The Diaries of Nella Last

by Patricia Malcolmson

  Mrs Howson brought Cliff’s papers across and stayed awhile and her first words were ‘Well, what did the doctor say today?’ He began about the Convalescent Home proposal. Our eyes met. I knew she wondered, like I did, if he would go when the time came. He used to go to Buxton Hospital for six to nine weeks at a time, but under great protest. He hates things more nowadays that in any way upsets his routine. Mrs Howson looked curiously at me and said ‘What will you do with yourself?’ I had a passing idea I’d have had a little holiday in Belfast. I so long to see little Pete and feel a change would do me more good than a tonic. Then another thought had crossed my mind – of doing all the Spring cleaning, and having the back bedroom papered – the man said he would come soon after Xmas – and of having lazy afternoons after a busy morning, relaxed on the settee with a book, and no reading aloud. Luckily I didn’t mention going to Ireland, for my husband said quickly ‘Ah, Nell can have a good rest. I’ll soon be back and she will have to write lots of letters to me, like she used to do when I was at Buxton. She wrote every day and told me all she had been doing.’ I sniffed as I said to Mrs Howson ‘So, if you see a cheap line in chastity girdles, let me know’. He wondered why we both set off laughing. He said ‘You’ve just got new corsets. What do you want another girdle for?’ Which made Mrs Howson laugh till the tears ran down her face. She wiped them away, powdered her nose, and said ‘You are a pet Mr Last’.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  PLEASURES AND PERTURBATIONS

  May–December 1950

  Wednesday, 3 May. We decided to go tonight to the Coliseum, mainly to see Albert Modley’s brother Allen, who was a comedian – very good too and a well balanced show [billed as ‘Strippingly Saucy’]. I often think I must have a queer kink – the turn that interested me above all others was judged by most standards revolting! A supple limbed man with a toupee, but with the rest of his hair long, and with unmistakable air of perversion, did little more than ‘dress the stage’ and join in generally. Then came his scene – two Chinese immobile opening curtains, a pallet bed piled with cushions on the floor, in a corner a table with a life size silver idol with contorted limbs, silver mask with stiff upstanding spirals of hair. The curtains parted. A golden haired girl came through and was helped off with a gorgeous fur coat, and led to the divan where she was given an opium pipe and settled herself to sleep and dream. The idol quivered into life and stepped down. His supple silver body only had a G-string with silver fringe. Few realised the utter perfection of his writhing as his arms wove bonelessly in what looked like a true altar dance. His body had lost the perfect sinuousness of adolescence needed for perfect interpretation. The music was marvellous and puzzled me at first as it whispered and throbbed with the true temple beat – a gramophone record of course. I heard a man behind say ‘You see a lot of this kind of thing in India, you know, but generally in back street shows’. The dreamer on the pallet bed tossed and moaned. The ‘idol’ with the perfectly masked face – like a real idol, so impassive, sexless, ageless – bent over her, and then sprang silently back onto the table as she stirred to consciousness. The attendants brought her coat and firmly led her to the curtains, which parted. She went through. They fell in silent folds. The ‘Chinese’ attendants tucked their hands in their sleeves and bowed their heads slightly. The spotlight flickered on the immobile silver idol, and the curtain fell quickly as the music died. A real gem of production, timing and performance. I suppose it was revolting. It was perhaps a ‘wonder it had been let escape the censor’s eye’. The half whispers round showed that people recognised what the man was by inclination if not an ‘accident’ of birth, but somehow the perfection lifted it above all else for me. Allen Modley is good. Pity he models his toothless grimaces on Norman Evans, and his witless type of humour – ‘gormless’† is the Yorkshire word – on his brother Albert.*

  Thursday, 4 May. The sun shone. I persuaded my husband to go to Ulverston market and felt glad we did for I got such nice fillets of sole and a halibut head for my cats – 1s 8d for the fish and only 3d for the good meaty head. Beside two country lorries drawn up in the square, a line of women queued. Feeling curious I went to the top of the queue to see – then hurried back to the end to wait my turn for cauliflowers when I heard the price – 1s for bigger and cleaner looking ones than for 2s 6d in Barrow. When it was my turn I said to the pleasant faced girl ‘I wish you came to Barrow market’. She said ‘Nay. Dad and Mother say it’s wasted time and petrol, and it means we can sell them cheaper here in Ulverston. We sell all we grow direct so our prices are generally about half.’ She told me they had had plenty of young spring greens at 6d each but all had been sold. I saw onions on several stalls at 1s a pound, but they found few buyers. Women bought green scallions at 6d a pound. Though not so strongly flavoured, they were better value. Plenty of nice fowls, huge whole salmon, and every kind of ‘good’ fish in the fish shop where I got mine. I felt shopping was easy with a full purse! We had a cup of tea at a snack bar, and then were home by 11.30.

  ‘I love to wander round on market day in Ulverston’, Nella wrote on Thursday, 22 June 1950. ‘Born and bred in a town, so much of my childhood’s happiest memories are of Gran’s farm on the hills, coming to market in the gig, meeting kindly country neighbours. The smell of freshly cut and dug vegetables or the sight of a patient shaggy horse is akin to the feeling I get by Coniston Lake – not exactly an escape as much as a reality, something firm and strong in my life.’

  Friday, 5 May. Mrs Howson came in after tea, in one of her very worst ‘I’ve no time for that’ humour, and sat waspish and bitter tongued about all and every subject that cropped up. I felt puzzled and wondered what had possibly upset her. I’ve not seen her quite so nowty since canteen days. I think I found what was the root of her bad humour. I asked if she had filled in her Civil Defence form, and she snapped ‘Yes, if there’s any decent job going we might as well have them and not the folks who have only been in WVS five minutes’. She and I differ widely on WVS policy. She ‘doesn’t want strangers poking into meetings and dinners – folk that never helped when there was work to be done’. I feel we who have gone through the war have had enough and should encourage and help others to take over in the dreadful event of being needed again. Perhaps because I myself feel so depleted nowadays, I think others will feel the same. She said suddenly ‘What do you think of that newcomer, Mrs Todkill?’ I said ‘I don’t know much about her at all. She was a stranger. Her husband is an Admiralty man, and she came to the WVS to try and make friends and when introduced to me I pounced on her and asked her if she would take over and help Mrs Higham in the trolley scheme, and be stand-in for me at the hospital outpatients’ canteen.’ I got such a look as Mrs Howson said ‘So that’s how she got pushed into things – and now she is going to be organiser for the Civil Defence. I was asked but felt I wasn’t smart enough, but she took it without demur.’

  I laughed to myself at Mrs Howson’s being asked. At Canteen she gave frantic signals for help to the counter if a coloured man, a foreigner who couldn’t speak English, or a lad who showed the least signs of having had drink came up. She got offended and was so touchy she had to be handled carefully, and disliked people at a glance. I wondered what job on her own she could have held. As for lecturing, she has no idea of speaking coherently, even about clothes and fashion. It’s difficult sometimes to grasp the idea she wants to convey. I said without thinking ‘Mrs Todkill is a quiet little thing – but have you seen her firm decisive mouth? To me she looks as if she has been used to authority – perhaps been a teacher.’ Then I got Mrs Howson’s opinion of teaching, folk who were stuck up because they had been to college, etc. etc. I felt so out of patience. I felt she needed a sharp slap and a dose of syrup of figs like a disordered child, and I felt too I’d all the whims and moods to cope with that I was capable of doing. I often realise with a little sadness that I must have had a lot more patience in the war. Maybe, too, I felt more balanced. To make up for little annoyances and frets, there wa
s the purpose, the laughter and the wide companionship, and the feeling you were helping – a pretty good feeling.

  Wednesday, 10 May. Such a lovely summery day, and the sun so warm. I got Mrs Salisbury to do all the windows and she seemed pleased to be outdoors in the fresh air. She had been to the Co-op dairies to find out why her eldest lad had been sacked, and was told it was because of his ‘poor educational standard’. The manager had held forth about the lads he had sent from the Labour bureau. He told Mrs Salisbury the bulk hadn’t the standards of a lad of 9–10 of the old days. He said ‘Twenty years ago boys took milk out, or papers, or took basket meals to the shipyard. There was no cheap meals of free milk yet youngsters were bright and intelligent and mannerly when spoken to and didn’t pretend to know it all.’ He told Mrs Salisbury she must send George to evening classes and see he sticks to it. He said ‘whatever he is, at least he wants to be able to count beyond 12, and write plainly, and at least spell simple words’. Mrs Salisbury said ‘I told you my lads were only workers and the extra year was no good to them at school’ – and I could only agree. [The school leaving age had recently been raised from fourteen to fifteen.]

  Thursday, 11 May. After tea my husband ran Mrs Higham home and then said he would like to go for the last time to the Coliseum, which goes back to pictures next week. I looked at the orchestra – such good musicians but all grey headed. There isn’t any hope they will get another similar job. Two I know gave lessons and I suppose still do. Life must be cruel to all musicians – and stage people – unless they are on the top. A good comedian, several good turns and a ‘Title’ trained team of eight chorus girls didn’t compensate for the rest of the bill, which would have been more suitable for the Windmill! I never saw quite so little worn on the stage – and the really comic part was the pudgy starch fed girls which instead of allure radiated bath night. Two had definitely lost any virginal curves.* It was a shame to be in on such a lovely night. We walked slowly home, the sun still shining.

  Saturday, 27 May. I heard Mrs Howson come in and knew she had come to tell me all the news of the wedding. I made a plate of mixed sandwiches – tomato, cheese and lettuce, and cheese and grated onion, a favourite of hers – and there was sponge sandwich and bread and butter and strawberry jam. The bridegroom was a cousin of hers, a year widowed, and we knew the bride from childhood. She is older than Cliff but not quite as old as Arthur. There seemed to have been a little shadow cast by an unforeseen muddle at the church. The groom and best man and big taxi cab of guests had arrived at the church before a very sad little funeral was over – that of a three year old baby who had been drowned last week. The mother’s wild cries of ‘My baby, oh my baby’ had echoed round the church as she was half carried out, to meet on the steps another lot of wedding guests. Mrs Howson said it was surprising what a gloom was cast, and the pouring wet and cold day didn’t help, or the fact that ten more guests were squeezed in to the tables originally laid for 50 at a not too convenient cafe. I felt glad of her prattle about what everyone wore, how they looked, who had aged – or not – in the few years since they had been out of town. It helped hold my husband’s interest without effort on my part.

  Wednesday, 31 May. We relaxed and listened to Twenty Questions. I wondered as I sat if all the gossip in the papers about the effect television was having on the home life and make-up of American people could be exaggerated, and if we were in for a general change in amusement and entertainment, as in the rest of things today. We seem to have got into a whirling mad hurry that could carry us over the rapids to smooth strong waters, or draw us into a deep whirlpool. History seems to be ‘made’ in deeper and deeper swathes and spasms as each upheaval comes. I felt a sick shock to realise Australia is taking over in Malaysia, that there’s a growing need for action if peace is to last our time, never mind the next generation. Such a dreadful thought.

  Saturday, 3 June. Bowness was a throng of milling people being decanted from coaches and seeking hotels and cafes where tea had been ordered. I don’t think there would have been much chance of a meal without ordering. We went along to Ambleside Road. There was no chance of parking the car in Bowness, except in the big park, and we sat awhile, and then strolled along the tree shaded road by the Lake. Our 10 horse Morris was the poorest car in a group of bigger and newer cars when we returned. We had parked in a little clearing where several big trees had been recently felled, and it looked as if it was a well known spot for car picnics. We felt very surprised at the type of people who like ourselves had brought tea, and the good stoves and little collections of picnic oddments showed it was not just a sudden idea but they were used to taking meals. One big car that held three abreast was full of luggage and wraps in the back seat. I felt amused at the couple who began to light the stove while the third (looked like the son) got out folding chairs and cloth and laid out the meal. They looked more the type to roll up to a super hotel and demand a good meal. It made me look round and notice similar well-to-do types contentedly picnicking and contrast it with the definitely working class types getting out of the coaches or eating in the top class hotels where beautifully laid tables and men waiters could be seen through the windows from the road. It was 9 o’clock when we got home. I quietly made excuses for leaving till all the heavy traffic had gone. That sweet quiet peace was over all – residents out, yachts stealing out like moths, or bright red butterflies, replacing motor and steam boats, white clad chefs outside back doors of hotels, tired walkers returning to hotels and boarding houses for a bath and meal. We came down the quiet still Lake as in a dream, hardly a soul on the road. It compensated for all the rush and noise and I could relax and not wonder what would rush round a hidden bend and upset my husband.

  Monday, 12 June. There’s a lovely sailing ship in for repairs. It was made nearly 30 years ago in the Yard for Brazil, to be used as a training ship, and has come back for some refit or repairs. The youths on it fascinate me. They look cultured and assured, as if from good families, and have the manners and deportment of well educated and poised people. Their clothes are cut so perfectly – ordinary sailor rig, slightly musical comedy in detail. The mariners have scarlet tunics. The officers I’m sure had their uniforms made by a tailor-artist. They have this and that all over – cords and medal ribbons, chevrons and rings – and are in grey-blues as well as navy, and all of superlative material and cut. But it’s their faces and colour that so fascinates me – deepest chocolate, through every tone of café-au-lait to pale ivory, and all are young enough to have haunting adolescent beauty, or the smiling candour of a happy child. It’s plain to be seen that where they come from there’s no ‘colour bar’ as we understand the word. I look at each couple or group and wonder what mixture of race and colour, tribe, ‘aristocracy’, way of life and thought, and religion have intermingled to form their perfectly cut features, the different noses, mouths and brows. It makes my theory that some day there will be one race with no warring element of barriers that fear and greed make, and understanding of each other’s ways and thought.

  Saturday, 17 June. Margaret Atkinson [now Procter] came in. She seems to be looking forward to beginning housekeeping in a house of her own, but said a bit thoughtfully ‘It’s going to be a bit strange having to ask Arthur [her husband since August 1949] for money. With working a year after marriage, it will seem worse than if I’d began being “dependent”.’ We talked of the queer unrest in the Yard. [Managers were being laid off.] She said ‘No boss feels safe. I can tell the way they talk they wonder round our office who will be next.’ Margaret is near enough the Cost Office to know the real undercurrent of worry for the future for work. There’s no more lines in view, and we don’t build the cruisers and submarines now that made up the orders before ‘private’ ships were built. Within two years, unless other big orders are obtained, or fresh subsidiary lines are developed, it looks as if Barrow will have had it. We will be worse than Jarrow in the big slump, for beyond the steel works – working at a loss and on the borderline of being closed
within a short time – there’s practically nothing. What few small industries there are rely on the Yard’s prosperity.

  Nella sometimes remarked on the state of the wider world, and usually with alarm. There was a lot to be distressed about, not least the threat of atomic weapons. On 17 May – her wedding anniversary – she was thinking about ‘the account of 70 foot atom proof shelters being built at Stockholm, recalling a forecast by Naylor the astrologist, quite 15 years ago, that humanity was approaching an age when they tended to go underground, and build deep in the earth to work, live and “play”’. These were, once again, and so soon after a world war, troubling political times. On 29 June she and Mrs Higham ‘talked so sadly of the news, both with a sick feeling that anything will happen, wondering if Korea will start the war in the East that is to destroy civilization as we know it, talking and conjecturing about Russia and what she may have behind the Iron Curtain, recalling half forgotten memories of our war work together, or air raids, blackout, shortages.’ Once again, civil defence became a major concern.