Wednesday, 26 March. It was a lovely, though very cold, spring day. Mats and cushions aired on the line all day. Everywhere round the sounds of carpet cleaning and lawns being mown told of people taking advantage of the day. When I was shaking a big rug and dragging it over the lawn to help remove dust, Mrs Atkinson drew my attention to the many new TV aerials that had gone up. She knows an assistant in one of the chief TV distributing shops and said, ‘There’s a long waiting list at Kelly’s – plenty of sets but aerials are a bit slow’. Till she pointed out the fact, I’d not realised we could count over 20 from our gardens. My biggest surprise was when we cut through a region of small terrace houses on our way to the Library, mostly occupied – and owned – by steelworkers; there’s a larger average of TVs than in ‘residential’ areas.
Saturday, 29 March. Geoff Diss is turning RC, resigning from the Freemasons and his position of Secretary for St George’s Dinner. Whenever I’ve seen Mrs Diss these past months I’ve been struck by the ageing look she has had, but dismissed the thought as I know how worried she must be about her daughter-in-law having polio, and on top of it, that she was having a baby. It was a great grievance that Geoff fell in love with his sister’s friend, who was of a very old R.C. family, and her attitude was a bit puzzling when as a family they never went to church. Mr Diss was C. of E. by family tradition, but Mrs Diss, born and bred in Keswick, was more nonconformist with all the narrow outlook of a person reared in a small shut-off community and with the fixed idea a bank manager [her father’s occupation] was definitely better class. Her mother was Matron of a big London hospital and in turn had quite a lot of bigotry of her own, charming woman though she was when old and came to Barrow. Mrs Diss’s oblique references to Papists, priests and confession showed how bitter were her views, and now not only will priests constantly visit the invalid Sheila, but Geoff has ‘gone over’. It’s bad – and sad – when wide differences of outlook separate families. It’s best that Geoff and Sheila can have the same way, but sad for the Diss family. I thought to myself, ‘Edith being Irish could have been easily RC’, and wondered if there would have been any greater barrier than the fierce bigotry of the Ulster Orangemen, though a lot of the prickles seem lessened after life with easygoing, tolerant Arthur, who seemed happier when he had persuaded her to smoke, go to the cinema, dance and take an odd cocktail or glass of sherry, in spite of her mother’s outraged feelings that Edith was on the road to hell!
Tuesday, 8 April. Mrs Diss was telling us that Sheila has a self-propelling chair, and that ‘Her courage is like a flame’. She ‘never whines or whimpers’, and never gives way unless she feels she is being too much of a burden to people. Mrs Diss seems to have gained in what could be termed a jolly tolerance, as she told of all the upset of workmen turning her lovely big house into two, the smaller half for Julia, her daughter, getting married soon, and of little Michael’s ‘old fashioned ways’, but his dear delight at Sheila’s homecoming. I felt a God bless for the way she had taken polio, a semi-crippled daughter-in-law, another grandchild, which, I can tell, she wonders if it will be strong and healthy, and the latest ‘blow’ that Geoff is turning R.C. In spite of – or could be now because of? – all her worries, she has gained a grandeur she never had.
With the renewed concern in the early 1950s for Civil Defence, memories of the recent war were apt to come to mind. In late April there was actually a ‘gas test’, in a van, involving gas masks.
Wednesday, 30 April. Mrs Higham said yesterday, ‘Don’t you bother about the gas test if you aren’t up to it’, but I knew it would be best to kill the bogey I’ve had about gas, since Mrs Diss and I got such a fright once in the war when the gas ‘rolled back’ in a big test with Home Guard, Civil Defence and the Army. We saw something was out of hand by the scurrying round, warning off anyone without their gas mask – people had been told to wear one or keep off the streets. If it hadn’t been for our mobile [canteen] we might have run away, but we turned our backs and held each other’s hands tightly, knowing each other’s fear. Tonight we had no inconvenience at all. Mrs Higham said, ‘Killed your bogey?’ I said, ‘Yes, though when I was going up the steps of the van I felt my heart pounding as madly as if I was going into action’. She said such a nice thing. She slipped her arm through mine and said, ‘Never worry, Lasty, whether you would be able to work hard if trouble came. I’ll do your share if you’re only there. You’ve got something that would help more than being able to rush round. You don’t get rattled.’ Then she started to laugh and laugh and added, ‘But gosh, if we are ever in a tight corner I hope you remember your old wartime swears. Your “Hell’s blue light” went round George’s office long after you had got another oath.’*
Thursday, 1 May. What curious things minds are. I went to bed last night feeling quite happy about the gas test, and felt myself drifting off to sleep earlier than these last few nights. I wakened with a sound of bitter, bitter weeping. Half awake, I felt that strange stirring of nerves up the back of my neck and head that gives rise to the ‘hair stood on end’ theory. Age-old sorrow seemed to fill the room more bitter than shrill keening lessness. Then I realised it was myself who was so distressed. For a split second I felt there were two of us, and one, a stronger and more serene person, overruled the desperate frightened creature before we merged into one again. I shook with nerves. Sobs seemed to choke me before I could control them. No wonder I used to frighten my husband so in the beginning of the war when I often had a ‘crying jag.’ † If I’d been given a golden apple I couldn’t have told anyone why I cried so bitterly. I lay spent till my shaking hands could unscrew the top of the thermos of hot water and take a drink. Still feeling badly shaken, I took a codeine tablet and slept fitfully till it was light.
Monday, 5 May. I was walking up the Dalton Road [to the WVS club meeting]. It was busy with shoppers and some very exotic-looking people who looked like pros from one of the Revues in Barrow this week. A couple were attracting much attention. He was a huge, nearly black man. She was a dainty brown slip of a thing on high spike heels and an expensive suit and handbag – and a startling ‘poodle cut’ – and as she wore no hat and her face was rather narrow and wistful, it made the resemblance to a French poodle a bit startling! I had my WVS overcoat and beret on. I thought as they passed they stared very hard, and I’d the feeling the smile on the man’s face was personal as he looked at me. They seemed to make up their minds about something and turned back. The man, in a velvety voice, said, ‘I beg your pardon, Madam. Didn’t you serve in a Forces’ Canteen in the war?’ I said, ‘Yes. Don’t you come from Jamaica?’, for I recalled a huge black naval man who dwarfed the other sailors. Such nice people. We walked slowly up the road, and the girl said, ‘My husband was delighted when he heard the show was coming to Barrow. He said he didn’t think Barrow people even noticed his colour!’ I said, ‘Well, for a small place, we get a lot of different people, all colours, all races, but when they are nice friendly folk, and mix, they seem to fit in.’ I asked them to come in the club for a few minutes, knowing Marjorie Fletcher, Mrs Whittam and Mrs Howson would have arrived and be pleased to meet an old Canteen friend – and they were. Until I saw the man standing amongst us I’d not realised how huge he was. He sings calypso songs and she accompanies him, it seems.
It was a nice meeting and a good speaker – a rambling talk on what she called ‘Bluestockings’ – gave thumbnail sketches of clever women from the middle of the 18th century.
Sunday, 18 May. Never have we been by the Lake [Coniston Water] on a more perfect day. In fact, we couldn’t recall its equal. We had a little stroll before lunch. I’d made a salad in a little bowl and cut the cold meat before we left home. We sat down by the water’s edge on the rug and enjoyed our lunch. Few people arrived before two o’clock, which meant over two hours of the quiet peace, with little sound beyond the lap of the water on the stones. I washed my hands and started back at the icy chill of the sunlit water. There must have been very heavy thunder showers, for the litt
le streams and rills† were full as they drained off the fells and high ground. The day flew past. We had another little walk, and found some old acquaintances parked near when we came back, and we sat and talked – of Singapore, where their son has a super job as an executive in a big airline, and of Civil Defence preparations. The husband was a warden and very keen but pointed out, ‘When you get to 60 you don’t want to begin again. Let the younger ones have a go. Goodness knows we did our share in the last war.’
A dreadfully overweight corgi panted up and collapsed. We didn’t know to whom it belonged. I thought of Shan We’s love for a rub with a wet duster. I took a picnic napkin and soaked it in the Lake and wiped its poor hot face and ears, and we got it a drink in a tin someone had left. Mr Hetherington lifted it in the shade but the poor thing crawled back to lie by us. They were only pausing to have tea. I began to wonder if I was going to be left with what looked like a dying dog. A voice with an Irish accent sounded, calling ‘Tonky’, or a name like that. I stood up and saw one of the loveliest, if overweight, women of round about 37 – if her daughter’s appearance was a guide. She looked like a poster advertisement for strawberries and cream or the like. She was so excitable and picked up the dog like a baby and talked baby talk. Her husband came up and to hear them slop over that dog was comic when I thought it didn’t go so far as to look after the poor thing. They were in a huge car with an Antrim number and were going to tour a week, so what that dog would be like I don’t know. I almost said, ‘He is far too fat’, but looking at its owner I realised it would be tactless, to say the least of it!
We didn’t reach home till 8.30. It was so perfect motoring home. I was washing up and saw the blue of the sky disappear and suddenly sea fog rolled in shore, though the weather forecast is good.
Monday, 19 May. I felt it my turn to half wash up [after the WVS meeting]. I’d got some bananas to send to Margaret and some leeks and tomatoes and some carpet thread to try and repair the tubing round the car door – this car was a poor job in several ways. The long meeting made me forget how times passed, and we knew we would run into the Shipyard rush if we went into the Town Hall, so we walked through town, knowing we could get on when at each stage workmen would get off. Mrs Howson and Miss Willan decided to walk home. I got off the bus and strolled the five minutes home, enjoying and savouring the loveliness of flowering trees and shrubs in the gardens. The lilac has rarely done as well, the golden laburnum giving me a sadness as I thought of my lovely golden tree which my husband cut so ruthlessly. There’s only a few tufts of growth. It will never recover in my lifetime and be so lovely.
Will had committed this offence on 20 September 1951. ‘My husband had said he was going to do a bit of gardening and said, “I’m going to thin that laburnum tree well and cut some off the top. It’s getting far too big for a small garden.” I agreed, and offered to hold the ladder, but he said he could manage. I never looked out of the window, for my back was turned to that side of the garden. When I did look out I couldn’t speak. I think I’d have screamed with annoyance – rage – if I’d opened my mouth. He had sawn it off by the top of the trellis. I loved that tree more than anything else in the garden.’ Some days later Flo, Will’s sister, was visiting and looking around the garden. ‘She came in with a shocked look and said, “Why ever have you had that lovely, lovely laburnum tree cut off? It will never grow as nice again, and be several years before it flowers by the look of it.” I didn’t speak. My husband said brightly, “I did it. I cut a bit more off than I intended.” Flo said, “I should think you did. Looks as if you had a spite against the poor lovely thing – and I know that Dearie and Cliff loved it so”’ (2 October 1951). The tree had been a gift from Cliff to his mother.
There was tension in the air when Nella returned home after this WVS meeting.
I was in that quite happy peaceful frame of mind, idly going over the afternoon’s plans and discussions. And not prepared to see the half frantic man at the gate, too upset to even tell me what had made him shake so, and robbed him of colour as well as speech. I felt something dreadful must have happened as I half led, half carried him in, put him on the settee and got brandy. After my fright I felt I could have slapped him soundly when he began to reproach me for not telling him how late I’d be! He had been across to see if Mrs Howson had got home, and Mary hadn’t told him she had seen me waiting for the bus when she had passed on her cycle. What upset me most was to realise in my heart how he worsened. He cannot bear me out of his sight for long. He never has had friends or liked company, not even of his brothers and sisters.* I’d a little feeling of real terror. No one should so cling or rely on another person, and my ever constant prayer rose to my lips – that I could live longer than he does, that he will never be left lonely and desolate. For a little while I felt such a sense of responsibility it crushed me. It’s easy to tell me, ‘You should be firm. You have a duty to yourself. You must keep contact with outside.’ I made tea – strong, sweet and hot – tea’s a great comfort. I couldn’t swallow any food, and when I saw my husband didn’t eat the piece of thin bread and butter he took on his plate, my worry grew. Mrs Howson came in, in a half laughing manner, saying, ‘I feel I’m a little to blame, for Mrs Last washed up instead of me doing it.’ She didn’t stay long when she saw him lying on the settee, but long enough to prevent him listening to P.C. 49, a real grievance! I relaxed in the big chair by the window and mended some socks, but was thankful when I could come to bed.
Sunday, 25 May. Mrs Wilkinson [recently returned to Barrow] was here by 3.30. She has put on weight but looks less than her age – about 67. She was as jolly and lively as 32 years ago, when I first knew her. She made us both laugh as she said as she looked me up and down, ‘Just as elegant as ever. I bet that dress cost next to nothing and it looks a model.’ She was always a bit dumpy, with a poor taste in clothes, with a longing to look well dressed that she described as ‘looking elegant’. Her life is like a story book romance. She met her Southern Rhodesian husband on a chance visit to Morecambe. He had brought his two daughters to school. She married at 34 and went to a totally different life some miles from Bulawayo, to a country store that sold everything to settlers, learned to ride and love horses, and had a happy life till her husband died having an operation. Depression by then hung over Rhodesia. What property and plots of land there was was divided between her and her two stepdaughters and her share only valued at £2,000. Now it’s worth £40,000. She decided to close with a big syndicate and cabled her lawyer to sell half the property. Now Bulawayo has so grown, in a place where large eleven-storeyed flats are being erected. She told of her house boy, a 12-year-old ‘pican’ who cleaned and polished, washed and ironed, washed and exercised the dog, ‘kept the windows like crystal’ and had a passion for washing curtains – for £3 a month. Her part-time gardener, shared with three friends, costs about £4 a week and she has every kind of vegetables and fruit, a perfect lawn and stone garden with a collection of English rock plants. Their food consists of mealies, † ‘lots of steak’ and the vegetables grown. She is shocked at most food prices and our shortages and says she could never stand the cold dampness of our winter. She had a good knowledge of South African policy and of racial ‘differences’, saying, ‘In Bulawayo there’s no nonsense about blacks being as good as whites’. There’s an accepted difference and a feeling of understanding, with, as she says, ‘not as yet that urge to leap centuries that have made non-coloured people as they are. They are more inclined to leave burdens, responsibilities and judgements to anyone in authority.’
Wednesday, 28 May. I’ve had a good if rather rueful laugh at myself today. I didn’t feel so well – a bit breathless again – so planned jobs where I’d not have to bend. Mrs Salisbury is always so understanding if she sees my lips a bit blue. I washed some socks and stockings through and used Dreft. As I put the packet back on the shelf I thought idly – that competition [for purchasers of Dreft] must be decided by now. I wonder who was the lucky winner. I went to hang th
em on the line and heard the bell chime, and as I came in Mrs Salisbury said, ‘There’s a gentleman at the door who wants to see you’. As I went down the hall I saw a well dressed, rather city looking man, handsome in rather a Jewish way, who raised his hat and said, ‘Mrs Last? I’ve called …’ – I felt a tingle run right through me, and talk about hearing birdies sing!!! – but heard the rest of the sentence, ‘to see if you have any scrap gold, old watches, brooches, tie pins’, etc. It’s a good approach to glance at the name on the gate I suppose. I didn’t exactly think he was the ‘Hedley Group’ man. I suppose it was with the competition’s running through my mind.
Nella Last in the 1950s Page 24