1955
Bournemouth Pleasure Gardens
(copyright Daily Echo, Bournemouth)
Bournemouth Pleasure Gardens
(copyright Daily Echo, Bournemouth)
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . The first customer in the Baths this morning was a large gentleman accompanied by a small boy. They walked up to the pay-desk and the man said, 'One martyr and one enthusiast, please.' It quite made the cashier's morning! The enthusiast went scooting across the hall to the dressing room, followed by his father proceeding more on the lines of Shakespeare's schoolboy . . .
I had thought, until I looked up your first letter to me, that we had been corresponding far longer than is actually the case. Your first letter, without either salutation or closing address, is undated, but in my own writing on the top is written 'April 1949'. In the spring, therefore, we shall celebrate our sixth anniversary, though what in, I do not know.
I looked up this date because I remember so clearly how it was we started writing. I had sent Rosalind a newspaper cutting which I thought would amuse her, and she in turn, thinking it would tickle your fancy, had sent it on to you. That was the first time I had heard that Rosalind had a father. And then, one day this week, I could hardly believe my eyes because there, in the staid Daily Telegraph, was a long paragraph on the same subject as our opening topic – toads. True, the first cutting was about the use of frogs in some out-of-the-way village in Cornwall as units of money, and this is about toads, but I cut this one out and am sending it to you, to repeat history. Do you remember that first cutting? One man was suing another for the balance of payment for a motor-cycle, the second man having given him £10 and the rest in frogs, and he hadn't delivered the frogs. The poor creatures were gathered in sacks and sold to London hospitals, and I remember the judge in the case remarking that he'd never heard of quite such an awkward coinage in his life . . .
How is your weather? Continuing fine, or have you had the rough edge of the tongue of ice which swept over the Middle States? Over here we have had blizzards and gales of ice and drifts on high ground in Devonshire up to twelve feet in depth. All the roads I went over in November on holiday were impassible. We had a little snow in Bournemouth, but missed the worst of everything, although judging by the cat's behaviour, it was sub-zero weather and we utter brutes to expect him to go out for penny-spending. We sit by the fire all evening and push for front place for our feet, and play Scrabble and eat nuts and enjoy ourselves. A real life of sloth . . .
Now to do some filing, awful thought. I hope you are keeping well, warm and contented.
Yours very sincerely,
Frances Woodsford
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . Have you read Venture to the Interior by Laurens van der Post? It is the account of his three journeys into the heart of Africa during the last war; is exceedingly well done, I remember, and a most sensible and interesting book. If you have not read it and will let me know, I will send it across. We are almost at the point of instigating a Cross-Ocean Library Service to each other, aren't we!
Whilst still on the subject of books: did the Giles books of cartoons arrive your end? You never mentioned it, which is so unusual I thought about it the other day and wondered whether it had gone astray or been in the mail on that 'plane which burnt out on Christmas Day. If you haven't had it, please let me know and I'll get you another copy before the printers run out.
I daresay your newspapers reported the peculiar phenomenon in London the other day, when a sort of midday blackout passed slowly over the whole city. Some of the Italian newspapers, according to the Daily Telegraph, published vivid accounts of people panicking in the streets, and knocking on strangers' doors for refuge; streets thronged with hysterical people, and so on . . . Anyway, one odd result did occur – all the London sparrows put themselves to bed, in the Blackwall Tunnel! I can't make out whether they thought it had been a short day, or whether they eventually decided it had been a very short night. Which do you prefer?
Blackwall Tunnel runs under the Thames, rather as your tunnels do between New York and the New Jersey shore. Incidentally, just a moment while I try something out, will you? Tunnel. Tunell. Tunnell. Tunnel. They all look a bit peculiar, don't you think so? The more alternatives, the worse they look . . .
One evening this week Mac was, as usual, late in picking me up at my office, and his excuse was that he had a case of eviction and, as usual again, the children were not turned over to him until teatime, which makes an awful rush for everybody to get the children vetted by a doctor, and settled into some temporary home, before five o'clock. This time Mac took the three children to a Miss Ashby, who already looks after four. In England, I must explain, adoptions by unmarried women are either illegal or very, very rarely permitted, but this lady, who owns a many-bedroomed house, seems to be so fond of children she takes them in as a foster-parent. She can't do it for money, for the most the town ever pays a foster-parent is 35s.0d. a week, and out of that the child must be fed, housed, and clothed. Anyway, Mac turns up with these three infants, and Miss Ashby takes them in, saying, 'About time, too – I wondered when you were going to bring me some more.' 'She doesn't work,' said Mac calmly. I gulped for a few moments, and then asked indignantly whether my dear moronic brother considered looking after seven children single-handed came under the category of 'work' or not . . .
He will shortly be going away, probably to London, to do his practical work in the studying he is now starting for a Diploma in Social Science through the London University. He will do field-work either in an old people's hostel, hospital almoner's office, or with the Red Cross. I suggested the second might have the most interesting and varied cases for him, but at the moment he is busily engaged going through the book of charities still working (you'd be surprised how many, from Society of Cat-Lovers and Tail-Wavers, to the Society for the Abrogation of Laws Penalising or Favouring Religious Bodies) to choose one he thinks best suited to his particular talents. I feel sorry for him; it must be hard starting studying a new line of work at the age of 37 or 38 or whatever he is, especially as it isn't long since he finished studying for his Associateship of the Chartered Institute of Secretaries. Wish I had the energy to do likewise, but I couldn't cope with C.I. of S. and you, and I think I prefer you!
Very sincerely,
Frances W.
Dear Mr Bigelow,
History, common sense, and my own inclination insists that the first paragraph of this letter should be concerned with the news of the week – the resignation as Prime Minister of our very much beloved Sir Winston Churchill . . .
I am quite without a really concrete idea as to the reason for this drastic step. Whether Sir Winston thought it time, and high time, to give Sir Anthony Eden a chance. Whether he just felt his health was failing and he could no longer enter into the strenuous days with his full vigour. Whether Lady Churchill put her foot finally down and insisted she had her husband to herself for a bit. Or whether the Daily Herald was right – which I greatly doubt, as disapproval from his own party has never worried Churchill in 80 years and I don't see why it should now. Or whether, perhaps, remembering his promise to remain at the head of the Government until he could give us a reasonably safe peace, and realising that this would take decades, if not miracles, he has decided to give up the struggle. I just do not know. I am very sad and forlorn at his going. Something dependable and stable and brilliant, all at the same time, seems suddenly to have gone, and I feel a little lonely and unprotected and frightened.
This week I have been reading the second half of Lord David Cecil's biography of Lord Melbourne, and at the moment am just approaching the end of the part called 'The Queen, First Phase'. It seems to me that Queen Victoria must have felt rather as I feel now, when the change of Government first removed her beloved Lord Melbourne from her side, where he had given advice and help and knowledge and devotion and affection to such great result. Still, the world gets on, with or without its great men, and I would not begrudge Sir Winston a few quiet years with a seat on the back benches of the House of Commons, and a fresh supply of brilliant colours and new paintbrushes and canvasses . . .
There was a letter this morning from Rosalind's travelling companion, Mrs Beall, in which she said both Bill Akin and her own husband had put their respective feet down in insisting that the planned trip to Europe this summer be cancelled if war breaks out in the Far East. Being without newspapers for over a fortnight now, I had no idea things were so serious. Or is it just the usual pessimistic thinking going around? . . .
This morning Mother trotted over to the little half-shop our butcher maintains in R— Drive. It is seven houses away from our flats, and on the other side of the road. Some customers were in the shop as Mother arrived, and one was saying, 'I wonder who it is singing.' The butcher looked up and remarked, 'Oh, I can tell you that – it's Mr Woodsford.' My brother likes singing as he washes in the morning . . . . . . I leave you to imagine the volume of sound to us poor things in the same building!
Bowls and baskets of daffodils from the garden, and primroses and blue periwinkles from the countryside, are in every room of the flat this weekend. Spring has suddenly burst out in every direction, bless it. Today it is warm and sunny and you can positively feel the delight of the crowds. I hope you are enjoying equally lovely holiday weather. I am determined not to take the car on the roads again this weekend, as they are a solid mass of motors and very uncomfortable. Instead, I will brave the wrath of the birds, and spend my spare time in the garden.
Goodbye for this week, then, Mr Bigelow, and I hope you are well and happy.
Yours very sincerely,
Frances W.
Dear Mr Bigelow,
Now that was a very kind gesture, to send me the New York Herald Tribune with the articles on Churchill's resignation, and I appreciate the gesture immensely, just as I enjoyed reading the paper. We did not get the text of Sir Winston's speech to the Queen at his farewell dinner, even when the English papers did get back into circulation, so I was particularly pleased to be able to read it in your paper. It started in true Churchillian style, and finished with an epithet to add to his collection of unusual, but beautifully tailored adjectives – 'the way of life of which Your Majesty is the young, gleaming champion'. Just perfect – not as cheap as 'glittering' would be, nor as ordinary as 'shining'.
The newspaper arrived on rather an awkward day, for I had overnight painted the front stairs leading down to our hall. There was the paper, halfway through the letter box, and there was I, at the top of the stairs. However, it was done quite easily by temporarily dismissing my upright stance (to match my character, of course) and walking down on the unpainted sides of the stairs. Something like this.
And in case you wondered, no, I was not drunk. Especially at that hour in the morning, 7.30 a.m.
. . . It looks as if the end of this page is about due to arrive, so I will just wish you well until next Saturday, and say thank you again for the newspaper. I hope you are well, even if you aren't writing letters!!
Very sincerely,
Frances W.
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . On Thursday of this week I was a Presiding Officer at a Polling Station – a nice little 15-hour day. It was in a rather poor district, but the people who came to vote were so very friendly it was quite pleasant. On another Station, not far away, but as you would possibly describe it, 'on the other side of the railroad tracks', it is like digging in cement to get a 'Good Day' out of the voters; but here, nearly everybody beamed when I greeted them . . .
The policeman on duty at the election told me of his experiences on duty in London during the Coronation. They were on duty from 12 mid-night the night before, to 7 p.m. after the procession had passed, but from midnight until 2 p.m. the police were relieved every two hours and marched to canteens set up nearby, where they could buy whatever they wanted. It was very cold weather, you will remember, and the police all wore their capes. This copper told me that they never once went off for their 15-minute break without having at least a dozen thermos vacuum flasks under their cape, to be filled with hot coffee or tea for the crowds along their part of the route. When they got back, flasks clanking like so many medals, they would get back to their post, back to the crowd, and mutter over their shoulder, 'Here – take this; pass it back.' Then, from 2 p.m. onwards until the procession arrived, he said they were on duty non-stop, and during that period the crowds repaid their kindness. A small child would sidle up to the policeman and say 'Hey, Mister, put out your hand,' and in would come a ham sandwich, or a slightly melted chocolate biscuit.
The reason I got all these tales from the policeman was that I asked innocently where I'd heard his name before – had it, perhaps, been in the newspapers? It had; he had rescued somebody from drowning and been awarded the Royal Society's medal, and he told me all about this with great gusto and obviously decided I was wonderful, to remember his name, and worthy of some more tales of How Wonderful he was . . .
No doubt you have heard about Mr Beall's heart attack and Rosalind's altered plans. We are all most sad about it. Last night when I got home there were letters both from Rosalind and from Harriet Beall, and I knew that this morning I would have to write and offer to cancel the whole Tour because it was so silly and selfish to expect Rosalind to come all this way just for a week's car touring. But this morning she seems to have obtained a replacement travelling companion in the person of Mrs Florence Olsen who will, I daresay, not prove nearly as entertaining for Rosalind as Mrs Beall would have been. Poor Mrs Beall, she must be out of her mind with worry, and disappointment. Still, she has seen some part of Europe, and if she never manages to get back again, she can always conjure up the scenes she remembers, and enjoy them; just as I shall always be able to picture parts of America and thus enjoy, at second-hand, another trip around that continent.
Thank you very much for your letters: I do not know what I should do without the stimulation of the Saturday Special in my mind all week; it spurs me on to doing things when my normal lazy way would be to stay at home and not keep my eyes and ears open for things that might interest you.
Very sincerely,
Frances W.
Dear Mr Bigelow,
It seems to me that in one or two expurgated novels I have read, the word 'flaming' is used in place of another word, unidentified as yet, which is common in the Navy as a swear word. Perhaps that is the real use of the word in the expression 'Flaming June'. Today, anyway, what-ever it was yesterday or may be tomorrow, it is dull and wet and blustery and thoroughly disagreeable. I don't altogether mind, for if we get it nasty now, we may get it pleasanter from next Thursday. So thoroughly selfish I am being . . .
Memo: get some 'anxiety-state' pills. I really cannot go on like this – every meal sickens me, so that I eat one slice of dry toast and four peppermints for my breakfast; one potato, one mouthful of greens, two mouthfuls of meat, and a cup of coffee and four peppermints, for lunch. And so on. It's getting so expensive in peppermints. I am so worried about staff; so worried something will happen to upset The Tour; just so worried generally it isn't funny. Wouldn't it be nice to be an irresponsible type, just letting things flow along as they wish. One evening this week, following a terrible day during which I burst into tears in front of my boss, he telephoned me at home to say he'd just engaged a new cashier and thought I'd like to know, so that I could go to bed and count sheep and sleep, instead of going to bed and counting cashiers and lying awake. What a life!
. . . I don't think the rail strike will much affect Rosalind's holiday. I have a vague notion her Scotland trip is by motor-coach, which won't therefore be affected; and as our tour is by car, there will be very little difference there. Again, Rosalind is being met at the docks by a car to come to Bournemouth, so that will be alright. It is the most infuriating strike, with, as is so often the case, high tempers, heavy emotion, a disappearance of logic and so little responsibility to anybody else. For a leader of a trade union to say 'The country will break before we break' is sheer madness, and helps his men as little as it helps anybody else. My own opinion is that conditions for workers (I use the word the way the unions use it, in a restricted sense) gradually improve over the years by weight of public opinion, and economics. In other words, the firm that offers the best conditions gets the best workers and can compete favourably with other firms. So the other firms start offering better conditions to their workers, and so on, everybody starts getting a little better. People won't work for bad employers any more, that's all there is about it. But everybody expects far higher services from some people than from others – for instance, there would be utter horror if doctors withdrew their services, but they are just as much public servants as the railways' drivers are. More sense of responsibility, that's what it boils down to I suppose.
My garden is looking enchanting this week, and so very neat now that we have cut the hedges and lawns and trimmed the edges, weeded the beds and generally cut off or out the untidy bits. True, we are not often allowed to go in the garden because the birds object so noisily to our presence, but when we do, it is a joy to look at . . . The rhododendrons are at their loveliest, and the rain this week has heightened the greenness of all the new leaves, so that if the weather is good next week, Rosalind should see the English countryside at its loveliest.
Very sincerely,
Frances W.
PS Yes I can think of something – your Natural History book arrived yesterday, so I tried reading it at breakfast this morning to take my mind off food. And what were the articles about, pray, Sir? Praying Mantis eating Mate; and Attempts to Cure Screw-worm in Cattle, with full and juicy illustrations. Don't think I'm blaming you: I merely think Natural History might have been more tactful this month!!!! Took six pepper-mints instead of four, it did.
Dear Mr Bigelow,
Here we are – not at Ludlow, where I got no farther than the address – but in Port Meirion in Wales, where a small (artificial) waterfall clatters down outside our balcony, and beyond is a green lawn (real) and golden sands and clear water and a little green island and, far off, green mountains. It is so cutey crafty it is funny, and I think it was built by a man with his tongue in his cheek. In one small cottage there is a small bricked-up window painted to show a wicked old satyr peering out as a novel change for a wicked old satyr's normal habits at windows.
Today it was fine and very sunny: cold, too, but at least fine. Due to my planning, about which you have heard much, I daresay, the Castle (Powis) we were going over wasn't open until the afternoon, but we did go around Harlech Castle, an ancient coastal fortress, and shivered in the sunshine under the influence of the antique ghosts.
Rosalind and I are having such fun: at least I am and I hope she is, too. We found (almost by accident) the most gorgeous gardens yesterday and I removed (almost by accident, too) several interesting seeds with which I intend turning R— Drive into a garden fit, like Hidcote, to be given to the nation eventually.
We had a most luxurious suite at Ludlow, including Jacobean style beds and red velvet covers, but nowhere to dry our smalls. I do think for the charge made they might have included at least a launderette, don't you?
Now to use some of the hotel notepaper for a change. Au revoir until Saturday.
Very sincerely,
Frances W.
Dear Mr Bigelow,
It is raining tonight and it rained this morning. When it isn't raining big, heavy, palsied drops it is being suffocatingly stuffy. When the hotels I picked out so carefully (should have used a pin) are clean and comfortable they are cold; and when they are warm they are terrible! Altogether not the success I would wish for and I'm sure Florence Olsen is more unhappy about it than her chest cold explains. Rosalind is being very, very gay and pretending like mad, bless her. And perhaps in a way it is good for me to make such a failure, for I'd be insufferable, were I always right and 100% efficient.
Anyway, we have seen two lovely gardens, really beautiful, which exceeded our expectations, and they offset some of the others which were either too sad and run-down or too park-like. We have seen an awful lot of everything and are beginning to suffer the melancholy of mental and visual indigestion. R. and I have climbed spiral staircases till we stagger. But we have met many people who have all been so kind to us – we arrive too late practically everywhere but get allowed in just the same, and are treated with the greatest kindness by everybody. All this, of course, I will tell you when I get home and digest it all. When, too, I shall be able to view the week as a whole and not as a series of failures, semi-failures and successes. Tonight is definitely one of the failures and this is, in consequence I daresay, a depressing letter. Never mind – you don't mind putting up with my vapours just this once, do you? You should be used to them by now, poor man.
This room has brown walls (pale), brown furniture (dark), brown carpet, brown bed quilt and spread, pale brown curtains a brown and black tiled mantel. Do you wonder I am feeling brown, too?
Never mind – the 'cork' will be up again next week and no doubt boasting of its prowess as a Travel Agent. Just you wait and see. Until then.
Very sincerely,
Frances W.
Dear Mr Bigelow,
It is very sad to think that tomorrow is the last day – for me – of this trip. Earlier this evening I was stupefied to hear Florence Olsen say, 'Well, the week's gone now. Now perhaps things will be better.' Stupefied, because I had not thought Florence that tactless, but after a pause she continued, 'The first week you have a cold you just exist, and after that it seems to start getting better.'
Yesterday was a really delicious day in weather, and we had a pleasant variety. First, Clovelly for quaintness. Next, the romantic ruins of King Arthur's castle perched on a cliff top over dark emerald Atlantic waters. Then the flat, high, windblown north Cornwall. Later there was a visit to Cotehele House on the steep side of the Tamar Valley, which is warm enough for azaleas, camellias and lush greenery to rival the tropics. The house (about 1300) was perfectly beautiful. Lastly, we came over Dartmoor, bleak and rocky and high and lonely, into more lush valleys and eventually Exeter. There we were not exactly lulled by the bell-ringing practice! This may be very fine indeed, but a little distance lends enchantment to the finest church bells in the world, and we here are in the Cathedral Yard . . .
Now I must dart out into the corridor and see if I can catch the bathroom empty. Up to now it has produced loud sounds of splashing but never a peaceful silence!
Next week, back to normal. Well – nearly normal, as I shall have to do extra late duties to 'pay' for having this week off. Never mind. There's always 1957.
Very sincerely,
Frances W.
Dear Mr Bigelow,
Now, where was I? Ah yes – in Shrewsbury, shivering in a miserable commercial-travellers' hotel with brown wallpaper and a hideous structure outside our room window with tower, chiming clock, and 'Floreat Salop' in stone letters around its dome.
However, we were there only one night and the clock only chimed during one night's rest, but neither of us felt inclined to spend much time exploring Shrewsbury in the morning. We paid our bill – Rosalind used a travellers' cheque to do so and I'm almost certain the cashier gave us £1 too much for it, which should balance the sixpence she was diddled out of later on at Tintern Abbey – and then we were off again.
So from Shrewsbury we went down the Wye Valley and had a lovely time going over the ferry from Beachley to Aust, getting lost in the Cotswolds again, and eventually arriving at Bath, to find Florence already there. I had been having little bets with myself, whether or not she'd make it on account of the railway strike and having a good time with her friends. The friends were stoic and the country cottage very, very cold, with outdoor sanitation and a pump for water. This, knowing Florence, may have had something to do with her arrival in Bath, complete with bronchial cold. She was terribly upset to discover that the English Kleenex tissues were not only larger than the American ones, but of better quality! Rosalind capped this by saying so was the English toilet-paper, which didn't tear in one's fingers. A quality I had not expected anybody to praise in this article. We sat and thought about Kleenex and toilet-paper and felt very strongly about it all, one way and another.
Then from Bath we had a ball-and-chain with us, in the shape of Florence. Rosalind dislikes driving over 30 miles an hour; this threw our programme out of schedule a little, but when you added Florence doing a snail-crawl some way to our rear, the whole thing became ridiculous. I felt a strong rubber elastic chain would have been a good idea. Fastened one end to the car, and the other to Mrs Olsen. Then, when Rosalind and I reached the car, we could give a good strong yank on the rope and up would bounce our laggard. She did her best, poor Florence, but she just isn't geared to other people's rate of progress. She also had – you know about it, no doubt – a most amusing way of making the most ridiculous statements in a deadly serious way, never realising for one moment how wrong she was in her facts. Rosalind and I had a nice catty time exchanging delighted grins behind her unsuspecting back. Don't know who Rosalind has been smiling at since they went off to Sweden . . .
. . . However, chacun à son goût or whatever it is. And Florence was a very kind person; very simple, and it was really bad taste on my part to laugh at her, however kindly. She was a sitting bird for a joke made with a straight face. At our last lunch, in Salisbury, where Mother and Mac were joining us, there was a little struggle between Florence and Mac over the bill, and I leaned over the table and said 'Oh, please Florence, let him pay it. If you insist, poor Mac will lose face and have to resign his job and leave town and everything.' Florence blushed scarlet at her appalling breach of English social custom (!) and gave up the bill forthwith, poor soul. Poor me, too – I had to reimburse our Willie when we got outside . . . . . . Don't tell Rosalind, please!
This week I have had nothing but bad news from all directions (not from Sweden), so that I hope most sincerely the next letter from you will tell me the Pauline* has won all the races in Long Island Sound, under the skippership of your son, and that you have discovered oil in your back-yard. Or made a score of 756 at Scrabble. Or acquired a new dog or cat. Or something delightful, and pleasant, for a change.
* Editor's note: Mr Bigelow's boat was named after his late wife.
All for now: more next Saturday, and aren't you glad to be back at the old typewriter-game again, after my handwriting!
Very sincerely,
Frances Woodsford
Dear Mr Bigelow,
If ever – which is extremely unlikely – I had enough money to retire on before reaching the age of 65, I would like to take a full page of the local newspaper and on it put, in large letters, my opinion of the Great British Public as I have experienced it during my nine and a half years as a Corporation employee. Trouble is, if all these 'ifs' came to pass, I don't suppose for one moment any newspaper in the world would accept my advertisement because of libel laws.
My outburst is caused through an experience this week, when a 'lady' came into my office and, within thirty seconds, told me I was lazy, inefficient, and grossly overpaid. The reason? The elevator was not working. After her first thirty seconds, she added that I was rude, and by that time there was some basis for her accusation. When the electricians got here this morning (the earliest they could arrive) I told the man in charge that I was lazy, inefficient and grossly overpaid because the lift wasn't working and I hoped he would quickly see to it that I became energetic, efficient and underpaid. He looked at me in astonishment. Said, 'Who said all that?' 'Oh, a lady yesterday, who was annoyed because she had to walk up one floor.' 'Well,' he said sturdily, 'I hope you held her head under water.'
This has been the most ghastly fortnight, from the point of view of difficult customers . . . I for one don't blame the staff one little bit. Anybody who didn't get irritated with the Great British Public in August would either be in an institution or in need of canonisation . . .
I had a letter from Rosalind this week, full of the joy of ownership of a new Springer puppy named (poor dog) Arthur Tintagel. Judging by our own experience of Tintagel, the puppy is going to be very, very full of wind. She, Rosalind, said you had had Paul and Nancy to stay with you and all the children had been ill. What a to-do! Did you rush off pronto and judge yacht-races? I would have done, in your position. And incidentally, talking of yachting, we are following in the newspapers the course of your hurricane 'Connie' which, at the moment of writing, is slowing down a bit off the coast of Carolina. Now I know a Connie, and she's a very devil, so I hope for all your sakes this namesake keeps well out to sea. We had a small thunderstorm last night; nothing much, but enough rain to beat down a few flowers and make the hard-baked turf soggy underfoot. The cat was terrified – it is so long since he heard the rain beating on the windowpane he put on quite a panic, silly creature, and spent the rest of the evening crouching under the sideboard among empty wine bottles and bits of fluff.
In my few spare moments during the last fortnight I have been making myself a new winter frock in tweed. It is now at the stage where only the finishing-off, hem turning up and buttonholing and so on, remains to be done. I look like a putty and brown banana in it, as it is in the new sheath-like style. Kindly remind me from time to time, Sir, next winter, not to eat another helping of that nice batter pudding, will you? Which conjures up a problem. What does a banana do when it gets too fat for its skin?
My brother is still on holiday, with exclusive use of the car and I shall be downright glad when he's not, because every time I am on late duty I miss the bus home and that means I leave in the morning at 8.15 a.m. and get back in the evening at 10.15 p.m., and it's too long a day for any-body, let alone a fragile little flower-like creature like ME! He politely said I could have the car yesterday morning, so I did, and discovered we were out of gas, so instead of saving a shilling bus fare to work and back, I paid out five shillings on petrol. Mac is short for Machiavelli, did you know? . . .
Yours sincerely
Indignantly
Forlornly
Frances W.
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . Now if you want a bird's-eye view of the Conservative Conference this year, come to me, for I am on the doorstep and can give you such a view. A very small bird, mind you. The Conference is being held in the large Pavilion, directly across the road from the Baths. The Conference is the largest ever held in Bournemouth, and overflows in all directions – right now my boss's car is parked outside my office window, smothering the sparrows who are once again pecking on my windowsill for their winter food – and it's parked there because there just isn't room in our driveway, which is full of the cars of the smaller delegates and officials. There are seven B.B.C. television vans, and one Independent Television Network van . . .
Sir Anthony and Lady Eden, and about 400 of the other delegates, are occupying the entire Carlton Hotel up on the East Cliff, and Sir A. and Lady are having a suite on the first floor. I wonder if it is the same one Rosalind and Matt Beall had when they stayed there? They are making such a to-do about the whole thing the hotel owners have been to the trouble to have the Eden arms embroidered on new pink bed-quilts! I wonder whether they'd sell them off cheaply afterwards, or do you think they'll charge extra for the honour of being warmed by a bed-quilt which has warmed the Prime Minister . . .
Willie Jackson, the Pavilion Puss, has been over twice this week – I was astounded, for I had no idea his politics were anti-Conservative. This morning he arrived early with a complaint that he had been turned out because his face was dirty. Well, it was, so I cleaned it up for him and then he decided that he might as well give me the benefit of his company for a while, so he is curled up precariously (precariously because he is far too wide) on the windowsill on a pile of old swimming costumes, watching the birds and purring like a hobbed kettle.
Tomorrow Mother and I are motoring up to London with Mac to deposit him and his belongings at an aunt's house. As he has done practically nothing whatsoever to prepare for this 10 or 12 week visit, I imagine tonight will be a panic plus, as I keep repeating at hourly intervals 'You realise we are starting promptly at nine o'clock on Sunday, dear?' and Mac only groans, not realising there is such an hour as nine o'clock on Sunday mornings. Well, he'll know tomorrow.
On Thursday he went to the Reception for the Conservatives, and on leaving the house about 8.30 p.m. asked me to ring up Highcliffe 313 and tell Ann Allport he had been delayed. Now I have met Ann Allport once or twice when Mac hasn't been able to avoid it, so when I got her on the telephone I said, 'Now, how long have you known my brother?' 'Oh, years.' 'Well, then, you'll realise I am ringing up at his request to tell you he has been delayed, but he has left now and by the time he gets to Highcliffe I have no doubt but that he'll have a specious excuse all ready.' 'I bet he will!' said Ann, and I haven't found out yet what it was. He finished up his last week in Bournemouth (for some time) with his boss away on holiday. On Monday he had a case of two children being kid-napped. On Tuesday a mother tried to kill her children and succeeded in half-killing herself instead. On Wednesday two teenage girls played hookey from school, and the police found them hitch-hiking to the nearest Army camp. On Thursday he had a mother having hysterics all over the office (she is a very bad creature, and the Court have denied her access to her children for a while) and on Friday he had a quiet day. Comparatively. Poor soul, he does have a nerve-racking time, as even this 'comparatively' involved one member of the staff going home with a bad haemorrhage from a tooth. The next ten weeks should be quite a holiday for him, for as he says he'll be a pupil, and have no responsibility whatsoever. As your successive Presidents know, responsibility can be a man-killer if you get it in too great a quantity.
End of paper. More next Saturday, while I am on holiday. So until then, keep well and happy.
Yours truly,
Frances W.
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.