Thursday, 13 May
My writing gets worse and worse. Partly, I believe, due to the thyroid trouble. At Wexham Hospital in Feb, the doctor there (a new one) decided that after a year’s treatment the gland in my throat should have subsided. I’d been feeling so well – what did it matter? But I was sent again to specialist at Hammersmith and more scans. Radioactive iodine was prescribed, one small initial dose, the next day a massive one. Was warned that I would be highly radioactive for three weeks and must avoid pregnant women, babies and small children. I wondered about the cats, but had a word with the vet who said, well don’t pet, don’t let them get around your neck.
In a few weeks I was right back to palpitations, shortness of breath and no energy. And this blurred vision and seeing double which also afflicts me. Will need more iodine they say.269
Monday, 20 May 1985
Have been trying to salvage what I can from the doomed land behind Flo Cottages. Two double white lilacs, white raspberries, one gooseberry and rosemary have been transplanted to miraculously reclaimed land at back of Wee garden. Two good apple trees are doomed, but I have saved young Coxes and maybe a conference pear, though it’s not looking very happy yet.
This sort of thing is what delights me and makes me feel fulfilled – I am ‘creating’. A slow developer, but now at last coming into full flower. And to discover, you silly young idiots, that sex does not matter!! Shut up, you argumentative, neurotic lot. It doesn’t. One can live a full and joyful life without it and still stay reasonably unshrivelled and unembittered. Believe me!
I plan to withdraw from shop altogether, to have good storage accommodation for book stock, built on old shed site here, and carry on mail-order cat book business from here.
Monday, 5 May 1986
Nearly another whole year gone and I am still as happy – even more so! The other day, meeting Enid R.’s sister Rae in village, she asked tenderly after my health (there has been touching concern for an ailment which has plagued me and mystified medicos since Feb). She said, ‘I was saying to Enid, I think that all people over 70 should be put to sleep!’ She, Enid and I are now all well into the 70s (don’t ask me exactly, I don’t want to know).270 I exclaimed in horror, ‘Oh NO! I don’t want to be put down yet!’
Really, I am enjoying life so much. What a little extra capital can do to one’s ego, so long as one doesn’t lose all control of reasonableness. I have been awake since 3 a.m. looking through mail-order catalogues and by chance came upon ‘shower coats’ in thin nylon which I sought in the stores all last summer. Only £13 each, so woke up properly and have written an order for one each of two different colours and an attractive casual summer dress which seems worth having (three items for £40). This is what I can do now, be self-indulgent though not extravagant. Have just acquired a 14’ screen TV set. The novelty here is not in TV as such – have seen so much of it when with Babs or at Elsa’s and other places – but in having a set of my own which I can control.
I have help in the house and garden now, which makes living easier. It is not just a question of being able to afford today’s high wages, it is knowing the right ‘types’. Dressmaker’s husband is a pensioner, but by trade a jobbing gardener and glad of extra money. He is a stalwart, excellent at rough digging and slashing back shrubs. Cuts back too much sometimes, and would clear garden of all my sedum ground cover if he could.
Domestically an attractive Finn comes one morning a week. Is a meticulous cleaner, and disapproves of all my little ornaments and general untidiness. In spite of years with an English family is difficult to understand. I like her.
All shrubs and trees transferred last year are doing extremely well. My cat book mail-order business is now established in rebuilt garden shed behind kitchen. There is still a lot of sorting and filing to do there.
Delay has been due to my recent affliction. It began with a monstrous tummy upheaval early February. Have never been so shatteringly sick for so long. Think it was due to an extra extra hot curry of my own composing. I got over it in a few days, then tum pains, sickness and diarrhoea began. Pains, acute, continued, until my GP sent me to see surgeon. Was then sent for a massive barium follow-through X-ray, and had blood tests. Was so surprised and delighted when he said he was turning me back to my GP and would prescribe certain medication.
Acute, acute tum pains continued all this while. The tummy rumbles are fantastic – like Niagara Falls plus a crashing thunderstorm.
Lunch, cup of Oxo, half avocado (not quite ripe enough) stuffed with delicious cream cheese I made from sour milk and a little soured cream, chives, garlic crystals and other seasoning. This mixture, on Hovis crackers which Babs brought yesterday, went down very well.
Wednesday, 7 May
This morning a great improvement but only following a ghastly 24 hours of tum pains, acute, sickness and diarrhoea. What caused it all I’m not sure, except for an over-rich aspic jelly stuffed with creamed chicken, cooked veg, hard-boiled egg, soup and wine vinegar. Certainly it all came back at 6.30 a.m.
Yesterday no food at all until very light supper. Only soda water, half cup of milk and soda for lunch, and later Lucozade. This latter really does seem to restore energy.
Saturday, 10 May
Pains again, acute. Why?
Telephone surgery. My own Doc (Salmon) was not there, so had a word with Dr Scott. He came to see me at noon. Very charming and sympathetic. (He has two cats of his own and was flatteringly impressed with Jubie, who would sit on his notes.) He poked tum again (how many times has that poor item been pummelled?), listened to my tale of woe. It really does seem to have been getting worse since new pills started.
Letter from surgeon C. had arrived. He read out relevant bits. Must expect good days and bad days. There is a tendency to a blockage, and because of something connected with the ’84 op, the liver is affected. I want a name for this affliction, as I have a number of neglected cat book customers to whom I must write my apologies and excuses.
Sipping Lucozade. It is marvellous! Read (Strong Medicine by Arthur Hailey in a large-print edition – good story but volume is very heavy), dozed, did one or two easy crosswords. Hot honey and milk, a saucer of rhubarb, a slice of bread and Marmite with a leaf or two of chicory and repeat the medicines. The whole ground floor of No. 2 Flo Cottages is let to a Railway Model dealer who seems to be doing well.
12.30. Dr Scott has just been. Now we know and I would much rather. He said, ‘I am not good at telling lies.’ Nice doc. ‘You’ve had a rough time,’ he says.
There is a little cancer of the liver – spread from the guts, though guts are not re-infected. (Did I note that they had removed cancerous growth and I was assured that they ‘caught it in time’ and that it would not recur there?) Doc wasn’t positive, but there is hope that the liver trouble can be ‘suppressed’ by Prednisolone.271 I want to cure it, to prove it can be cured. Herbalife? Must get back to dear alcoholic Rosalind.272
Meanwhile I go on with the Preds and the other medication to control the sickness and diarrhoea, but must not get too constipated. I’ll fight this, with God’s help.
Did not want any lunch. Dressed and went straight off to garden centre. Bought strips of seedling lobelia, purple alyssum, seed packets and white clematis. Had forgotten pain killers, and pain became so excruciating had to come straight back home, take the pills and lie down for half hour.
Back to village and to see E. She can be sympathetic and supportive on this sort of occasion – no wise cracks, no sneers, no snide remarks. Some helpful suggestions from what she remembers of hairdresser S.’s combat with cancer. S. went into it all in depth, refused surgery and believed in special diet. No red meat, perhaps no meat at all. Alcohol a favourite weapon. (An old friend who lived till she was 90 fought it with whisky, saying ‘I’ve pickled it!’) So when I got home I started again on the gin and tonic. Thank God for alcohol.
Spoke to neighbours B.s. They really distressed. I shall get a lot of sympathy, and must beware getting con
ceited and trading on it.
Also heard from another source that quantities of vitamin C are good for this.
Wednesday, 14 May
A very satisfactory morning. But first, have embarked on what I hope will be ‘the cure’. Knowing my need in particular now for herbs, vitamins etc have twice this week visited Health Food Shop (on Sunday dug out Gayelord Hauser’s Live Longer; Look Younger – this inspired me to further research).273 And found Brenda Kidman’s A Gentle Way With Cancer. Based largely on the findings of the Bristol Cancer Help Centre, you may, dear Reader, study it for yourself, unless of course you have the sense to know it and what it’s all about.274
To start with: A rigorous veg diet. No meats, fish, poultry, dairy products: eggs, cheese, butter, margarine cream; salt, sugar, tinned or processed foods. How dreary that sounds. But there are delicious substitutes if you work at it. As much fresh green salads, raw vegs, pulses, grains, nuts, fruit, brown rice and so on. I am having an adventurous and exciting time planning menus. I have been conditioned to all this anyway – wholemeal bread and unrefined sugars – for years. I’ll beat this vile disease! Doc approves wholly of my attitude. ‘Don’t give in: think positive.’ Salads and fruit I have always enjoyed, and see now what opportunities my loved little garden will provide. Also, I have no lusty, greedy husband, children or grandchildren screaming for meat, sweets and junk food.
It is all immensely heart-warming. Drinks are available of assorted herb teas; unsweetened fruit juices are readily available in the village. Am also allowed two glasses of white wine or spirits daily. Anne Coote telephoned this a.m. I told her, of course, the full sad story, and confessed to longing for champagne. Believe it or not she rushed in later with a half bottle of Moet & Chandon.
Thank you, thank you God. Grant me confidence without conceit, humility without servility.
Saturday, 17 May
A glorious early summer day yesterday – basked in sun all p.m. At 3.30 p.m. E.J. and Josephine called. This was a great delight as have been wanting E. to come for weeks to see garden and new arrangements. Jos also I much wanted to see, hoping that I may be able to persuade her to come and help me with filing, now piling up horrendously.
Awake this a.m. at 3. Did easy crosswords. Brought breakfast back to bed (grapefruit puree and molasses with hot water, half grapefruit and honey) and renewed h.w. bottle. Bliss. Relax and doze and plan.
This p.m. P.D. has promised to come and help with liquidiser and blender. Now I need them.
Tomorrow I want to do the garden path border, where dying bulbs need feeding, and growing everlasting pea must be staked with bamboo sticks. Can’t leave this to gardener – he’ll be wanting to chop leaves off bulbs. This p.m. shall try a veg roast.275
Thursday, 22 May (final entry, Journal 45)
I did so enjoy yesterday. After two more grim days in bed with acute pains etc and starvation diet, Babs came. It was pouring, so no gardener, but was feeling better and she took me into Slough.
Had not been since Jan., and I badly needed small repair to new portable typewriter, stationery from W.H.S. and to explore Boots Food Centre products. We achieved it all, she carried all the heavy loads, and we were home by 2 p.m. I felt really hungry and not at all overtired. She had brought her own sandwiches and would have nothing from me. And champagne! This does me a lot of good. Sun came out. She helped with more chores and went back at 3.30. Bless her!
I had to get a letter and sketch map and list to dealer D.D. who is visiting the cat book stock on Sat, and wanted to catch 4.30 post at nearby mailbox. In pops neighbour M.K. for a chat, then the two R.s to enquire. All delightful, but I was in a fidget. However, they had gone by 4.15 and I just managed to get letter scribbled and posted in time.
Then rest, rest and lazy sun-filled evening. I have had a lot of visitors.
‘I am in heaven. I am in love.’ Jean and friends walk away from Wee Cottage.
Epilogue
Jean died ten weeks later in a local nursing home. She was cremated on 21 August 1986 at Slough Crematorium, and her ashes scattered beneath a flowering rose bush planted for her brother Leslie. When I visited in January 2015, a grey Sunday, the ashes were geology. I placed a stone in the garden, a Jewish tradition that usually helps mark a gravesite, but also suggests that the deceased has not been forgotten.
There are different types of ashes, of course. Jean’s journals and papers serve as their own remarkable memorial. They do not ‘rot away, unread’ as she feared, but instead provide an extraordinary social document. I think Jean Pratt has come closer than most in the twentieth century to record the emotional disarray of a single mind, and the affecting life of a single woman. The achievement is an art beyond value.
I have found three brief obituaries. Bookdealer magazine, a weekly to which she subscribed, ran a piece on its front page. ‘Despite being a very private person, her interests were many and varied,’ the article stated, before listing some of them – her local parish duties, her art group, her garden and her cats. There was a description of her architecture and journalism training, and her time at High Duty Alloys during the war. ‘Friends and fellow dealers remember Jean Pratt for her consideration, straightforwardness and great kindness. She will be sadly missed.’
The other two were from local papers. One, entitled ‘Death of Bookshop Owner’, noted that ‘She ran a worldwide book order service from the shop in the Broadway, and soon became the largest supplier of specialist cat books in the country.’ The second, headlined ‘Tributes to a Cat Lover’, observed ‘Her enthusiasm was not restricted to the printed page, and at one time she kept 13 cats in her cottage. Lady Anne Coote, who worked for Miss Pratt for many years, recalled how many American and Canadian cat lovers would make a special detour to The Little Bookshop when they visited England. She said, “She was a very private person.”’
In editing her writing, I have tried above all to be true to the variety of her concerns and the depth of her struggles. To avoid an endless river of ellipses I have not usually indicated where I have made excisions. My main changes have been grammatical. You may have noticed a fondness in Jean’s writing for the dash – her thoughts seemed to dart around so swiftly at times that orderly presentation just went out of the window – and some of these I have turned either into commas, colons or full stops to smooth the read. And I have also removed a great many exclamation marks (as she tended to use them a great deal!!).
I had a decision to make about the felines. I’d never dare admit it in Jean’s presence, but after a while one cat’s antics was very much like another cat’s antics (at least in the journal). At one stage one would have required a detective to keep track of them all, in the cottage as on the page, so I have lost a great deal of their fur-balling and temerity and impressive range of calamities. To her credit, Jean appreciated the hoary cliché of the spinster with only feline company, and in her last years I think she played up to it. I can only hope that I have given full weight to the love she had for her companions, and the howling loss that accompanied each passing.
Babs Everett, whom Jean recalled being born, is now in her eighties. She cannot remember as much about her aunt as her aunt has recorded about her, but her final days are vivid. ‘Just towards the end of Jean’s life she came and stayed with us for a week to ten days as she was not able to look after herself. She then returned to Wee to be collected by ambulance to be taken to a nursing home where she spent the last days of her life. She was in a lot of pain as the cancer had spread throughout her body.’
Babs was pleased that her journals were finally being published. ‘I was never privy to her private life. She was a kind and gentle Aunt who had to put up with me for the Christmas and Easter school holidays.’ She remembers having a bath in the kitchen ‘with the cats sitting round the rim scooping up water with their paws. Thankfully no one ever fell in. A hinged wooden board came down over the bath to become the kitchen table.’
‘A little story you might like was when Leslie went to vis
it his sister in boarding school taking a box of chocolates for her. They sat in the school grounds talking and Jean ate the whole box never offering him any. He then told her she was a pig and would call her Piglet after A.A. Milne’s stories. She replied, “Right, I shall call you Pooh with very little brain.” The names stuck and I and my children always called her Aunty Piglet. I think she rather liked being called that.’
All gone now, of course: Spong the grocer, Lund the hardware shack, Mrs H. at The Bon Bon. The Methodist chapel, The Little Bookshop’s onetime neighbour in the Broadway, is still there but dilapidated. Her first, tiny, shop has been subsumed by Tesco Metro, while the second was most recently Sherriff Mountford estate agents, but is, at the time of writing, empty and to let. Opposite is Costa Coffee, where I meet Judy Tipping, Farnham Common’s local historian. Judy was born in the village in 1940, the year after Jean moved in. Peter, the garage owner from whom Jean bought several cars, was her uncle. She remembers Jean as a rather prim, school-mistressy sort, a bun on the nape of her neck, ‘but not standoffish at all, would talk to everyone. She liked to joke. I wouldn’t say she was a typical spinster.’ She remembers there were usually cats in the shop, something Jean never recorded. Tipping also remembered that Jean was quite terrible at parking her cars.
I had first met Tipping about ten years before, when I had come to talk to the Farnhams Society about Jean’s appearance in the Mass Observation archive. After the meeting I was approached by a man who said he was a regular visitor to The Little Bookshop. He was also dyslexic, he said, and would be forever grateful to Jean for helping him learn to read.
Wee Cottage still exists, deep in the woods. Its present owners, a professional couple and their daughter, point out the extension built since Jean departed, and wondered at how cramped it must have been when she had guests. Inevitably, they have questions: what did Jean write about the cottage? What did she do there for almost fifty years?
A Notable Woman Page 65