People were wonderful, so many volunteers came forward. It has been trouble for me, a great shaking, but not tragedy, such as has troubled others this year. In January my acting landlord died of a coronary – we were in the middle of negotiations about electricity. Hairdresser friend Surge is threatened with blindness and is fighting gallantly and gaily. And last week the young husband of enterprising young woman in the village committed suicide. Last summer she took on little shop where I started and was making quite a success of good-class ceramics.
Wednesday, 27 April
My dear fairy godmother Drumm died at the end of March and was cremated on 1st April. By her will she has cancelled the mortgage on Florence Cottages and left me her books.
The assessors say that as there was no fire there is no claim. Shall soon be suffering rather more than usual financial embarrassment. Cannot hold out on creditor publishers much longer.
Monday, 19 September
A week ago last Saturday a young man came late in the afternoon and asked if I could give his young brother a job. ‘He’s a bit slow but he loves books. Just left school and we don’t know what to do with him. I don’t mean he’s stupid, but he can’t cope with exams …’
I asked a few questions, hesitated, said I would think about it.
On the Monday, mum arrived with the boy. They live in Beaconsfield, father is a doctor, Mrs is also I think a doctor, eldest son has just left Cambridge where he did splendidly, the youngest has just won a top scholarship to Shrewsbury. All this brain and brilliance has had adverse effect on the middle one. He has a Billy Bunterish face, and with his mother appeared almost idiotic. The whole proposition terrified me. I said I would phone her.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it, something nagged me all day: ‘you’ve got to help, you’ve got to. You’re the one who can.’ I phoned in the evening and said I would take him strictly on trial. Mrs L. nearly burst into tears. He started last Friday. He is a very sweet-natured and good sort of person, but must do things in his own time. All my heart goes out to someone like this. I know their terrors.
I have put him on to filing the catalogues and leaflets, he seems to be very happy doing it. He came with Irene Babbidge’s Beginning in Bookselling from the library, and said he was taking The Bookseller weekly. What a marvellous and fearful thing to think that I may be able to influence his whole future.
Sunday, 11 December
Poor, retarded, abnormal little Ian. We were getting on so well. He came regularly two afternoons a week, was so keen and was beginning to be of real use. Last Wednesday he had a fit and died. He was learning typing and office routine at a school in High Wycombe and it was at that morning class when he was taken. I was told nothing of his tendency to fit until this week, which was perhaps as well. He had been subject to them for the past five years, but had not had one for over a year, and they were hoping the treatment he was having was being effective. A week ago he came to help at the big Olympia Cat Show and I was thrilled to the core with it all – felt he was really a bookseller.
Thursday, 29 December
This morning I bought two new (sale) Jaeger jumpers, a skirt, a saucepan, at John Barnes in the Finchley Road. Lovely, important trivialities. And all the crimes committed, the ghastly bombing of Vietnam, prisoners escaping from our gaols like insects through fishnet, the car maniacs let loose on our roads (the aggressive, thwarted male?), the terrible greed devouring our body politic – all these bad things to depress and bewilder and terrify.
The latest improvement to Wee kitchen, installed three weeks ago, is a formica top to the bath.
Friday, 13 January 1967
In bed, listening to Barbirolli conducting the BBC Symphony Orchestra in Moscow. This is a wonder, a magic of our age. Music transcending political discords. I wonder how many people are listening to it in preference to watching TV? I have no choice, as I have no TV nor want one (except to have seen, for example, the recent Alice in Wonderland). And I would not probably be listening now if a gastric bug hadn’t mysteriously attacked my guts. Everything sliding crudely straight through me. Oh, the tedious washing and changing of bed linen.
Monday, 3 April
At the shop we have at last finished with the Lending Library. For two years or more I doubt if I had five shillings a week from it. This created the wildest crop of rumours. I am closing down altogether, I have sold out, I am taking on one of the proposed new Council shops. ‘And where are you going?’ I have been asked. ‘Are you moving out of the district?’ For years now the Library has taken up no more than one-eighth of one wall. The rest of the shop is stiff with new books and greeting cards – what do these deluded library folk think they are there for? Decoration?
Friday, 2 August 1968
Sixteen months since I wrote in here! The road problem, which has frozen village development for the past 4–5 years, is erupting like some ghastly sickness. An answer has to be found for the increasing traffic that roars and rumbles along the Beaconsfield Road through the two Farnhams (Common and Royal) to Slough daily, and the Authorities have been sitting together weightily in committee and scratching about in drawing offices. Recently I have attended several of these hush-hush meetings and heard their proposals. One monster project threatens to cut through Burnham Beeches from the top of Egypt Lane, passing behind these cottages. The whole idea is diabolical. The county planning dept thinks that this will be the best solution (‘easiest’ and ‘cheapest’) and to my dismay the parish council supports them. There are two other proposed routes. Today, Dr H., a dynamic character in Farnham Royal whose property is, I understand, a direct obstacle in the BB route, phoned to ask when the public were to be let in on these secrets. ‘We behave like sheep. Why do we have to wait and do what we are told by the County? We shall find the whole thing is a fait accompli and it will be too late.’ He may well be right. I hope he will go on agitating.
Sunday, 5 January 1969
The road problem continues to bedevil us. A nightmare of uncertainty and rumours, and no indication from Authority of what the decision may be. Agitation goes on, letters have been written. Meanwhile, I am giving up the work as Parish Council clerk. I am not really a local government type, and while I battled with the work conscientiously, I found it an increasing burden. I had no complaints from the council about my work, but I know I am doing the right thing.
Changes must come in my business too. My tenants want to vacate, and this means that I can take over the front room of their shop to incorporate with mine. Now is my chance. Now or never, I shall not be able to resist the pressure of developers indefinitely, but might evade the issue for another 4–5 years. The possibility that Egypt may be bulldozed for this bloody bypass will not be defeated easily.
Babs and Roy have settled in Surrey – he has a job in London. It is lovely to have them nearer and see something of them occasionally. I spent Christmas Day with them, a big Everett family party, and they have all been over to tea with me today. The children are so sweet. Also, I have very nice new neighbours – an army colonel, now at the Foreign Office, with wife and three school-age children.
Bookselling gets no easier and is less profitable than ever.
Thursday, 3 April
This living instant is joyous and good, compounded of warmth and cooking food and work achieved and a holiday in view tomorrow. There is the memory of yesterday to savour, as sweet and thrilling as the sherry I now sip while fish and chips fry for supper. Babs and the two children and me, touring Mme Tussauds and then the Zoo – in spite of the bitter wind, enjoying every minute of it. Auntie losing all her earlier fatigue and mental stress in the joy and tonic of being with those little, responsive, happy beings. What a wonderful gift they are. ‘Auntie, come and look! Look!’ Pulled by little eager hands, little eager upturned questing faces and mummy smiling at our side. Pearls of great price. And now the boiler alight again after weeks of surly behaviour.
Wednesday, 9 April
Last night I kept waking with a pain o
ver my heart, or where I think my heart is. There has been pain around my diaphragm all day, making breathing uncomfortable. I have not had one cigarette since last night. Have made an appointment to see the doctor on Friday. I do not want to cause embarrassment and inconvenience by dropping dead without warning.
Saturday, 31 May
This time last night I was battling with flood water in the sitting room. The most incredible freak hail storm. I suddenly saw a pool seeping from under the bookcase – thought at first that one of the cats, scared by the thunder and noise of hail, had ‘forgot itself’.
On Wednesday I had tea with Alison Uttley at Beaconsfield. She is to pay a personal visit to the Little B. next Thursday. Great event.
Doctor found my blood pressure normal and nothing whatsoever abnormal with my heart. She sent me for X-ray and blood test. Nothing sinister was to be seen on X-ray, and blood test was 101 per cent. Doctor was very impressed.
Alison Uttley is a spry, interesting woman, still active, and though she ‘has no time for cats’ is witch-like and approachable. I hope I can make her visit to Little B. a success. She must not be made tired by importuning children or too-eager autograph hunters.251
On Monday I attend my first meeting as Parish Councillor. Well what do you know, aren’t I the one.
Monday, 15 September
Important, important local events. I have seen democracy in action, have been part of it, even some influence. This evening at Farnham Royal, The Farnham Villages Association was formed to prevent if it is possible Authority riding over us roughshod with their Bloody Bypass proposals. We are united on the central point that no one wants the road anywhere – East, West or Centre. The essence is that such terrible uprooting and destruction must be proved absolutely necessary, and part of a well-thought-out overall road plan for a very wide area, not shoddy piecemeal planning to alleviate a current congestion. ‘The people’ have a voice and must be listened to.
The Parish Council has had nothing to do with this evening’s work and I am ashamed of them. I have never been at such a huge local public meeting, people standing two-deep round the walls. The last thing I remember is DS strung about with tin collecting boxes, like modern jewellery, at the hall entrance as the public streamed out, stuffing in notes and coins.
Sunday, 21 September
One sinks from last week’s elation. There is so much division and selfishness underlying our moment of unity. All we are really united on is that The Road shall not interfere with or destroy any of our own personal lives and property. Many of the village people bawl, ‘Let it go through the Beeches!’ Those who are ruled by it will slaughter the soul for expediency. I do pray with all my heart that just now and then … some things of the spirit must grow and be encouraged to grow.
Saturday, 4 October
The County meeting last night. A shocking affair. Chairman of the Planning Committee, the County Surveyor, the County Clerk, a Planning Officer and the County Architect. They were there, we know, to listen, to receive public views, and not to make any decisions. But at least they might have answered some of the decisions hammered at them from every part of the hall. They evaded, shuffled, mumbled. Obviously their tiny minds are determined and dried on the Eastern fringe route of the Beeches. ‘We are here to note your views, we shall make notes of what you all say.’ Yes, and then what? Everyone today was speaking of it as a perfectly disgraceful exhibition.
Tuesday, 6 January 1970
Car starts perfectly. Have I recorded the advent of Jolly Morris? Poor old Anglia failed its MOT in July, more money found, and eventually invested in 1964 Morris 1000 Traveller. At end of November during frightful cold spell, when roads were like glass, a Humber slid into me, crumpling the whole near side.
Saturday, 10 January
Angela with me this afternoon. She is 18, and has given spasmodic help on Saturdays for the past four-and-a-half years. Very tall and mini-skirted, casual, but loyal. A type I enjoy, and we are very pleasantly rude to each other. I think she is attractive, but her height makes her self-conscious. At the moment she has a crush on N.G., a young local artist who does picture framing as a sideline, and for whom the Little B. has been an agent since the summer. He is quite the opposite of the modern beatnik longhaired type, a clean-shaven, fair, handsome normal young man of ’30s era. Angela drools over him and I suspect her present faithfulness to the Little B. is because there is a chance he may come in on Saturday.
Sunday, 18 January
I must write to Kay M. and see if I can move her into action about selling Wee. (Solicitor says, in view of road situation, it would be to my advantage to own the freehold.) The Farnham Villages Association seems to be going from strength to strength. As far as we know there is to be a Public Enquiry about the road in the summer, when the Association plans to employ a QC to put their case.
Monday, 27 April
I should like to get sodden, sherry-warm, but there is little sherry left and I cannot afford more. Yesterday I drove without trouble to spend the day with my young family. Sue (it was her 13th birthday) was at school, and after a gorgeous Sunday lunch we went to Bramley and took her out to a luscious fresh watercress tea.
I was contemplating writing to K.M. but I received a letter from her before I got round to it, to say she had at last decided to let me buy Wee if I wished. As far as I know, our solicitors should now be negotiating.
Letter from beloved brother Pooh, the first for months. He has had an eye cataract removed and is progressing splendidly.
Wednesday, 29 April
Group 13 discussing proposed exhibition at lunch today.252 I still tag along as honorary treasurer, and have long wanted them to display some of the work they have achieved over the last 7 years or so, which no one but ourselves know of. Enid R. might be able to persuade John Snagge to come and open.253
Liz has produced the most marvellous abstract painting – it is full of feeling and has lost all the hard lines and shapes which are imposed on her other work.
Friday, 1 May
Mrs V.N. came in this morning. She thinks that Liz’s abstract betrays great psychological disturbance, that she may be on the edge of a nervous breakdown. I wonder if she could be right. My poor Liz! She had flung what must have been a whole tube of pure cadmium red in a great billowing bar across the picture, diagonally branching at one end in a cruciform. ‘That red is a very bad sign,’ said Mrs N. ‘All that dripping paint.’
It was a great explosion against a turmoil of darker colours, a wound exposed, a great release. I still think it is a gorgeous picture.
Thursday, 5 May
Angela in again this afternoon, pale as death. The firm she was working for were money-lenders, and every one of them has been arrested by the police this week for various shady deals. The police picked her up last night and questioned her at the station until 3 a.m., but she was able to convince them she knew nothing of what was going on. She has eaten nothing for days, and fainted twice yesterday.
Thursday, 23 July 1970
General Election has come and gone, shocking us all rigid when Tories were returned. I supported the Liberals as usual, and for the same reasons, trusting neither of the large parties and sick to death of Wilson and his braggart mob. Now we have a dock strike threatening the country with disaster.254
For good or ill I must record what now follows. At the end of May, I went to National Health oculist to have routine check-up. For some time I have been troubled by fuzzy vision, particularly noticeable when driving. Cannot read the smaller road signs and directions, letters are all a blur, disconcerting when trying to find one’s way in new territory. Oculist maintains it is due to cataract which I have had in right eye for years, making it virtually useless. All the work has been done by the left. Specialist at Windsor thinks I should have the right eye dealt with. It will mean two months completely off work. I told the specialist that my business would fall apart if I couldn’t be there, but this won me little sympathy.
And then a wee
k ago last Sunday, Lydia appeared. We went into the sitting room for a good gossip and glass of wine, and when I told her I might have to have a cataract operation she said, ‘You must go to George Chapman.’
If you don’t know to whom I refer, dear reader … George Chapman is a medium for the spirit doctor M. Lang. I am to see him (Lang) on Sept 29th. In the meantime I correspond with the medium and am being given Distant Healing.
Sunday, 2 August
Tired but triumphant after long hot day at Cat Show selling cat books. Friday afternoon was torture driving to Westminster, tensed up, hot, doing all the wrong things, taking wrong turnings, being cursed at by pigs of men in huge cars (though I insult pigs by the comparison). A sweet young policeman flagging me to a standstill because I had entered a strip sacred to buses only in Vauxhall Bridge Road: I had seen no notices whatsoever. ‘Just drive more carefully in the future’ – as though I had bumped into the back of the bus I was in all innocence only following.
Thursday, 29 October
I have met and received a psychic operation on my eyes from Dr Lang. Four weeks he said it would take for the cataracts to dry and wither away. But I do not know, cannot be definite yet.
K.M. has accepted my offer for Wee, and bank manager has promised to grant a loan to cover the amount. A step or two nearer, and of course still in legal hands.
Tuesday, 29 December
I am a little drunk with sherry. I have had two stupid little bumps with the car within the last week. No lives endangered, no person even scratched, only wings dented, a backlight smashed. I know of nothing which arouses male aggression and fury so much as a car incident.
Wee. Contracts have been exchanged. I have sent deposit. Purchase completion date is Jan 17th.
Eyes. Are better. Certainly no worse. I am in fact sure I am seeing more with my right eye than I ever did.
Two bright stars illuminate this mid-winter darkness. Last week I sold Krishnamurti’s The Only Revolution to a young man who had seen him on television. My young customer’s face lit up. ‘I must lash out on this!’ It is the sort of thing that makes bookselling so rewarding. And tonight in greengrocer’s, a girl said, ‘Congratulations on your choice of books!’
A Notable Woman Page 61