Dear Mr Bigelow

by Frances Woodsford

  Now to pop this in the pillar-box. Last week it was foggy and as I left the Baths I saw the postman just emptying the box, so I ran like the wind and caught him with your letter, and said, 'Don't know why I rush like this, for undoubtedly the poor letter will only sit in London Airport for a week waiting for the weather to clear.' However, I do hope it didn't, and that you got it on time, and that this too will arrive on Tuesday.

  Look after yourself.

  Most sincerely,

  Frances W.

  BOURNEMOUTH

  February 21st 1959

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  . . . Since writing most of the above, I have developed – to go with the sciatica, which I have had so long now I've almost got accustomed to it – a nice little boil or abscess at the side of one eye, and you can guess what happened to that. I went to the dentist this morning, wearing a black eye patch and a jaunty expression, and when Mr Samson said 'What the!' I remarked primly that I hadn't liked the expression on his receptionist's face over the telephone last week when I rang up to cancel my appointment because a cashier was ill, so I didn't intend to give her another chance to say 'Oh, she'll seize any opportunity to cancel an appointment', so there I was. When I left, Mr Samson suggested he would prefer to see me next week wearing my usual rosecoloured spectacles, because I really wasn't the pirate type, and naturally I practically screamed with delight at his suggestion, and kicked myself for not thinking of it before . . .

  What ghastly bad luck Mr Dulles is having. As you probably know, his policies are generally, in Europe, regarded with horror and loathing, and as the man whose ideas they are, he is, to put it mildly, not popular. But now that he is so ill, none of the papers I have seen has mentioned a single word against him, and they have all gone out of their way to praise the tenacity and integrity of his character, and the way he has fought against this ill health for so long. I daresay it is all part and parcel of the policy of not hitting an adversary when he is down, but it doesn't always hold good these days, especially in politics and in journalism. I watched the Small World interview on television the other evening, between Mr Truman and Lord Attlee, and was reminded of it, when news of Mr Dulles came through, for Lord Attlee remarked that in American politics you never knew who was going to be the next Head of the State, and therefore it was never possible to train somebody for the job. For, of course, Mr Dulles doesn't seem to have anybody trained to do his job – nor has he ever given any signs of intending anybody else could do it; but in the long run surely this is a short-sighted policy, because we all pop off in the end and it's very bad management to leave a vacuum behind us that is too large for Nature to fill without indigestion. I was disappointed in this Small World interview: I had expected more devastating frankness from Mr Truman, and had not expected so wide a grin, nor so squeaky a voice and so obvious an intention of 'being pally' as was displayed by Lord Attlee. I am told his voice was not previously so high, and had probably been affected by the slight stroke he had suffered some time ago, but I still feel that, of the two, Mr Truman had more natural dignity. And again, Truman had his study as a background; Ed Murrow had well-filled bookshelves – and poor Attlee had a large bit of plain curtaining, and a tray of tea-things! We did look poverty-struck, I must say!

  . . . I told Mr Samson, who knows the family, that Audrey Fagan had asked me to tell him she was engaged, when I was there this morning . . . When, quite casually, I said something about my brother, Mr Samson could not hide his surprise, and said he thought Audrey could not make up her mind which of two men she knew, to marry. I said he was certainly thinking of two other men, probably in Audrey's pre-Frank experience, but it gives furiously to think, doesn't it! How wonderful to have two at a time anxious to marry one, and not being able to make up one's mind one way or another. Apparently she made it up a third way, in the end. Anyway, Audrey rang me at the office today to ask how my face was, and to tell me she was, after all, having the heart op. Now due to go to hospital the first week in March, and to stay about five weeks; so that's that, and I, like poor Audrey, will be glad when, say, the second week in March is over, and she has had the preliminaries and the main bout and has then only to get well again.

  Oh – great news, the sun has twice appeared this morning, for the first time for nearly three weeks. It's amazing what a difference it makes to one's cheerfulness, and as it is just this second shining again, I will finish this letter off and post it while, like the sun, I feel cheerful, and hope when you read this you will wear a matching cheerfulness.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Frances W.

  BOURNEMOUTH

  March 14th 1959

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  . . . This week, Mac has gone up to London (4 a.m. and if you think he didn't see that the whole household was awake to see him off, you don't know my brother) to be there and sit chewing his fingernails for eight hours while they deep-freeze, operate on, and unfreeze Audrey. What good he thinks he will do, I haven't a clue. However, he has taken with him a tiny basket, made in purple and yellow and green, and filled with a little polythene beaker. I cut all around the beaker, down to a depth of about one and a half inches, and then turned all this down, so that as the frills I had made tried to bend back, they came into the edge of the basket and were held firm. This held water, as the basket did not. Next, remembering that tiny black cat I sent you, I bought another one and sewed him to the edge of the basket, sitting at one side where the handle came up. Then, about thirty little silver horseshoes were sewn around the edge and up and down the handle, or hanging like catkins on tiny twigs. Once again, I filled the container with moss, and into this stuck short mauve and yellow freesias. I tried to get white heather but there wasn't any, and as it took me two whole lunch hours to get the other ingredients, I gave up and bought freesias because they look lovely, and smell delicious, and when Audrey comes around she won't feel like looking at anything, but she will still be able to smell.

  He rang us about half past six, to say the operation had been successful and essential, as Audrey had a hole about two inches long in her heart. Now the 48 hours immediately after the surgery will be the crucial ones, but we all hope that Audrey will realise that if she can but stick the pain, the future is bright for her. Mac sounded as though he was about ready for a hospital bed himself! That's the trouble with men: they are so brave in battle when there are no women about, and go so to pieces when some female person is handy to take the responsibility! Mac's usual method of dealing with a crisis is to drink too much, which may help him temporarily, but is never a solution to anything, really. He picked me up at the Murrays' Saturday evening, very solemn and dignified and not speaking to his sister (nothing unusual) but it wasn't until he got in the car and tried to start it a) by turning off the heater, and b) by pulling out the choke, that I realised anything was wrong . . .

  All for now: I shall go up and see Audrey myself on Sunday the 22nd, and stay until Tuesday to visit Lucia Watson, from Alton, who will be there for a couple of days on her way around the world.

  I hope you are well and hale and hearty, also duly optimistic in this fine spring weather we are having.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Frances W.

  BOURNEMOUTH

  March 21st 1959

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  . . . Last Monday at French class, before we finished the lesson, the teacher read out the results of the end-of-the-year test we had taken, the week before. The marks ranged from 45, to 66, gained by the woman with the photographic memory; 72, the little coloured woman who sits in front of me and is a wizard at grammar and parts of speech; to 81, a man who has a good knowledge of French but comes to the beginners' class because his wife is starting there. This having been done, and everybody having congratulated Mr Boothe, we go on with something else. Suddenly, one of the other students said, 'Mr Watts – you haven't told us how many marks Miss Woodsford got.' Mr Watts looked up and remarked mildly that he'd had several very poor papers. This com
ing home to roost, I suggested that he'd said enough and let's get back to work. This made no difference to Mr Watts, who continued browsing through his records. Eventually he found it, and said, 'I feel sure I gave you Miss Woodsford's marks – she got 86 and was top.'

  !!!!!!

  . . . Latest newsflash. I have just come into my office after talking in the hall with a very small customer who is learning to swim. She tells me she is now learning the creep. And, so far as I know, she is no relation of my mother's . . .

  Now, I must get back to work. I do hope your cold weather has passed, and that you will have a fine, crisp, sunny Easter; and, of course, hope that the Easter 'egg' will arrive in good shape and be acceptable as a token of my respectful esteem and good wishes.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Frances W.

  BOURNEMOUTH

  April 25th 1959

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  This week I have been glancing through some of your old letters, and quite fascinating reading they have made, and I must thank you again (out of date, it is usually the one New Year resolution I do keep) for taking so much trouble over writing to me . . .

  What a to-do about Dame Margot Fonteyn!* I had no idea the nation as a whole was so proud of her, and although Latin-American politics are right beyond my ken (except that vaguely I disapprove of them) I am glad the public opinion over here was strong enough to force the musical-comedy police in Panama to release her so promptly. I know we always tend to think of the nations around that part of the world as being childish, theatrical – musical-comedy, as I said – but I daresay it feels just as painful to be shot by a musical-comedy policeman as by a serious one in a more Nordic country. That horrid man, Aneurin Bevan, said in the House yesterday that 'The British public, having seen her in the role of the swan, did not appreciate seeing her in the role of a decoy duck', which I thought was very witty and quite true. I think it is very fortunate these days that a law was passed here several years ago, to ensure that when British Nationals married citizens of other countries, they did not automatically lose their British Nationality. After all, girls who married G.I.'s and found their marriages foundered, are always regarded as being English (or British, if you prefer) and looked at a little askance by Americans who may dislike my fellow countrywomen, and automatically regard the break-up of such marriages as being the Britisher's fault. And I am sure an Englishwoman married to a Spaniard or Italian or Frenchman, who got involved in police proceedings, would suffer the same way – however long she had lived in her husband's country she would still be looked upon as a foreigner. That being so, I think it is right that she should have what protection she can get from the country she is regarded as belonging to. Or do I get too involved?

  * Editor's note: the British ballerina had been detained in a Panama City jail following the disappearance of her husband, Dr Roberto Arias, who was suspected of planning a coup against the government of President Ernesto de la Guarda.

  . . . And now to go out and prowl around to see that all is well, which I hope you are, and will remain so until I can so abjure you again, next week.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Frances W.

  BOURNEMOUTH

  April – no, May 2nd 1959

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  There is a nasty niggling feeling in the back of my mind this week that you aren't well. I'm hoping that it is just indigestion and without any foundation in fact. Anyway, as I am starting this letter midday Tuesday, no doubt my fears will be allayed before it is time to post it.

  Last weekend I went with my brother to his tennis club, where each year are played the All England Hard Court Championships. I saw the women's finals, and most of the men's finals as well, leaving at 1.15 p.m. to go home for luncheon, my brother staying behind for another hour and a half to the bitter end. You will see from this blasphemous behaviour on my part that I am not such a fan of any sort of sport that I am willing to go without my lunch for it!

  . . . Anyway, I was confirmed once more in my firmly held belief that sport is sport and should be enjoyed, and never confused with war, national pride, face-saving, or a spirit of I-hate-you-let-me-do-you-down-ishness. If you lost a race in your yachting career, I daresay that privately you were disappointed, but it wasn't the end of the world, and I doubt very much whether you went into training, spent long hours studying your opponents' tactics in order to circumvent them – in short, you did not rearrange your whole life merely in order to beat them. I am, I fear, very rude when people come to me and ask for subscriptions to start some sort of body or another to train more and more youngsters to top standard, so that we may win another couple of bronze medals at the next Olympic Games and so come that much nearer the records held by your nation and Russia. I couldn't care less, as the saying goes, who owns the medals, or holds the records . . .

  Last weekend I sprayed my rose bushes once more. It is a task which is done regularly, like winding clocks or changing babies. I was finishing the last bit of fluid by spraying it over a large, thick, bush of veronica which is soon to be smothered with pink and white roses which for years have used it as a prop. Suddenly there was a terrific bit of hysteria and beating of wings, and out of the bush flew a blackbird. On looking closely inside the bush, I found a nest with two nice warm eggs in it. Well, since then I have been most careful, and each morning when I go down the garden to put food out for the birds, I go three sides of a square to reach the lawn without passing close to this bush – and in spite of such kindness on my part, the silly bird flies off in a tizzy every morning. Mother says she doesn't, when she goes down. And certainly she doesn't turn a feather when the cat goes and sits bang underneath the nest. But me, I remain the villain of the piece, come what may. I hope the eggs hatch out satisfactorily, after such sudden spells of chill.

  Our cuckoo is back. I heard him in our garden – wretch, I hope the blackbird was safely in position – on Wednesday morning, as I went down the steps, and called out to ask Mother if she had heard him. And she hadn't! First time for years I've beaten her to it, and she was much put out.

  While I remember, don't feel hurt when Rosalind rushes out and gets herself fitted behind the steering-wheel of your car. She hated it when I drove, when we went on that touring holiday together years ago. You should just sit there at her side and bow graciously to the public as you pass, for it isn't often enough these days you have so charming a chauffeuse, and you should make the most of the chances when you get them . . .

  Which is the end for this week. I sincerely hope that by next week I shan't still be labouring under a 'hunch'.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Frances W.

  BOURNEMOUTH

  June 27th 1959

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  . . . The How-Harassed-Can-One-Get Dept. On Wednesday evening, my brother asked me if I could possibly mend a shirt of his. The shirt had a sort of strip of knitted ribbing around the waist, and the elasticity of this had long since departed. So on Thursday I bought a length of very wide elastic used for edging lumber jackets and things like that. Immediately after dinner on Thursday, Mac took off the offending shirt, draped it negligently over the back of his armchair, and went to sleep in the chair in his undervest (unlike his sister, who always drinks her tea with her little finger cocked, my brother was brought up in a gutter!!) as, I took it, a delicate hint that he was waiting for his shirt to be mended before going out to the club . . .