual. When he spoke I gasped as he said, ‘You know, I’m sure my head will go before long. You don’t know how I feel sometimes. Look how foolishly I behaved over the business. Anyone “sharp” could have taken advantage and got me into a real muddle. When I go out tomorrow I’m going to put my Building Society Account with you. There will then be £1,800 in your name, and when all is settled, I’m putting all money in your name in the Bank. I’m not fit to be bothered and if I get worse in my head I might begin to give money away like Mother.’ To say I could have sat down flat in the pebbly road was no exaggeration. For a few seconds I paused by a mossy wall and leaned on it for support. I said quietly, ‘Well, just as you like, dear. You must avoid worry in every way.’ But, I added, ‘If you give me a whip I shall crack it, and I tell you plainly, if you don’t get into this Convalescent Home I shall arrange a few weeks’ holiday for both of us, and take you away somewhere, and spend as freely as I think best in other ways. I’ll neither pinch or scrape or “draw in my horns”, as you are so fond of telling me. Dear knows they aren’t very long horns, and I don’t see that being pinch-penny is going to help.’

  It shook me so badly I was violently sick when I got in. I felt tired of my day, and longed for bed. Poor dear, he had made tea when I crawled down. Two cups of hot tea took a bit of the nervous chill away. Lately I have seemed to have such poor circulation – at times my hands and feet go wet-cold, and my finger nails dull blue grey, and my hands look soiled. Just nerves, no doubt. One thing, my wretched bones don’t feel quite as disjointed now it’s not so cold.

  Monday, 6 March. It was like an April morning, sun shining, birds chirping. My husband went down to the Co-op offices by 9 o’clock, before he went to the doctor’s, and got the recommendation for the Scarborough Convalescent Home. I did feel so thankful. I feel a complete change will do him good – both of us. Mrs Salisbury didn’t come as I’d half expected. The house looks very upset, with stair carpets up, pictures down, etc., but I felt everything would get done sooner or later. I’ll have a lot of spare time when my husband is away and it’s possible he may go next week. Most people like and try for high summer in such places. He is beginning to feel himself that he doesn’t improve much and is ready to take any chance.

  Tuesday, 7 March. Times I crawl to bed thinking, ‘Well, the day has been the most tiresome I’ve known’, and day after day follows equally, if not more worrying and upsetting, and I get through more and more conscious of ‘given’ strength not my own but for which I so ceaselessly pray. Perhaps the upset, added to the turmoil of settling up the business finally, makes my husband increasingly difficult and I so often feel at a breaking point. Mrs Stable – Mrs Howson’s mother – and Mrs Atkinson both asked me today if I’d ‘be afraid to be alone in the house when Mr Last goes away’. They little know how the thought of blessed peace and quiet, able to ‘stand and stare’, and not have to watch and guard every word or
action, is keeping me up lately! …

  Billy rang up and began a pointless ‘He said, I said’ talk, and asked if I’d like the safe bringing up – it was my father’s and I let it go to the shop, but kept any securities etc. in it. I said it would have to come up to the house now and suggested to my husband it went under the stairs. I got out all nearby, not an easy task in a short time for I had to re-plan where they had to go back. Then he decided he would have it in a corner of the lounge where it’s a real blot in the room. Billy has never realised how things upset my husband, but he and the other two saw plainly! To say anything only upsets my husband more and more – so there the big ugly thing sits. I said with what I thought heavy sarcasm, ‘Now if I’d only a lace curtain or the like to drape over it, and put a geranium on top, it could be camouflaged’. My husband said, ‘I bet you haven’t such a thing and that when they went out of fashion you never even thought to keep one’. The look of utter amazement on young Gilbert’s face would have made me laugh if anything would, but I felt so dead tired and edgy. I lost count of the phone calls – people who ‘have just heard Mr Last is giving up business – you will see I get so-and-so done before he does, won’t you?’ One woman had apparently just discovered she needed new wooden sills on her upstairs windows. She used to come with a ⁏Must be done straight away, I want the painters in’ – but left bills ‘ unpaid for months in spite of being a well-to-do person! I felt it gave me pleasure to give her the shop phone number and say, ‘In future that will be the number to ring’.

  Wednesday, 8 March. My husband kept to his idea of putting his Building Society money in my name. Perhaps when he is away and I have the keys of the safe I can really find out our position, and know exactly where we stand. If and when I do I’ll work out future plans. A parcel came from Cliff – it had lard and apricot jam and honey, casserole beef and a little box of such nice muscatel raisins and almonds. All went on the shelf except the last named – they will be welcome later. I’ve promised my husband to ‘Take the first train if he feels he cannot possibly settle’. In return he has promised to try to settle for a month. I sighed as I realised how quickly things go out of his mind nowadays. As fast as I get one worry in the least solved, another crops up.

  Mrs Atkinson called me. She said that ‘Mrs Jones is back and I’ve seen her peering in your front window three times today’. I’ve known Mrs Jones from a spoilt pampered childhood, but only at all intimately in the war when she worked at Hospital Supply in the morning. She never had a friend amongst all the busy friendly women who served so busily. Her husband was twice Mayor and she ‘mixed’ surprisingly well, but for years her only ‘pleasure’ was going to different doctors, even specialists, with some vague nervous trouble no one seemed to solve – except one, a semi-quack who told her she had auto sclerosis and he gave her a course of expensive injections. I wonder lately if he could have been right. These last two years has seen a great decline in her mental health. She goes away to rest care places and seems incapable of settling in her own house. She met me several times and spoke of ‘all the fun and laughter those days at Hospital Supply’, and said she was going to begin calling. I wasn’t enthusiastic. She was never likeable and I felt I’d enough with Mother at the time. Mrs Atkinson said, ‘Keep your garage door locked. She is terribly queer since she came back this time.’ I felt I would.

  Thursday, 9 March. I heard a noise upstairs but took no notice, thinking I’d left one of the bedroom doors open and Shan We, who evidently thinks wind and storm ahead, and has been very flighty today, was jumping on and off the bed. Then I realised it was a step on the landing and feet began to come slowly downstairs. Odd how a feeling of danger spurs and stimulates. I glanced quickly round. My poker isn’t very strong. I grasped the little brass tongs firmly and moved quietly into the passage, thinking I’d have to keep the garage door locked when I’m on my own. From where I stood I couldn’t see who it was stood where I do when the cats need chasing into the garage for bed, not standing at the foot but behind the panelled stairs, so as not to frighten them back upstairs. Partly to my relief, partly horror, Mrs Jones walked down. She must have come in through the garage when I was in the garden (my husband said when he came in). She had been peering through the window when he went out and asked, ‘Does Mrs Last live here?’ Her mind seems to have quite gone. She said offhandedly, ‘I’m looking for an old friend of mine, Mrs Last. We called her Lasty in the war at Hospital Supply, and she used to make us laugh. Do you know her?’ I said, ‘I think she has gone away. Won’t Mr Jones wonder where you are? He will have lunch ready’, and opened the front door and let her out. I felt my knees tremble and sat down on the stairs, feeling in one of those silly crying-laughing ways.

  Friday, 10 March. My husband suddenly said, ‘Don’t look through the window now’, and went on writing. I stole a glance from where I was sitting. Mrs Jones’ distraught face was pressed to the glass, but she went as quietly as she had come. Poor woman. She had opened the garage door and gone right through. The kitchenette door had been closed and the key turned so the window cleaner could go through. Later I picked up a really valuable glove I recognised – real chamois – I remembered seeing her wear and which they had bought in Switzerland at a handicraft shop in a small mountain town. We were going to get the railway ticket, so I left it at the Joneses’ house – it’s only two streets and five minutes away. I’d not have known Mr Jones if I’d met him outdoors. He was a vivid type of man, with Welsh colouring and ‘fire’, a good speaker, and as Mayor twice, much in the public eye. Now he seems to have faded and shrunk with all the worry and care. He closed the vestibule door carefully behind him and said, ‘Mrs Jones is sleeping and I don’t want her to wake. She will only go trailing out again.’ He laughed ruefully when I told him she had asked me if ‘Mrs Last’ lived at our house. He said, ‘She doesn’t recognise me always. She said the other day after repeatedly asking my name “The name seems familiar. I must know someone called that”.’

  My husband was in the car. Mr Jones spoke so sadly as he sent regards and the hopes of recovery with a holiday in Scarborough. He said, ‘I’ve been appalled – that’s the only word I can use – to have so many early breakdowns in mind and body brought to my notice lately’. I said, ‘Well, you have been going to doctors and specialists quite a lot lately’. But he said, ‘I wasn’t referring to that. Go down into town on a sunny morning – you can see ten times more people looking as if they have crawled out to get the sun, and as if they are past work.’ He always was an interesting man. He read everything but had his own theories too and he is convinced this world is ‘aging’ at a rapid rate and somewhere else a new one ‘rising’. Hence wars to take ‘young souls’. He said, ‘Don’t you think you can do any good by “friendliness” to Mrs Jones? Her mind has gone, I fear. Don’t let her in if you are alone. She has some queer ways now.’ Such a tragedy, for though she was always a spoiled woman who ‘enjoyed bad health’, they were reasonably happy.

  Nella and Will were preparing for his journey to Scarborough, where Will was booked to stay for at least two weeks in a convalescent home. This would be a big departure from their norm of almost relentless togetherness. Both were worried, though no doubt for different reasons, and on Monday the 13th, when Nella ‘left him as the train drew out and saw his pitiful lost look, I wondered how he would settle’.

  Tuesday, 14 March. Mrs Salisbury came. Her first words were ‘I can’t stop all day. Little Billy isn’t at school. He has styes on his eyes.’ Knowing her slapdash meat and potatoes and onion, bread and jam, fried sausage or meat pies menu, I marvel they keep so well. They are all five robust children, tall and strong for their age, not liking milk, green vegetables or salads, and little fresh fruit unless when apples and tomatoes are in their garden and little greenhouse, and blackberries in the hedges. They have strong ‘gypsy’ flashing teeth, and never have many colds. Their hair is thick and shining, their cheeks rosy. ‘It makes yer think’ – wonder if vitamins and calories and ‘motherc
raft’ are as we are told. Billy has shot up from a fat baby of four to a wiry stringy little boy of five, and just when free things would do him good, they cease. Mrs Salisbury never bothered to get orange juice or cod liver oil. Anyway, she has that ‘If it costs nowt, it’s worth nowt’ way of thinking.

  Wednesday, 15 March. Mrs Salisbury was talking about the couple in her rooms – only newly married. Each weekend she has put her joint in Mrs Salisbury’s tin in the oven, and the potatoes have been boiled together, and tinned peas heated the first time. The second Sunday the young bride asked if Mrs Salisbury could lend her a tin – she had forgotten to get one. Mrs Salisbury couldn’t, but she offered a little cabbage, but it was refused because ‘Ah, I’ve never cooked a cabbage’. All week they eat eggs for the packed lunches, and again for tea when they come in – the young man’s people keep a lot of hens. She cannot wash, bake, clean to any system. She works in a paper mill, where she does something in the wood pulp department. I wondered whatever she would do if she had a baby!