Saturday, 19 July. If joyous days should be called red letter days, today is a black one. My little Shan We died suddenly, apparently of a heart attack. He ate his usual good breakfast, went to play on the lawn and ran in hurriedly when it began to rain suddenly, and sat on my husband’s lap for the rest of the morning. I’d tidied up, and machined† for an hour. There was good beef soup, cold brisket beef and salad, cornflour sweet and stewed raspberries. Shan We coaxed a meaty bit of gristle and ate it, and then sat on the rug till I’d finished lunch and then jumped on my lap as usual, his paws on my chest, his clear blue eyes lovingly on my face. I remembered again how much more loving – if that was possible – he had been since he came home [from the boarding kennel]. I rose soon saying ‘I’m going to wash up, and then you can relax till 2 o’clock’ – we had an appointment at the Hospital with Dr Wadsworth, the visiting psychiatrist. I’d lifted Shan We down on to the rug, and my husband passed back and forward clearing the table. It couldn’t have been more than five minutes when he said ‘Come quickly, Dearie’. I saw my little cat lying on his side, his tongue hanging out, his head lolled helplessly as I put my hands under him and raised him. I’d once brought him out of a similar attack when he was only a few weeks old, with whiskey and holding him pressed to my warm body till I got a fire going, but today half a teaspoon of neat brandy poured into his open mouth was no use, or warmth and massaging his heart, which had ceased to beat before I lifted him. The light died in his jewel blue eyes.
I felt stunned – and so terribly worried at the way my husband took it. I never saw him so distraught. I wanted to phone to the Hospital and say he couldn’t come, but he roused himself a little and we went. Dr Wadsworth was shocked at his appearance, till he knew about our little friend, and then was so understanding. I’ve always found Ulstermen to be insensitive. We came home. I’d laid my pet in his bed and covered him warmly in the forlorn hope a miracle might happen. I could not believe he would never rush to meet us again. My husband dug his grave in the flower border, and we made a soft cushion of lawn grass clippings and laid him on – he looked peacefully sleeping. As we covered him with more grass I murmured ‘Goodbye, little cat. Thank you for your love and affection. It’s been grand knowing you.’ And I wondered how many people were buried so sadly.*
I made tea, but beyond several cups of tea and a little bread and butter we couldn’t eat. I had a lost feeling when no eager little blue eyed cat jumped on my lap. The moment I’d finished I looked at my husband’s face and shaking hands and thought of Dr Wadsworth’s advice ‘It would be as well to get another Siamese as soon as possible. I don’t like any upset for Mr Last.’ I asked him if he would like another, but he said simply ‘No, it would never be Shan We’. I said coaxingly ‘Wouldn’t you like a little dog? You could take him out.’ Nothing could rouse him. I felt I pushed my own grief deeper and deeper till I was choking. Kipling was right – you should ‘never give your heart to a dog to tear’. I felt I hadn’t to keep anything I loved. I looked at poor old Murphy with near loathing as I thought ‘Oh why couldn’t it have been you? At turned 15, you are past much sweetness of life.’ My dear Shan We was only 6, loving life and living, radiating love and affection. With Cliff buying him and the trouble he was to rear, he never seemed ‘just an animal’. I’d a feeling I’d lost a real link with Cliff.
I coaxed my husband to take two codeine tablets and gave him some brandy and water, feeling really afraid he would collapse altogether, wondering what I should do. Often he has said half jokingly to Shan We ‘I wish you were a little dog and could come for a walk’. I felt wearily I didn’t want to face training a puppy. I like cats best, but realising how on the edge my poor man is feeling I’d undertake to train a hippo if it made him happy or gave him an interest. We went for a little walk. I suddenly thought of my hairdresser – she bought a Cairn puppy some time ago, an adorable beastie. My husband saw it and wondered ‘if Shan We would agree with a puppy if we got one’. I rang her up for a chat. She lost a much loved dog at about seven years old and said ‘A friend advised us to get another one straight way’. I asked her if she thought there were any puppies at the breeding kennels where she got hers, and she said ‘Ring up and see. The number is in the phone book – a place near Carnforth’. When my husband came in, looking wild eyed and nervy, I said ‘Now if you would like a puppy, I know where I might get one’. He didn’t speak. He didn’t seem to hear properly. I thought wildly ‘If I could go tonight and get one I’d gladly go – anything to take that lost expression off your face’. I felt my constant prayer rise to my lips – that I could live longer than him. I felt little bargains in a montage of wild pleas. Whatever happened to me, I’d never complain if only I could live longer, to always look after him.
Following their adventures in London, Nella and Will resumed their (mostly) quiet lives in Barrow-in-Furness. There were changes in their household, one of which was the acquisition of a dog to replace Shan We. Nella had mixed feelings about dogs, and clearly preferred cats. Still, a dog it was to be, and on 21 July 1952, after inspecting a litter of seven puppies, Nella wrote that ‘I’d not have known where to choose, but one little fellow was determined to be chosen – he made such a fuss over my husband. I was delighted. The colour came back into his cheeks. There was no doubt from the first.’ The puppy was named Garry; he and Will hit it off reasonably well and in due course regularly went out together for walks. Nella, an exponent of firm discipline, thought Will over-indulgent with Garry. In January 1953, 9 Ilkley Road became a cat-free household when old Murphy, aged fifteen and a half and seriously ill, was put down.
* * * * * *
On the night of 31 January–1 February 1953 there were monster storms in parts of the British Isles (and elsewhere, especially the Netherlands). A car ferry went down off the coast of Northern Ireland, and 128 people lost their lives; and there were over 300 other deaths as a result of the massive floods that night, almost all of them in settlements in, on or near the Thames estuary and in coastal areas of East Anglia (Essex and Norfolk were very hard hit). ‘Thousands were rendered homeless,’ according to the Illustrated London News of 7 February (p. 193), ‘and from every quarter of the flooded districts poignant stories were recorded. Some were drowned in cars on the roads, dead were found on roofs or caught in trees, and families were marooned in flooded houses, crouching in lofts and upper storeys in their night attire. Public services were disrupted and fear of epidemics was an added anxiety.’ Some 32,000 people were flooded out of their homes.*
This was a major disaster, and it summoned up the sort of relief efforts that Britain had witnessed a dozen years earlier. ‘It is “like the war all over again”’, wrote Tom Driberg in the New Statesman (7 February, p. 141), ‘not only because of the troops, but because of the spirit of comradeship and hospitality among the thousands of voluntary workers who have “mucked in” – the hotel-keepers and yachtsmen at Burnham-on-Crouch who have looked after evacuees from Foulness and cooked meals day and night, the boat-builders who have crossed to the islands dozens of times every twenty-four hours bringing off boat-loads of the homeless, the ladies who have made the Royal Corinthian Yacht Club a model rest-centre.’ Help also came from more distant places, including Barrow-in-Furness; women there threw themselves into work that was highly reminiscent of some of the wartime efforts of the WVS. Nella’s diary for the first half of February testifies to the aid organised in Barrow for the unfortunate victims elsewhere.
Tuesday, 3 February. I didn’t feel so well and my face ached badly. The thought of all the homeless cold people in the flood areas haunted me. I packed a pair of shoes I can do without, some shirts Cliff once sent, two old but well mended vests of my own and two of my husband’s, some underpants with worn knees – I cut and machined a hem and made them into shorts – and packed a little cretonne bag I made with a drawstring with a few sylkos,* cotton, darning wool and the necessary needles. I’d the good heart to pack up nine-tenths of my clothes, but they will have to do me muc
h service yet, before I can part with them. I’ll send 5s to the Mayor’s Fund, and more if I can scrounge it out of my housekeeping. I can never interest my husband in giving anything away. He wouldn’t have parted from his old underwear if I’d asked him … [Later] Mrs Atkinson came in and said ‘I’ve a big pile of things if you will pack and send them off for the flood victims’. I said I would, and stared at the two big armfuls she brought, costumes, coats, overcoats and suits that had belonged to a brother of Mr Atkinson’s who died last year, and shoes of her own and Norah’s.
Wednesday, 4 February. A ring brought me to the door, where a strange young woman stood smiling. She said ‘Will you put these children’s rubber boots and clothes in your parcel? Someone told me you would be sure to be sending something for the flood victims or would take them to the WVS office.’ Then for the rest of the morning phone calls to ask if parcels could be brought or if I’d pack things and send them, and rings at the door with parcels, till before lunch my front sitting room looked like a second hand shop! I’d soup, and stewed rabbit enough, and cooked sprouts and potatoes, and we finished with a cup of tea. I planned to relax awhile when my husband went to lie down, but there was no rest for either of us – more knocks, rings and phone calls. I wondered wildly wherever I’d get paper and string to pack all, and thought of the sugar sacks I once bought off my grocer, and rang him to see if he would let me have some – they are doled out sparingly to people on a list usually, and he isn’t a really pleasant man. I felt it just another part of my odd day when he gushed ‘Certainly, Mrs Last. How many will you have? It will be a pleasure to send you as many as you want. Would you like some today?’ I said ‘Well, I think I could get them in four of those small sacks or three of the larger ones’. He said ‘I’ll send what I have and you must let me know later if you want more’. I went over all, and stitched all buttons on even if they were not a perfect match, and did little repairs.
My husband came down and when he saw what I was doing he offered to clean and polish all the shoes, and we will get some laces to replace worn ones. I asked everyone to spare odd bits of flannel and toilet soap, needles, cotton and mending wool, and packed them in little bags, if only paper ones. We were both tired by the time I made a late tea. There was a notice in the local Mail tonight saying the [WVS] office would be open every day this week for gifts, so perhaps people will send them there. Mrs Higham has a lot of oddments left at her house. There was toast and cream cheese, Turog† bread and butter and cake for tea, and it was nearly 7 o’clock before I rose to clear the table and wash up. I felt a bit tired, but unravelled two good home knitted sock legs and two big balls of darning wool. Mrs Higham said she had a huge pile of goodish socks if they were darned.
Thursday, 5 February. Another hectic day. I got four sacks packed neatly, folding and packing tightly all garments in an effort to avoid crumpling, if not creasing. I decided that any more things could go down to the WVS office, for big sacks have been provided from Regional. We went to Dalton for the meat. I left a note pinned on the curtain to say ‘Back about 11 o’clock. Parcels of clothing for WVS can be left in garden or at no. 7.’ … We went into town when we returned from Dalton, the back of the car piled high with some quite good car rugs, a big old blanket that could be torn into babies’ blankets, nappies tied up in a bundle, little woolly coats, little boys’ clothes and some elderly women’s clothes that had a note pinned on to say ‘Call in later if these are suitable – have lots more of mother’s clothes’ and the name of a neighbour in the road behind whose mother died recently. The scene at the office was a surprise, even though I’d expected good response – looked as if there would be a van load when packed. We stayed. I’d have stayed over lunch time, but said Mrs Higham and I were coming down with a car load of things she had collected and took back an armful of pants, feeling really scornful of a woman’s mentality who would send pants without buttons enough for decency, never mind use. I pictured a distraught man who felt hopeless and lost being handed pants with one button on the flies, and felt a ‘Bad end to you’ to the thoughtless person who sent them.
Friday, 6 February. We took parcels of clothes to the WVS. I longed to join the busy workers, sorting and packing. There’s such a different atmosphere since merry capable little Mrs Woods took over, and she has nice helpers. Never was there so friendly a feeling. When old Mrs Manson and Mrs Howson were Clothing Officer and Deputy someone was always offending one or the other. Such good garments have been sent in, two quite wearable fur coats amongst the pile on the counter. Miss Willan asked if Mrs Higham and I could collect one night next week at the Odeon – most of the picture houses are having a Relief Fund collection. She asked in my husband’s hearing and he said ‘Of course you must go’. So I took him at his word! …
I’d more buttons to sew on, and more clothes came in. They have had such a wonderful response at the [WVS] office they are keeping open till 8.30 each evening. It’s such a small place to work in. The Railway van calls each day. Everyone is so eager to help. Collections at rugby and soccer matches tomorrow, dances, collections at others and efforts in every direction. The Round Table are canvassing for money if no clothes are available. In Barrow we won’t have much coal for a few weeks. Householders are asked in an article in the Mail to ‘use other available fuel, including nutty slack’, as our supplies will be diverted to the East Coast. I scrambled eggs and made toast and there was Turog bread and butter and greengage jam and cake. I kept wishing I could have been at the WVS office helping. When I looked at them working so cheerily my mind went back to wartime, when, whatever our worries and anxiety, there was ‘always tomorrow’ … I thought wistfully as I sat sewing I’d have liked to recapture, however slightly, that comradeship.
There was a ring and Mrs Higham’s voice said ‘I’m down at the office. Mrs Woods is off to London tomorrow to help with clothing. Will you lend her your [WVS] overcoat?’ I couldn’t refuse, and she is a very dainty person, but I don’t like wearing anything of anyone else’s, and that goes for my own that anyone else has worn. She will be away four days at least. I’ll have it cleaned when she returns it, and wear my WVS suit for collecting at the Odeon. I felt mean to have that ‘shrinking’, but it’s one of those things that, if you have it, it’s as much a part of you as the colour of your hair. Mrs Woods came just after 9 o’clock. I’m only about 5 feet 1½ inches – in my shoes – and she is nearly half a head less!* Still, shoulders and sleeves were all right. She said ‘Never mind it being too long. It will be warmer for travelling. Thank you so much, and I’ve already borrowed Miss Willan’s dress. It’s good of you both to lend them. I’m so fussy. You are the only two WVS I’d have liked to wear anything belonging to.’ I felt I chuckled as I realised there were others as odd as myself! She is a merry little thing and laughed as she told of her rush to get ready. I said ‘Your husband doesn’t mind you going, then?’ She said ‘Dear me, why should he? I’m only going for a few days, and he knows enough to look after himself if all is in the house. He’s not a child.’ I didn’t glance across at my husband, knowing darn well the fight I’d have had to put up, and if I’d insisted on going, the reproaches and recriminations, the feeling of guilt that spoiled enjoyment. I felt she didn’t realise how lucky she was.
The next day she and Will drove to Spark Bridge to pick up some clothes that Aunt Sarah had collected. Her ‘bundle was a bit old fashioned, but there was a good thick cape with a hood, and a grey homespun suit of Joe’s I’ve remembered for years. All had a sweet musty smell. Wood smoke, lavender and smoke of tobacco struggled with the sweetish smell of stored apples, for Aunt Sarah has all her boxes and oddments in the attic. In two black bodices she had stitched white frills in the necks, crisp and freshly starched and ironed. I wondered if there were any old dear who would wear them – women like herself who had stayed still as regards fashions.’
Sunday, 8 February. A ring took my husband to the door as I was dressing. I heard an oddly pitched voice saying something about ‘Looking fo
r a little WVS lady who lives hereabouts’, and felt a bit surprised to hear my husband asking him in. When I went into the living room a huge young fellow rose and said ‘Good morning, ma’am. I’d like your advice about some clothes I have for the flood folks.’ We began to talk. He is in one of the small flats made from several of the big houses on the main road into which our small road runs. I’d have said he was an American with his slow drawl, but he is a Canadian, working just now in the Yard. I said I’d gladly take charge of them, thinking ‘I’ll ring up Miss Willan and get her to send up for what I have if she wants all down before we get the car back’. He went and then I heard a car, and looking out saw a huge low slung grey car with two young men in. The boot was opened and a very large parcel lugged out. The one who had called said ‘These are mostly boots, ma’am, but wrapped in a heavy coat to keep them together’. Before I could say ‘Thank you – leave it in the hall there’, his companion appeared from the open car door with his arms full of rugs, coats, suits and bright plaid hip-blouse† things Canadians wear. When they had finished I felt a bit dazed as I looked at the huge pile, women’s clothes amongst them. I said ‘How generous of you to spare all these marvellously warm garments’, but the friend in a curious ‘Hush your mouf’ honied tones gave me to understand it was a relief to be rid of them. They had brought all as a matter of course and realised they ‘would be a real “noosense” and expensive to store or tote round’, and left me with the impression I was doing them a favour! …
I had a rest on the settee after my husband went to lie down and then mended socks and put some elastic in two good pairs of corsets. I felt they would be better than with an ordinary lace, giving a wider fit. They are both made to measure corsets, only needing a bit of repair, but I wouldn’t have insulted anyone by offering them before I soaked and scrubbed them. When I think of the giver I marvel – so beautifully turned out whatever she wears. I’ve heard her boast she can ‘Never use any other than Elizabeth Arden toilet requisites’ and ‘I never buy anything off the peg. I am so particular about fit and cut.’ Yet I lightly touched them as I poked the sleazy greasy things into hot Tide suds!
The Diaries of Nella Last Page 47