Adam Thorpe - Ulverton

Sat. 28th March 1953

Mild, fitful sun. Dumplings.

Typing a.m., then essay until 8.30! Got up to H.’s shrubbery tumble. Missed out the bicycle-saddle incident. Thought it best all round.

Sun. 29th March 1953

Mild, sunny. Chicken, semolina.

Matins. Sermon on world hunger. Rather depressing. Walked briskly after lunch. Medium-length new one: northerly direction up main road, left thru gate just after big thick pollarded oak you can see faces in, that Mrs Dart calls ‘Samson’ (rather appropriate I suppose), straight across fields above Five Elms Farm, thru beech wood behind Ulverton Hall (a few primroses, but park still an awful mess thru trees), down to river, over wobbly plank, up Ewe Drop (nice name), along scarp all way to Barrow, down Louzy Hill (not nice name) and home to great big steaming mug of Brooke Bond’s. Best walk for years. Marked it orange on Ordnance Survey. Felt cd almost take off on top. Dampened by Miss W. nattering on about Mr T. S. Eliot & I said oh yes I mean to read the Four Quintets. They both howled (that’s the word). Then H. said they had planted the Cupressocyparis leylandii (I’ve looked it up) around the Burial Site, thinking to fox me I suppose, but I said very straight I thought Cupressus lawsoniana wd have been better for the density. Get as good as you give, as Father wd say. Miss Walwyn’s big dark eyes flashed at that, all right. She’s got some Jewish in her I’m sure. Poor things.

Mon. 30th March 1953

Mild, gusty. Spam fritters.

Mummy seeds have COME UP!! Herbert hugged me, but pipe singed my hair — awful smell. Amazing really to think those tiny green shoots, that tender & with dew on them, have been dormant for 3,000 years!! A miracle pure and simple. Makes you think. Went to Webb’s Yard to see about wood for Sample Compartment’s (cherry, they say) & mentioned miracle. Old Mr Webb said he remembers a Mr George Fergusson, used to live opp. church in Miss Walwyn’s little cottage, saying something about curse. Ah yes, I said, it was Mr Fergusson gave the mummy seeds to Mr Bradman in 1931, just before Mr Fergusson passed on. They wd walk together. Forgotten till I came across the envelope just after the war. (What’s this, Mr B.? Goodness gracious, Violet, we shall see them bloom!) No, old Mr Webb rather thought something to do with Squire digging up cunnyump. Cunnyump? Barrow, Miss Nightingale. I said probably more the Egyptological angle. Blank look from Mr Webb. Asks in funny voice have I ever seed him. Blank look from Miss Nightingale. Seeded who, pray? The Squire, Miss Nightingale. Ah, seen. I have never seen the Squire, Mr Webb. He took his own life, I believe, in 1923. Aye, with a Martini Henry under the plum-tree. That’s why they sold her off. Her? The orchard, Miss Nightingale. Your Mr Bradman’s orchard. Aye, under the plum-tree, in the mouth, no face poor bugger. That’ll be all, Mr Webb. Order to be ready by May 15th. Exit Miss Nightingale. Lying in bed. Won’t sleep. Like Wuthering Heights, near the beginning. Knuckles on the window pane. Let me in, let me in! Awful. Wonder what drove him to it? Sometimes think H. cd, when in a gloom. Mother used to say it, but not the type. Widowhood. She just soldiers on & lucky to have Gordon now she’s doolally. Funny neither of us ever did the normal. Poor Jean Lowe so proud of her ring. Lost its colour after Fred died. She saw it as sign, but only 9-carat Utility. Mind you, 22 carat under £5 now they’ve lifted controls, I noticed in town last month. Gustier than ever tonight. Flicking away at window. Knock knock, knock knock. Saw Wuthering H. with Kenneth, Shirley and lame little Ivor Gilchrist that time. Could have blown me over with a feather after. Six inches off the ground, I felt. Not cos of Olivier of course, no. Kenneth. Storm scene, music bashing out, rain pouring off their hair, load of shouting & kissing, then felt hand on my knee. Moved up sideways like a crab. Started snapping my suspenders. Thought the whole row wd hear. Snap snap. Snap snap. Those were times. Didn’t touch anything more though. He wasn’t that sort. Not that time. Wonder if Squire had one? A wife. Can’t bear to think on it. Children. That face, all over the plums I spose. Tiny bits of it still in bark, quite likely. Hope the pane holds. Oh God. I’d just die, just like that. Snap snap. Snap snap. Oh Kenneth.

Tues. 31st March 1953

Mild, windy. Sausage.

Labelling Material till lunch. Sneaked out 2.00 and lopped plum as best I could given the implement (big rusty saw from shed, got it caught in the tennis-net, took a tumble yanking it & distemper stain from old tin on skirt now, drat it. MUST clear the thing out. Felt like I was in an H. E. Bradman cartoon!) His nibs in London with Miss You-know-who. Please himself. Some of us have work to get on with. Last time Violet in London was when Gordon came down for that big model train do. ’47! Time’s more than a twin-prop, as Father wd say.

Midnight. No sight nor sound of Herbert. Terrible if anything’s happened to him. Wanted him to take train. That Hillman! Take the train, Mr B. No, said H., I’m taking my Minx. Big giggle from Miss W. I went all hot in face, I’m afraid to say. Don’t think she’s prepared to recognise Herbert’s greatness. She paints too. Little watercolours. Rather browny. Golly it’s quiet. Almost miss that branch knocking. Perhaps a tree has fallen onto car. Sausage repeating. Nothing real in them. Artificial. Never seen a pig, probably. Come on, Herbert. Not like you. This is what I mean. Big dark eyes flashing. I’ll have to have a word. Not going to let Project slip away at last moment. Herbert’s Second Coming, she calls it. There’s still respect. Don’t like the way she calls him Josef whenever he gets short, either. Just the same moustache, Violet! Miss Nightingale, until further notice, Miss Walwyn. Jocularly, but meant. Is it different up North, Miss Nightingale? Cheek. Anyway he’s dead now. That horrible man. We can all breathe easier. Though H. doesn’t think so. We’re all doomed, Violet. Oh thank God that’s him. Them.

1.30 a.m. Bits of plaster on me. What a racket. Stamping. Stamping. Coming down like confetti, awful. Must see to it. I do think it’s a bit much in the small hours. Really. Stamping about like that.

Wed. April 1st 1953

Cool, snow up in Buxton as usual. Potato soup.

Typing all day. Frayed (that’s the word) after last night: front door banged 4.30 a.m.! H. slept in till 11.15. Unfortunate, as had usual April Fool boiled egg joke up my sleeve. Sat there for ages, waiting. Something about that spoon going straight through always makes my year. Falls for it every time, Herbert does. Superstitious about that sort of thing not coming off. Took a tumble on the Dry Fly bottle on rug, completely empty. Nearly brained myself against the mahogany drop-side table — that antique claw-footed one Mrs Dart left her mark on, as you might say. Somebody has to hold the fort. That’s how that man died when I was at Mather & Platt’s on the shorthand. Slippery floor. Went flying. Caught the edge of something. Mr Ryland, I think. Mr Ryland. Looks right. Or was that that dreadful Works Accountant at Jackson Heywood’s? Never let me alone. Awful George Formby imitations. Put rubber bands around his teeth or something like that. From his teeth to the top of his head, that was it. Awful. Looked a bit like Herbert did this morning. In a bit of a rumple this morning are we? as Mother used to say. Lunch-time kept my mouth shut. It pays. Tea-time was just cups and gas fire popping till I brought up the Tampax issue. I think I ought to mention that I believe you have been borrowing certain items from my intimate drawers, Mr B. You only had to ask. Growl from Herbert: not now, Violet. Told him I had to say it or burst. You only had to ask. Herbert suddenly leaps out of sofa. Ask did you say? Ask? Ask Violet Nightingale for a pack of bloody sanitary towels? You didn’t have to be so explicit, Mr B. Exactly, Violet, exactly! My God, I’ve not realised a damn thing! What thing, Mr B.? Oh, never mind! Go to the pictures! Go to the bloody pictures! I was not planning on visiting the cinema tonight, Mr B., but if that is your wish, then so be it. Looking straight out. Exit Herbert with a large snort. Only sound in living room my tea-cup trembling in its saucer. And gas fire of course. I can see it. Six years of work heading for the gutter. Sliding off. Horrible. Horrible.