Now I must get back to work: it is a very cold day, but there is a lovely strong sun out and the sea is almost Mediterranean in its blueness. I hope it is as fine over on Long Island, and that the sunshine is streaming in your living-room windows and fading the colours in your hooked rugs, perhaps! No, I don't wish that: I hope it is merely brightening up any dull corners there may be.
So au revoir until next week, when I hope to write you as the part owner of the Beetle.
Yours, insolvently sincere,
Frances W.
BOURNEMOUTH
February 6th 1957
Dear Mr Bigelow,
When Rosalind's letter came this morning I was mildly surprised to read her first sentence, 'Well, here I am, as you will see, at Bellport'. But not more than mildly surprised, as I thought she had 'got to go' to New York when Mr Akin was there on steel matters, and had popped down to spend a few hours with you.
But the second sentence . . . . . . 'if you miss a letter from father for a week or two the reason is that he is in Brookhaven Memorial Hospital having had his appendix removed last Tues. night!' . . . . . . that shook me like the San Francisco earthquake. When you had written me about all the various sick females of your acquaintance, and gone on to say you didn't feel so good yourself, I thought you were just cadging for sympathy. Not that you had any deep-laid plot for doing even better than the ladies. And to leave matters so late before you called your doctor! I am not only surprised at you; I am ashamed of you, Sir.
Especially after all the good examples I have set you – moaning to high Heaven whenever I get lumbago or a cold or a thorn in my finger. What did you think it was, when you started having a pain in your tummy? Had you allowed The Can-Opener, perhaps, to dispense with that instrument, and eaten your meals still in their container, which had disagreed with your digestion? Or have you decided on taking up another career, say as a sword swallower, starting with tin-tacks and practising your way to better things. Or did you just decide, as many people do when they retire from business, to dispense with all unnecessary accoutrements, the appendix being one of them?
Rosalind tells me you had a local anaesthetic and that it hurt horribly. I wasn't sure whether she meant the anaesthetic, or the subsequent operation. I do remember Mac had his appendix out under a spinal anaesthetic, and said it was very nasty; and that he was furious because he had been told it was done to avoid post-operative sickness – and he was sick anyway!
Rosalind tells me you are up each day for a little while, following the newest form of therapy. I don't know how long they will keep you in hospital, and knowing your feeling for hospitals, and knowing, from Rosalind, that you are up and about, I cannot imagine you staying there very long unless they padlock you to the foot of your bed – and even then I am sure you would go into cahoots with the gentleman in the next bed and get a file smuggled in, or something. So I am sending this letter post-haste to the hospital, but I will send the next one to the usual address in the fond certainty that you will be there. I have just thought: was all this to-do a put-up job to avoid having to unpack all that ghastly sticky paper off my Clovelly picture? I am suspicious. Also, glad you are doing so well – keep it up, please, and oblige.
Frances W.
PS Your cane should be most useful for a time, now.
BOURNEMOUTH
February 16th 1957
Dear Mr Bigelow,
Well, I do hope you and Rosalind had a happy St Valentine's Day, at home in Bellport, and that the sun shone on you both and made you feel comfortable and at ease and invigorated.
I was listening to a broadcast from America one evening this week, and the speaker mentioned the tug-strike, which might have a very harsh effect on Manhattan's heating arrangements, as all your fuel for central heating had to come across one or other of the rivers, and once the tugs were not working, the position might become uncomfortable . . . You see, once I have convinced myself that you are safely home, and well on the road to recovery, then I can find something else to worry about. I must like lines on my face, that is the only possible explanation.
Well, Mac has passed all his examinations. He had an unofficial letter early this week, from the Tutor and Adviser in Social Studies at London University, who has been watching over him these last two years, to say she hoped he wasn't having any sleepless nights worrying about the result, because he didn't need to. The results aren't officially announced until early in March, but believe me, the letter we waved from member to member in our household, to the accompaniment of sighs of relief, cries of 'yippee', and deep felt 'Goods!' I don't think Mac could have borne it, had he failed – as you may remember he was horribly afraid he had done. Now he says he hopes to goodness he's taken the very last examination in his life.
. . . This morning I bumped into Mac unexpectedly in the hall. It was something of a surprise. He had just risen from his bed and was wearing dull blue pyjama trousers and a long, knitted, navy and white striped sort of sweat shirt with short sleeves. It was a garment he removed from somewhere or other before leaving Germany on being released from the prisoner-of-war camp. According to Mac, it was part of the uniform of a Dutch sailor. Wherever it came from, and however he got it, it has shown determination to outlive the entire Woodsford family. At first, it was worn on holiday. Then, in the garden for bonfire operations (practically the only thing Mac does) and now it is sleeping apparel. He looked like something out of the chorus of, say, Fanny, and in case you don't know, that is a musical play about sailors in Marseilles, fishermen, spivs, and so on. I'm not sure which category Mac would come in; perhaps a hybrid fish-sailor, say.
And so, leaving you in my mind elegantly dressed by your elegantly furnished fireplace, in your elegantly equipped room, with, I trust, your health restored to its normal, elegant ruddiness, I will depart until next Saturday. I do hope, said she coming back with an afterthought, you were so well on February 14th you gave Rosalind the happiest possible birthday for years.
Yours sincerely,
Frances W.
BOURNEMOUTH
April 13th 1957
Dear Mr Bigelow,
Very many thanks for the cheerfulness in your letter this morning (it is dated April 4th). I had wondered how you were going to retain further hold of 'Clovelly' after this visit from Rosalind and Mr Akin, and now I know! If you run out of ideas, in the early summer when they motor over, no doubt you will be able to claim that they might have a smash on the road and it would be better to leave the picture until they walk home . . . . . . !
. . . I told you last week, did I not, that I had been to see the film of Anastasia – yes, I am sure I did, and went on at great length about that fascinating creature, Yul Brynner. Well, in one scene in it he was making Ingrid Bergman walk about with a book balanced on her head, because the Grand Duchesses of Russia were noted for their deportment. I have always found it quite easy to balance a book on my head, but the other day I remembered this scene, and promptly stuck one on top my top-knot. And there I was, standing thinking in the window of my office (it was after hours, in case you wondered) when I suddenly realised a very surprised looking man was standing on the other side of the window, looking in. Rude creature. I took my book off to him, and he moved off hurriedly.
. . . Last night I visited some friends, and while there, they had their television set on to see the Queen attend the dinner in her honour, at the Louvre. It was rather sweet. The French Government had written to England giving a list of the best paintings in the Louvre, and asking which the Queen would like to see. She had chosen a dozen. They then built a smallish room in one of the Louvre courtyards, next to the gallery in which the dinner was to be held, and lined it with pale blue curtains, on which they hung these paintings for the Queen to see while she waited for dinner. There were enormous bowls of pink apple blossom about the place, and lovely furniture from Fountainebleau. And, being French, they added to those paintings the Queen wanted to see, a couple by Degas showing horses! The Queen, seen throu
gh the camera, seemed delighted about this. She went round the others quite sombrely, accompanied by the Minister responsible for Art in France, and coming to the end, the President, M. Coty, came up to her and, suddenly, the Queen was lit up – lively and loquacious and full of spirits. She bent toward M. Coty, who bent her way, too, and whispered something to him, then they both roared with laughter. From the camera position we could see the Queen making very Gallic gestures with her white-gloved hands and arms – including a sort of dog-paddle with her hands and arms in front of her, as though she were describing how a dog used his paws in begging – or perhaps one of the racehorses she had seen that morning, and how he pawed the ground . . .
Mother, last night, looking at my arrangement of red tulips and dark green rosemary in a shallow turquoise bowl in the living room, 'Those carnations look just like roses, dear.' . . .
I daresay this letter will reach you before Easter, so here is my good wish that it will be a very happy one for you, and now that Lent is nearly over, your haircloth shirt will leave you in unirritated peace once more.
Most sincerely,
Frances W.
BOURNEMOUTH
April 27th 1957
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . On Sunday Mac asked us to go for a drive, and once we were out with him it appeared he was due to take his girlfriend out too. I have more than a suspicion he is trying to disentangle himself, because she was most annoyed at seeing Mother and me in the back . . . we had to pretend an aunt was due at our house for tea, so that he had an excuse for not inviting Mary home as well! Later on in the week he said to me as he went out one evening, 'If you-know-who telephones, tell her we're going away tomorrow and won't be back until late on Saturday evening, will you?' Yes, everything points towards disentanglement. Mac's trouble is a) he will fall for a pretty face, and b) most of the girls he knows are ghastly little snobs to start with, and a) so blinds him to b) that by the time he notices it, the girl quite likes going about with him. Eligible males are as rare as purple diamonds, in Bournemouth.
Anyway, that was Sunday. On Monday we took Mother to her old honeymoon haunts in North Somerset. It was 49 years since she was there, and the dear soul kept saying, 'Oh – that's new!' as we passed cottages or shops or bus shelters. Quite likely she was right. We had a picnic lunch on top of a very high hill with glorious views, as I believe I told you before, but I don't think I mentioned the fact that we were surrounded by little skylarks nesting and darting about and singing their little heads off. Nor did I tell you that as we sat at our meal a young man came down from the peak of the hill, and swung by us on his way down the rest of the 1,700 feet into Porlock. Nothing unusual in a young man, with rucksack on back and stick in hand, walking up and down Exmoor, I daresay. But this young man had a wooden leg . . .
Friday. Friday we took Mother to Lyme Regis, and it was fine all the way, fine there, Mac played golf with a cousin and a cousin-by-marriage and somebody else, and Mother and I sat and made polite conversation indoors. Saturday it was work again. Sunday afternoon I took Mother to Blagdon Heath for a picnic and to paint, but the sun went in, and the view was so immense from the top of the hill I didn't even attempt to paint it, but went scrambling down the hillside in my stockinged feet (shoes are too slippery on steep grass) and picked stinking purple iris and golden cowslips and read Lord Chesterfield's letters to his son. And so home, to wash my hair and tease the cat and so to bed.
Monday followed all too quickly and I now no longer feel I have had any holiday at all. I really must make up my mind to have one at the end of the summer, and not act as chauffeuse to all and sundry most of the time.
To finish. Mac is, as perhaps you know, honorary secretary of the Bournemouth War Memorial Homes (instead of a Memorial the money was spent building special houses for disabled ex-service men).* He gave this voluntary work up while he was swotting for his exam, but this week took it up again. Reporting the Minutes to the Committee, he took the chance to say how sorry he was to learn of the death, in January, of an elderly member of the Committee. Another elderly member said, 'Ah, dear me! So that's the reason I haven't seen him at Committee meetings lately.' The Mayor, in the Chair, said dryly that it was an excellent reason . . . . . .
* Editor's note: Years later, in 1991, Frank MacPherson Woodsford received an M.B.E. for his voluntary work for the Bournemouth War Memorial Homes. Frances went with him and his wife to Buckingham Palace.
Thank you very much for your letter, which broke the long drought of letters to No. —. I was so glad to hear your penicillin troubles were leaving you, and the sooner the better.
So, au revoir until next week, and I hope you keep very well until next time I can make you that wish.
Very sincerely,
Frances W.
BOURNEMOUTH
May 18th 1957
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . If ever – perhaps I should put ever in capitals – If EVER I go to Heaven, Mr Bigelow, it will be mainly because I was known to have taken my mother for a car drive at least twice a week without once hitting her! I took her, and a widowed neighbour, out last evening. Mother, to my left, kept up her usual running commentary on the names on the signposts – not the places we were aiming at, but those down the roads we weren't travelling; and lots of oohs and ahs and looks! all along the route. All aimed at me, for of course when I am present no conversation can possibly be carried on unless I am the centrepiece. That is obvious. And in the back of the car Mrs Nixon, doing exactly the same sort of thing – only she doesn't call out wrong names from signposts, thank goodness. She merely talked at me non-stop, and on subjects completely different from those Mother was currently engaged in. At one point I was in such a tizzy I near as dammit stopped the car and said, 'Now let's have a cosy little chat, shall we? And then, when we've got it all out of our systems we will proceed, leaving the driver just enough peace to avoid killing the lot of us!!' But I didn't, and for that, as I said, I expect my reward hereafter. Here, they just drive me insane. My mother you probably find quite unbelievable: I know, most of my friends do, but when they meet up with her they find she is exactly as I have described . . .
Mac goes on holiday tomorrow. It is raining and dull and cold today. We are praying it will be better tomorrow, for this is his first holiday for many years. The removal of petrol rationing has come just in the nick of time.
My boss is away today, thank goodness. He is not well, and his temper terrible, and yesterday we had an overnight flood and half the building was under water in the morning, and Mr B. practically exploded! Thank Heaven I was at the dentist's and therefore missed the first full blast. Thank goodness, too, I had made such a fuss about the water cisterns in the toilets for women that the engineer had put them all in order only the day before – for the flood was caused by a ball-cock breaking off in the men's toilet on the first floor and, this building being so beeeautifully designed by a London architect who doesn't have to run it, that all our toilet overflows go, not out through a drain or even down the toilet itself, but straight onto the toilet floor. Thence, under the doors and down the stairs, across the hall, into the cash office, my boss's office, my office, down through the tiled floor and more stairs and into the basement storeroom, where they just about ruined all the tickets for our water show and three dozen brand-new bath towels which were on the top racks in the store. Oh yes, and all the nice new posters we had done specially to last us through the summer and next winter. This is the second flood due to faulty building design we've had – the other was at Christmas when I ruined my best shoes wading through for help. Yesterday I paddled about in my next-best shoes and you can guess the result!
Ah well. More next Saturday if I haven't drowned in the meantime. I hope you are well, and enjoying all these visits from your grandchildren and great-grandchildren. You should never let a great-grandchild get within reaching distance of a bottle of ketchup: it's a lethal weapon, didn't you know?
V. sincerely,
Fran
ces W.
BOURNEMOUTH
June 15th 1957
Dear Mr Bigelow,
Thursday evening, and I daresay my brother will be very late, this being his boss's first day back after a holiday. So she will trot into his office at 5.14 p.m. (they shut at 5.15) and sigh heavily and start telling him what a terrible time she had all through her holiday, and I shall be fuming up and down the pavement outside here for nearly an hour, I daresay. So, to rest my shattered nerves a bit, I am instead, getting on with something much more useful than pavement-pounding ever could be – writing to you. I am also yawning my head off with the stupidest nerves, as this evening I am to see my doctor and have every intention of talking him out of this silly visit to the hospital next Tuesday, re appendix, which I am positive I do not have. How, my problem is, to tell the doctor he's wrong, without offending him?
. . . Since my last letter, History has Been Made. I met a young (about 25) Spanish student, a graduate in Political Economics who is studying English with a view to entering the Diplomatic Corps, and after chatting a while – mostly, this consisted of a well-chosen question from me followed by a fluid outpouring of words from him, at which I nodded sagely and hoped for the best – after chatting for a while we shook hands, and whilst mine was still in his, it was raised to his lips and kissed! My hand, Mr Bigelow! Large, square, rough, scratched, and useful. But certainly not the kissable type; nor yet the inspiration of poets or song-writers. No, definitely utilitarian. I trust that in future you will be more flowery in your letters, to suit such a romantic lady as me. None of this 'Hi – you!' business in future, please . . .
Dear Mr Bigelow Page 25