Nella Last in the 1950s

by Patricia Malcolmson

  I was thankful when it was fine this afternoon. I heated a tin of tomato soup, fried bacon and eggs, and made a cornflour sweet. We were late in, and it was quickly made. We had a little rest and then my husband suggested we went to Ulverston. Suited me, although I’d only 2s 9d in my purse to do till Saturday, and knew I couldn’t spend any money, however I felt tempted by bargains, but I did get a nice cabbage. My grocery order was a little more for I got a 2 lb tin of syrup and a tin of apricot jam. I’d extra milk – 3 pints – and bought 1½ dozen eggs, and the last straw was 5s 9d for some yeast tablets. Nowadays housekeeping money doesn’t stand many extra demands. Our papers – just the Express and the local Mail, Sunday Express and Radio Times – mean 7½ d a week extra, and that’s a small item in the general rise in everything.

  Consumer prices in 1951 rose by 12.5 per cent, the highest rate of increase for any year in the early post-war period (Alec Cairncross, The British Economy since 1945 [2nd edn, 1995], p. 61). The ream of paper that Nella bought to write on, which cost 4s 9d at the beginning of the war, now cost 10s 6d, she reported on 30 November 1951.

  Wednesday, 27 June. Another day like this and I’d be starting a bit of wall climbing! Mrs Salisbury has worked for me for nine years, except for when Billy was coming and till he was nearly a year old. We have never had any trouble. I taught her how to clean things properly, how to have routine and method – and all my little ‘fads’ – and she never took offence at any hint or my firmness over my little ways. In fact she was only too eager to please. Lately I’ve seen sullenness, and she has often seemed ‘short’, but I put it down to her being overworked, for she has four children and two boarders as well as day places, and somehow so many people seem overstrained nowadays and the only thing one can do is not to take notice. My husband wasn’t well when he rose, and when he has moods he gets cranky over nothing, argues wildly about things that don’t concern him, or that he couldn’t do if he was left to it. He upsets things and leaves them and tackles jobs he cannot finish, especially on Wednesday when it’s worse than any other day for I try and get the bulk of real cleaning done then. He went out to the market for some leek plants after a wild search for a ‘dibble’† he once made, and the last time it was used I planted the leeks. He accused me of burning it and got on his top note. I said, ‘You know that ground isn’t fit. You should have soaked it thoroughly. The rain we have had hasn’t done any good.’ Then I learned I didn’t know a thing about gardening, etc. etc.

  There was silence and then Mrs Salisbury sniffed loudly and said, ‘Some folks think other people have no feelings’. I said, ‘Mr Last’s nerves are very bad, you know. We can only be patient.’ She said, ‘You can please yourself. I’ve no need to put up with anyone’s temper.’ And she banged round as she added, ‘I used to look forward to Wednesdays as a day out. Now I feel sometimes I don’t care whether I come or not.’ I felt weary. I said, ‘Well Mrs Salisbury, it’s entirely up to you. If you are tired of coming here, you must make different arrangements.’ What would have happened I don’t know, but Mrs Atkinson called over and said ‘Frank Helm is dead – suddenly’. I felt shocked. They were such nice quiet neighbours, and on Monday he said, ‘We are staying down at Park Drive while Cyril and Elsie have a fortnight’s holiday’ – Cyril’s father lives with them and they are all friendly. Seems he was laughing and joking after tea, leaned back in his arm chair, lit his pipe, and died. Mrs Salisbury seemed to forget her grievances and when my husband came in upset after hearing it in the market, she was helpful – put the end of the settee down and the kettle on, and made some tea, all little grievances forgotten, and when she went out she gave her ordinary ‘See you next week’.

  Saturday, 30 June. The church was nearly full for Mr Helm’s funeral. Freemasons, golfers, members of the Chamber of Trade and many grocers – Mr Helm had a grocer’s and baker’s business once – as well as fellow Magistrates, the Chief Constable and Councillors as well as relatives and people who had known and liked the genial man. Mrs Atkinson was thrilled at so many people ‘come to pay their last respects’. I’ve always a queer shrinking from crowds at a funeral. It always seems a ‘private’ affair somehow. The fully choral service, hymns and music, seemed a needless torture to the relatives. The flowers were lovely in colour and variety. The curate who took the service had a rich deep voice, vaguely reminiscent of Freddie Grisewood – I thought suddenly of Freddie telling one of his own stories, about an old gardener and the Gates of Heaven. I hoped there was a garden for my genial pottering neighbour, and good sight instead of his poor, nearly blind eyes. I dislike funerals. We all have to go, but they seem so mournful, so inconsistent with the Christian belief that ‘there is a happy land, far, far away’. I wonder if I’d not feel more at home at a Chinese funeral with bright colours, firecrackers and the feeling the departed really was in a ‘better land’ …

  The midday post brought a letter from M-O saying they were having to discontinue monthly Directives. I’ve read it, not quite sure whether it included diaries so put an enquiry in my envelope before posting. I’ll miss it. It had woven into the pattern of my life. I’ve done Directives each month since soon after M-O started. Arthur was all for it, but with so much study for his Inspectorate he had to give up but asked me to keep on. [Arthur had replied to four Directives between September and December 1943.] I had a nap, and felt a bit better, but realise lately I’m getting desperately near the edge. Cliff’s visit will be a tonic and give me time to repair the little ‘tatters and torn spots’. The worst worry I have is the dullness I feel, so apathetic and tired, as if I have only bare energy for necessities, and any little extra effort is too much. It worries me too when my feet, particularly the right one, never show any improvement …

  Mrs Atkinson said today, ‘Have you put anything in writing about wanting to be cremated?’ I said, ‘No, but we told Arthur our wishes’. She said, ‘That’s not enough, it seems. When my brother-in-law died, though he had expressed his wishes for years, there was nothing in writing and it meant a lot of fuss and form filling – and expense.’ My husband went to sit on the lawn again, and I’d seen where he had put the safe keys. I got out our two wills, steamed my envelope open and added, ‘It is my express wish to be cremated, and if possible my ashes strewn on Coniston Lake’, to me the most peaceful hallowed spot I know. I’ve often felt I’d like what remained of me to be part of that peace and beauty. I left the wills both on the table till my husband came in, and explained why I’d done it. I noticed he copied what I’d written, sealed up the envelope again, and put both in the safe. When he came back into the living room he said, ‘And I don’t want all the fuss of hymns and music and the crowds of today’. I thought with a little sadness, he had so shrank from life and all its contacts it wasn’t likely there would be any.

  Such a lovely summer evening. I cut off all seed pods and did a bit of weeding, conscious of the quiet garden next door, and the sound of voices, as Mr and Mrs Helm and we would have exchanged comments, and paused for a chat now and again.

  Tuesday, 3 July. It was a dull heavy morning. I was surprised when the post brought a postcard from Mrs Salisbury saying she was coming this morning instead of tomorrow, as she and her mother planned a little outing to Morecambe for the day. After her attitude last week, anything could have happened, but she was quite as usual and I let it stay at that. I’d be very sorry to part with her. I baked wholemeal bread – Cliff loves it – and crispie and shortbread biscuits. My husband went out for fish and got some filleted finnan haddock. I made vegetable soup from small white beans, carrots and onions, sliced tomato and macaroni, with Bovril for stock – enough for two days – poached the fish in milk, boiled new potatoes and peas, and made a baked egg custard. I was glad to rest when my husband did, and we had an early tea and I made a salad ready for Cliff. I’d saved him some potted meat in the fridge and Jessie brought some lovely strawberries out of their garden, really ‘show’ ones.

  I’d had a queer wonder how Cliff would look, and h
ow he would greet us, and he strolled off the train casual as if he’d only been away for a weekend, kissed me and said, ‘Well, how’s my girl?’, got into the car and we came home laughing and talking. He had brought a box of tinned stuff, and his tools to work, and lots of ideas for pieces of sculpture. We were amazed at the beautiful photos of pieces of carving and sculpture he had done. Soon the house looked as if the tide had just gone out, as he unpacked his bags and put things away. Quite a lot of repairs want doing at his clothes. He said, ‘I’ll get you to tackle them some day. I’ll do something for you while you sew.’ I said, ‘That’s alright, love, it’s no trouble’. He shook his head and said, ‘I’ve learned just how much trouble things are since I’ve been away, and to appreciate things done for me as I never did before I went away’. Doug Hines dropped in on his way from rehearsal for the Amateurs – they are giving Glamorous Night next February – and the years rolled back as they laughed and gossiped as if Cliff had never left. I’ve sent him the local paper every week and told him all the scraps of news, so he was pretty up to date.

  Nella had written about Doug Hines on 13 May 1951: ‘We were surprised to have an old friend of Cliff’s call, Doug Hines. He used to be here often. It was nice to sit and chat. He is an “old maid” type and lives alone, and his modern semi-detached house is kept like a showplace. Of course he has lunches out, but likes to entertain, and have his friends stay. His orderly ways keep all dainty, but he must have to work hard as well.’ Nella continued not to recognise or not to acknowledge openly (the former is more likely) that Cliff was homosexual. Indeed, she still asserted that a marriage to Margaret Atkinson would have been a good thing: Margaret, she wrote on 23 December 1952, ‘knows in her heart how I’d have loved Cliff and her to “make a match”’. Glamorous Night (1935) was a musical play written by Ivor Novello (Nella in fact gives the title as ‘Glamorous Nights’, which we take to be an error, though this was the title of a musical from 1946–7 starring Peter Yorke).

  My husband hasn’t been well – it seemed to make him bright and interested – but he quickly tired. I feel more and more worried for him, and so very glad to have Cliff a while. I’ve felt so dreadfully alone sometimes lately, perhaps with not feeling well. Dr Wayne asked me yesterday if I’d ever had a nervous breakdown. I said, ‘Yes, twice, when I’d had operations and had to keep on with delicate children to care for, and once fifteen years ago’. He said, ‘What happened? What treatment did you have?’ I said, ‘Well, I had tonics and was lucky in that I could go and stay with a very peaceful old aunt in the country’, and he said, ‘Couldn’t you have a few weeks in the country now?’ I said, ‘Not very well. You see my husband’s health isn’t good now.’ But tonight I felt how things would be different for a while.*

  Wednesday, 4 July. I got a lot of oddments of Cliff’s washed and then we went down town. He got his ration book and identity card, went to the bank, and looked up a few old friends. He said, ‘The Australian with whom I stayed in Whitehall, a block of flats in Regent Street [perhaps she meant Westminster, not Whitehall], offered to get me two or three ration books, saying it was impossible to manage on less than three, yet never eats butter, has food parcels from home every week, and has enough money to go out for all the meals he wants. I told him, “I’d like to see my mother’s face if I’d handed her three ration books, and to see her remarks”.’ Seems the Australian said, ‘Well, the offer is open till you have had a talk with her. I think you will find she will jump at the chance. I bet you a new hat you write for them.’ Cliff said, ‘Now’s your chance for a new titfer†’. I said, ‘No thank you. I don’t need another hat. One from a man like that would only give me headaches.’ …

  It was like old times to hear the phone ringing and Cliff’s gay voice ring out as he joked and laughed. He went out with Jack Gorst [a boyhood friend], whom he looked up this morning, and we settled down by a little wood fire after I’d ironed. It turned very cold after the rain. We decided to listen to Cavalcade although generally my husband doesn’t like to listen to anything in the least ‘stirring’. I never tire of Cavalcade. I’ve seen the picture twice, and would go again and enjoy it. In the children of the film I saw my own childhood – cambric pinafores, long black stockings, etc. I always feel it’s my life on a film. I recall all the incidents, the songs, even the ‘reactions’ to things – all gone now.

  Thursday, 5 July. I often feel such a glow of gratitude because I’ve such nice sons. Mrs Higham came. My husband went off to Walney to sit by the sea. Cliff sprawled on the lawn on a rug, and rather to his disgust the cats shared it cosily. He thinks they are both utterly spoiled, and prefers old Murphy’s ‘good old English face’ to my dear Siamese, who has nearly human understanding and seems to feel a bit slighted! Old Murphy at 14 seems to have a queer youthful memory about Cliff. He has grown very stiff and old but amazed us by sitting up like a little dog and waving his paws, just like he did when he was younger – but only for Cliff! Mrs Higham and I spent a nice gossipy afternoon. I’d made feather light rolls with a little of the dough, and she and Cliff did enjoy them. I don’t eat anything now. I don’t feel too good in my tummy. There was apricot jam, bananas, cream cheese, chocolate crispies and shortbread biscuits. She said, ‘I bet you never got nicer food in Australia?’ Cliff said, ‘I never met Dearie’s equal in baking and serving food. She would have been surprised if she had known how memories of home-baked bread and cakes had travelled round the world with me.’

  After tea I began to fix some of his sewing ready for machining, and then began to stitch on my white paper hat. He thinks I’m crazy not to have taken the bet and had a decent hat from his London friend, and says, ‘You should “spoil the Egyptians”* you know’, but I’ve my own ways – and like them. He went out to meet Jack Gorst again. I felt glad he could pick up a few threads, and also thankful he seems content to drift a while before setting off. He looks tired, has lost eight pounds on the journey home, and a rest is what that Arab needs. It poured with rain – it will do a lot of good. There’s no carrots to be had. Spring onions are 7d a quarter, lettuces are at a standstill, and I think of the potatoes not growing as they should be doing. We were glad of a wood fire. My husband brought some driftwood off the shore today and we burned part of it. Before Cliff went out we had an argument, but I won – he flatly refused to go visiting at first. He said, ‘If I never see any of Daddy’s folks again, it will be soon enough. They make a fuss of me now, but I’ve no pleasant memories.’ I said, ‘You won’t get the car to drive if you don’t watch out’, and childish as the threat sounded, he knew I meant it. Odd how he has a respect for my top note. I was really astonished to hear my husband talking of letting him drive, though he was a much better driver than Arthur, who once smashed up a car we had. It could mean better outings, that is, if my husband doesn’t suddenly change his mind.

  Sunday, 8 July. We were surprised when Cliff came in about 6 o’clock. He didn’t look tired at all and had enjoyed his hike. My husband decided he would like to go over Walney a while, and Cliff said he intended washing his hair. We didn’t stay long. When my husband is in these nervy ways he cannot settle anywhere. He sits brooding and staring in front of him without speaking, as if something is worrying him. I could never speak as openly to Cliff as I could to Arthur, but in a roundabout way I’ve hinted he mustn’t expect to run round in this damn car as he used to do in one of the several second-hand ones we had. He expressed surprise I’d not started driving again. We had a small Morris 8 once, 16 years ago, and I got and could drive and handle it. I said, ‘If I never went in a car again, I’d not drive this one. Every scratch is noticed and mourned, and as you know Daddy was always a born back-seat driver and nagged and found fault constantly. My nerves aren’t as good as they were then. I’d be slapping his ears.’ I wish fervently often that my husband wasn’t so heedless and would think before he opened his mouth and said such surface things he regretted as soon as said!

  Monday, 9 July. I’ve felt a little sadness this week.
I can see that Cliff has lost none of his aggressive impatience towards people and things, and being tired after his voyage tends to make him a bit touchy. He boasts he could ‘never give up his freedom’. I tried to picture just what married life with him would be! Already he has grown impatient with me for what he calls my ‘peace at any price’ attitude, though today he has had a glimpse of how difficult it is at times. He asked, ‘Just where has your tolerance and sweetness’ – both words spoken a bit contemptuously – ‘led you? You used to be such a fearless strong type, always gay and lively, and now I see little of that spirit.’ I got cross as I reminded him how little he had seen of me these 12 years, that the war had taken a lot of people’s flickering ‘youth’, and that these two years had been a bit hard going at times. One thing, though, for which I’m very thankful – he doesn’t insist on the wireless till late, or if he sees it annoys his father. He went off to the Arts Club cinema show at the Technical School with a friend, and Mrs Howson and Leo were going. It’s the Festival of Britain week. Too bad it’s started off so wet and chilly.

  Tuesday, 10 July. Cliff said an odd thing yesterday. He said, ‘Makes you feel as if somewhere or another someone has ill wished Daddy, made a wax image, and either stuck pins in or left it where it will steadily melt’. It was not intended to be taken seriously, but it gave me food for thought as I imagined other times it would probably have been considered the poor man had been ‘overlooked’. He hasn’t felt well in his tummy either lately, and after asking for and enjoying wholemeal bread he has decided it could be that that was upsetting his digestion, so I had to bake ordinary white bread and two wholemeal raisin loaves, chiefly for Cliff. I baked a batch of shortbread biscuits too and heated a tin of beef sausage – Australian. My husband and I had steamed fish. I’d enough tomato soup, and cooked new potatoes and peas, and we finished with a cup of tea and crispie. What sausage Cliff left I put aside for tea to a salad.