Dear Mr Bigelow

by Frances Woodsford

  While I came to the conclusion last week that tin helmets were most becoming, having caught a glimpse of myself in a mirror as I filled buckets of water in a room, I didn't need a mirror yesterday to tell me that gas masks are not the thing to buy in the spring when one needs a morale tonic. The instructor said to me, 'Have you had your mask fitted?' and I answered bitterly, 'Yes, don't I look like it?' knowing full well that my freshly washed hair was not lying flat or smoothly fitting like the novelist's cap.

  Ah well, that really is all for now. More next week. Best wishes, and I hope you are well and happy,

  Yours sincerely,

  Frances Woodsford

  BOURNEMOUTH

  April 4th 1953

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  In the days of the Tudors, women wore (so I am told) iron stays with which to restrain their figures. Today, April 4th 1953 as ever it was, I am using metaphysical mental iron stays with which to restrain my remarks, and I hope and believe you will appreciate and applaud the care with which I tell you the following tale.

  Last Sunday, about five minutes before luncheon was to be ready, I was called to the telephone in a neighbour's house, to find my brother on the other end. 'I'm at the Queen's Park Garage' he said (I'd never heard of it) 'and there's a 1934 Ford 8 car here I'm thinking of buying. What do you think?' I asked if he had Dez with him (Dez is a depart-mental manager at one of the big motor firms in the town). No. I asked if he had Vic Hill with him. (Vic Hill is a skilled amateur motor mechanic and driver.) No. I asked if he had anybody with him. No, but he'd looked under the bonnet and the motor was a reconditioned one and had only done 100 miles. The tyres were fair. The bodywork poor. Somebody was coming back in ten minutes to make a decision. What did I think? Not much, I said, so he went off rather disconsolately saying he'd do nothing about it. And half an hour late for lunch he turned up, having bought the motor car!!!

  It was delivered on Tuesday, and now reposes in a garage along with half a dozen other cars, for all the neighbourhood to see our shame. Mother and I have inspected it, and I have named it (privately, Mac doesn't know for the sake of his self-respect) Hesperus.* Hesperus is black. More or less. Under the black, where the old paintwork has not been properly rubbed down, it is a sort of petrol-blue colour. And under that again, is a grey undercoat, patched here and there with a bright shade of rust. Mac says gaily that the speedometer cable seems to be broken (did the garage proprietor recognise the pigeon by its bright green colour when it wandered in that Sunday, I wonder?) and that nothing but the anometer works on the dashboard, and that the trafficators don't work. He hasn't tried the windscreen wiper, but would you place a small bet?

  * Editor's note: a name inspired by Longfellow's poem, 'The Wreck of the Hesperus'.

  . . . We all went to the theatre last night (the first time Mother and I had had an opportunity to look at Hesperus) and Mac was the last of the party to arrive. He whispered to the friend sitting next to him, 'Are they annoyed? What do they think of it? Are they disappointed?' so apparently, in spite of a sphinx-like face on the matter, he is a trifle worried. To pacify possible sisterly remarks, he came out with two paper bags containing loose covers for the two front seats, saying blandly he was paying for them. That leaves us with two maroon-covered seats, and a navy blue back bench and a strong hint that Sister might like to provide maroon loose covers for the rear, I suppose. As the rear seat covers, I see from the catalogue, cost exactly the same as two front seat covers, Mac's generosity in paying for the latter wanes a trifle, don't you think so?

  There is, I suppose, just a possibility that when we clean the thing up, and have the dashboard instruments put right and the windscreen renewed (broken) and buy three new tyres and new mats for the floor and paint for the paintwork and polish for the rest, the car may look presentable. I sincerely hope so, because it is already taking all my spare money and leaving me with about £15, £10 of which is earmarked to pay for Mother's teeth work. Money doesn't worry me, and I don't really mind if the car falls to pieces tomorrow, but if it does I know Mac will feel terrible about it, and it would be depressing to have to start saving for a car all over again.

  I have warned Rosalind that we have bought a 1934 Ford 8, but at that time I hadn't seen Hesperus. Could you break it gently to her when she visits you next month? Tell her to pack, say, a suit of dungarees with her Minks when she comes over, so as to be more in keeping with Hesperus.

  Later. Well, I think I know the worst now, having spent Good Friday afternoon cleaning Hesperus. You cannot lock the car. You cannot open the nearside front window as the winder is broken off. For the same reason, you cannot altogether shut the off-side rear window. The back seat is held to the frame of the car by one very rusty hook; I suppose the passenger in the rear holds it in place normally, but any passenger who sits on those springs more than a hundred yards has my admiration and my sympathy. The front off-side headlamp doesn't work . . . The rear light is suspended by a single wire, waiting for the first bump in the road. Mac says there is an electrical short as the battery is discharging all the time. This, presumably, means re-wiring the junk heap or always starting up with the starter handle and hard work . . .

  Apart from that, I find I have no friends near enough to ask them to come out with me when I practise, and as in England a learner driver is not permitted on the roads without a licensed driver alongside, the problem is becoming acute as to how to learn to drive before Rosalind arrives. I have quite given up all idea of ever getting any money for the junk heap when we save up enough to buy something a little better, but the state of the thing in itself is very depressing. And I know that friends of his must have told my brother a few facts of life, for he goes around in a mist of misery and seems to have no interest in the car whatsoever, all of a sudden. Ah well, never mind, never mind . . .

  There was a great deal I wanted to put in this letter, but matters are crowding in on me which require immediate attention. I'm not working this afternoon (at least, I think not) so hope to go out and buy a bright yellow hat, to cheer myself up in contrast to yesterday's mournful cleaning of Hesperus.

  I hope you are having a pleasant Easter. I was getting quite worried about you, it was so long since your last letter; but the very day I wrote Rosalind and said I hoped you weren't ill, a letter arrived, proving you were full of zest, knocking women down in grocery stores (by frightening them, touching them with the finger of scorn or something!) writing long letters, reading many books, and generally being a very busy man.

  Happy Easter (bit late, but never mind, never mind).

  Very sincerely,

  Frances Woodsford

  BOURNEMOUTH

  April 14th 1953

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  From many years past, the parcel postman and I have been on very friendly terms. Whenever I see him up the road I call out – 'When're you coming to see me again?' This morning he called next door as I was finishing my morning face, and I sang out of the open window 'Come along down-a-my-house!' in a cheerful way, and he answered 'Just a moment!' And lo, he did come along-a-my house (or whatever are the words of the song) and delivered a parcel from you to Mother. On being opened, it looked as if the parcel which arrived the day before Good Friday was the entrée, and this package contained dessert, the sweet, or 'afters', depending on the class of household. We were particularly delighted with the cake, which we know (you sent one at Xmas, remember?) is mouth-wateringly filled with fruit; but M. and I were also very, very pleased with the tinned and dried fruit and the shortening, which seems so much fatter than that we normally see over here.

  But honestly, Mr Bigelow, please don't do it again. I know Rosalind, when she arrives, is going to be very surprised to see how healthy we all are, and how well fed. And I would hate her to feel – and so would you, I know – that we had been taking your food parcels under false pretences. After all, we can buy nearly everything we want now: we are rationed only by money; and luxury goods are just as expensive to you as to us, so
why should you continue to pay high prices for things we don't or can't buy for their cost? Please, I do want to feel a little bit independent and not all on the receiving end all the time. Will you help me? At the same time graciously accepting (!) our most sincere thanks for both entrée and afters! How about dropping in one day for a coffee?

  Very sincerely,

  Frances Woodsford

  BOURNEMOUTH

  May 16th 1953

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  . . . The day of the test dawned. I know that quotation usually runs 'the day of the test dawned clear and bright', but my day jolly well didn't. It was raining bucketsful at seven o'clock, and deteriorated rapidly, so that by lunchtime it was blowing three parts of a gale and the rain was horizontal. There was not a vestige of a hope of its clearing by 2.15 (zero hour) and I set off with my instructor for a last trial test at 1.30 with what little courage I had oozing rapidly out of the soles of my shoes. I did the trial run almost without fault, but that was no help to the Examiner, a dour and silent man, probably put that way by all the impossible drivers he has had to sit beside and suffer with all these years. The test run proper was never taken, I should imagine, by two more miserable creatures than the Examiner and myself. He because he was that type (my instructor said, 'You've got Poppa to examine you, but don't take any notice of his pig-like face, he's really quite a nice chap underneath') and I because of the butterflies having an orgy in me and because I got soaking wet through the open window. And the window was open so that I could make manual signs whenever told so to do. Actually, the instructor at one time said only to use the automatic traffic signals; then he said only hand signs, and lastly he said use what I like. I did all the way through, anyway, having been taught to use very definite hand signs backed up, at the last minute, by the trafficators to leave both my hands free to use on the steering wheel. My starts from scratch (and, going over the route this morning, I counted at least twelve in the half-hour test) were more like a jet aeroplane take-off than a smooth-running car. I twice stalled the motor, due to the fact that the gale was making such a din I couldn't hear the engine and know when I needed more gas. I touched the kerbstone in reversing. And, of course, with my years of cycling still strong in my mind, I wove my usual way along the roads, rushing back to the gutter as soon as I passed any standing or moving vehicles . . . However, I believe my work in traffic was good; at least I never had to brake suddenly because I had got myself into a traffic jam I didn't see approaching. The gale kept a lot (chiefly cyclists and pedestrians) off the road, so my good traffic work was more the result of luck than any cleverness on my part. We returned to whence we came, still with two completely miserable creatures in the car.

  And there, while I sat in misery and wetness the Examiner cross-questioned me on the Highway Code, which I know backwards, and I believe I got full marks for that. At least, try though I might to answer quietly and slowly, my answers just rushed out because I knew them all so well. It was rather disconcerting to have an Examiner, who obviously knows all the answers himself, saying in a mildly interested tone, 'I see' to all my answers. On asking my instructor later, he said all the Examiners do the same – they are taught never to say 'Right', or 'No, that's not the answer' because that might lead to arguments, and they Never Argue With The Driving Applicant.

  Eventually, after weighing me up and my answers and all my faults, the Examiner said he was giving me the benefit of the doubt, and I PASSED! For my own part, I would have failed myself thoroughly and absolutely, so awful was the co-ordination between clutch and accelerator on the test run. However, when he pointed out that there was considerable doubt, I did murmur something about being ashamed of my roughness, which was worse than I had ever put up before, and perhaps, as I hadn't offered any excuses before hearing the verdict, the Examiner felt that his judgement was not misplaced. Provided now that I never let my driving licence lapse, nor hit too many pedestrians in any one year, I can now drive for the rest of my natural life.

  And, of course, another good thing is that I can now fasten all my waist-belts two notches farther back than a couple of months ago . . .

  Yours very sincerely, and licensed car driver,

  Frances Woodsford

  BOURNEMOUTH

  May 23rd 1953

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  As they say, the Devil looks after his own. And on Saturday morning, when I had finished my letter to you and gone home, what should I find but a cash refund of three shillings awaiting me from the Transport Dept (I had returned an unused bus season ticket some weeks before, and had almost given up expecting them to do anything but frame it) which successfully swelled my purse to finance my travel and eating until Wednesday, when my Savings Book came back and I was able to withdraw a pound or two from the Savings Bank. One nice thing about living down on my low financial level; the least little uplift and you begin to feel like shaking hands with the Whitneys and the Du Ponts and the Rockefellers on equal terms.

  On Saturday afternoon my brother said would I accompany him (as a fully fledged test-passed car driver) to the War Memorial Homes (of which he is honorary secretary) where he was attending the opening of a hall. So we climbed into Hesperus, we climbed out again and wound her up, and off we set. And oh, Mr Bigelow, I now know why Mac failed his test!! He is a two-wheeler where corners are concerned, and when Mother said one day this week he had worn out the sole of one of his shoes and Mac said, 'Oh, I expect it's the clutch or the brake pedal,' I was able to call out, 'It's the accelerator and well you know it, m'boy!' We tore along at the top speed Hesperus can produce, and when we arrived at the driveway to the Homes, it was to find two cars containing Aldermen just turning in. So we politely waited. And when Mac got into bottom gear to move off in turn, he kangaroo-hopped, and hopped, and hopped. At the sixth hop we were bang slap in the middle of the entrance, and there was a nice little queue of cars behind us in the main road, waiting to get out of the way of the Saturday afternoon traffic. Mac thereupon opened his door, hopped out with his little black briefcase, and said gaily to me, 'Well, you can have the car for an hour. Call for me at 3.30 will you?' and went off. Nice boy, my brother.

  I pottered around back streets and country lanes until the hour was up – I left the 'L' plates on to encourage other traffic to be kind to me – when I got back to the War Memorial group of houses. The drive was by now chocked up with bigwigs' cars, and not liking to do a kangaroo hop myself in the strain of the moment, I reversed Hesperus into a side turning off the main road, up a little incline, and in a good position to see over the hedge and across the grounds to the doors of the hall. After a while the bigwigs started coming out, and eventually I saw the Mayor and the Mayoress and the Mace Bearer and the Borough Architect and Mac, all in a little clump. Mac stood at the top of the steps, looked haughtily to the right down the line of cars; looked haughtily down the left row; raised his left arm, bent at the elbow, and looked very hard indeed at his watch. My goodness, here it was half past three and his chauffeur hadn't obeyed his orders. Tut! Tut! This required looking into. All this as plain as dumb show from my seat. I waved vigorously, and at long last His Majesty noticed me, gave a curt nod of the head, turned on his heel and strode manfully back into the hall. And kept me waiting half an hour!! He said there were reporters who wished to ask him some questions.

  If, in your long and no doubt ill-spent life, you have come across a fool-proof recipe for taking people down a peg, Mr Bigelow, you might like to pass it on to one who is in bad need of the secret sometimes . . .

  Yours very sincerely,

  Frances Woodsford

  BOURNEMOUTH

  May 30th 1953

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  . . . This week has suddenly appeared on the hoardings the wittiest poster I have seen for years. I must tell you that Guinness – the brewers of a sort of beer – run two series of posters. One depicts great feats of strength – a road worker in a hole in the road lifting a steam-roller off the hole in order to reach his free
hand out for his glass of beer – and the caption is always 'Guinness Gives You Strength'. The other series shows a chubby little zoo keeper and an animal (an ostrich, lion, toucan etc. the toucan caption was 'If a Guinness is Good For You, Just Think what Toucan Do') and the animal is, or has, swallowed his beer. The caption here is 'My Goodness! My Guinness!' Well, this poster I was describing has nothing on it whatsoever to show what product it is advertising. At the bottom of the poster is a mass of cheerful faces in a crowd. Standing slightly above the crowd is the little zoo keeper, who is holding a bench on his uplifted hands. On the bench are all the animals which appeared in their series of advertisements, and they are all waving little Union Jacks. Everybody, animals and humans, are looking in the same direction. Coming as it has done, the week before the Coronation, I think it the most delectable mixture of the series and the occasion that could possibly be thought of.

  We are all decorated and bedecked for Tuesday: the town gardeners have been rushing around taking the dead tulips and wallflowers out of the beds, and yesterday night we bloomed in the dark, for this morning everywhere you look you see great masses of hydrangeas – brilliant pink, bright blue, and white. Or, alternating with them, purple and mauve lupins and pink geraniums. There are baskets of flowers hanging from the lampposts, urns of them along the edges of the pavements; and, of course, the public gardens and the traffic roundabouts are planted and brilliant with them. I bought a little flag to put on Hesperus, but it clicked off in the wind the first time we went out with it, and although we turned the car at the first available side road and went back to look for it, all we found was a group of innocent little children playing on the grass. No flag. Even the most sedate and grand houses, which normally are so sedate and grand and respectable they give an impression of slate-putty colour throughout, have, as it were, undone their stays and burst out of their respectability by putting little blue plaques in windows, reading 'God Save the Queen'. Any stray Americans who may, accidentally on purpose, be in England this week will be very hard put to it indeed to reconcile the goings-on with their previous ideas of the phlegmatic British . . .