Adam Thorpe - Ulverton

END OF BROADCAST

Sat. 7th March 1953

Cold, sleety. Dumplings.

Filing & collating a.m. Typing up Herbert’s broadcast p.m. A bit sniffly today. H. miffed at being called ‘cartoonist’ in Radio T., but all smiles about broadcast last night. Said what did I think of his ‘masses’ voice? I said if I’m one of the masses, then you’ve certainly scored a hit with me, Mr B. But a different sort of hit, I’m afraid, with Mr Sidney Bint. Oh, really? The wart, Mr B. What about the wart, Violet my dear? Only reporting Mrs Bint who had a little word, as you might say, outside the Post Office this morning, Mr B. Well, said Herbert, perhaps he’ll get it burnt out now it’s famous. (Oo ouch, as Mother wd say.) Both listened to magnetic tape recording of broadcast in study at 6.30 + transcript. Herbert rather snarly about lost start. I said I couldn’t quite get hang of it (magnetic tape recorder). It just snapped, Mr B. He lent me a book — ‘Magnetic Recording’ by Dr S. J. Begun. Must keep abreast, Violet my dear.

Sun. 8th March 1953

Cold, sleety. Roast.

Holy Communion. Sermon on fasting. Stiff in joints & bit feverish. Big dose of Fenning’s made me a bit ‘squiffy’. Walter de la Mare on wireless reading own poems. That brought it all back. H. silent over luncheon. Went down to my room earlier than usual. Plum tapping on bathroom window in gusts again. Must lop it. Bed by 8 p.m.

Mon. 9th March 1953

Cold, gusty. Bovril.

Indexing a.m. Still bit feverish. Onto my throat. Appt at Moon’s Garage: said Lanchester needs new gearbox & suggested Mr B. purchase a Hillman Minx (‘Just happen to have one here, Miss Nightingale’). Old Dick (Mr Lock) passing, said Hillmans ‘load of old bolts’ (I think that’s what he said). Mr Moon said Hillman Minx won London to Cape Town last year. Old Dick said who wants to drive from London to Cape Town? Got rather chilled while they were arguing. Thought of King George bidding farewell to Princess Eliz. at London Airport without scarf or hat in biting wind this time last year. Dead a week later. Over lunch H. fixed date of Burial: night of Coronation (June 2nd). I said that’s going to be a rush, Mr B. He said come on, my dear, that’s not how we won the war. In bed by 7 p.m. Low.

Tues. & Wed.: down with ’flu.

Thurs. 12th March 1953

Cold, drizzly. Tomato soup.

Up and about at last. H. rather unsympathetic. Slow Mrs Dart broke Hoover but at least she brought me hot milk each day. Greatness has no time for ailments, I reflect. BURIAL date fixed publicly — letter for local paper. Repository blueprint passed by factory, but steel supplies a bit so-so, Mr Bradman. Like Mother wd say: a bit so-so this week are we, Violet? H. so good on ’phone — used his clipped, civilisation-at-stake voice, and loud man on other end quite cowed. My Mosley tone, Violet. Always gets results out of the vulgus. Typing a.m. and p.m. Glass of sherry (Dry Fly? Fly Dry? anyway, prefer sweeter) with H. at 6.30 after combing session. H. ventured I shd contribute something OF MY OWN MAKING to Project. Oh surely not, Mr B! A sort of short ‘impression’ of my thirteen years with Herbert E. Bradman. To be STRICTLY honest. PROMISE not to read it, my dear. YOU MUST NOT SAY NO. Little chance of that when Herbert’s got brace between teeth, as nasty Lionel Maddocks used to say about me. To my face. Like having a gate in your mouth. Did some good, I suppose. In the end. Still feeling weak. Used up three bottles of Fennings @ 1/9d each! H. to buy Hillman in instalments. Which end first, I joked. Big thump on my bathroom window just before tea. Almost broke it. Rugby ball from Manor School. Such an ugly dirty heavy leather thing. Had to fish it out of the thuya by hand. Reminded me of raising Father’s head up in his last days. It’ll be cricket balls next.

Fri. 13th March 1953

V. cold, grey. Cod.

Typing. Didn’t venture out. Harriet Barlow fell under wheel of articulated lorry outside Sale Lido on a Friday 13th — A.F.C. Gala Dance Night, mind you. We did have some times. Bed early to start The Nanking Road. Scalded my midriff with cocoa, for my indulgence.

Sat. 14th March 1953

Muggy, overcast. Spam fritters.

Typing. Feeling blue. Don Carlos & his Samba Orchestra on wireless saved my day over supper once again. Gets my toes tapping. Close my eyes, can almost see the Astoria. Kenneth on the clarinet, bless him. Pranged on ops, how Gordon put it. Wd always send a card on my birthday. Shd really have gone back for the funeral. Old times. Maybe if I’d stayed up North, etc. Like a fish out of water here. Not that he had a penny to rub, just a load of charm. Went a bit far that time, though. Artificial knickers, Violet my love? Best off, I’d say. Best off. Funny Up from blowing clarinet. Feel it now. Poor Kenneth. Cd have been a widow, I could. And her mite. Children. In loving memory of our dear husband and father, F/O Kenneth Lingham (33 Squadron) killed on operations June 9th, 1944. Loving Wife Violet, and Your Son & Daughter … What a thought. Hope it didn’t burn, that’s all, like that poor chap who came down near Mapleash Farm. Right over our heads, Mrs Stiff said, and into Gore Field luckily, so he didn’t smash the crops. (Ruined the orchids, though.) So low we could see his gloves trying to do something, said Mr Stiff. Same year I think. Might have been Kenneth, except it was German. I couldn’t go and have a look. Smelling it was enough. Filthy black smoke. Didn’t hear a thing, though, that’s the funny part. Always asked after me, acc. to Gordon, did Kenneth. Herbert rather snarly over lunch. Meat-paste doesn’t agree with him, he says. I said it’s lifting up all those boxes. Suggested Doan’s. Must catch ruptures early.

Sun. 15th March 1953

Overcast. Roast, ice-cream.

Holy Communion. Sermon on refugees crisis, needless to say: 70,000,000 without homes as result of wars! What with this & world hunger & rising prices & chill, felt rather hopeless. Jesus hardly comes into them (sermons) these days. Sort of tacked on at end. Period started early over tea with H. in middle of one of his ‘lectures’. Difficult to find space between sentences to excuse oneself. Miss Enid Walwyn also present. I pretended to have coughing fit and ran out. Caught a glimpse of Herbert looking astonished. Went to drawer in my room but no Tampax. Suspect H. has been rifling it for Material (‘Health & Hygiene?’). Felt my blood boiling. Have to approach him. Used flannel instead. Most unsatisfactory. Pains. (Feeling so-so are we, Violet? Yes, Mother.) Returned to H., who looked peeved. He had lost thread. Miss W. had departed in interim. I do apologise, Mr B.: a moth in the oesophagus, as my father used to say. Herbert spent next forty-five minutes extolling virtues (intellectual & physical) of Miss Enid you-know-who. I said Miss Willington much missed all the same. Miss Willington? Miss Walwyn’s predecessor at the village school, Mr B. Was that deliberate, Violet? Deliberate, Mr B.? (Awful headache by now.) To drag in that rotting stuck-up old bag when the subject is Miss Walwyn must have been deliberate, Violet. There was nothing slatternly about Miss Willington, Mr B. Are you suggesting that Miss Walwyn is a slattern, Violet? Not at all, Mr B.; I am referring to your unfortunate term of abuse, for I am quite sure that Miss Walwyn is a clean-living young lady, as every schoolteacher ought to be, at least where I come from. H. just glowered then. ‘What’s My Line’ night, so he let me watch in living room, as promised. Freezing. All the way through felt guilty at taking on so with Herbert. Eamonn Andrews has a nice voice.

Mon. 16th March 1953: my birthday! 42!

Cold, sleety. Spam.

Typing. Uncle Eric sent bottle of Cherry Heering: somehow leaked in post and parcel stuck up. Auntie Pamela sent usual stockings. Cousin Roy forty Gold Flake. Shirley Leatherbarrow Aertex corset plus six Lavender Bathjoys. She is a funny sort. Vernon Crawshaw I red rose (crumpled) & I gramophone record (Ivor Novello: ‘Weave Your Spell Soft Melody’). I don’t know. He knows I only have the wireless. Disappointing. Nothing from Mother. Had a little weep over Kenneth, which surprised me. He wd always remember. Those cheeky cards from Germany. Got ’bus to Odeon: ‘It Always Rains On Sunday’. Saw it several years ago but penny dropped too late. Ghastly cough next to me, loads of sputum — rays from projector lit it up. Makes you realise how far it (sputum) sprays normally, like with cigarette smoke — thick in light shafts, hardly visible otherwise. Looked like cinema was on fire. As also with dust in sunlight. The country’s full of floating matter. Miracle we can breathe at all. Got back late, no lights on, but cd have sworn heard front door put to soon after. Feel a bit nauseous from ’bus. All those twisty bends. Rocking. And pitch black either side over those downs. Cd have been at sea. At least in war you had the camps. Who was it saw a Roman in his headlights? Lots of little fires flickering in the valley where it should have been electrics. And this Roman with a spear. And rather unshaven, he said. Who was it? Never think of Romans as being anything but clean. Funny Mr Vic Tuck the postman, probably. Bed around midnight on glass of Cherry Heering. Page all sticky now. (Chin up, Violet. Chin up.) Awful spoonerism that time on ’phone. With Mr Vic Tuck. Happens all the time, Miss Nightingale. Does it now? Feel like giggling. Old times. Whirling about. Too much Cherry Heering. Cheery Herring. Herry Cheering. Bappy Hirthday Violet! Oh golly