Adam Thorpe - Ulverton

Tues. 17th March 1953

Clear. Pork Chop. Canned peas tasted off.

Typing & collating all day. Headache. H. has decided to re-do his adolescence (‘too miserable, got to jolly it all up’) so that’s more transcripts. Oh dear, Mr B., if you don’t mind my saying so, I do find the Soundmirror irksome (that’s the word) to operate. Irksome, Violet? Irksome, Mr B. You do realise what you’re saying, Violet, don’t you? You’re saying that £69 10s worth of the latest in magnetic tape recorders ought to be chucked up because you’re too damned fool to learn it. Now where’s my doughnut? At least I’m not working for Mr Evelyn Waugh, I always tell myself, after what Gladys Unsworth passed on that time. Pure poison, she said. 10 p.m., & he’s still recording: comes down through floorboards of study. Like a tummy rumble. Amazing that he can find so much to talk about. I couldn’t.

Wed. 18th March 1953

Clear a.m., overcast p.m. Toad-in-the-hole.

Card-indexing & filing a.m. Cross-referencing p.m. (where does one draw the line? Cd go on forever!) Went with H. to meeting of Ulverton Coronation Committee, 6.30 p.m. Wasted ten minutes struggling with stove. Herbert wants to tie in Burial with Festivities. Newspaper out tomorrow, took copy of letter. Philis Punter-Wall in Chair, so arrived at A.O.B. swiftly. H. spoke after reading out letter. Mr Donald Jefferies said it was barmy, and what the heck does quotidian mean? I did warn H. about quotidian. Much too fancy. Herbert glowered. I took the reins. Said one had to think in bigger terms than our Sovereign’s Coronation: what with atomic and hydrogen bombs, the Reds, 70,000,000 homeless, refugees, world hunger and so forth, we could do our bit. What bit? (Mr Donald Jefferies.) For civilisation. At stake etc. Supposing it all goes up in smoke. Then what? Mr Norman Stroude said I haven’t the foggiest, I won’t be around. Laughter. Mr Donald Jefferies said it was still barmy. Nice Mr Stewart Daye said he liked it. Mr Sidney Bint glowered at Herbert & scratched wart menacingly. It really is unpleasant. Hygiene. Tiny pieces of it in our bread, most like. Perish the thought. What you’d see if you could would stop you eating anything, I’m sure. Ignorance is bliss when it comes to the microscopic, as Vernon Crawshaw would always say. He’s a funny one. Red rose my foot. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, though. Just not my sort. Always smelt of that stuff they bottle dead things in, that was the trouble. Mr Norman Stroude put his arm on my shoulder & squeezed. Breath beery. Said what do you want to know about my daily life, Miss Nightingale? All contributions welcome, I said, looking straight out. Miss Enid Walwyn said it was a super idea and clapped her hands. Herbert smiled. Miss Walwyn has a way with words. Rather high voice. Dr Scott-Parkes said in his capacity as a local man whose family had tended the sick for three generations etc., he felt it tended to the morbid, and had no place in the Age of Hope. Herbert said the Age of Neuroses, rather boomingly. Dr Scott-Parkes took off spectacles and blinked slowly at him, like in surgery. There’s some odd little tale about the Scott-Parkes, but I can’t remember what. Dark cupboards. Will have to ask Mrs Dart. Except she always goes on so and expects a cup of tea and a digestive at the end of it and nothing gets done. Can’t watch her when she’s having her tea-break. Sip like a bath going out. Digestive dunked to soften it. She ought to get teeth, at least. It really is very chill in the Village Hall. Mr Sidney Bint said what’s going into it — ten pounds of aniseed balls? H. said we didn’t quite catch that Sidney old man. Urn making queer noises so break for tea. New lavender-coloured cups, very nice, result of Horticultural Society Square Dance Raffle. Hortic’s property therefore, but all welcome to use. What about breakages? Ah, said Mrs Whiteacre, that’s a question for the committee. Which one, pray? She wasn’t sure. All these fuzzy edges, it’s a wonder things go on. People break things and don’t report them, said Mr Bint. In a queer voice. Discussion resumes. H. reads out letter again. Lots of nods. Motion carried by majority of I. Mr Donald Jefferies suggests it happens after bonfire. Bonfire? Biggest ever, to be made out of waggons. Waggons? Splendidly combustible. A new Elizabethan era. Ties in with Mr Bradman’s do. Burying the past and all that. Passing of horse and cart in favour of tractor & trailer. H. says I’m not burying the past. Mr Bint says aniseed balls again. H. says what? Mr Jefferies says it all ties in. He and Scouts to scour the parish for all sorts. Waggons, carts, ploughs, old farming tools etc. Biggest bonfire ever. Beacon. Beacons to be lit from Land’s End to John O’Groats. Ulverton’s to be the biggest and brightest, etc. Mrs Whiteacre says do you realise she’ll be same age as first one? Our Sovereign. Motion carried, none against, I abstention (Miss W., who is fond of waggons needless to say) and Meeting breaks up amicably. Herbert spent evening, after combing session, hopping about floor of living room and spilling his whisky on rug. I was very satisfied with my contribution. H. pecked me on forehead when I gave him his nightcap. Bristly, like Kenneth. Nearly mentioned Tampax matter, but balked at last moment. Chill tonight. Orchard House rather draughty with easterly. Whistles. Plum flicking again. Brand’s Essence definitely buoying appetite. Bit worn out, actually. What with

Thurs. 19th March 1953

Clear, windy. V. cold. Hard frost. Luncheon meat.

Typing & collating a.m., ’phoning p.m. Mrs Iris Webb popped round tea-time. Gave us all her support. Had read the newspaper letter. Could her little daughter Susan show us her needlepoint? H. said needlepoint wasn’t on the list. But you asked in your letter for local contributions. Representative is the word, said Herbert. (Why does greatness have to be so gruff sometimes?) Mrs Webb leaves in bit of a huff. H. turns to me: what is bloody needlepoint? Bell rings. Mrs Maud Oadam. She has brought along her grandfather Ralph’s animal traps. Horrid. H. says that’s for the bonfire. Mrs Oadam leaves in a bigger huff than Mrs Webb. I meant THE bonfire, H. shouts. Bell rings. Mr Horace Rose holding a footman’s jacket. His father’s. Rather fine. Nice gold buttons. Used to serve up at the big house. Serve up what? Serve, says Mr Rose, with a sniff. H. says, politely, I am concerned with the present, not the past. Modern times! 1953! Mirro Modern Cleanser. Deaf Aids. Auto-changer gramophones. Projection television. Oxo cubes. Coloured magazines. Plastic switches. Phensic tablets. Tampax internal sanitary protection (aha). Magnetic tape recorders. Silvifix Hair Cream. And so on. Do you see? A single example of anything modern that will fit. Not a footman’s jacket, Mr Rose. Go and see Mr Jefferies. That is his department. Mr Rose told H. that he was an ungrateful bugger and why doesn’t he bury himself too while he’s about it? Left in a bigger huff than Mrs Oadam. Not a good start. Left notice on gate: ‘All Contributions For Posterity, Please Bring Sat. May 2nd or Sun. May 3rd.’ H. retired early, so took opportunity to search Deposit Room for missing personal item. Not in ‘Health & Hygiene’ boxes. Nearly gave up. Clock ticking made me nervous. Chill. Switched on new electric fire though rather loud click might wake H. in room above, I feared. Did not consider ‘Domestic Comforts’ as already indexed it, but only to F with ‘Medical Advances’. Searched without success in unpleasant material (rupture girdles, stethoscope, hypodermic syringes etc.). Then noticed them (Tampax) clear as day tucked into ‘Vogues & Luxuries’ box along with sunglasses, powder compact, lipstick, electric mop etc. Vogues & Luxuries! Greatness does have its oversights. Am quite irritated. Have to have a word. Fuzzy edges. Where does one Section end and the next begin, I ask myself. Scald still tender.