Dear Mr Bigelow
Page 6
tonsillitis,
neuralgia down the r.hand side of my face,
fibrositis down the left of my head and neck,
abscesses in both ears,
insomnia,
and a hangover without benefit of spree
or I have a nice case of something or other not yet diagnosed. My boss is due back today, and I dragged myself down about ten o'clock hoping he'd catch the early train and be back so that I could go home immediately after lunch. Alas, it is only twenty minutes to five o'clock now and there's no sign of him so I don't know quite what to do – for to do another 14-hour day is quite out of the question. I do think four 14-hour days in a row is enough. I get home about 10.45, have supper in bed; toss and turn and count money, check tickets, deal with complaining customers, count some more money, check some more millions of tickets, add up and subtract, and generally have a very busy night until about three o'clock in the morning when I sleep. Breakfast is at quarter to seven, and after that is over and I am washed and dressed (not, I will admit, quite in my right mind this week) I go off to work and repeat the whole thing again.
Do you think I could be overworked, Mr B.? I certainly intend to hint so, when and if my boss turns up. Trouble with that man is that when the summer ends and we sink back exhausted he's full of plans for extra staff here there and everywhere to help us in the summer. When the spring comes along, he's forgotten last year and cheesepares as merrily as ever.
I finished South Wind one day over the weekend, I think. As I don't (yet) know Capri I can't compare the picture Norman Douglas paints of the island with the reality, but I should imagine it was a brilliant portrait if you take out the volcanic soil stuff and the smelly fountains. The characters were brilliantly drawn; and the arguments were brilliantly thought out, and I loathed the whole lot of 'em.
. . . This is a depressing and depressed letter, and I'm going to stop it this instant. Don't feel too sorry for me when you get it, for I shall probably be jumping the moon again by then. I hope you are well and busy with the yachts and the sunshine and the gay breeze.
Very sincerely,
Frances Woodsford
BOURNEMOUTH
June 30th 1951
Dear Mr Bigelow,
Work, work, nothing but work. And last week I was miserable because there was nothing to do but read with one eye (the other being buried in pillows and hot-water bottles) or feel miserable. So this week I have been miserable at work, for a change – one of the deepest down depres-sions, in which only two things prevented me throwing myself off the end of the pier. One, I can swim. And two, I think four pence is too much to pay to go on our trumpery pier, still in bits where they blew it up to stop the Germans using it in 1941.
My doctor allowed me to go back to work on Monday, at my earnest request, but forbade long hours or hard work for a bit. Today, therefore, is the first time this week I am doing evening duty, so my absence last week did somehow or other frighten my dear boss, since he is being so careful of my health this week! Needless to say, he didn't say it was nice to see me back. Nor, in fact, did he say anything except blow me up for writing what he thought was too friendly a note to thank the cashiers for the flowers they sent me. Apparently he can have a bit of slap and tick-le with them when the mood takes him, but I must always stand aloof, Olympian and Awful (in the original sense of that word) and, in short, give a good impersonation of a mid-Victorian Overlord. I was so mad I nearly burst into tears and went straight home to my doctor to ask him to take back his permission!!
Instead, I went to my own office and had a small weep. Just as I was blowing the old nose (my head being wrapped in a white wool scarf to keep out possible draughts) a woman I know walked in to ask if she might have a Turkish Bath and send her ticket in by post, as she had left her book of tickets at home. She looked a bit oddly at me, so I murmured something about an abscess . . . . . . hurting . . . . . . . bit run down . . . . . . and so on, and, to turn the subject, remarked on how very nautical she looked. 'Oh, my dear, yes,' she replied. 'I was all ready to go out on the yacht, when I stepped on the scales – and my dear, the most awful thing – I'd put on two pounds!! So I said to myself, "It's no good – I must give up the yacht today. I must get rid of that weight."' So, at great self-sacrifice, there she was to get that weight taken off by hot air and other people's efforts. Apparently she has taken up the canasta craze, and my dear, we sit and play on each other's terraces, in the sun, from about three o'clock until seven every day. My dear, it is simply lovely – you've no idea – and then you go home and are all ready for your dinner. But you see, all her friends supply tea and little fancy cakes to eat, and this dear lady isn't used to taking anything to eat with her afternoon tea (I suspect the effort of having to order them from the cake-shop would be too much for her frail strength) hence the extra two pounds.
. . . What a horrible mess the Socialists are making of this Persia affair! People of all kinds here are feeling disgusted. I daresay it's right in a way to say we have no rights in another's country; and that we exploit them for a profit; that they are entitled to nationalise their own resources. But are we right in letting them when so obviously they are doing it for the benefit of a few (or possibly for the benefit of a country they dislike as heartily as we do) and not for the many? As far as I can make out, the only people who will do well out of the Persian oil are a) the Sheiks etc., on whose land oil was found, and who get royalties, b) the Government and their friends, and c) the Persians who happen to work for the Oil Company and get housed, fed, and given hospital treatment as part of the company's universal methods. One paper, quoting a Persian employee of Anglo-Iranian the other day, said that he remarked he wouldn't believe in nationalisation of oil until his wages were two weeks overdue.
And today, when we have sent a cruiser to the spot, and Morrison has at last said the refinery would shortly have to close because of lack of storage space, the Persians seem to be getting a bit of sense. But why wait until now? It may well be too late.
On the other hand, the news from Korea seems to be a little brighter. I wonder if the Russians have other trouble-making elsewhere in mind, and wish to clear Korea off their plate before stirring up mud somewhere else. I also cannot help wondering what General MacArthur would think if the war in Korea comes to an end without the bombing of Manchuria etc. I hope he will be big enough to be glad not to have any more bloodshed.
Rereading up to here, I think possibly I should have added
d) the Oil Company
to my list of people who get benefit from the Persian oil-wells! I have an uncle who is an executive in the Anglo-Iranian, with fingers in a lot of other oil pies, and I gather from things he says that the oil companies (though he considers they are sitting birds for whoever likes to hold them up for a bit more in royalties) don't have to raid the petty-cash box for odd pennies.
Oh – news. I'm afraid General Jackson has been demoted, and renamed. In the local newspaper this week was an article about the cat at the Winter Gardens, who was being called upon to take part in an opera which was being presented there this week. The cat had to sit on a brick wall at the back of the stage, for how long I do not know. Well, on Wednesday I got a message from the Pavilion to say that I needn't expect Jackson over to see me this week, because he was far too busy. The Winter Gardens cat got stage-fright, so they sent Willie (Irving) Jackson and he was such a success in the part he was given two dinners each night he performed, with the Pavilion Supervisor waiting in the wings to escort him to No. 2 dinner. He turned up on Thursday morning (Thursday night being the concert night, his presence would not be wanted) and told me all about it, and how very simple it was to act on the stage when, like him, you had been brought up in the theatrical atmosphere of a large theatre!
And now I must do some work.
Very sincerely,
Frances Woodsford
BOURNEMOUTH
July 7th 1951
Dear Mr Bigelow,
To show you the ol
d ego is back to normal, here is an anecdote culled from the latest autobiography. Written by the head of Cassells, the publishers, the book is crammed full of memories of Victorian figures in literature, and extremely good reading.
The author writes of a friend, a doctor, who, when he was a student, used to ride to hospital on a horse-drawn bus, and paid the driver a shilling a week for the privilege of riding up in front with him. One day, as they were jogging down Holborn, the driver suddenly thrust the reins at this student and told him to carry on. The driver took a bit of string out of his pocket, and as the westbound bus came up to them, dangled it in front of the other driver's face. The second driver there-upon burst into a scream of abuse and obscenity.
The westbound bus passed, and the eastbound driver put his length of string back into his pocket, and took back the reins. Of course, the medical student couldn't bear it, so he asked why the string had such an effect on the other man.
'Ah,' retorted the driver, ''e ain't got no sense of 'umour. They 'anged 'is old man at Newgate this mornin'.'
Having got that horrific tale off my chest (I thought it would appeal to you, since the protagonists are all well and truly dead and therefore do not call, quite so much, for our sympathy!) thank you for your letter which came this morning, and for the snapshot of Victoria Regina of Bellport and her betrothed, the Rev. Eros. As to both looking as though they'd swallowed the canary, I can't say, but they did look a bit pleased, as though to say, 'Ah – got him!' or her, as the case may be. Betty Dall doesn't, in appearance, at all resemble the 'average' American girl; she has far too adult a set of features – so many Americans have snub noses all their lives, which are all right in extreme youth but a bit out of place as one grows older. I speak from experience. I can't pass comment on the Rev. Godfrey because I just can't see his face for his grin!
. . . My brother went to Wimbledon last Saturday. He is a very unimpressed young man, my brother, but he came back raving – not about Beverley Baker's legs; not about Miss Chaffee's chic outfit; not even about the tennis – but about Queen Mary!! Her complexion; her hair; the colours she wore; the beauty of her turnout (even if it is a bit out of date!); the exquisite care with which she timed her entrances and exits, so as not to interfere with the players in the least. She is a remarkable lady, held partly in awe, partly in affection by the English people. Rather more in affection now, as she gets older.
You'll have to hurry with your boat if you want to get in with the first swing of yachting. Or is the bottom-scraping, caulking and painting already done, and only the rigging to be put right? When we lived at Westcliff – a very pleasant residential suburb of the seaside town of Southend, right where the Thames joins the North Sea – the seafront (about six miles in length) was always edged during the winter with beached yachts. Around Easter, the smell of paint and tar and oil was terrific, and we all used loyally to pretend it was attar of roses and oh, ever so good for us.
. . . My brother (I am reminded above) put a pair of tennis shorts across the back of a chair about three weeks ago, and asked loudly if somebody would mend them – the edges were torn and ravelled [sic] and had already been adjusted once, to hide the first lot of torn edge. Mother and I eventually went into Committee and decided they were beyond help, and Mac would just have to belie his name and buy a new pair. We conveyed this decision to him. Sunday afternoon I heard him ask plaintively where was the key to my sewing-machine. I said sweetly, 'In the tray of my needlework box', and produced it for him. Next I heard him asking how you worked the machine, so I went in, looked at it, and said, 'Well, first of all you take off the lid and then you lift the machine off the floor onto the table and you find it much easier that way.' I gave him cotton, just to be co-operative, and he settled down quite happily to lift up the machine, look at it, put it back, put the lid on backwards and mend the shorts by hand!!! Since then he has told Mother twice, and me three times, how nice his shorts look. I can imagine they must be as short as those minute things little French boys wear! All because he won't spend about two dollars on a pair of ex-Naval shorts – he only wants them to wear when his others are being washed. And, do you know, Mr B., it isn't until you go back to his great-grandmother that you come to the Scots blood in my brother! Shows how strong the wretched stuff is, doesn't it? Like Scots whisky and their accent. I bought him a new blanket (badly needed) for his bed, and a pair of hand-knitted socks this week. I think he thought the package was, at least, a winter overcoat!! Yes, you're quite right, we do! Spoil him, I mean. I have promised to make him a shirt some time, when I get through with making Mother two jumper-dresses, two short jackets, altering three blouses for her, and making a skirt myself. Shall we say, 1955 for Mac's shirt?
Oh dear, I meant this to be such a superlative letter, to make up for the last two (which have been poor indeed) but it is being written during my third evening spell of duty this week – in patches, between running upstairs to see how the show is progressing, pushing the usherettes along with their preparations for the interval; finding lost people their seats, helping the cashiers cash up, taking peculiar telephone calls nobody else is free to handle . . . I must admit that by now (9.25 p.m.) I am more than ready for home, supper and bed. This year I staged a one-man revolt, and told my boss outright I refused to do evening work unless I could take at least two hours for lunch, so that I could get home and eat in peace and leisure. So I catch the bus about half past twelve, and get back to work on the 2.15 or 2.30 bus (2.30 if I know my boss is going to be late!). And it makes all the difference in the world.
Have a good sail today, and don't tear your spinnaker!
Very sincerely,
Frances Woodsford
PS I have opened this letter to put on two postscripts. One, to tell you that I have a visit today from General Willie Irving Jackson, Esquire, and a message from the Pavilion Supervisor that since his stage triumphs he has become very vain, and when it is sunny, goes out and sits in a pose on a large rock in the Pavilion Rockery where he waits for holidaymakers to admire and photograph him! Secondly, it has only just occurred to me that, instead of being virtuous in writing you on that Friday I felt so ill, I was really being extremely selfish in spreading any germs I might have had – how awful if I really had had polio! I might have infected everybody through the postal services to you and the rest of Bellport. My humble apologies. I am glad I didn't.
BOURNEMOUTH
July 21st 1951
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . On Sunday my fond momma departed for a week's stay with friends, and left Jemima Muggins to look after No. —, brother, and two cats. Yesterday, for example (all the days have been about the same, some a bit worse but none any better) I woke at 4.30 a.m. in order to make certain I was awake at 6.30 to get breakfast. That's the awkward way my sub-conscious has of seeing that I keep my reputation for punctuality. Well, I got up at 6.30, produced breakfast for the cats and for ourselves by five to seven. Lay back in bed and ate my toast and drank my tea, and then up again for good about 7.25 a.m. to wash the dishes, clean up the kitchen (lick and promise) rush around dining room with a duster moving dust from here to there, put up cake in bag for brother's lunch; out at 8.20 to catch the bus to work. Left office at 5 p.m., ran all the way to the square to catch the bus, arrived home at 5.32 p.m., cooked new potatoes and green peas and laid the table, dished up dinner at 5.55 p.m. (special request, as Mac was due to play tennis at six and really wanted his meal about eight only he couldn't get me to co-operate). After dinner, wash dishes, feed cats, scald milk (no ice-box) wash milk saucepans, cool milk; wash milk bottles; replenish dining-room flowers, turn down beds, catch bus to get back to the square by 7.05 p.m. for the Symphony Concert.
I was so exhausted and hot by the time the half-time interval came along I just wilted and went home, where I lay panting for three minutes flat, and then set to work putting the breakfast things ready to hand, and doing some more flowers and tidying. Fell into bed about 11 p.m. and woke up again at four ack emma.<
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And that, Mr Bigelow, is why there just isn't any meat, or other substance, to this letter. There just isn't any to me any more. Today I left a little picture pinned to the front door, looking rather like this, for nobody could be more pleased to see Mother back than her two horrors. Freckles in particular has been firmly turned out of the flat at 8.20 a.m. every morning, and not allowed back until late evening – oh, way past his dinner time and way past his boiling point in temper. The half-cat on the right is Uncle Sam, afraid to come right out in the open . . .
Oh dear, my poor boss! He keeps saying, 'Thank you' this morning – a thing he doesn't normally do once in a blue moon. It's all because I'm cross with him, and he knows I am right to be so – we had a rip-roaring row yesterday. One of the male staff accused one of the women of lying over some trivial matter, and Mr B. and the man came into my office and we all set to. It occurred to me to ask a) why the woman should have lied, since there was no logical reason for a lie (the man had asked when a particular bath was filled with hot water, and didn't believe the woman when she had said 'nine o'clock') or b) why she should be condemned as a liar by both this man and my boss without so much as a hearing.
I, stuck mid-way between staff and boss, get ground into very small pieces at very frequent intervals! It must be quite the same thing as being a bit of coffee bean . . . . . . you get ground up small, and then you still get into hot water.
This is a very poor letter, and the only thing I can do is to see that it doesn't go on being poor any longer.
I'll try to do better next week . . .
Very sincerely,
Frances Woodsford
BOURNEMOUTH
August 31st 1951
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . On the way back to Bournemouth on Monday I had coffee on the train, and a tall man came along and said, 'May I?' as he sat opposite me. Now there isn't much opportunity for an accent in the words 'May I?' so I couldn't tell from whence he came. Two other glum people came and sat at the other seats, and we all sat there glum and silent as English people so often do in a train. The waiter came up and asked, 'Tea or coffee?' We all mumbled, 'Coffee.' I longed to say to the man opposite me (who looked so interesting) 'Excuse me, but I see from the cleanness of your shirt you are an American – would you care to have the recipe for British Railway's coffee? You never know – the Metropolitan Museum of Art might like it. For art it surely must be, it cannot be made this way by accident – not every day, every week, every month of every year.' But I was so shy I didn't say anything and we all finished our mouthwash in the same glum silence we started. The fluid was hot and faintly brown in colour, but other relationship to coffee it had none.