Dear Mr Bigelow

by Frances Woodsford

  . . . Now for the post and home.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Frances W.

  BOURNEMOUTH

  August 6th 1960

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  Although, naturally, I shall be far too busy to write you on the date at the head of this letter. However, we must keep up the fallacy that I write you every Saturday, even though we both know I write you darn near all the week.

  Well, Saturday is the great day and I am not exactly looking forward to it, nor to the future thereafter. At the moment we are having heavy cloudbursts and thunderstorms and so on (typical English summer) so it looks as if the reception will have to be held indoors and not in a marquee on the lawn. Goodness knows where everybody will go – 80 guests and me let loose with flowers, so there just won't be room for everything and as I am doing the flowers the afternoon before the wedding, I get in first. Mother is all set, and looks very elegant and beautiful all in palest pink with white blobs.

  Last Sunday was Mac's last Sunday at home, and, stupid-like, I had anticipated he would at least suggest a picnic, or a run out in the car in the afternoon or even in the morning. We were due to go to the Fagans' for tea, to see the wedding gifts. I should have had my head examined. He got up late and dashed straight out to play golf. Came in for his lunch at five minutes to three, ate it, and went to bed. Absolutely fed up, for I had spent the whole morning ironing his clothes and on a last-minute piece of embroidery I was doing for them, I put on my hat and coat, got Mother ready, and we were just going downstairs to have a 15-minute ride in the car by ourselves when he heard us, and so got up and came with us. I was really mad that he should not even bother to be on time his very last weekend at home. If I tell you that he only just remembered in time, and said 'No' to one of his golf partners' suggestion that they play again next Sunday, you may guess what sort of a household it's going to be chez Fagan after he marries Audrey. I daresay though that as neither Audrey nor Mrs Fagan work (except in the house) they won't mind quite so much if their Saturday afternoons and Sundays are spent waiting for His Majesty. For me, my leisure in the summer is so rare and precious I get absolutely livid when it is spoiled. About the only piece of furniture I did not either choose, or help to choose, is Mac's new wardrobe, of which he is very proud and for which he paid a great deal of money. On looking at it, it was immediately obvious to me that it won't be large enough . . .

  Mac is bearing up fairly nicely, thank you, except that he is railing at Mother and me because he doesn't know what on earth they'll do on their honeymoon if it rains! We have both, so far, refrained from any vulgarity.

  Talking of honeymoons Audrey showed us her going-away outfit last weekend. Very elegant and lovely, and including a pair of slippers in bronze kid with heels at least four inches high and winkle-picker toes. She balanced these on her hands, and I said rather dryly, 'Just the thing for The Brace of Pheasants' whereupon Audrey laughed and said it wasn't really, but she had bought them for swank. Personally I always wear stiletto heels and three-inch pointed toes for a visit to the country, don't you, Mr Bigelow ?

  Which brings me nicely back to you as a subject. I do hope you are your old self again, say circa 1958 (which was a good vintage year) and once more gadding about treating the local ladies to luncheon. You and your doleful 'Nobody ever comes to see me; never see anybody' – and then I find you so bucked with your social life you playfully hit a passing telegraph pole. I warn you, from now on I am strictly from Missouri where your plaintive moans are concerned . . .

  All my good wishes that you are better, gayer, and quite completely absolutely and 100% recovered.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Frances W.

  BOURNEMOUTH

  August 13th 1960

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  Who said, 'Came the Dawn'? Well, when it came to me, it brought, not the sunshine of a new day, but the blackest night. So, if you will bear with me for this week, I won't mention the wedding except to say that it took place, and went off very well, and the reception also, and I have lost my only brother . . .

  Hurrah – a letter from you at last, proving that you are on the way to recovery, even if still full of aches and pains and weak at the knees. How very unpleasant of your leg to give way like that: it must take away your confidence in a most uncomfortable manner. And where was The Can-Opener when you fell over? Busy looking after her other home, no doubt . . .

  Oh a dreadful week, this has been. Today it is fine, although there are a few clouds about – from the east coast of England right across the country to Cornwall, on the extreme west, it rained without stopping once, from early morning Wednesday until late at night on Thursday. Whether it rained in the nights as well I don't know: it was always pelting down whenever I woke up, but I didn't stay awake all night, so cannot say. But it rained and rained and rained all day. Thursday at work was bedlam: thousands and thousands of miserable holidaymakers trying to get out of the wet, and overwhelming the staff and the facilities and the seating and the water; and then grumbling because the place was crowded. I finished up cleaning out drains, stopped up with the wet people brought in on their shoes and added to the hair and fluff they drop, and the papers, of course – and as the place was so packed, we couldn't wait until it cleared and get the engineer to do the job, so Muggins had to do it. Don't drains smell, Mr Bigelow?

  On which sweet note I will leave you. Here is a photo from the local paper which doesn't do Audrey justice – she is much prettier, really, and not at all Jewish as this photo makes her look.

  Yours most sincerely and dolefully,

  Frances W.

  BOURNEMOUTH

  August 20th 1960

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  This week I will really get down to business, and tell you about the wedding. You must know, first of all, that we are having an appalling winter – see, I should have typed 's' for summer, but my fingers automatically went to the more fitting 'w', so I carried on – because winter is just what we have been having, and the temperature rarely goes above 65o which, if not freezing, certainly fits no summer that I know.

  The eve of the wedding it was fine and warm. This was the day I did the flowers for the reception, rushing round to 'Fitzharris' immediately after lunch and there finding, to my horror, that the dozen flower vases the caterers had provided were tiddly little glass things capable of holding, say, three roses or seven lilies of the valley, but scarcely adequate for decorating a marquee 60 x 40 feet, the garden (an acre) and four enormous reception rooms. I was forced to use empty jam jars hidden inside shopping baskets; biscuit barrels with the biscuits removed; salad bowls, soup plates, bulb bowls and even large teapots and a pair of silver candelabra!

  'Never say "can't be done"' is my motto, and perhaps because of this attitude the flowers did look quite well when I had finished, although not up to my usual standard and a long, long way from satisfying me. This was finished, and the last flower tucked into place, at about 6.40 p.m. when Mac rushed me home, I had a tepid bath, changed, did my face again, and left home at 7.10 p.m. to entertain two uncles and aunts, Mother and Mac, at a dinner party at the Harbour Heights Hotel . . .

  Saturday came along very heavy and overcast, and this dullness and stickiness turned into a fine thunderstorm and burst of heavy rain over lunch. Mac's best man, Desmond Pike, was all jittery and I had to sit down and do some mending for half an hour and talk softly with him about life in the Air Force (he's in it, not me) to get him a little nearer normal. Mac was full of beans, dashing here and there for last-minute bits of shopping. I gave them both a stiff whisky before lunch, and nothing else. Then we all changed and showed each other how beautiful we looked, and Mac and Dez went off in Dez's car to the church, and ten minutes later, Mother and I set off in our little car to the Fagans', where we were to transfer to a big Daimler, chauffeur-driven aren't we posh? I knocked my elegant hat off three times getting into the car, and once getting out, so possibly my hair and general appearance was a littl
e flustered, I wouldn't know. I had to take a necktie of Mac's in, and found Audrey and two bridesmaids in the hall, along with Mrs Fagan, one or two guests, Colonel Pritchard (he was giving Audrey away) – and, on running up to the main bedroom with the tie, the last bridesmaid still being tittivated by the dressmaker! I may say this particular bridesmaid is slightly neurotic, and she plainly regarded the whole affair as being designed purely to show her off to her best advantage, so it was only characteristic of her that the bride had to look after herself, while Ruth had to be waited on.

  I daresay you have been to one or two weddings in your time, so you know the gen. My brother was so overcome with the seriousness and emotion of the occasion he nearly passed out at the altar, although it was hole-in-the-heart Audrey who had arranged to have a doctor present in case she felt faint – she, I am afraid, did not quite match up to the occasion, for in telling me about it later all she could think of was that she thought her veil was not properly put back and it worried her all through the service – and, in fact, the vicar kept us waiting outside the vestry afterwards so that the newly-weds could have their first few moments alone. And when we did go in, Audrey was busy powdering an already well-powdered nose, and looking a bit cross because her bride-groom had sent the photographer out. Mac feels very strongly that inside a church is not the right place for flashlight photographs, but Audrey felt otherwise. Never mind – she didn't know until it was too late!

  Mother was very pretty all in pale pink except for a coffee-coloured little hat with a veil, and coffee-coloured shoes. Her hat had a little veil, and four times during the course of the afternoon I leant over surreptiously and pulled the veil down, and each time Mother crossly pushed it back saying, 'It tickles!' I had made her a large spray of assorted pink roses and carnations, and she had seven or eight rows of pearls in all shades of pink and cream. She really did look sweet: not smart, but just sweet. Audrey looked very pretty, and Mac incredibly handsome in his morning dress – and we even got him to wear his grey topper for one photograph. I looked really elegant, for once – no untidy bits, as I usually have: just a perfectly plain dress that fitted beautifully, in peacock blue; water pearls (they are a pale soft colour, and don't gleam as they have a sort of matt, or velvet surface) with stud earrings to match; long white gloves, black patent leather handbag and black patent leather high-heeled pumps, and, of course, The Hat, which was quite the success of the afternoon, apart from the bride. If I appear in any of the photographs I will try and get a copy to send you, but it's a bit doubtful, as none of the official photographers wanted me in, and I daresay nobody bothered to take a snapshot of just another stray guest, at the reception. Never mind; perhaps I'll get dressed up again and have some-body take a snapshot on my own camera, just for you.

  The bride retired at length to change, assisted by one bridesmaid; and the groom retired to change, assisted by two ushers, his best man, and two bottles of champagne. I was pleased to discover that the guests sang to Mac at the reception, and really went to town over it, with harmony and everything! It was a fairly rude song, so I won't publish it to you but it started 'Why were you born so beautiful, why were you born at all?' and perhaps you know the rest. We took elaborate precautions to prevent some of the wilder, younger guests from getting in their cars and chasing the bridal couple as they left, even having arranged to leave the Jaguar hidden in a garage that had two entrances, and Mac and I pushed all the cars concerned right bang up against each other, bumper to bumper, and then locked the two on the outsides, so that until those two were released, none of the others could move an inch. And as it happened, apart from singing again and a few rude shouts and lots of confetti, the minute the taxi pulled away, all these young bloods rushed back – to the champagne! Somebody eventually cleared them off, nobody knows quite how, and they all went around the corner to the tennis club, where they were playing the finals of the men's doubles in the Hampshire County Tournaments. One of the guests marched up to the centre court, shouted, 'Game, Set and Match – that's all folks – clear the court!', and had to be removed slightly by force. He then retired to the clubhouse where he filled his topper with soda-water, put it on, and complained bitterly because he couldn't see through his spectacles. Mrs Fagan retired in tears; Muggins organised hot tea all round for those guests overcome by emotion, and then went off, taking Mother, to wash and go out to dinner again with the uncles, only this time they paid! Very nice dinner in dull surroundings, but as the two uncles left (the others having gone off to their homes immediately after the reception) spent most of their time capping each other's funny stories, the evening went well.

  Sunday wasn't too bad, for the relatives came up for coffee and sherry in the morning, and I took Mrs Fagan and the one remaining bridesmaid out for a drive and to tea in the afternoon. The worst time of all for me actually came last Saturday, when I was beginning to feel a little resigned to a solemn dull household. We took Mrs Fagan and Wendy, Audrey's kid sister, out to a little public house in Dorset, where we were meeting the returning honeymooners for a dinner. It was Audrey's birthday, so the giving and receiving of presents and cards, and hearing 'all about it' took up the evening quite well until we came to leave, and Mrs Fagan and Wendy climbed into the big Jaguar with Mac and Audrey, and left Mother and me standing in the drizzle, to come home alone in the Austin, as a sort of symbol of things to come. Mac came home alone, on Sunday, to tea with us and to wash some of his underwear (!) and said casually that he'd be home for dinner on Wednesday. Whether or not he has decided he must have a well-cooked meal now and then, or whether he's just a bit homesick, I don't know. He has been so kind and courteous to me it makes things all the worse . . .

  Yours most sincerely,

  Frances W.

  BOURNEMOUTH

  November 12th 1960

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  . . . Feeling the beginnings of a monstrous cold on me, I called in at a chemist's shop last evening and asked for 'a box of those 24-hour or 48-hour cold cure capsules, please'. The chemist looked a bit puzzled; opened a drawer under the counter, and was looking, still puzzled, inside, when I put my head over the counter and looked in the drawer as well. There were lots of boxes marked 'Ten Hours Cold Cure'. I said: that was what I wanted, and the silly chemist retorted, 'But these are ten-hour cures!' 'Well, I am not prepared to be fussy, give or take an hour, sir,' said I, and went off to stuff myself with the nasty things. Trouble is, the cure is far worse than the cold, and at the time of writing this, as perhaps you can see from the typing, I don't know whether it's Michaelmas or rice pudding.

  Well, it's Thursday today and you have a new President, and no doubt you are furious or depressed about it. It's an odd thing. I am Conservative myself, and that is the party nearest in feelings to your Republican; but I have always sensed a better rapport between our two countries when the Democrats have had 'their man' in the White House. This time I am not so pleased, as I cannot help feeling that Mr Kennedy is far too young and inexperienced – not necessarily inexperienced in world history or economics and all that lark, but inexperienced in handling clever, wily, brilliant, awkward, difficult, dangerous or just plain stubborn men, both in his own Government and those of other countries. Of course, I believe the general feeling in England is of some relief, for we were not looking forward to having Mr Cabot Lodge in high office, knowing his dislike of Great Britain. However, as you know, I have only the slightest knowledge of politics on either side of the Atlantic and cannot speak with the least authority on the subject. I like Kennedy's face better than Nixon's (feminine logic!) but dislike the youthful look he still wears. I like my men to look like men, not little boys . . .

  As today is my birthday, very many thanks again for the two delicious parcels. I have already made quite an inroad into the petitsfours, which are as delicious as I remembered them from last year.

  See you next week, but look after yourself until I can so adjure you again.

  Yours most sincerely,

  Frances W.


  BOURNEMOUTH

  13th December 1960

  Dear Mr Bigelow,

  . . . Last night we had our end-of-term party at the French conversation class. Quite amusing but a bit childish all round. The men were bringing the wine, the ladies the food, only Mrs Hedges and I protested that two bottles wasn't enough for 16 in the party, so we brought a bottle of Chablis (well, I did) and I took along some cheese-stuffed celery, tiny canapés made with savoury biscuits and pâtés of all sorts; cocktail biscuits and so on, which were a nice change from cream buns and mince pies and sausage rolls. The man who had collected money from his colleagues, having even less knowledge of wine than me, apparently went into a shop and asked for 'three bottles of French wine'. He didn't know they made anything except white wine! He brought with him one bottle very sweet, one medium sweet, and one sweet. As I said, luckily I chose Chablis, dry, and mine came along iced, too, with its own ice lumps in a polythene bag. Somebody else, not knowing the arrange-ments, brought a bottle of Australian Port type liquid. This made five bottles, and was just about enough! To my horror (quite objective horror because I stuck strictly to Chablis, which I love) the men made their drinks out of all three sweet wines, mixed together! Perhaps it doesn't matter, though – I wouldn't know. I felt terribly sophisticated and blasé, watching the others and listening to absolute bursts of laughter at really childish humour – one of the men went down on his knees to me to implore me to have another glass of wine, and I said 'Now really, I haven't remained a spinster all my life without being quite used to saying No!' and this was the success of the evening, which, to me, isn't a very high standard by any criteria. However, I dislike feeling superior and sophisticated and blasé and looking down my nose, and I wished that, perhaps, I too had mixed my drinks so that the jokes would seem funnier. Never satisfied, me, am I?