A Notable Woman

by Jean Lucey Pratt

  Gone with the Wind being shown in Slough this fortnight. One hears it being discussed in every bus and queue.

  22.

  Asbestos Front

  Friday, 2 October 1942

  Did a spectacular faint the other evening when I went with Barbara Linnett to see Gone with the Wind and had to be taken home by ambulance. Scared B.L. to death. Am tired of these unexpected dramatic pass-outs which occur at such irregular intervals. Some weakness I think in the organs within the pelvis. Pains there fairly frequent but from apparently different causes. Have decided I must seek medical advice although I detest making a fuss. But have made an appointment to see Graham Howe on Monday. Any excuse to visit him again.

  Monday, 5 October

  Saw Graham Howe. Highly satisfactory. A picture to remember: starlight from the mountain piercing the waiting water lily.

  Sunday, 11 October (War Diary)

  The defence of Stalingrad magnificent. Clamour for Second Front continues, but many people, while agreeing that it is desirable, say we can not do it – we haven’t the men, material or sources of supply necessary for a continued attack.

  A Bristol Hercules engine is on show in the canteen. We supply all the aluminium alloys for this engine and the R.R. Merlin, besides making many aircraft parts, e.g. prop blades.

  Tomorrow we start at 8.30 a.m. at the office. For this extra effort our Cost of Living Bonus has been changed from the 10 per cent on salary to a universal 10s. for all women and 15s. for all men receiving salaries of £7 and under. Why it should cost women less to live than men I don’t know.

  The question of women’s equality with men cropped up. I maintain that women are not equal, or inferior, but different. Joan’s little boy is at a school in Cornwall for small boys and girls, ages anything from three to thirteen. All the boys are keenly interested in aeroplanes and engines – Joan’s son (7 years) knows every plane by sight. ‘That’s a Whitley,’ he tells his mother who hasn’t the least idea herself. On the other hand the little girls show no interest at all in aeroplanes and engines or any of the things that enthral little boys.

  It is true that we have been given a vote and are accepted as independent individuals. It is true that we can work for the same exams and do as well and sometimes better in them than men. It is true that we have proved our ability in many spheres once governed only by men. But we find that in achieving this ‘equality’ we do so at a sacrifice of much of our private happiness and fulfilment. We have come out of the kitchen and away from the cradle to find that we are still women and masses of us are drawn year by year by instincts stronger than reason back again. Yet for many of us it isn’t enough. We want to compete with men – and when we find ourselves on a level with men, doing men’s work, the difference remains. We are in a state of perplexed growth and experiment. We are aware of our difference but haven’t yet discovered how to define it or in the least how to use it outside our familiar domestic enclosure.

  Sunday, 18 October

  We are an astonishing, incalculable race. ‘We do not know our capabilities and our power. A year or two ago our pilots and navigators and airgunners were the people we rubbed shoulders with in the streets. We took no particular notice of them then. They were clerks and mechanics, they were sheep farmers, they sold second-hand motor cars and life insurance and radio sets.’122

  Which reminds me that the latest news of Buckland is that he is flying. No one at the office thought he would stick out the course.

  Sunday, 25 October

  Wednesday at the RIBA all day and saw the Technicolor film of the prefabricated Homasote House which has been bought back from America. Intensely interesting. All parts of these houses of timber or wall boarding fabricated and cut to standard measurements in factory, transported to specially prepared site and erected within a few hours. Are being built in California for Emergency Defence Housing.

  On Friday to a dance for Allied Nations given at the Slough Social Centre. London’s Lord Mayor was there, and various of our directors and other local notabilities. French sailors, Polish airmen, Czech soldiers, British, Canadian, American forces, Land Army, Wrens, Waafs, ATS thronged the hall. Roped off were the Mayor and Officers. A grim affair. Girls and men stood about in self-conscious groups. No attempt beyond one very untidy Paul Jones and some Excuse Me dances was made to mix us up. Various entertainment turns throughout evening. Cabaret, Grand Pageant (our history stopped with the Stuarts). I was picked up by an army captain and swept into a date for next Friday before I knew where I was. He struck me as a rather inhibited creature, the sort that does get attracted to me. I will keep the appointment – the curiosity is too much for me.

  Friday, 30 October

  Have been late 3 times. Received an infuriating letter from the cleaners who ruined my curtains. Shall have to let solicitors deal with the matter. This evening’s date with the Captain – I kept it, but he didn’t. Feeling cold, lonely, inadequate and generally browned off.

  Wednesday, 4 November

  A supply of Coty rouge available in Slough. All typists in our department invest and are immensely excited.

  Thursday, 5 November

  Took an Intelligence Test this afternoon, voluntarily, (when asked if I would, I found it difficult to refuse). It was a paper set by the Institute of Industrial Psychology for clerical staff, and all our typists have taken it. Was in a panic about it – have had no clerical experience and thought it rather unfair, but P.A. was very soothing. He told me that several long established executives have taken it and with appalling results.

  Sunday, 8 November

  Weekend at Wembley. Ethel and I walked up Harrow Hill, the miles and miles of vile little houses wrapped softly in jade, people sitting along the church yard wall in rows looking over the land – the fair, spoilt land of 14 counties.

  Her neighbours the Davies have relatives in Guernsey. News reaches them in this form: ‘Mother Hubbard very evident’ and ‘A brasserie would be welcome.’ ‘Gerald is in your room and likes it very much.’

  Saturday, 21 November

  Attended a lecture by Sir William Beveridge to the Fabians this afternoon. Conway Hall crowded out. A very interesting lecture followed by a barrage of questions, but came away feeling unutterably lonely and depressed. Wanted to discuss it all with someone, either a friend at the meeting or someone waiting for me at home. Went straight to bed, ate a large bowl of hot onion gruel (a Pratt special).

  Wednesday, 2 December

  Beveridge Report issued and general reaction favourable.123 Peter, who reads nothing but the Telegraph and steers clear of all ‘politics’, considers the proposals good. P.A. wanted to borrow my paper to study the account further. Mr Oliver muttered something about ‘only the old insurance racket.’ Lizzie says that the people she lives with turned Beveridge off the radio the other night – the report, they said, was no concern of theirs. They have no interests outside their home.

  My WEA classes are in abeyance.124 The Replanning Britain ones have been postponed on account of lecturer’s illness.

  Entertained two American officers from Wycombe about three weeks ago. Barbara Linnett cycled over with them (met them at the Allied Nations Dance). They brought cane sugar, canned beer, boiled sweets, chewing gun, pop-corn, packets of Philip Morris. We walked them through the Beeches to our ‘lakes’ on the edge of the Common but they were not impressed. We played silly games – Lt Fairman was a great sport and worked very hard to keep us all amused. Then we brought them back to the cottage for tea. They remarked on our English afternoon tea custom, which is unknown in the States. They paid a tribute to the women of England – said that if American women had had to put up with half as much as we have they would have made a terrific fuss. We played silly games and they appeared to enjoy themselves but under it all was a feeling – what? Sort of ‘we are strangers and resented.’ I don’t know how they are received in Wycombe but British provincial people can be abominably hostile to any ‘foreign’ element. I proposed this tea party
weeks ago which made B.L. want to give one herself but her mother said, ‘I’m not having any Americans in my house!’ She was, however, persuaded in the end, and after the one who came had gone she remarked, ‘He is rather fascinating, isn’t he?’

  Thursday, 3 December

  Home early tonight on account of fog.

  Mr G. had me into his office today for an ‘informal chat’. Was told again that we must cut staff to a minimum in order to appease demands from the Ministry of Labour and that as many of our people as possible will be transferred to the Laboratories or other departments. The Government is checking up hard on all extravagance, and preventing as far as possible private firms making plans that would interfere with progressive post-war reconstruction. High Duty Alloys’ plans for development are positively nil, and is obviously hopping with terror at the idea of Government interference. Seems as though if I stay after the changes are made, that my work will be mainly routine and very, very dull. But the job has such potentialities am loath to abandon it now. The cottage is, besides, an overwhelming factor. I’d put up with a lot in order to go on living here in spite of domestic problems. Purely selfish, as P.A. pointed out the other day when I was ‘on the carpet’ for being late. I was explaining some of my private difficulties and he said, ‘Haven’t you an aunt or sister or something who would come and live with you?’ At which I answered with emphasis that I valued my independence much too much. The outcome of this interview is that I have been granted an hour a week for shopping, allowed only as a rule to married women employees.

  Tonight ate cheese sliced thinly and cooked in margarine with tomato and milk, and pudding made from stale scone and some vile ABC jam sponge cake, soaked in prune juice, mixed with plenty of homemade plum jam and steamed. Jam was beginning to go mouldy: Joan says she has heard of many people’s jam doing likewise, possibly due to wartime proportion of sugar and to it being beet instead of cane sugar. So cold. Fire won’t burn.

  Wednesday, 9 December

  Hughes, Lizzie and Miss Lucas are to be released from Publicity Dept. I shall have a lot more to do, and it looks as though my job will become a lot more interesting. I shall be working as the Head’s chief assistant.

  Sunday, 27 December

  ‘You do not know what Wee Cottage means to me,’ said Nockie. ‘I feel certain you saved my life by having me down at your heavenly home.’ These and other contributions I am vain enough to treasure. I say, ‘Everyone falls for the cottage,’ and Lizzie answers, ‘But you are the cottage!’

  I have reached a point now where I am established as an independent, individual woman, with a definite life of her own, something to share with a man. It does not depend on the cottage, but the cottage is its first flowering.

  A lovely Xmas. Nockie here. Plenty to eat! I roasted a rabbit and some pork, managed to get some mince pies from the village at the last moment and had made an ‘austerity’ Xmas pudding from a recipe in The Listener. I made jelly and custard and stewed some diced fruit. Iced a cake. Received a good number of Xmas cards and presents such as Book Tokens, handkerchiefs, soap, calendars. Fire in the kitchen all three days.

  Sunday, 24 January 1943

  Last night Barbara Linnett gave a party at her house in Wycombe. Thanks to the Americans it was a whale of a party. The Americans I have met are strangers to me in a way the Britisher never is. On the surface they are so much more sharply defined than we are: scintillating, unselfconscious, but I’m not sure that it isn’t the unselfconsciousness of children. There is a naivety about them. Their confidence doesn’t seem to be an adult one, not the confidence of men who have laboured through all the painful process of learning to know themselves. But so far I have only met officers. There is something about the officer class which is trying in all nations.

  I enjoyed that party enormously. It ended up with some terrific rough and tumble kissing games. Barbara managed to find a taxi to help the long-distance people home after midnight. It brought me and Thomas Hughes to Egypt [Wee Cottage]. He had left his bicycle at the cottage to take him back to Slough. He came in quite willingly when I suggested tea, looked at the kitchen stove (he has ideas now for keeping the fire in for long periods), and then we sat in the sitting room talking very easily about – oh, all sorts of things in the usual Tommy manner, i.e. he did most of the talking.

  He eventually came out with the idea of our starting, after the war, a sort of library reference service for industry. Just as High Duty Alloys has its Bulletin giving abstracts from current technical journals and notes and news of anything of importance to the aluminium industry, so might an outside agency work for several industries. Any manufacturer wanting all the available dope on a certain subject has only to phone, and the references are sent to him in a couple of days. It’s an idea with immense possibilities which appeals to me, and I’m flattered beyond measure that he has thought of me. He left at 5 a.m.

  One of the games we played last night was ‘Truths’. Questions shot at me included, ‘Have you ever been in love?’ (From T.H.) Answer: ‘Several times.’ And ‘Are you in love with anyone now?’ Answer: ‘No.’

  Sunday, 21 February

  And now it is Sunday evening, and Nockie has just left and I await the arrival of Thomas to cut an asbestos front for the kitchen stove. I suppose that for as long as I know him I shall have to endure his maddening instability. I wanted him to come before Nockie went and suggested 5 p.m. I am always so damnedly good-humoured to his face about his shortcomings – he’s got into the habit of thinking ‘Jean won’t mind.’ Yet bad temper and nagging wouldn’t do any good. I begin perhaps to know him, but I do not understand him. What the hell should I worry for anyway? What have I to do with a lunatic Irishman? Perhaps he won’t come tonight at all now. Does it please him to be disappointing to his friends continually?

  Wednesday, 3 March (War Diary)

  In the house I manage much better than I thought I should. The chief thing is not to worry about dust in corners. As an article in a recent Housewife explains, many people are discovering that the ‘woman’ can be done without and that the kitchen floor does not look dirty if it is never scrubbed.

  Barbara Linnett bought a Hovis the other day and hugging it to her said ‘If only I had half a pound of butter I’d sit down and eat this now!’

  A cable and airgraph from my brother in Suez this week. He and family all well. Sold his car nearly a year ago owing to number of passes required to get anywhere. Sister in law says prices high. Niece Babs at school in Cairo and happy.

  Monday, 15 March

  This dark and firelit north-facing study. The furniture is old, drab and here for a purpose only, not to be decorative. Books on the table, the desk, the chest of drawers, papers, journals, a pot of Gloy and a box of pins, a trunk behind the divan, my old worn drab toys of childhood, Big Teddy, Little Teddy, Piglet, limp with sawdust pouring from their unpatched sides. A scarlet scarf, a powder box, a silver-topped pot of rouge, lipstick and lotions, an ebony elephant who has lost his trunk, chromium earrings, talcum powder, a tiny cup of dying primroses, a nest of small, brightly coloured wooden bowls which I brought from Russia. I love it. The scene is set for the Bloomsbury garret. Here struggles the young writer, here weeps, here rests the growing woman.

  23.

  Hiduminium Aluminium

  Monday, 21 March 1943 (aged thirty-three)

  A new book with a red cover (promise of passion), and I have to start it with tears. The dream and the hope live on, although one knows one may be wasting one’s time with a ghost. Yet the person is real and one knows him a little better now. The agony is one of frustration and anxiety, and the awful threatening finger of ‘Too Late! And it was your own fault.’ The opportunity missed, the wrong word, the wrong action …

  Last night I lay awake coughing until 5.30 a.m. This morning I visited the doctor, he tapped and sounded me very thoroughly, told me there was ‘nothing to worry about,’ and stuck a piece of adhesive tape marked ‘HCB’ across the top of my shoulder bla
de. I am to go again on Wednesday.

  Thursday, 25 March

  Sky-rocketed by this paragraph in a letter from Nockie, which I just cannot refrain from giving here, although it betrays me irrevocably.

  ‘Things are turning out for you just as I expected. I thought he would be going his own way again. And it will be some time again before he comes round I should think, but not so long as before because his appetite should be a bit more stirred now, even if he is a dilly-dallying, shilly-shallying, unreliable, thoroughly attractive and upsetting Irishman.

  ‘About my giving you advice with regard to the managing of such a highly complex example of God’s work: I think Cleopatra would take a chance on things, and if she made a wrong shot, she’d just have to wait again until the time was ripe again to try another kind of shot.’

  I have no Cleopatranine technique nor can ever hope to have.

  Wednesday, 31 March

  Am asked frequently, what do I do with my evenings? This is what I do. As soon as I get in: light study fire, view mail and collect goods left by tradesman, prepare a meal, make bed, empty hot-water bottle and slop pail, do black-out, eat meal, then possibly write letters, make phone calls, an hour or two’s work on WEA class or war diary, mend some stockings perhaps, clean a pair of shoes, iron a blouse, boil kettles. No dusting or sweeping gets done until the weekend, washing up I attend to perhaps twice during the week.

  Chest X-rayed this afternoon. To know the worst tomorrow.