I am, Sir, yours etc.,
Whereupon the subject has been dropped, it being really shooting sitting birds to take pot shots at the Min. of Food over this point. I will give them credit for one thing – they have taken sweets off ration this week, high time too, instead of waiting (as I suspect the Socialists would have done) to release them for the Coronation, with a big splash. And now that I can eat chocolate until I feel sick, I feel too sick (dentist) even to start. What a world!
Yours in a deep depression,
Frances Woodsford
BOURNEMOUTH
February 14th 1953
Dear Mr Bigelow,
Hurrah! I got two fillings done for the price of one bilious-attack. Not being able to bear standing around the house doing nothing but think for one moment longer, I accidentally caught an earlier bus than usual, and arrived in the Town Square at 8.30 a.m., with half an hour to waste and a five-minute walk to waste it in.
So I walked through the Pleasure Gardens, and never were so many shrubs so thoroughly examined as they were on Monday morning. In spite of this, and despite talking to every cat I met on its morning parade, I still arrived at the dentist's at six minutes to nine. His nurse was still struggling into her white coat, but at least the waiting room was warm and there were magazines to look at. But no, Mr Samson has returned to live in the lovely flat over his offices, and hearing I was already there, he popped down on the instant and got to work, so that by 9.15 when the next patient was due, two teeth had been drilled, filled and declared saved for the time being. After that, it shouldn't be so bad . . .
Last night I attended, in an icy hall in an icy evening, my first lecture on Civil Defence, and now I have no worry at all about the future. The day war breaks out I shall just simply die of fright. All my little problems will be solved, just like that. Actually, the lecturer made everything seem quite simple. Nobody asked any questions except, of course, me. I said, 'You have described how to deal with an ordinary fire-bomb on an upstairs floor; you smother it with a wet sack and spray water on the edges of the sack – not directly onto the bomb. Well, how do you stop it burning its way through the floorboards into the room beneath?' The lecturer said, 'You don't.' Easy as all that. Of course, we gathered that that was just a little ordinary fire-bomb without any explosive gadgets, and not a phosphorous one or an oil bomb nor an atomic bomb (nobody mentioned hydrogen) . . .
Yesterday I went to buy some more turpentine for my painting, and as I came away one of the attendants in the shop rushed up and said, 'How's it going?' He's rather sweet – every time I go in he comes up to ask what progress I am making, and when this time I told him I had finished 'six masterpieces' I'm sure he was as pleased as me! Then I went to the post office to send Rosalind a cable for her birthday, and found to my dismay that the old cheap night-letter-rate no longer applies, and the cable was a very expensive mode of communication. I wouldn't have sent it at all but for the dock strike in New York which might have delayed the present I had sent, so I wanted at least something to arrive for the day . . .
Hope you remain well and happy.
Sincerely,
Frances W.
BOURNEMOUTH
February 21st 1953
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . Today – it's Friday today – a letter came from Rosalind which at last disclosed her plans for a trip to Europe this year. She just couldn't have chosen better dates, so far as I'm concerned, for she arrives at Southampton on a Saturday, which I intend taking off in order to meet her and escort her to London. And she leaves on a Friday, and if the ship sails after midday I shall be able to rush up to Southampton (taking Friday as a half day because I would be working all Saturday that week) and wave a damp pocket handkerchief from the dock. She says she is coming to Bournemouth 'for a night and a day', so already I am trying to organise a month's sightseeing and entertainment into one day and one night. You hustling Yanks!
Just like the English – to say 'No, it can't be done'. I decided to escort Rosalind up to London on the boat train, and telephoned a local travel agent to ask how I got a ticket. They were highly amused, and horrified, in about equal parts, that anybody should even consider such a thing permissible. So I stuck out my lower lip and got to work, determined to go on that boat train if I had to ride the rails on it. Eventually, I got on to some department or other at Southampton Railway, and they said of course I could go, just buy a ticket in the Dock Shed. Oh, they said as an afterthought – I'd have to get a permit to go into the docks in the first place, did I know? I said yes I did know but that the last time I had met somebody I'd got into the docks on the strength of a beaming smile only. 'Oh yes, that helps; but bring a Pass as well,' said the man the other end. So now I am all set, and there is only a little matter of several weeks to get through before the Great Day . . .
Well, my brother has at last made up his mind. He will take the new job offered him. The glint of money was too much for him, poor soul . . . He is now Deputy Children's Officer, which is quite a step up from being a Committee Clerk, putting him second-in-command of a Department as it does. Of course, come to think of it, I suppose I'm second-in-command of the Baths Department, but nobody thinks anything of that, as it isn't official and it's only in the salary line that it shows up. And, being female, I have to be so very, very careful not to tread on the corns of sundry Engineers, Foremen and suchlike temperamental creatures . . .
I am deep in another biography, this one of Whistler. At this distance, and safely out of reach of his acid tongue, I find Whistler's rudenesses most amusing. Especially did I laugh at the account of his being asked by a very rich man to go around his picture gallery and give his opinion on the collection. Whistler accordingly was taken around the gallery, and at each picture he said, 'Amazing!' all the way round. At the end, he added to his terseness by saying, 'Amazing – and not even an excuse for it, either!'
I'm very sorry, but I can't write any more this morning. For some reason or other I feel most depressed, and my thoughts keep flying to troubles and worries and miseries. Perhaps it is a combination of staff troubles . . . and the misery of Civil Defence lectures, during which the students laugh now and then but merely as a form of nervous release. And the weather is enough to depress the Empire State Building – you may have had a fine, mild winter, and I believe Scotland has, too. But what you've left over in the way of horror has been heaped upon England with a vengeance, ever since the bathing belles got frostbite at the end of last August.
Pah! I shall go out and buy a bunch of daffodils on my way home, just to pretend spring is here and make us all feel better . . .
Very sincerely,
Frances Woodsford
BOURNEMOUTH
March 7th 1953
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . Two extracts from my collection of Mother Woodsford Whimsies this week; first, I asked her how her new teeth were getting along, and Mother answered, 'Oh, they're just fine, I wear them all the time except for eating.' Second, when I heard dimly this morning the radio announcement of Stalin's successor, and sleepily thought the name began with a B (I was thinking Beria, head of the police) and called out, 'Who was that Mother?' 'Oh, Vishinksky, dear, I expect,' said Mother cheerfully. Presumably that was the only Russian name she could remember offhand, but I must say it doesn't sound very much like Malenkov, even to Mother's ears.
I don't know about you, Mr Bigelow, but I felt a sudden feeling of gladness when the first radio announcement of Stalin's stroke was heard, followed a little later by a smaller feeling of self-revulsion that I should feel glad about anybody else's misfortune, even somebody as evil as Stalin. There's no need for me to be horrible merely because he was. I wonder what will happen if there is another world, and it is one in which we are cognisant of our life on this one, and recognise our faults and mistakes? Won't Stalin be taken aback? I wish we could always keep the faith we have so strongly as children. Mother likes telling of the time I was reprimanded for kicking my way delightedly
through piles of autumn leaves (slightly wet and probably muddy) and said cheerfully, 'It's a good job the Lord Jesus isn't here today. He would think it a mucky place.'
The latest copy of Holiday arrived this morning, just as I was getting out of bed. So I only had time to turn to Toni Robins's page on 'Lingerie for Travelling' and gape at the slips and nightwear. There was one – no doubt you turned over the page hurriedly, so you won't remember it and I shall therefore insist on describing it – very fitting underslip, with an enormous frill around the bottom of embroidered nylon, which looked good enough to wear outside the dress. Either that, or one should become a Wicked Woman in order to give other people the benefit of looking at such pretty things. So I sighed and put the book down, moved the cat sufficiently to crawl out of bed, and the day had start-ed. As I put on my slip I stepped over and looked at it in the mirror, and I looked something like this:
I will admit it was a gift some two Christmases ago and I thought the other day I really ought to wear it a bit before it falls to pieces with old age and lack of use. Besides, this way I am giving my nylon slips (very plain, but very serviceable) a much-needed rest. If ever you see a blue banana, you can give a small gasp and walk up to it and say, 'Why, Miss Woodsford, I wouldn't have recognised you!'
. . . Civil Defence lectures progress from bad to worse. Last week we were given a horrific booklet on Atomic Warfare, and this week, before I'd got over that, we had 'Chemical Warfare', and next week I am warned we get 'Bacteriological Warfare'. Perhaps they will finish up with the Technique of Mass-Grave Digging. Life promises to be most complicated; last night we were told what to do in a gas attack. The main things are, put on the victim's gas mask (or your own), get out of the contaminated area pronto, strip off all clothes, hose-pipe down, put on fresh clothes and Bob's your Uncle. Can you see us all going around with a fresh set of clothes in a gas-proof bag, a wet pocket-handkerchief (for dabbing gas off odd people found around and about) a hose-pipe and stirrup pump for hosing-down, and a bucket of water in which to push victims' heads so that their eyes get washed out. Oh yes – we should also have a feather for tickling their throats to make them sick if they've inhaled or swallowed any, and our instructor said they'd tried that on him and it didn't work so he recommended salt and water or castor-oil instead. That means a packet of salt and a bottle of castor-oil to add to the rest of our equipment. I still think my idea of dying on the day war is declared is by far the best way out. I don't mean to be flippant, but these things are so unbelievably ghastly that they really cannot be considered seriously.
Looking at the programme Rosalind appears to have mapped out for her all-too-few days in England, I can quite understand why Mr Akin feels no need for culture (being Harvard). Rosalind will be here in Bournemouth one evening and the main part of the next day. She wants a) what she calls 'a bath' and I suspect means a bathe in the sea, b) to buy an antique sideboard, c) to see some famous gardens, d) to have lunch in an English pub. I am saving up to buy a stop-watch. Am also panicking slightly at the notion I might not pass my driving test in time to take her around. Daresay all will be well, though.
Hope all is well with you, too,
Yours sincerely,
Frances Woodsford
BOURNEMOUTH
March 21st 1953
Dear Mr Bigelow,
If ever you get a warm fire burning in Casa Bigelow – one that is not authorised, I mean – just let me know and I'll come over right away with my little stirrup pump, and my even littler hatchet, and put it out for you. Me, thoroughly experienced putter-out-of-fires. Since Civil Defence class last Saturday.
Eleven years ago, or thereabouts, I reluctantly bought myself a pair of slacks for fire-watching and air-raids in general. I dislike women in trousers, and myself especially, but they have their uses in such troublesome times. Since 1945, however, mine have reposed with moth balls in the rag-box. Two weeks ago I fished them out, cleaned and pressed them, and to my joy discovered they still fit! I think they must fit a little more closely than when they were new, for I know my weight is up 15 pounds or more over wartime years; but they fitted well enough.
So I clad myself in them on Saturday and rushed headlong after luncheon, full of good food and peppermint, to the place where the local Corporation people burn our refuse, and where a shed is placed at the disposal of the Civil Defence crowd for training such as me. I was the only one (apart from two men) to arrive wearing trousers, but we all finished up wearing navy blue boiler suits (men for the use of ) so I was practically the only comfortable woman present. Especially as I have such large feet they almost fitted the rubber gumboots we were also made to wear. Two of the women have tiny little feet, and in spite of stuffing the toes of the gumboots with their gloves, they could only proceed by shuffling along. When it was their turn to be No. 4 in the team (the water fetcher) we had to hold up the fire until they had shuffled the fifty yards or more to the water faucet and back.
Being silly-like, and nobody else showing any signs of volunteering, I went first. There was a small tin shed, with a corridor at the back and a door opening from this into the main room. This latter was fitted up with a furnishing scheme I don't think Park Avenue would approve of. There was a large armchair, sort of greeny black in colour and circa 1900 in years; there was a sofa of completely indeterminate shade and no pedigree whatsoever; there was a little table, and there was a pile of wood shavings. In one corner was a small incendiary bomb which the instructors lit, as they did also the piles of wood shavings. When they thought it was nice and warm and smoky one of them yelled 'Fire!' and this was my cue. I dashed (at least two yards) to the door in the corridor. Opened this a trifle, reeled a bit, recollected myself and shouted 'Water on'. Remembered I was English, and hastily added 'please'.
This is the opening scene. If you would like time out now for a drink or a smoke, please do so. The three-piece orchestra will play (probably 'In a Monastery Garden') during the interval. If your appetite is now sufficiently wetted, we will return to the scene of the conflagration.
In Scene 1, Act 1, we left the gallant team (No. 1 to put out the fire, No. 2 to pump the water, No. 3 to keep dashing up to No. 1 to ask if she is alright and get her thoroughly annoyed at so much interruption, and No. 4 to be water-boy and slop gallons over No. 2's feet. Hence, possibly, the gumboots) battling with the fire.
After poking the end of the rubber hose through a crack in the door, which I had opened a trifle and propped open by one foot, the incendiary went off. We knew it was going off, having been warned that the Germans, finding we treated their little toys with disdain, soon started fitting small explosive charges to the bombs, which put paid to the fire fighters if they were too close. Just the same, the harmless 'bang' which was put in our bombs, still made quite enough noise for me. It was my second cue; this time I flung open the door and myself onto the floor inside, narrowly escaping a gory death by falling on my little hatchet. This I was carrying in my breast pocket, as the boiler suit was made for a man and the ordinary pocket opening didn't coincide with my own slacks' pockets by at least six inches. As the boiler suit had no belt, the breast pocket was the only place to put it, and very uncomfortable it is, too, I can tell you, dashing about horizontally with a hatchet missing one's nose by millimetres.
Once on the floor, I was kept busy playing the hose on a) the bomb, b) the pile of shavings, c) the sofa, and d) the chair. The bomb got most; we only shot a few vicious squirts at the furniture, which wasn't difficult to put out; though the chair did start up again after I had finished, which was a Black Mark to me. The bomb spurted and glared and fizzed and generally behaved like a firework. I had time to appreciate its icy blue flame, and to think how beautifully it turned to vermilion on the edges. Once I even managed to score a bullseye with my little shoot of water, getting right around the bomb and down its throat. It spluttered most indignantly. Presumably that's not playing fair. Of course, I don't suppose I really did it much harm – you can't stop an incendiary once
it's burning, you can only hope to stop it lighting the surroundings, which of course we all did quite satisfactorily.
Finally, the bomb having exhausted itself, and my demands on the water supply having exhausted the pump-operator, we declared it a day. 'Water on' as a small flame spurted up, putting its tongue out at me. Then, 'Water off again, please!' and I trotted out, slightly dirty and smoked like a haddock, to say 'Knock off and make up' in approved style, and give way to the next victim.
It was all surprising fun, once the first few seconds of natural flummox were over and one discovered that the bomb didn't come at you, or throw flames all over the place. We all got thoroughly wet (leaky pumps, of course, and sloppy carrying of over-full buckets) and we all feel now confident of coping with anything this side of Hades. Of course, if another large liner goes up in flames, I don't think I'll volunteer to be the first to go and put it out, but any time you have, as I said at the beginning, a nice cosy woman-sized fire, send me a letter. Better send it airmail, in case the fire gets too big in the interim.
I am enclosing a few sketches from life which possibly you could sell for millions of dollars to some foreign power interested in knowing exactly the sort of people they would be up against, in the event of you-know-what.
Probably my sketches would be the cause of lasting peace, if properly shown around and about. I give them to you with that in mind.
Last night, Friday that is, I went through the Gas Chamber. That in itself was nothing – just a small bare room with tiled floor and walls, crowded with seven people and one instructor all looking like things from Mars. But the after-effects were most unpleasant, for we came out with the gas impregnated on our thick coats, and as we sat in the lecture room afterwards we were all, instructor and all, weeping like servant girls at a sob-stuff film. Only, we had more cause!
Dear Mr Bigelow Page 13