Dear Mr Bigelow
Page 22
End of paper. More next Saturday, while I am on holiday. So until then, keep well and happy.
Yours truly,
Frances W.
BOURNEMOUTH
November 11th 1955
Dear Mr Bigelow,
Here is my birthday – and, so far as the weather is concerned, you can have it! It is pouring with rain, and has been all day and all day yesterday and the day before yesterday, and it shows every signs of pouring with rain all day tomorrow and the day after tomorrow. My day is therefore surrounded, flooded, with tears. No doubt mourning my wasted youth, but depressing, nonetheless.
However, on the bright side are many remembrances from my friends, you not least of all, by any means. Mother gave me money towards the clothes wardrobe, and so did Mac. I had gift vouchers from two or three friends with a lot of sense, because it is always a good thing to give somebody, letting them have the choice of what they want or need. There were two or three lots of handkerchiefs, of which I never have enough; and a large pile of ornate and simple cards. The cat gave me a dirty look . . .
Now to wash my hair and pin it up to look glamorous in the morning, if not tonight.
Thank you again, Mr Bigelow, for your magnificent birthday-cum-Christmas gift.
Very sincerely yours,
Frances W.
1956
'Mrs Phyllis Murray and yrs truly in Cornwall.'
BOURNEMOUTH
February 4th 1956
Dear Mr Bigelow,
Solvent again! At least for a week. I got home on February 1st and said gaily to Mother, 'Only four weeks until payday, dear!' Mother, somewhat disbelieving, made a remark about it being payday that very day (which it was) so I told her that when I had paid my debts and bought flowers for a friend who was ill, and china ducks for another who is dying (to console her for the loss of her own pet ducks, taken by a fox) and paid the garage and my insurance and so on, out of a salary cheque of £45 I had exactly £3.15s.0d left!!! However, Mac gave me £1 towards the cost of the garage, so I feel reasonably solvent again, and able to face life without worrying whether I shall have to walk home in the absence of the bus fare . . . . . . What a life. However, I still haven't touched my savings, which is the main thing, and next month I shall have so much spare money I hope to put another £10 in the Bank . . .
Yours very sincerely,
Frances W.
BOURNEMOUTH
February 11th 1956
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . I was moaning last week about the cold weather. Somebody must have heard me, because by Saturday night the temperature had risen from 20o to 49o F, and Sunday was a really lovely day. We took Mother out for a drive in the afternoon, with Mac doing the driving, and for once I was not nervous in my seat at his side. The reason was that our brakes are binding so badly we are terrified of using the brakes at all, so Mac drives with the aid of the gears and cuts down his speed for corners and so on by taking his foot off the accelerator well in advance, and, then, if that hasn't brought our rate down enough, he will change down a gear. Very comfortable motoring indeed, it makes, and I am all for the brakes to go on binding indefinitely. The cold weather, alas, had another effect on the car – it put paid, finis, phutt, to the battery. My Resolution Not To Draw Money out of The Bank lasted until February 6th, but it was a nice resolution while it did last . . .
Last night, in my opinion, every single member of the Civil Defence who turned up for their lecture deserved the gold badge which the Government is giving those of us who complete 100% of the training programme. 80% entitles you to a silver badge, which is the highest most of us can hope for. But last night should have counted for the whole thing, for it was bitterly cold, with a violent, knife-like wind and, when we eventually reached the lecture room (ten minutes walk from any bus stop) we found we were having instruction in map-reading and had to sit at map-equipped tables spread around the room, and not, as we had hoped, in a tight little bunch around the only radiator in the place. However, the map-reading was interesting and maybe I learned some-thing of use, although most of the 'tips' we were given seemed to me gravely suspicious. For instance, we were being told how to find North: Compass, which we were unlikely to have. Churches, built East and West. OK. If we could find a church. Trees likely to grow close together on the S. or W. of hills. Fiddlesticks. Moss growing on the West (instructor) or South (instructor, five minutes later) or North (my own belief of many years). Not helpful. I said, 'Isn't there a way of telling North by using a watch-face?' Yes, there was, said the instructor, but he'd only discussed it at the Government School for Instructors, with the other pupils there, and they hadn't been able to work it, because they understood you pointed the hour hand at the sun and the North was where the minute hand was. Nonsense and fiddle-de-dee, said the class. North is halfway between the two hands when the hour hand is pointing to the sun. Well, I've just tried it and in fifteen minutes North has moved from one side of my office to the other. There is a way of doing it with a watch, but I still don't believe I know it. Do you? Of course when the sun is out it does give you a rough idea of the general direction of North and South, providing you know the approximate time of day – whether it is morning or late afternoon, for instance, and presumably most of us know that. We were also told to use telegraph poles, which always bear the cross-pieces on the side facing towards London. But what if the road isn't going towards London, but at right-angles to such a road? They certainly don't add the cross-pieces sideways just to help lost souls find their way to the North Pole. As for finding it by the North Star, that, to me, is like Mrs Beeton's recipe for Jugged Hare – 'First, catch your Hare.' However, I learned enough of map-reading to be able to complain bitterly that two of the map references given us on the blackboard in a test we took at the end, weren't on our maps at all. Neither were they. We were given seven references, which indicated places in which the road was blocked by bomb debris. Then we had to plot our route, using only first- or second-class roads, from Bournemouth Square to a rendezvous by Blandford Railway Station and give the mileage involved. All I have to do now is to remember what I learned . . . . . .
. . . I was reading this week in the paper that two gentlemen in America were suing a railroad company for half a million dollars because a train they were travelling on arrived at the race-track too late for them to place their bets on a horse which, in the event, won and would have won them $200 had their money been on. I have an idea that in England you can't sue anybody for more than you have lost by their negligence; perhaps these two American punters are the original discoverers of a new gold-mine. You might let me know if they succeed, and next time the car is (as now) out of action and the bus is late I shall sue the Corporation for, oh, say £30,000 – a nice round sum – for loss of prestige and morale.
You may keep your term 'gas' for the stuff cars run on. I prefer our 'petrol'. After all, gas is a term embracing many forms of gas, from the very air we breathe to deadly poisons and anaesthetics. To call it gas is too general. To call it petrol does at least distinguish which gas it is. I must say I am trying to be impartial, for there are many of your terms which I think preferable to ours; but gas isn't one of them. Nor is elevator. On suspenders v. braces I am biased slightly in your favour. On drapes v. curtains I prefer curtains, because they aren't invariably draped. Slip v. petticoat leaves me undecided. I prefer petticoat from the sound, although it isn't a coat, petit or otherwise. And it shouldn't be a slip, though it sometimes does. I definitely prefer car to automobile, which is a nasty made-up sort of word; but on the other hand I am all in favour of movie instead of pictures. Incidentally, I saw Gene Kelly in It's Always Fair Weather this week, and, as with all his films, thought it utterly delightful; witty, kindly, colourful, beautifully danced, and in extremely good taste . . .
What a long letter – and the second this week, too! Must be the cold weather keeping me energetic. Goodbye for now while I go and feed my sparrows dotted on the windowsill, thinking, poor things, tha
t the flakes of snow are breadcrumbs.
Yours most sincerely,
Frances W.
BOURNEMOUTH
March 17th 1956
Dear Mr Bigelow,
Do you realise – bet you didn't – that March 22nd sees the seventh anniversary of my first letter to you? There is a note in my 1949 diary against that date, 'wrote Roady's Father.' At that time, you see, you weren't an individual in your own right – you existed only in relationship to your daughter; but you have grown quite a bit since then.
Certainly I must say you have grown quite a bit more sensible. Your reply to my original letter started, without salutation or preamble, and date-less, address-less:
It was interesting to learn that you enjoyed eating a squirrel cooked in a bag in Central Park and also watching some old hen making off with another paper bag to stuff in an egg in her nest, at or near New Orleans. Nature is wonderful!
No wonder I wondered what made the American people so! Especially as you went on to say all Englishmen in novels were so intensely repulsive, and finished your letter by putting my name (wrongly spelled) and 'R— Drive, England, so help me'. I cannot tell you whether your opinion of England and the English has undergone a change since that date, or whether I have merely worn down your rude comments by throwing other rude ones back in exchange. However, you seem to be able to understand my letters, and do not get quite so mixed up as you appeared to have done over my account of the Central Park squirrel dragging a paper bag up a tree and into its nest.
Last Sunday, as we were clearing luncheon, I said to Mother, 'Would you like a ride this afternoon, dear, or do you prefer to have a rest?' You will notice that there are two clear questions there. One would imagine that such a question called for a reply choosing one or other of the alternatives. But anyone imagining that would not know my Mum. She answered, 'No thank you dear, I know you want to get out and dig the vegetable bed over.' A veritable mind reader, that dear lady is. In reverse. The last thing in the world I wanted to do was to dig the vegetable bed over. And of course, you can guess what I did. Yes – my back still aches . . .
Until next Saturday, then, thank you for your letters, all of 'em, and keep well and happy.
Very sincerely,
Frances W.
PS Have I said thank you yet for Reader's Digest? I got full marks in both the word exercises. Genius, of course.
BOURNEMOUTH
March 24th 1956
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . We had a lecture at Civil Defence this week on rescue from crashed aircraft. I thought it a waste of time, as the likelihood of any particular person being on the spot when a 'plane crashes is so remote as to be almost non-existent. However, you never know when odd knowledge might come in handy. Of course, I upset the lecturer no end by my questions – particularly as, having worked on aircraft during the war I knew more about them technically than he did – and he got quite put out. But, after all, when a man tells you the only practical way to break into a crashed civilian aircraft is over the windows, somebody with a mind like mine (like Kipling's Elephant Child, that is) is bound to ask how you are expected to get up as high as the windows. 'Well, you'd just have to use your common sense' he said to that one. And then, when I remarked that it was all very well showing us a poster of a crashed Army 'plane on which the starboard engines were on fire and the escape panels were all on the port side, but how did you get the crew out if the port side engines were on fire because there were no escape panels on the starboard side? He looked with loathing at me (poor man, who can blame him!) and was heard to mutter something about 'common sense' again. I take it he meant your common sense would tell you it was hope-less so you might just as well leave the wreck and go to the movies. Never mind: I now know how to break into a crashed aircraft provided it comes down close enough to the earth for me to get onto the wings, and providing the fire (if any) is on the starboard side of the machine, and providing I get to the scene of the crash in time . . .
Bought my brother a pale green nylon and pure silk shirt for his birth-day, on Monday, at an astronomical figure and an even greater figure on the sale-ticket. I bought it at a reduced price because it was the last of the consignment and they were wanting to sell it before putting the new lot out – at even greater, astronomical prices. I do feel sorry for men: you have such dull gifts on your birthdays and so on. The only time I gave my brother anything exciting, it was an after-shave lotion and brought him out in a rash. True, he did give me something exciting once – a hand shower set for attachment to the bath taps, which he used fourteen times that particular weekend, but as a general rule he gets very dull bits of clothing. And please, I ask you, don't write back and suggest either emer-ald cufflinks or gold wristwatches because he has neither and is most unlikely ever to own them.
On Thursday evening, on my way to Civil Defence class, I dropped in at a friend's flat to deliver our family gifts to her for her own birthday. Now Dorothy lives alone in a flat, and when she is not there she tucks the front door key under a ledge at the bottom of the door. So I felt there, and got it out and opened the door. And there, on the door-mat, was a tiny bottle of milk. On the first stair (Dorothy lives in the upper flat) was a small pile of letters. On the second, a small parcel. One above that, a cardboard box containing (at a guess) groceries. One up another wrapped gift. Above that, the second delivery of mail. I put my lamp-shade on the sixth stair and Mother's on the seventh, with Mac's card on the eighth. This took us nearly halfway up the staircase, and I felt quite sorry for Dorothy when she came home after working for 14 hours, having to collect and carry all this stuff upstairs. It seemed to me, also, that the hiding place for the key wasn't terribly secret . . .
Now I must go and help in the café: I am on my own today, and the place is absolutely swarming with small children. I know washing-up isn't quite the thing for a Baths Matron and Secretary to do, but it is out of sight of the public and I don't see why I shouldn't help a very good staff when they are being run off their feet and I am not. After all, I have never laid any claims to dignity, much though I would like to be able to do so.
So, until next Saturday, au revoir, and I do hope your weather is better and won't be such a foul nuisance again for a very long time.
Yours most sincerely,
Frances W.
BOURNEMOUTH
March 28th 1956
Dear Mr Bigelow,
What a sad indictment on modern manners! A day or two ago I had notification from Barker & Dobson that a parcel of candy (your gift) had been dispatched to me, and adding coyly that they thought the sender would be pleased to be advised that the chocolates had arrived! As though I would need a hint to write and thank you! A tactful reminder not to forgo the pleasure of saying thank you, and of telling you what a very well-chosen parcel it is!! Which reminds me:
First child: We've got a radio set and television and a washing machine and a car. You don't seem to have anything here, do you?
Second child: Oh, we've got manners.
So now Easter is here and we shall be able to guzzle ourselves, and be large-handed to any friends who may visit us: And B & Dobson's hint or no, we all thank you most sincerely, and wish you to have as happy an Easter as you well deserve. I do hope all that snow has gone and you are no longer confined to the house by mountainous drifts; and that both you and the birds got through the bad patch satisfactorily.
Thank you again, very much indeed,
Frances W.
BOURNEMOUTH
March 31st 1956
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . It is only Thursday today, and I am stuck in my office waiting, as usual, for my brother to arrive and take me home. On Tuesday this week he hadn't arrived 40 minutes after I left the office, so I went home by bus in a terrific temper. And he sulked because I was angry. Said (to Mother. I wouldn't speak to him) that he became very busy a few minutes before he should have left the office, and forgot all about telephoning – or asking one of his staff to
do so – me not to wait. He is always fairly sorry to keep me waiting, but always sulks if I am annoyed by it. I nearly gave him my share of the car, then and there! As my boss says, I could come to work and go home by taxi and it would still be cheaper than sharing a car with my brother! Ah well. C'est la guerre or something.
Friday, I shan't have to go to work. I know I should go to church, but as a day off is so rare a thing I am going to motor Mother down to Lyme Regis instead. Her brother living there has been rather ill lately, and I know Mother has been longing to go and see him. So we shall take her, and have a picnic lunch on the way if the weather holds – at present it is fine but not sunny. I have bought a bottle of white wine to go with a tin of chicken Rosalind sent in a parcel at Christmas. (Mother dreamed the other night how nice it would be if we could have a picnic with tinned chicken if we had a tinned chicken and we had a picnic – and in the morning she got a chair and climbed on it and looked on top of her wardrobe – where, surprisingly, she keeps such things – and there, in solitary state, was a large tin. Of chicken! So we are all set.)