1960
August 6th (p. 357). Frank MacPherson Woodsford marries Audrey Fagan. Miss Frances Woodsford, third from left.
August 6th (p. 357). Frank MacPherson Woodsford marries Audrey Fagan. Miss Frances Woodsford, third from left.
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . At this time of year I always keep one Resolution, as you should know by now. In fact, it is no longer even necessary to make it, because I automatically write you about New Year to thank you for all your kind-nesses of the year just ended, and to tell you how very much indeed I appreciate your letters, and having my little open window onto your life and doings. You remember that awful time when some member of the staff stole one of my letters to you? I told my boss at the time that you were my Father Confessor, my confidant, the friend to whom I could tell anything and everything and invariably did, without the least fear of repercussions for my indiscretions. So I really am telling the truth when I say you are about the most important friend I have, and I just don't know what I should do without that basic purpose in my life – the Saturday Special. Some people might say I could always pour out my feelings in a letter, it would not matter to whom it was addressed; but that would be completely untrue. I sort out my feelings most carefully, and my letters are always tailored as well as I can manage it, to fit the person who will read them. You seem to have fitted yourself into them so well there has been no need for tailoring my end; you are just ready-made for them, and thank God for it.
So, a very Happy New Year to you dear Mr Bigelow, and look after yourself.
Your affectionate correspondent,
Frances W.
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . We over here were all fairly breathless last week, what with the Royal Family just bursting out with births and engagements and despatches. We were very, very sorry that Lady Mountbatten should have died so young, for she was a very wonderful woman and I've never met any-body who ever came in contact with her, who thought differently. Then of course we were very pleased with the new royal baby. And on top of that, Princess Margaret goes and gets herself a fiancé – and a Mr, at that. The awful pun 'It'll be hard work now, keeping up with the Joneses' has gone round and round Britain. He looks as though he has a sense of humour, and strength of character, both of which will no doubt be of incalculable assistance to him in his marriage. The only thing that worries me is – what is he going to do when they are married? I cannot see the Princess ever allowing anybody to treat her as other than Royal. And I cannot altogether see a man of character, not brought up in royal traditions (as Prince Philip was), just giving up an all-absorbing career to be a hanger-on to the Royal Family. They wouldn't even want him to open bazaars! I would say, myself, that the young lady was a handful enough for one man, without having all the Royal Family tacked on as well. Still, we are all glad she is marrying, and delighted it isn't Peter Townsend, that rather boring prig; or Billy Wallace, that chinless wonder . . .
Friday midday now, so will say au revoir here and now, and get this posted in time to reach you on the usual day. I hope you are well, and blooming like the weather.
Yours very sincerely,
Frances W.
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . I have a sad little story about yet another member of the staff. She recently won £22 in a competition, which bucked her up no end for, as she told me, her husband had walked out of his job some time before Christmas, and had not worked since. Apparently, when they got the cheque for this amount, the man said, 'It's a pity it isn't one of the big prizes, but never mind dear, we shall just have to go on working, won't we?' When she tries to suggest he should go out and look for a job, he gets all sulky and nervy and says, 'Well, we're managing, aren't we?' Sometimes, Mr Bigelow, I am very sad not to be married, for I should dearly like to feel that I meant that much to somebody. And sometimes, Mr Bigelow, I am very glad not to be married and this is one of those times. Next time this particular woman gets a bit testy and difficult at work, I will remember that she is probably still keeping her husband and her mother-in-law, and overlook her tantrums, poor woman.
. . . I will tell you a secret. Mr Watts says I can hardly help passing the French exam in June; but I am not going to pass it. I am going to get Honours, so there! This will mean a lot of work, hard work, so if I sound a bit distrait in my letters between now and mid-June, pray put it down to the fact that I am probably writing you and saying irregular verbs to myself at one and the same time. Don't tell anybody about this, please, in case I miss the target.
And now I will get this in the post before I go out for a bit of shop-ping, and eat my egg, apple and orange lunch. I hope you are well and happy, and that the spring has sprung in Bellport, as it has here. The cat is moulting, and his fur is already disappearing from the bushes on which I place it, to line more bird nests.
Yours most sincerely,
Frances W.
Dear Mr Bigelow,
. . . It seems to me that I ought to start a Society for the Protection of Audrey Fagan, who looks like having a poor time of it once she marries my brother. Not that I shall believe she'll pull it off until about teatime on August 6th, for I am quite sure my brother is getting more and more reluctant, and more and more miserable as he sees no way out. His temper at home is very bad, which is always a sign he is worried or unhappy, but there is just nothing I can do about it. Of course, when he snarls at me I snarl back, but I don't count that as 'doing' anything about it! That's purely destructive doing, that is, and an automatic reflex of mine, alas, which I often deplore, and which has become automatic since the early days of my youth when, recognising myself to be a coward, I resolved not to behave like one, and when somebody shouted at me to frighten me, to shout back so that they wouldn't know I was a coward. Anyway, as usual we have come back to me, and I was talking about Audrey. On Easter Sunday afternoon Mac took Mother and me for a ride to Bullbarrow, where he and I picked little wild violets and white wood anemones and pale yellow primroses, and I gathered some lichen-covered hawthorn that had tiny pale green buds showing through the silver moss, and some peculiar stones that looked as if they had been nibbled by the moth. On reaching home I spent over half an hour arranging my share of these flowers in a shallow turquoise bowl standing on a straw tray (you sent it to me years ago with preserved fruits in it) with the odd stones tucked under the dish. They looked very fetching. Well, Mac saw them on Monday and grinned sourly and said, 'You should see what Audrey did with her flowers – they got stuck in one of those awful glass vases and half of them died immediately.'
He also comes home and moans because the cooking at 'Fitzharris' (what a name for a house!) is poor, uninspired, and sometimes downright ghastly. Well, if he thinks that by marrying a very pretty, spoiled, invalid daughter of a rich man he is going to find a wife who cooks like his mother, and arranges flowers like his sister, he is going to get disillusioned pretty quickly, and I don't really think it's fair on Audrey that she should be expected to come to these levels. True, I might feel sorrier for her if she didn't have such a high opinion of her abilities, but that probably goes with the prettiness and the money. Oh, those two . . .
It's when I come up against moneyed women that I appreciate Rosalind all the more, for I know it is an unhappy fact that money corrupts (especially women) and the more money, the more they are corrupted. I don't mean they are morally bad just that they expect their money to buy service and civility and deafness to their increasing rude-ness, in direct proportion to their wealth and their age. But not Rosalind, thank God, not Rosalind, who always seems to me to be the most under-standing person I know. I think she must practise for ten minutes every day, putting herself in the place of some underprivileged person, so that when she does happen to meet them, she will know how they feel and treat them as human beings, with feelings and dignity of their own.
Lecture over; that's all for this week except that I do hope you will, from now on, with the sunshine and all, start feeling younger and younger every day through the long summer to come.
Yours most sincerely,
Frances W.
Dear Mr Bigelow,
By the time you are reading this, you will have seen Rosalind and heard of her holiday directly from her. I telephoned her at Kew last night, to wish them Godspeed and safe landing and to say au revoir, and Rosalind said the weather here had been absolutely wonderful – sun, sun, and more sun but quite cool. Just, in fact, what I ordered, but so rarely get.
In London last week, anyway, it was both sunny and hot, and I was quite sorry to have my fur tippet to drag around. It looked luxurious, though, even if a bit hot. Rosalind and your daughter-in-law had a pleasant room in a rather unpleasant hotel (all the corridors were wet, as somebody apparently was washing all the carpets, and they smelled a bit of soap and disinfectant) and I had an enormous room with a double bed and four huge, fat square pillows and 14 cupboards and eight drawers. I decided 14 cupboards was quite adequate for an overnight stay, and spread my other frock over as many of them as possible. There was also, oh delight, an enormous bunch of flowers and a jug to put them in, so when I had finished, with my silver-fox draped negligently (took me five minutes to get real negligent) over a chair, I looked the height of a luxurious lady visiting the haut monde . . .
We had tea together, and chatted for a little, then changed as I said, and with a nice long drink under our belts, off to the theatre. (I was so thirsty, for some reason, I ordered gin and bitter lemon, emptied all the bitter lemon into the gin, and just gulped it down as if it were lemonade. With, I may say, about as much effect!) The play, if that is the right word for it, was Ross, and was all about T. E. Lawrence of Arabia, during the short time he was in the Air Force after the war, under the name of Ross. It was a series of scenes from the desert warfare, and although it failed, for me, to explain why Lawrence wanted to go into the Forces, it was a most moving dramatic piece, and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
And, of course, the acting of Sir Alec Guinness was amazing. And dear Lady Churchill was sitting in the row immediately in front of us, which added to my pleasure. Afterwards, we went to Veeraswamy's Indian Restaurant and had very second-rate curry and third-rate wine (first-rate charge, of course) and so back to the hotel and to bed and, in the morning, sadly to see the others off to Kent. Your d-in-law had a formidable programme of gardens and houses to see, and I only hope they didn't wear themselves out looking for them, and at them.
Last night I telephoned Rosalind, as I said. The telephone number was engaged at first, and the operator said he would call me back. Just as the 'phone rang, and I ran to answer, there was a loud 'bang' from the kitchen and a sharp exclamation from Mother. I could either see what she was up to, or answer the telephone, and I'm afraid I did the latter: she sounded exasperated rather than in real trouble.
When I had had our short three minutes, I dashed to the kitchen, to find Mother had been lighting the boiler and blown the door off with the gas poker. And a baby blue-tit had flown in through an open window into our living room and that was too much for Freckles, who was all agog. For a little while there was pandemonium, but in the end all was well, and the indignant little bird flew off with his mum, and an indignant cat went stalking out, all ruffled, and Mother and I sat down to a cup of much-needed coffee . . .
No doubt by now Rosalind has come and gone like a passing glint of sun through the clouds. Wasn't it kind of Lady Harold Nicolson to give them flowers when they left her garden at Sissinghurst? The Nicolson son, Nigel, has been our member of parliament in Bournemouth (East) for some years, but is in process of being thrown out by the local diehard Tories because he voted against the party over the Suez question . . .
Pandemonium is reigning right now; our water show starts tomorrow so by now tempers are worn thin and everybody on our staff is rushing to telephone the nearest lunatic asylum to book a suite for themselves. Ah well, in another eight weeks we shall be halfway to the end of the season. In another nine Mac will be getting married; my heart fails me more and more, and I just cannot even make a semblance of happiness about it, but I must, if only to keep Mother unaware of my growing misgivings. I had a ghastly thought the other day, when Mac said not to give our list of wedding guests to the Fagans as he 'wanted to alter it' and I thought he was going to cross off a very old friend of ours – Dorothy Smith. So one day I asked him point-blank, and after a tiny pause he said no, of course he wasn't doing any such thing. But the pause made me wonder. And this morning he said, out of the blue, that he had spoken to Dorothy and she didn't wish to be invited. Now I don't know whether he is telling the truth or not; whether Dorothy really has said she prefers not to be invited, and if so, whether she feels too upset to come. And if so, whether she just doesn't think this particular marriage is a good thing (as I know she does) or whether she is too emotionally involved. We have known Dorothy since we were in our teens, and she was even then white-haired. I have no idea of her age, but it must be in the mid-fifties at least, and whereas Mac has always treated her as a sort of convenient sister, I am not so sure that Dorothy has looked upon Mac as a brother. So I can't ask her about this invitation business for fear I probe too deeply in something she would rather I didn't investigate. And I can't do nothing, because I should hate a good and well-tried friend to be hurt just because Mac is marrying some addle-headed little fool who is stupid enough to be jealous of somebody who befriended us twenty years before she even met Mac. Oh, Mr Bigelow, don't people complicate matters!
Now to post this; I was so pleased to see from your last letter that you sounded more cheerful, and hope in the next that the same happy progress will be visible.
Au revoir until next Saturday yourself, then, and look after yourself.
Yours most sincerely,
Frances W.
Dear Mr Bigelow,
Oh what a tangled web we mortals spin, when once we start to deceive – or whatever it was, whoever it was, said. And what a mess I get into with tenses when I start my weekly letter to you on a Monday or a Tuesday, but date it Saturday and pretend I am writing it then – which I never do, as you know full well, since it is always posted by Friday afternoon at the latest. If in some future age some eager beaver of a historian digs around in the cliffs of Bellport, he may well find a painted box containing a mass of mildewed letters from Bournemouth; and what a trouble some clever creature will have in sorting out dates, apart from reality from fantasy. Makes quite a pleasant thought, giving all that work to some unknown nosy parker, doesn't it?
I had a letter from Rosalind this week, happy to be home but appalled by the weeds in the gardens, poor dear. She said you had seemed quite bright and cheerful when she reached Bellport and were sitting watching television when she arrived. Shame on you, Mr Bigelow! I thought you only used the television to switch it off with a huff and a puff of indignation from time to time!
My French exams took place on Monday and Tuesday. I was very elated immediately after doing the written exam, but next morning very depressed as I began to remember more and more mistakes I had made, and how many more I don't know I made: my essay – I chose to write about the book I most prefer, not wishing to describe a gentleman, nor the joys of campings – (if any). Of course, having got through the first sentence I suddenly realised my favourite book is Pride and Prejudice and I don't know the French for either word. So I had to be untruthful and pretend I liked Pickwick Papers best. And on top of this my subconscious took a hand, and when I was writing 'Les Papiers Pickwick' what do you think appeared on the paper – 'Une Conte de Deux Cities' [sic]. So there I was, saddled with a book I can scarcely remember reading!! And by an author I don't like, anyway. I was so mad, even at the time, and madder than ever in retrospect, so, to get my own back, I finished my little childish essay by saying that, in any case, my favourite book was usually the one I was currently reading and only the bell for the end of time stopped me waxing eloquent (and inaccurate) about the joys of unexpected delights that awaited one over every fresh page . . .
Looking at the whole thing as dispassionately as I can, I should hesitate to say I had higher marks than 70%, which is well over the 50% pass-mark but not, as you know, nearly good enough to meet my some-what vainglorious ambitions. Ah well, serves me right for flying too high. I will let you know what I do get, some time in August.
Now I must finish this; I will take it with us tomorrow, and post it from some outlandish corner of England (or possibly Scotland) and next week you may have to be content with a very short letter. Incidentally – thank you for Reader's Digest which came yesterday and leaves for Scotland tomorrow.
Yours most sincerely,
Frances W.
Dear Mr Bigelow, oh hitter-of-Telegraph-Poles,
One thing I must say, and you are in no position to stop me, I admire you for picking on something your own size. Height and width are, I should say, about equal but of course you have a moustache, which perhaps gives you just that little bit of an edge.
I am hoping that by the time this letter is posted I shall have heard again from Rosalind, to the effect that you are home and pottering around again with the mutts and going out to lunch with Rosalind and visiting Mr Dall in hospital or at his home, if he too has returned; generally your own self once more, with two beautiful black eyes fading into memory. We went back to the flat this morning because as we came out of the garage drive we noticed the postman down the road, so we motored back a little and waylaid him, but he disappointed us. We cheerfully told him to take a week's notice on the spot, and this so shook him he offered us somebody else's mail as a peace-offering, but we spurned it and went back on our route to work without a letter from America. (This is Thursday, at the moment.) I was a bit optimistic, expecting a letter as I know Rosalind said she would be visiting you on Monday, and she would have needed to write me as she opened the front door, more or less, for the letter to reach Bournemouth so soon. Oh Mr Bigelow, why do you do these things – you are deuced hard on the nerves!
. . . Now for the post and home.
Yours most sincerely,
Frances W.
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.
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.
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 little 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.
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.
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?
. . . Now, in case this letter gets to you in time for Christmas, once again I hope it is a very happy one for you, dear Mr Bigelow, and you start off the New Year with lots of parties, and a new zest for life.
Yours most sincerely,
Frances W.
Dear Mr Bigelow,
What else happened over Christmas? I read Bonjour Tristesse in French, in two evenings except for one or two words, which don't appear in my dictionaries and which, I suspect, would not appear except in the very fullest dictionaries – and then be marked 'Not used in polite society'. Also, started making a new hat in emerald and blue cellophane, which makes me look a bit like a Salvation Army lass only funnier, of course. And used up nearly all the writing paper given me for Christmas in writing to say thank you for my presents. Funny how the supply almost exactly coincides with the demand!
Do not have any worry in the world that my letters should be answered. Rosalind will tell me how you are, and if you get kidnapped and put in hospital again, no doubt the noise will reverberate across the Atlantic and if I don't think it's a thunderstorm, I shall know it's you 'wanting out' in your usual fashion.
And I do hope that you will look forward to, say, April. When the winter will be over and passed, and all the little boats will be hauled up having their bottoms scraped and painted in readiness for the summer. Rosalind tells me you are always fitter and happier in the autumn, when you have been able to get out and about a bit in the fine warm weather; so please, just sit back and cross the days off the calendar until that fine warmth comes back to warm all our marrow and send us out to watch the birds at close quarters, and to smell the sea and the wind off the marshes.
I was thinking about you the other day, and it occurred to me that it was strange, how very formal we are, one with the other, and yet how deeply I value our friendship. It does not seem to be a friendship as my others are – a familiarity – there is too much distance between us for that, but it is a different kind of friendship and seems to me to be mostly from my side anyway, with you very tolerant and forbearing about all my girlish outpourings. Thank you, thank you, for all this understanding, anyway. I don't know, sometimes, what I should do without you.
And now, of course, I can't fill in this last piece of paper with trivialities. Only with a very sincere wish that you will find 1961 a happier year than this one just ending; with a revival of your old spirit and a whole succession of friends calling to see you and take you out when you wish to go, and making life, if a little more restricted than we could wish, fundamentally happier.
Yours most sincerely,
Frances W.