Ulverton (33 page)

Mon. April 6th 1953

Cold, blustery. Pork pie.

Typing all day, back where I left off before on ‘The Life As
Lived’:
no more teenage years, I said to H. over lunch. You can only have seven, you know. He didn’t even chuckle: a world of his own. His memory is amazing, though. I spose the inner life of the great visionary (and H.
is
that, whatever people say) as important as the outer, but I would like to know when he eats now and again! Magnetic tape recorder holding up. Feel I know Herbert better than myself, sometimes.

Tues. April 7th 1953

Milder, showery. Lamb chop.

Typing all day. Fagged out!

Wed. April 8th 1953

Mild, showery. Cheese potato.

Typing all day. Stiff. Hip again. Mr Sedgwick the stonemason over from Fawholt. He was the one did last lot on war memorial and missed the ‘b’ on Cecil Scablehorne’s, acc. to Mrs Dart. Typed out Location Stone lettering in block caps, just in case. Nice man. Asthmatic, like Gordon.

Thurs. April 9th 1953

Nice & sunny. Yorkshire pud.

Typing ‘The Life As Lived’ all day. Up to p.1530 (1938). Butterflies about it, but I am looking forward to ‘my’ years. Can be hard on folk, mind you. Just as well his father’s passed on, in a way. Though no one alive will ever read it. Presume they’ll still have scholars about, in 3,000 years, to translate it all! His Mother wd be pleased. Butter obviously cdn’t melt in his mouth. Hip eased a bit with the extra cushion.

Fri. April 10th 1953

Damp, overcast. Cod.

Typing all day. Mummy seed shoots appear to be sweet peas. House-martins back, scrabbling away above the study. Wonder where they’ve been?!

Sat. April 11th 1953

Damp, cloudy. Boiled egg.

Typing a.m., H. out all day. Shopping p.m. Much more in shops than a year ago, I realise. Mrs Hobbs onto me about those butterfly cards again. Sniffily. Very stiff. Quick walk up to Bayley’s Wood. Primroses lovely. First wood anemones in usual spot. Oxlips! Wood lark. Fox? MUST get on with essay, though fingers agony. Don’t know whether shd mention ‘naughties’!? (You must be completely honest, my dear, for the sake of posterity. For the sake of truth.) Naturally, Mr B.

The Project Years

For the last six years I have dedicated myself to the ‘Project’ on a daily basis – much of my work involving ’phone calls to public lending libraries (especially the British Museum Library) experts in all fields, inexpensive hotels and so on; card-indexing, filing and cross-referencing; collating and binding; and typing the material as it comes. I have left the ‘creative’ work, of course, to Mr Bradman. The merry tap-dance (see ‘Mass Entertainments’) of these keys have kept many an unwanted knife-grinder (or whoever) kicking his heels at the tradesman’s entrance, while in his ‘studio’ Mr Bradman has drawn and written until the smoke metaphorically comes out of his ears!

Given the task in hand, it is not surprising that Mr Bradman has neglected his professional career, and many believe that he has di has either passed away or has retired completely from the pages of the ‘shinies’ and the children’s annuals. If they could only come to little Ulverton, and watch him burn the ‘midnight oil’ in a fog of pipe-tobacco, their assumptions would quickly be dashed. I should really

I really ought

Mr Bradman is not a ‘la

Although

I ought to say at this point that our professional relationship, while clo intimate, has never impinged on our private domains. I am quite I am well aware of the ‘Freudian’ implications of an employer and his female ‘assistant’ living toge living under the same roof, but apart from our Sunday ‘roast’ and sandwiches at lunch-time, meals are taken quite separately. I have my own gas-supplied kitchen in the flat, and a separate entrance behind a small fence. Now and again questions are there are prying typ inevitably the lo I do find the ‘locals’ rather trying, espec most parti although Miss Enid Walwyn, the young teacher at our village school, has a way with words that Herbert, for one, finds alluring. She is well versed in English literature, and many is the time we have argued the respective merits of Mr Edmund Blunden and Mr T. S. Eliot over a jam doughnut. or two. Herbert Bradman’s unique qualities are such that many find his comp He
does
have a way with I must say, there is however still however despite there is no one else who knows Herbert E. Bradman as well as myself.

At this poin

Something of his

Opening a drawer one day, I was rather star

I think I’ve already mentioned that Herbert drew illustrations for ‘glossies’ like ‘The Tatler’. They especially liked his abilities in the human torso direction; no one could rival Herbert in that line. Flicking through those magnificent colured pages of the Twenties and early Thirties, it is quite obvious to me that Herbert’s double-spreads exceed all his rivals. ‘Cleopatra’s Bath-House’ or ‘The Nymphs Laughed At Their Reflections’ (not in a pool but in the bumper of a white Lagonda motor-car!) rival Mr Bestall’s more languid creations. The female frm, in Herbert’s hands, looks so light and slim (whether clad or no) that one might almost believe it is truly angelic. Apart from anything else, of course, his drawings undoubtedly promoted our very light, hygienic clothing that did away with the clumsy garments of yesteryear, and that are, in the opinion of the Ministry of Health, highly beneficial to health to general well-being. But like Mr D. H. Lawr

But there are

Sun. April 12th 1953

V. dark, spitting. Chicken & stewed apple.

Easter service odd with it being so gloomy outside. Angel on wall of church subject of sermon. Has big dark eyes like Miss W.’s, unfortunately. Philis Punter-Wall says its wings are grey heron if you know what you’re looking for. She does like to show off her expertise. I said I thought angels were above all that. Used to nest on the river in my grandfather’s day, she said, all sniffy. Chill. Old Bidem (don’t know his real name!) rather eloquent on flowers in churchyard, or wd have been if I had understood the half (thick accent). Got onto fruit. I said was it true about the Squire under plum-tree? Said wrong thing, evidently: he went all silent & big brown face twitched all over. Never know what you’re touching sometimes. Well, I said (to save the situation), at least he enjoyed a last drink, acc. to Mr Webb. That Martini. Sheila Stiff’s baby looks definitely mongoloid. Doesn’t move a muscle and it’s nearly five months. The obvious joke came into my head just as I was taking the wine (she’d brought him up to be blessed) and I felt so evil. On Easter Sunday too. Sometimes Communion makes me feel strong all over though. I think it’s the taste apart from anything else of course. The bread and wine in your mouth, and you can smell it off the others back in the pew, all part of the same thing. I don’t know. Herbert thinks it’s all rubbish of course. But he won’t dissuade me. Miss W. still goes, at least. His eyes rather sparkly at moment – new lease of life, but doesn’t mention Project very much. Has just about finished illustrations to last chapter of ‘The Life As Lived’, he told me over lunch. I’ll interleave them with the typescript myself, Violet, when you’ve finished it. Oh, I think I can manage that, Mr B.! No no, Violet, leave it to me, leave it to me. Rather sternly. I mentioned how much I was looking forward to typing out next instalment. Blank look from Herbert. Didn’t say any more. Struggled with my ‘essay’ all afternoon but hopeless. Gardened. Looked at the Pharaoh’s sweet peas & suddenly felt tearful & small. Nice talk on old waggons on wireless at moment by a Mr Ewart Evans. Quite poetic. Never knew harness was so complicated.

Mon. April 13th 1953

Clearing. Spam fritters.

Miss W. back from her holiday somewhere: loads of giggling above now needless to say. Squealing. Typed ‘The Life As Lived’ all day, up to August 1939. Not a hint of my interview in July. He does get his dates a bit out sometimes. Comes of not keeping strict diary. Tempted to hear on but that’s never been my way. I type what I have to type, & hear what I like to hear. The Nanking Road rather good. Took in cocoa tray and Miss W. had got there first. Felt like that time Gordon brought Father’s slippers down while I was on the toilet & I was only about seven. Betrayed. Miss W. in easy chair said oh here’s Violet now can you help us. Herbert thinks the name ‘Ulverton’ is because they used to have wolves but I say it’s either owls or Canute. Canute of the waves? I enquired, coolly. Yes, she said. Then something about Canute and his bodyguards and their manners. Well, I’m not one of her pupils. So what do you think, my dear? from Herbert. I said History’s not my subject, Mr B., and I have more important things on my mind than nomenclature (that was the word, uttered straight out). Then H. did his vulgar bit. The valley’s shape and all that. Just to make me flush, no doubt. Who the devil lopped off the V, etc. Gives out big roar of laughter. Miss W. tut-tutted I’ll give her that. Sometimes I wonder whether Herbert ever quite got over his teenage years, as they say about Mozart I believe. Miss Walwyn is rather full of herself, that’s the trouble. Up too many pegs, as Father always snapped about Kenneth, poor soul. Though only a quarter Jewish, in the end.

Tues. April 14th 1953

Mild, v. bright sun. Bovril.

Typed ‘The L. As L.’ up to December 1939. Nothing. That is, nothing on myself. I think he must have got his years wrong. That doesn’t bode well for whole, does it? No appetite – funny butterflies feeling in stomach. Dull play about talking pigs on wireless. Light only has Accordion Band on. Third just thumpy Beethoven. Have to drown giggles somehow. I’m very worried,
actually.
A Daisy Powder or I’ll not get off at all, though the packet’s rather old (got it after V.E. Day for obvious reasons!) Finished Cherry Heering, talking of that. Meant to offer some to Herbert. Never seems to be free of an evening to come down, these days.

Wed. April 15th 1953

Mild, sunny. Bovril.

Up to August 1940. Nothing! Only: ‘I gave the papers to my secretary and drove immediately off, exultant with a newfound feeling of liberation from all the daily dross of this scheming, sick world.’ No appetite. Awful caved-in feeling in stomach. Doan’s haven’t helped. Mother used to swear by Cockle’s for nervous indigestion. That awful giggling. Squealing. Like Mr Oadam’s pigs. Coronation Committee Meeting 6.30: Mr Donald Jefferies said he’s got every waggon in the parish & lots of implements for the bonfire. I said did he hear that interesting programme on Sunday? He said obsolete equine carriages have nothing to do with our new Elizabethan era of streamlined speed & efficiency. Dr Scott-Parkes took off his spectacles and mentioned possibility of national famine if we didn’t increase productivity. Like he tells you to eat plenty of greens or else. Mr Daye said we must increase crop yields by something or other. Mr Stroude said what happened to the ploughing-up policy and chortled (that’s the word). Then they all went on and on. Mouths moving, arms waving. Subsidies. Phosphates. Batteries. Fifty per cent something. Hill farming obsolete. Policy at half-cock. Artificial inseminating vital (I think that’s what my Minutes say). On and on. Lots of nodding. Felt such a fool about the waggons, like I was simple. Low tonight. Secretary! Want to read on but never been my way.

Oh Herbert

Thurs. April 16th 1953

Warm, clear intervals. Potato soup.

Up to end of 1940. Nothing. ‘My secretary opened the door & Mr Alfred Bestall entered.’ Alfred, of course. Nice man. Herbert nearly got Rupert in 1932. He just couldn’t get the face right. Very good on Nutwood & surrounds, though. That lovely valley.

Fri. April 17th 1953

Warm, sunny. Bread & dripping.

Up to August ’41. Nothing. ‘The feeling that my energies were at their peak was a potent one, and only when my secretary came in with a cup of cocoa (O the reins of routine!) did that flowing current of creative electricity cease.’ I’d thought he’d have brought me in when the Project idea was floated. That time in the shelter. Walked the river up to Grigg’s Wood and back. Clear my head. Lovely still day. Everything a bit like glass. Thought of those singers who can shatter it (glass). Made attempt (no one about) on Saddle Bridge leaning over but came out a funny squeak. Fancy if I had and the world suddenly went with a pop. Could almost imagine it, it all looked so fragile and leaves sticky & translucent, like Shirley’s first in the hospital. Its eyelids. Sunlit trees and water and whatnot. Felt just like a little girl again, on the bridge. Looking into the water. Making my squeak. Yes yes.

Sat. April 18th 1953

Warm, gusty. Bovril.

End of ’41. ‘It was leafing through a book on fossils in the shade of the pear-tree, and seeing a photograph of a prehistoric fly caught in amber, that re-awoke that long-buried dream, and only when my secretary interrupted my reverie with some lemon barley water, did I descend from that glorious, potent mountain!’

Interrupted

Sun. April 19th 1953

Cool, raining.

Holy Communion. Felt dizzy, left before sermon. Thought angel was about to fall on top of me. Suffocating. In bed. Excused presence at lunch. V. low. Nothing in me. Glass of milk helped.

Oh Herbert

Mon. April 20th 1953

Mild, squalls.

Typed. Summer of ’42. Nothing. Nothing at all. Those spool things make me giddy, going round and round like that.

Tues. April 21st 1953

Mild, grey. Tomato soup.

Typed. End of ’42. Nothing. ‘Well, I suppose you have felt this power, this desire to change the world. Come on now, have you not? I have! My secretary has not. My baker has not. Your linoleum salesman has not. But we have!’ Letter from Museum (only took them eight months): ‘The item you retrieved from the River Fogbourne is not, as you thought, a Saxon dagger but a bradawl, probably eighteenth century.’ A non-spiral boring-tool, apparently. Might have known.

Wed. April 22nd 1953

Mild, sunny. Boiled egg.

Typed. Middle of ’43. Nothing. ‘Only the tapping keys of the distant typewriter came between me and a sort of glowing
Nirvana
as my pen flowed across the white page.’ House-martin poisoned. Too much noise, said Herbert. So looking forward to those tiny mouths yearning.

Thurs. April 23rd 1953

Fresh, sunny. Marie biscuits.

December ’43. ‘My secretary went down to her room, leaving me to enjoy that delicious solitude of the self-seeker before the roaring fire. What a Xmas, truly, for the ripe soul!’ Up to Barrow. Greater celandine out. Common blue. Corn bunting on telegraph wire. Peewits.

Fri. April 24th 1953

Cool, sunny intervals. Thin Arrowroot biscuits.

Mr Bradman in London. Up to September ’44. ‘The bombs rained down upon Europe, but I was elsewhere in my soul. I drew deliriously, obsessively, ended only by cocoa brought on a tray, the powder still circling slowly upon the top, like the Milky Way, like the spiral of the ancients, like the Vital Desire itself!’ Letter from Gordon. Mother’s a turn for the worse. I’ll have to go up I spose.

Sat. April 25th 1953

Chill, snow in Buxton. Vegetable soup.

Miss W. upstairs. Spring ’45. Nothing. Nothing at all.

Wrote to Gordon. Will be coming up. Took in cocoa and music blasting away on gramophone. Miss W. and H. in easy chairs with eyes shut. Thought they were asleep. Turned it right down. Your cocoa, Mr B., and I think I’ll be turning in now. You’d think I’d kicked them. That supreme moment, Violet, and you shattered
it!
Supreme moment, Mr B.? Gerontius meeting the angel! Face to face at last! Oh the dross and trivia of this world, obscene, obscene!

Sometimes I feel like having a good weep

Sun. April 26th 1953

Cold. Soup.

H. Communion. Walk to White Horse. Mr Stephen Bunce found me. Brought horse & cart, took me down. Gave me brandy in his council house in Vanners Crescent. Smelt of dogs. Kind folk. Never been in one before. You looks very creamy, Miss Nightingale. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Oh Violet

Mon. April 27th to Fri. May 1st 1953: incapacitated. Panic overhead. Furniture moved about like thunder. Mrs Dart said saw robin tap my window which means a death. Sorry to disappoint, I said.

Sat. May 2nd 1953

Warm, sunny. Dumplings.

Contributions weekend. Certainly ‘quotidian’. H. kept out of way. No more HP Sauce bottles tomorrow, and that’s flat. Headache from smiling. Some of the clothes smell. Well

Sun. Apr

Tues. May

Mon. May 18th 1953

Warm, overcast. Yorkshire pudding.

‘The Life As Lived’ finished. Nothing. Last paragraph. Spring 1953. ‘Enid and I walked up that day to the ruined mansion, her eyes flashing hope, mine only adoration. “April is the cruellest month”, she whispered, as we climbed to the terrace hand in hand. Within, where England’s old order had crumbled to dripping ceilings and scrawled walls, where perhaps you, the reader, are now cropping your sheep, or landing your space rockets, we found a bed. Here the seed was planted anew, as I had planted those ancient seeds. Just as I now plant this great steel seed filled with the dross of our so-called “civilisation”, and the struggle of one to free himself, as an angel must from the material shards of a lesser world, through the agency of the female essence, from that trivial and clogging stuff we call “daily life”, that you see before you in all its reality. And even there, the world invaded, poked us, did not let us be (see illustration). Only in death may that joy be everlasting, may that seed flower, just as this seed before you now has flowered in your eyes, like the golden flower of Homer. Pick it, and rejoice! May it give you hope! May it give you life! May it give you, too, O posterity, that vital fire of love!’

Handed it all over. Apple-pie order. Illustrations coming on, Mr B.? All done, Violet. Goodness gracious, you are a marvel, my dear. Look at this! So neat and tidy! Well I was thoroughly trained, Mr B. May I have a glance at the illustrations? Oh no my dear. There are some things that even you cannot view. Only posterity has that privilege, my dear!

Seems to have forgotten about my written contribution. Just as well. No stomach for it.

Tues. May

Wed. May 20th 1953

Mild. Coronation Committee Meeting: no more bunting needed, Miss N. You shd have brought it earlier! Ill, I know. But thank you anyway on behalf of the etc. Maybe the cottage hospital wd be interested? You’re looking better, I’ll say that. Have you checked yr garden for bonfire stuff? It’s rather wild at back, Miss N. Found two waggons already & a threshing machine in old barn on Barr’s Farm – hid under collapsed roof for 25 years, can you imagine? Gardened. Herbert distant. Biggest bonfire ever. Red Admiral. Chiff-chaff behind shed. No waggons.

Thu

Sun. May 24th 1953

Missed church. Hiked (that’s the word) up to Kisser Cross. Blowy. Wind right through me. Buffeting. So open up there, that’s the trouble. Let it push me off, almost. Like flying. Or as if nothing in way of it (i.e. the wind). Skylark on fence-post. Prefer it up high, funny scruffy brown thing down here. THINK I SAW STONE CURLEW!! Need stronger binoculars.

Elgar blasting away again. Her present to him, I believe.

Mon. May 25th 1953

Repository arrived on back of lorry. Only a week late. Like big bomb. Shiny steel. Makes me look wide. Mr Webb put cherrywood compartments inside. Fit to a T, look, Mr Bradman. Packing the Material. I don’t say much.

Tue.

Thurs. May 28th 1953

Packing the Material. Location Stone delivered. ‘Posterity’ spelt with an ‘e’ on the end. At least he got the 4953 date right, and Percy Bysshe Shelley. ‘Of bitter prophecy’ a bit too crowded, I thought, but then I’m always a stickler. H. displeased, but I didn’t tell him about the wrong celandine on Wordsworth’s. Why should I? Don’t have