Adam Thorpe - Ulverton

Thurs. April 2nd 1953

Cold, grey. Kidneys.

Shopping a.m. Mrs Hobbs said her Marjorie has complete set Brooke Bond butterfly cards. Wd like to donate it to Project. I said that wd be too great a sacrifice for a little girl. Mrs Hobbs insistent. Cd go into ‘Hobbies & Pastimes’ I spose. Or ‘Wild Life’. That’s the trouble. Fuzzy edges. Indexing p.m. Postcard from Mother: Bexhill-on-Sea with Manchester Spiritualists Social Club. ‘I’ve heard from Father.’ Why can’t folk leave past alone?

Fri. April 3rd 1953

Cold, grey. Haddock.

Typing & collating all day. Fingers hurt. Lumbago?

Sat. April 4th 1953

Cold, showery. Poached egg.

Typing all day. Second ribbon in a week. Some bits of Herbert’s teenage years every bit as bad as Mr D. H. Lawrence’s works. Quite unnecessary, but greatness knows no bounds, as Gladys Unsworth wd say. Too busy supporting Mother & Gordon to get up to that sort of nonsense. Except for that time with Kenneth and Gordon’s cat. On the settee at home. Mother opposite. You make a nice cup of tea, Violet, when you do. Thank you Mother. Gordon’s big fat tabby on my lap, though I didn’t like it a bit. Esmerelda I think its name was. Smelt. Kenneth stroking it. Stroking it on the back, pressing it down on my lap, flattening it almost. I hear you’re in dye-stuffs, Kenneth. That’s right Mrs Nightingale. Pressing it down but it seemed to like it. Purring fit to kill. Then a finger around the ears, so they flicked. Violet’s second cousin is at Trafford Park in the labs there, isn’t he Violet? Our Vernon. But I don’t think it’s dye-stuffs. Do take a biscuit. Thank you very much, Mrs Nightingale, I think I will. Then back about the neck (of the cat of course) which they like, cats do. Heart thumping away and room getting hotter. I thought my face wd catch fire. He was in the East Lancashire Tuberculosis Colony at Barrowmore before that of course, as a lab assistant, our Vernon. Wasn’t he Violet? Though they’ve never been close. (Always that line, always that.) Was he really, Mrs Nightingale? Then hand suddenly under, tickling the tummy. Just tickling its tummy on my lap. Just tickling its tummy. Knuckles rippling in and out, in and out. Big knuckles, had Kenneth. Big strong knuckles. In and out. I’m glad to see you like cats, Kenneth. Our Violet prefers birds. Oh I’ve always liked cats, Mrs Nightingale. But his hand came out slowly oh it did. Room so hot. All blurred. Birds. Isn’t that right, Violet? Mother’s voice all echoey and then the cat jumps off. Like stripping almost. All cold suddenly. I don’t suppose Kenneth ever realised

Herbert all gloom. No sign of Miss W. Ought to go up to mansion tomorrow for that canvas. Or they’ll be on at me. Queer without that knocking

Oh Kenneth

Sun. April 5th 1953

Damp, bright intervals. Packed lunch (meat-paste, Marmite). Cod, roly-poly.

Holy Communion. Sermon lost me. Palm Sunday used to be simple. Young Rev. Appleton much too smart & most likely lefty so will empty church soon. Not that Bew’s Lane Chapel looks up to much. Spotted a cobweb across door the other week. Got back to find note from H.: Gone Out for Day. Love Herbert. First time ‘Love’. Decided to make Ulverton Hse visit into proper outing. Wore wellies in case. Mistake: rubbed bunions almost raw. Sloes in bloom already up Deedy Lane. I’m still only halfway thru last year’s brew! Got to big iron gate, pushed it, got stuck in gravel, pushed it again & Ministry of Works sign fell off catching little toe. Poor mite. Ever so painful. Cut across park to mansion. Mistake: covered with rubbish and tore skirt on nail from collapsed Nissen hut. Will be forest of nettles in summer. So-called lake stinks to heaven. Used to drive the tanks straight through it, I remember. Saw them many a time thru trees at back: big roar and splash, little chaps wobbling on top, heck of a din they made. Got all the birds going. Had to practise somewhere I suppose. Fell over big boot (Size 12) probably off big German P.O.W. Reminded me of Herbert’s classic ‘Stamp Him Out’ cartoon in ’41: tiny Adolf trampling Europe map in shadow of enormous Allied boot. That was greatness all right, said so much. And so painstaking. Stone steps only a bit chipped, but loads of green glass bits all over terrace, & burnt patches. Never believe they’ve been gone three years. And almost ten since those Yanks! Time’s more than a twin-prop, as Father wd say. Young Doris Ketchaside’s no doubt counting every day, with those twins of hers. Some cheeky chappie put ‘Colour courtesy of the 101st Airborne Division’ on her pram one time, acc. to Mrs Dart. The father might have fallen on the Normandy beaches, I said, never mind his skin. It always takes two, as Mother wd say. Maybe tramps camp in the House now. Thought made me shiver. Had a sip of coffee from thermos & that helped: kept my innards warm at least. Such a lovely classical front, despite all: sun broke through & beautiful tall golden stone columns soared all glowing — Palladian? Like huge sad temple. Doors had dreadful creak, like horror film. Gloomy inside: practically every window covered in plywood, nasty slivers of glass. That’s Ulverton youth for you: no respect. Even had a stone thrown at me once, just for ticking off bad language. Need a flick on the ear-hole from P.C. Trevick, I said. Went into very long room (dining room originally?), absolutely running with damp. Cd almost mangle the air, as Grandma used to say on fog days. Smelt of urine. But electric torch showed rather attractive ornate ceiling (plasterwork, of course). Cricked neck slightly, looking. Lilies, ivy, wild clematis and I think a pelargonium but rest too chipped. Pity somebody had lit fire in one corner — big black scorch marks above, carved oak (?) panelling all buckled & paint bubbled off. Lovely old fireplace taller than me with pink and white roses inlaid in middle, once I’d wiped away filth with my hankie. Very good detail on the roses. Heavy shower suddenly outside: water dripped into fireplace! Peckish, so ate lunch on one remaining wobbly chair next to portable wash-stand bang in middle of room chock-a-block with cigarette stubs. Soldiers so careless. Echoes of my thermos flask each time I placed it on floor made me feel rather too far away from everyone for my liking, for some reason. Room too big. Must have been magnificent (no other word) one time — big mirrors, chandeliers, footmen, crystal decanters etc. Mr Rose serving up. Declined, everything has. Herbert’s quite right. Sinking ship. Had to go upstairs, of course: huge marble staircase. Pretended I had long silk dress rustling up behind me. Lord Kenneth in bow-tie at top. Turned left (South Wing, one time). Corridors pitch-black, thank goodness for torch. No electrics at all that worked. All rooms locked! Mice scuttling behind. Come on, Violet! Bet Ministry of Works locked up just out of habit. Torch revealed filthy graffiti, unfortunately, all over walls. Though a little pencilled ‘Mutti’ which I think means Mother in German, which was rather touching, next to the light switch. And rather snarly griffins (?) on ceiling in landing. Rest ruined. Went into North Wing and one door at end slightly open, cd see streak of light. Peeped in & sun just sneaking thru windows where plywood had come off. Three metal beds, torn-out magazine pages (females without a stitch, needless to say) on wall, electric light-bulb on long wire in middle. High ceiling with v. chubby cherubs flying all about & cheeky smiles, rather worse for wear, paint a bit flaky like my pastry. One with a Hitler moustache which is just vandalism really. Amazing to think this was once ever so posh bedroom. Nice view of that beech wood behind, Mr Dimmick’s farm, downs etc. Gaudy wallpaper but soldier must have attacked it with knife — hanging off in long strips as if grated. Crimson colour underneath. A bit like meat at the butcher’s. Crimson colour actually silk. Still smooth. Knife had cut silk to ribbons in one place — no respect — dull brown underneath. Original layer I spose. Reminded me of my own room in Mortlake, after the flood: bottom layer bright red poppies or something. Distempered the lot pale violet (of course!). Just putting a finger on the silk when heard creak like bed-springs behind. Heart in mouth. Neck prickling. Turned round eventually: not a soul, as you might say. Then saw big lump under Army blanket on middle bed. Don’t know why, prodded it first with the umbrella. Soft. Ugh. Reminded me of bodies after bombing raid on Newbury. ’43. Tea with vicar of St John’s. Shudder, boom. Plaster on hair. Went out. Church completely flattened thru smoke. Vicar (can’t remember his name — Simpson?) just broke out in huge sobs. Stood there like about to start a running race, arms dangling, great loud sobs coming out of him & a rather tall thin man. Wd have put my arm round him then but had very full cup of tea & didn’t want to put it down in middle of road, understandably. Left cup & saucer on nearest low wall but he’d gone to wreckage of nearby houses by the time I was back. Always regretted not putting arm round him. Bodies brought out & all soft but stiff also. Horrible. Anyway, prodded blanket again with my finger, felt sick, ran STRAIGHT out of bedroom, DOWN stairs & into marbly entrance hall quick as a flash. Cd have sworn heard Miss W.’s giggle at some point, maybe at beginning, but mustn’t start imagining things. Dark flashy eyes might have sort of deep influence, as Mother wd put it. BUT just about to go out of front door when saw big white bundle in corner: huge long roll of bandage. Cdn’t bear to go round the back to check the canvas, anyway, given my state. White muslin bandage perfect for bunting: can dye it all colours of rainbow if they want. Got a bit soggy on way back in shower. Meat-paste repeating. H. got in at 8.15. Said how was the mansion? I said pleasant, thank you. Don’t remember telling him I was going. Big smile from Herbert. How was your day, Mr B.? Oh, satisfying, Violet, very satisfying. Another big twinkly smile. His face completely changes when he smiles. Said nothing more. He was rather wet, hadn’t taken the Hillman, had faintly familiar musty smell about him. Well, I don’t like to probe.