Dear Mr Bigelow

by Frances Woodsford

  My brother's wedding date now seems to be fixed for August 6th 1960, that being the Saturday nearest to the day they met, says Audrey coyly. Her mother is busy giving them bits and pieces of furniture with which to equip a sitting room, Audrey's bedroom and a small bedroom-cum-'den' for Mac. In a way I suppose Mac is fortunate, for he won't have much to provide in the way of equipping a home. I am still giving advice, and never in my life has any of mine been accepted so quickly! Last week, I said I didn't like green curtains in their new sitting room, which is a cold room, and thought the curtains at that time in the dining room would look better, and the dining room, in turn, would look vastly improved if it had light chintz. 'The very idea!' said Mrs Fagan, so down come the curtains and she pops out the next morning to order new ones, expense no object.

  I have not liked to bother Rosalind, who must surely have had enough on her hands with Mr Akin's nervous disposition and that threatened steel strike at Leclades, but perhaps now that she has visited you, you can pass on any news there is – whether the strike did start, or whether at the last moment it was averted. From your remarks about strikes and M. Kruschov [sic] I fear it is 'on', but hope I misread your mind.

  Winter must be well on its way, for my sciatica and other bits and pieces of rheumatics have returned, and sent me scurrying back to my tin of ghastly salts. If only the pain wasn't in the right leg, I would have the darn thing off. Trouble is, it is my left foot which is the larger, so to have the right one (complete with leg) removed would not make me take any smaller size in shoes, and I can't right now think of any other good reason for doing away with the smaller leg . . .

  I am late with this letter already, so will waste no more time except to send you my very best wishes, and hope you had (of course you did!) a very happy time with Rosalind.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Frances W.

  BOURNEMOUTH

  October 3rd 1959

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  . . . As I was wending my miserable way to the dentist this morning, I came across a very ancient parked motor car. It had screwed to the bonnet a neat plastic sign which read:

  THIS CONVEYANCE (CIRCA 25BC) WAS REPUTEDLY COMMANDEERED BY HENRY V AT AGINCOURT TO REPLACE HIS FAILING HORSE. PLEASE DO NOT TOUCH OR DESPOIL THIS HISTORIC RELIC.

  It quite reconciled me to my visit!

  He gave an injection for the filling, which was nice, but didn't stop me having to go out from home on an empty stomach. He – the dentist – was also a bit taken aback when, expecting nothing but gratitude for his pain-free drilling, he found me complaining bitterly of the noise. 'Might as well live on the boundary of London Airport,' I reported sourly, on coming up for air and a nice spit. So then we had a long and heated argument about politics and ethics, which was entertaining and hard work, as he is so much cleverer than I, I am hard put to it to stay even two rounds.

  Oh yes, Freckleface has a new bed. Queen Elizabeth 1 didn't do better. I got rather fed up with my sleepless nights with this fat cat lying all over my shin bones; so I folded in three an old quilt, and placed it on the lower half of the tea-trolley which I use instead of a bedside table. On top of the quilt I put each night his little silk (artificial, in case you think I am quite mad) cover, and when he comes stalking in, he gets popped there, in his own little four-poster bed. The first night he objected strongly, and for nearly an hour after I had put out the light, whenever his purrs stopped suddenly, I would put down my hand and there would be his little face, just creeping out and up onto my bed. The second night he thought he was a bit of alright, and now he pops in with alacrity, and sometimes if I am awake in the night and I can hear him washing or turning over, at my side, I can hear also a little contented purr come up, before he sinks back into sleep.

  On Sunday I took Mother, Dorothy Smith, and an elderly cousin of Dorothy's, to Kimmeridge for a picnic tea. It was so hot you wouldn't believe it. We went for a short walk along the top of the cliffs, until stopped by arriving at a barbed-wire enclosure where they were drilling for oil (Yes, oil in England and finding it too). We couldn't get any further because the cliff went straight up to the sky, or down into the sea, and we, not being spiders, could not follow suit in either direction. It was magnificent scenery, though, and well worth being polite to the guards on our biggest oil-well yet. We were glad to see they weren't making a terrible mess of the beauty. Yet.

  Now I must get this off and back to work. Next week I shall be in Worthing without much time for writing. Never mind, I shan't be so brief as not to be able to wish you well, as I do now.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Frances W.

  BOURNEMOUTH

  October 10th 1959

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  If I can get a page of this letter done before I go away on Wednesday (Wednesday last, according to the date at the top, of course) then you won't feel you are being neglected . . .

  Many thanks for your last letter, in which you ask for the impossible – my views on whether women prefer to be envied by other women, or desired by men. Do most women have to make the choice? It seems to me that by the time women have reached adulthood, their natures and character have formed, and they probably are no longer in a position to choose. Besides, are the two things alternatives? I think it is rather unhappily phrased anyway – you make it sound as though we are either cats or nymphomaniacs! Then again, your question suggests a woman is either immediately attractive to men, or not at all. So far as I know any desire I may arouse in men is something that grows gradually – that is guesswork: I don't go around asking Thomas, Richard or Harold 'Am I desirable?' Might have awkward repercussions. But I do think I might be envied by other women – a guess. I don't know. But as a reasonably happy person I can imagine myself the object of envy of women who, perhaps, think themselves less happy. Oh dear! Let's get out of this. I'll ask you one, 'Have you stopped kicking your cats?'

  Last night I stopped up late (for me) to see which way the Election was running, and went to bed about 1 a.m. secure in the belief that Conservatives would be 'in'. As they are. The whole thing was shown on

  T.V. from 9.30 p.m. to about 4 a.m. And again today from 6 a.m. to 4 p.m.! The Socialist bigwigs, interviewed in the early stages of the count, were as confident as heavyweight boxers; and so looked silly in the end. The Conservatives were not interviewed at all (no reason was given us: they may well have refused, wily-birds) and so, today, nobody can say 'Oh, pride goes before a fall!' or 'Don't count chickens!' etc.

  As you can see, I am at long, long last separated from my old typewriter; sitting in Worthing (halfway along the bottom edge of England) in the sun; and shortly stopping to get tea.

  Au revoir until next week, and look after yourself.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Frances W.

  AT HOTEL OF MY SAINTED FATHERS

  PARIS

  v. LEFT BANK

  Samedi, le vingt-quatre October 1959

  Cher M. Bigelow,

  See how my environment affects me! Any minute now I shall burst out again in fluent, but fluent comme la Seine, French, and then you'll be sorry. Sorry you neglected your schoolboy languages the better to appreciate mine.

  Still, yesterday I went out by myself, Mrs Bendle being a latish riser, and went into a small shop and asked for a little butter, and some bread, and please, that bottle of Chablis – was it sweet or dry? Having got so far, I plunged on and asked where I found the bus for Versailles. This was the end! All the customers were brought into the discussion, and the head of the house. There was gesticulation and jabbering and in the end I understood that I caught a bus from around the corner to Porte de Versailles, and from there to the Palace it was everybody for himself. So we took the train!

  After trailing around Versailles, to find the Petit Trianon was shut for repair, we got lost (a little) and asked somebody the way. As somebody had already asked me (!) the way, it was poetic justice that this woman also was 'a stranger in these parts'. She in turn asked anothe
r passer-by who, but of course, was a stranger, so by the time we met up with a native of Versailles we had half the street blocked. I asked, so carefully, 'Pardon, monsieur – voulez-vous me dire où est la gare?' and he said 'Quelle gare? Il y a trois' [sic]. Not fair for two reasons. One, we had no idea there was more than one, and, two, we had no idea which of the three we had arrived at. So this meant thinking up some more French – 'the station for Les Invalides, please'. In the end, we got there, finally asking the way of a handsome young St Cyr cadet. Unhappily, nothing exciting happened – he just told us.

  Yesterday, the Flea Market. It was not, to me, disappointing for there were a great many beautiful things to see. But everything we dared ask about was so expensive. I bought (for me, from you for last Easter, merci beaucoup, très beaucoup) a lovely alabaster powder bowl, which looks like a milky sky faintly touched with darker drifts of clouds. You may remember, a powder bowl has been on my 'wants' list for several years, and now I have it, and from time to time I take it out of its paper and stroke its lovely soft surface. Thank you very much indeed. My only other purchase was an old oval picture made of hair (human, one hopes) in an ebony and gilt frame. Probably they won't like the hair, so before I give it to the Fagans I shall have to replace the flower arrangement – all in hair, very clever, if a little macabre – with something more ordinary.

  We have eaten splendidly and quite cheaply, really for none of our daily meals has cost us more than about 14s. or $2, and the helpings have been so large it has even been hard to get an appetite up for our second meal of the day, which is a picnic in our hotel room of bread and butter, cheese and grapes, wine and nuts and a little chocolate. Lummy! That makes us sound as though we were really stuffed!

  Today we see the Louvre. I don't want to, but my companion is a woman of iron self-will, and what Lulu wants, Lulu gets. It is easier to go with a steamroller than against it and I don't really mind. When I do, then I stick to my wishes and get them usually by some devious means.

  Paris is as lovely as always. At night the enormous plane trees on both banks of the river, rustling in the breeze, send up a harmonious accompaniment to the sudden rushing noise that is made by the traffic, held in leash by the red lights, suddenly being released and leaping forward like a corporate body, in one fighting, fierce surge. I have amused myself trying to picture Paris traffic rushing, six, seven, or even eight abreast, up the narrow, congested streets at home. To see two French drivers simultaneously flash around a corner into a narrow side street is, at once, an awe-inspiring sight because of their skill, and terrifying because of their lack of care for the safety of each other.

  Today – Tuesday – Mrs B. had a cable saying her son was arriving in Scotland on Saturday, so we are going home on Thursday instead of Saturday. I don't really mind as she is rather overpowering, being immensely kind, but at the same time she must always be right, and she knows what's best for you. Right or wrong, she's still right, which can be a trifle wearing on her companion . . .

  Today we saw, as all the museums were closed, an exhibition of young modern painters and sculptors. Mr and Mrs Olsen would have loved it! The American room had one 'painting' of which the top half was filled by a flattened-out acid drum still bearing the words 'Dangerous – the contents must be kept dry' and the rest of the canvas contained, under several layers of paint for varnish, the painter's old woollen pullover (unwashed where it was not covered by paint) some photographs of a ship at sea, a piece of wood, possibly the skirting board he had not used for firewood. In case you want to send an offer for this masterpiece, the artist responsible (? could one call him 'responsible'?) is Robert Rauschenberg.

  Last-minute rush: we have seen another exhibit of modern paintings; the Impressionists, and the Louvre. Also went very expensively to the theatre and it turned out be to a French adaptation of one of Cornelia Otis Skinner's plays! As it was all a comedy of words, I was lost, utterly and throughout the whole thing – at top speed – got scanty words only and two whole sentences – 'Do sit down' and 'Who is this girl Frances?' Never mind, the Pierre Balmain dresses were wonderful.

  All for now, back to work now.

  All my best wishes,

  Françoise W.

  BOURNEMOUTH

  November 7th 1959

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  . . . There has been on television a series of interviews to find out the English Woman's opinions on a poll recently taken in your country. I am not quite certain about the exact words, but they were either 'What do you think is the innovation which has made the greatest difference to your standard of living in the last ten years?' or '. . . . . . the innovation which has most greatly altered your way of living . . . . . . ?' The poll in the U.S.A. revealed that your ladies think a) barbecue cooking, b) polythene hairsprays, and c) power brakes, have had the greatest effect. I was fairly speechless at this, and looked up to see what the English housewife and business girl thought. Here were their choices:

  1 Artificial flowers with electric lights inside, instead of the old-fashioned type of light which was a light, period.

  2 Tinned cat food.

  3 Composition soles for shoes.

  4 Childbirth (the interviewer could not refrain from suggesting this had been going on for longer than ten years, but the young woman insisted she meant what she said – that today it is quite painless!). I am not going to try to prove her right or wrong.

  5 Plastic mirrors for budgerigars. Yes, that is what the woman said.

  6 Electrical gadgets, in particular, spin dryers. (Bless this one for an I.Q. way up, by sheer contrast, in the genius class.)

  7 Special paper coated with sand, to use in the bottom of bird-cages and stop the chore of having to put fresh sand in every day.

  8 Chinese restaurants, because one can eat good food, cheaply, there.

  9 Television. (I thought this had been going on for longer.)

  10 Artificial flowers to put in the garden in the winter, and so make the garden look blooming all the year around.

  I give up. I bow the head in shame. I splutter. I laugh. I cry. I just plain don't believe it. The commentator, after these eleven interviews, looked at the camera with a dead-straight face and said dryly, 'I never cease to be surprised by the people I meet.' British understatement . . .

  More next week; until then keep well and don't throw anything through the television screen.

  And now, really au revoir,

  Yours most sincerely,

  Frances W.

  BOURNEMOUTH

  December 5th 1959

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  . . . This last week has been full of event and excitement for me, even though the events were but small stirrings in a teacup, and the excitement a mere leavening of my spirits from the dull doldrums they had sunk into by last Saturday.

  After as many 'will' and 'won't' announcements as there are petals on a daisy, at the end of last week it was finally (and tardily) decided that I should have some central heating in my office. Joy and huggings (self-huggings, have no fear, we are a highly respectable staff, alas) and I bounced home to tell the family my good news, and started tossing padded quilted overcoats out the window.

  Then I must tell you about Mother's legacy. It hasn't come yet, and won't for some months yet, but we know how much. The cousin, true to her lifetime habits, was too mean to go to a lawyer to draw up her will, so she went to a neighbour and he did it for nothing, and did it with so many inaccuracies that it will mean a great deal of work and worry for the executors to get it probated and sorted out. One of the executors is a brother of Mother's. She has left him £200, which he says he will more than earn with all the work he will have to put in clearing up the will: besides, he has always looked after her financial affairs, and only last year (he told us) he put through a property deal for her which netted her £2,600 profit, so poor Uncle more than deserves his £200. Then she left the same amount to Mother!!!!!! And a few pounds here and there to the rest of her cousins. And the remainder t
o charity. A matter of some seventeen thousand pounds!! When I tell you that Mother remembered staying with this cousin and her mother when my mother was a little girl, and they served the batter pudding and gravy before the meat and vegetables 'because it takes the edge off the appetite and you save money on the meat, my dear' you may imagine how the cousin managed to save all this money . . .

  Mother has already worked out what she is going to do with her fortune, and I have worked it out another way so already, you see, the money is bringing dissension to the family! Mother, bless her, suggested a fourway split; one quarter to each of us, and the last quarter to me as well to pay for the refrigerator, as every time she looks at it Mother apparently thinks, 'There is Norah's fare to America!' My idea is that Mother should give Mac £50 for a wedding present; put the same amount in my bank account, put £20 aside for television repairs, spend that sum on a wedding-outfit for herself; have a really good holiday, and if there is anything left after that, well, she could let me have £10, perhaps, towards the refrigerator, which would make me more than happy as I was glad to be able to buy it anyway, and have long since forgotten the money was ever in my account. Mac has produced no good suggestions, merely offering his post office savings account as a 'safe' (his word) place in which to put the money.

  I remarked somewhat forlornly that I was already saving to get the fare to and from America for your Special Birthday in – what is it? 1963 – but at the rate I am going (I didn't mention this bit) you had best postpone 1963 until, say, 1969 if you will, please . . .

  Now to say au revoir until next Saturday,

  Yours most sincerely,

  Frances W.