Ulverton (34 page)

Fri. May 29th 1953

Packing. Herbert like little boy. Bisto in with the Oxo cubes now, Violet!

Don’t have the stomach, but I do it.

Sat. May 30th

Mummy sweet pea’s first flower. Rather small, but bright yellow. Picked it before a soul was up, just like that. In jam-jar on my window-sill. Waited 3,000 years and only felt early morning sun & a bit of a breeze on its petals. Better than nothing. Like a bird’s-foot trefoil, that golden

Sun. May 31st ’53

Walked up to scarp at dawn. Back along river. Whinchat. Bit of white campion by stile. Viper’s bugloss in usual place (early). Ragged robin out at last in Quabb B. Heron by ruined mill? Repository all ready for Burial (Planting, he calls it now. Well, it’s
a
bit late for me to change.) Tripped over bunting on way to church. Bunting everywhere. Miss W. got children at school to make them, needless to say. All colours of rainbow. Gold and silver even, like wings. Rather windy. Bit of sun. Bonfire or whatever by Saddle Bridge half-built already. Big. Waggons & carts one on top of another like they’ve dropped from sky. Thump thump. Loads of axes swinging away at lots of things. Big sweaty men grinning, tossing on wooden bits, swinging their axes. Nice old hay-wain straight out of Constable went in two minutes. Splinters flying they’d better watch their eyes. Two men holding either end of plough, looked just like Mr Dimmick’s. One two three & on it goes. Little boy rolling barrel up. Waggons looked bigger all piled up. Like a pile of elephants out of that book on Africa. Gone without a struggle, as Joan Lowe said of her Eric. Little by Little, as Kenneth said, rather cruelly. Scribbled down the names on Gordon’s envelope. Habit. Have to have a name, don’t we? They’ve all got a bit of flaky paint & a name. Like on war memorial. Poppy day. Blast on the trumpet. JOHN STIFF, MAPLEASH FARM ULVERTON 1833. LORD CHARLES H. CHALMERS ULVERTON HOUSE FARM, ULVERTON. ERNEST M.BARR ULVERTON 1887. JACOB SWIF … (rest indecipherable – greasy patch on Gordon’s envelope). Funny poem on wireless full of names. Like lullaby spinning round and round. Gordon’s good on names. Missed ‘What’s My Line’. Thought it best all round. Hardly seen him. It sounds a bit religious, this. Will send me to sleep I hope. Nice voices

Mon. June 1st 1953

Big hole in garden. Instructions deposited in the bank vault. Officially. Repository to be opened 4953 (June 2nd I suppose). Don’t have faith that bank vaults will survive but still. Big mechanical digger thing snorting away. Tore up lawn in two minutes, azaleas with it of course. Small crane coming tomorrow to lift it in. Six years’ work. More, really. Meat-paste repeating. Nerves. Everything packed. He’s going about waving his hands like little boy. Another mummy sweet pea out. Just in time for his speech. Whole village gone a bit mad, really. With Coronation,
not
our do, of course. Scouts came & put canvas wrap over it cos it’s set to pour. Our Sovereign will get soaked says Mrs Whiteacre. Took the roll of bandage up to bonfire or whatever. Taller than the trees now, just waiting. Like the back of Ray Leatherbarrow when Shirley was late to the altar. She and her pink roses. River gurgling past. Hooked bandage on waggon shaft & walked round and round, only circled twice before it (bandage) gave out. Tucked end into cart-wheel. Little boy watching with nose problem. What’s your name? Give Walters Miss, what you up to, Miss? I’m wrapping it all up, Master Walters. You’re bonkers, Miss. Bonkers! Runs off. Bonkers!

Miss W. squealing. Stamping. Plaster coming down like confetti.

4 a.m.: went out to garden with torch. Had to. Cool in nightie. Slippers soaked. Fiddled with toggles on canvas wrap for half an hour (Scout knots). Got it open. Lifted lid with a bit of an effort. Had to have a peep at the illustrations. ‘The Life As Lived’ on top. I’ve every right. Owl. Heart thumping. Painstaking work. Miss W. naked. Well, I’d thought as much. Cd hardly hold the torch straight. Last picture. Woman in Wellington boots. Thick coat. Those buttons. A few deft ink strokes etc. Currant-bun face. Raisin for a mouth. Big frown. He’s always been good at frowns. Teeth. Adapted (could spot this a mile off) from his Matron McOgre strip in ‘The Schoolgirl’s Own Annual’ 1928 to 1931. Prods a bed with an umbrella. Cherubs on the ceiling. Naked foot protruding from blanket. Well, I might have known. Nice trees thru window. Caught it to a T, Violet. Caught it to a T. Rip it out, stumble over lawn, stop, go back, take out ‘The Life As Lived’, stumble over lawn, big folder suddenly bursts open like Father vomiting that time I bore him to the toilet, told him they were all show those artificial leather ones, paper, paper everywhere, all soggy with dew, taste salt on my lip suddenly and oh Violet you’re not snivelling again are you oh yes

oh yes

On my knees, probably catch my death & then the moon comes out, like snow all over the lawn that paper. Had to pick it up. Owl. Definitely screech. That’s something. Matron McOgre. Well, I’d started hadn’t I & all starts have to finish as Father wd
say.
Go back, take out next folder. Take out all the folders. Six years & a folder for each. Reach right up to my chin hold yr head high Violet. Walk back slowly over lawn. Here we are. Well done Violet. Well, she’s got Grandad’s bones, Kenneth. Oh Mother. Two old cases from wardrobe. Three folders in each. Spread them out. Have to go back to shut it. Pause a bit by big dark steel shape. Didn’t I? Owl. That’s something. Lots of wild bits at the back. Take out ‘Collected Works’. That’s a big artist’s file type of thing and it’s all in there. Bournville. Paxo Stuffing series. Hitler. Cheek by jowl with the others. All those spirals and flames I never took to much. My inner workings Violet. I don’t know if I have any of those, Mr B. Moon comes out like a searchlight. You cd see them probing. Those times. Nice. All neatly packed. Television looking up like a little pond with the moon in it. Bisto with the Oxo. Lucozade with the Victory V lozenges. Hoover a bit of a squeeze. That Soundmirror. Not going round & round now, is it? Gilbey’s gin half empty, I noticed. Big film canisters. Shd keep them busy hence. Savages, probably. Or big round heads like in that film. Lid back on. Dark. You don’t need the light, Violet. Canvas wrap. ‘Collected Works’ in Father’s big old suitcase. Never went anywhere with it, in the end. Go upstairs to check he wasn’t awake. Snoring like thunder. In bed. Cocoa.

They think they’ve reached the top, on the wireless. That’d be fitting.

oh Violet what is it now

Tues. June 2nd 1953

BURIAL DAY (I stick with tradition)

Watched Coronation with him in living room. He was holding forth unfortunately so missed the Queen Is Crowned shout. Wiped away a tear during National Anthem. All those crowds in the pouring rain. Wd have liked to have hummed along but he was at his peak. Suddenly stopped & said I looked bleached with a piercing stare. Bleached, Mr B.? Tea in village hall after. Miss W. doing her bit. Parish pageant. Sweets tossed. Buckets of rain,
freezing
wind for June. Didn’t have umbrella, understandably. Axe from Charles I’s Execution float fell off & nearly took little Peter Jefferies’ head with it. Tug-of-war between Bursop men & Ulv. men won by Bursop, like most yrs. Came out of river sopping, poor things, though land workers are used to it I spose. 7.30 p.m.: Home Service, ‘The Kingdom Dances’. The Jolly Waggoners wired up off wireless. Loudspeakers howling in the square & everyone tripping up & giggling. Whirling about. Squealing, giggling. Beacons to be lit foll. Queen’s Broadcast, Ulv. will await signal from Bursop. Jeers. We won’t wait for them sloppies etc. Then whirling about again. Squealing & giggling. Avoided the drink then. I know what I have to do. Someone sick outside ‘The New Inn’. Little boys up in oak tree whistling & throwing streamers. Howling stops in middle: groans. Crackle crackle. Big voice, ever so familiar. Historic day. Seed for the future. A record of our times. Planting to be at 10.30 p.m. following Lighting of Beacon. Grounds of Orchard Hse. Champagne served. I wanted to weep, but didn’t. Contrition, Violet. Contrition’s a car part. Minx. Cheers & claps. Miss W.’s face suddenly: aren’t you thrilled, Violet? I didn’t say anything. Howling again. Rose from my canvas stool & retired swiftly to the garden. Peace. Fetch wheelbarrow out of shed. Howling in distance, like wolves. Almost dark. Rain stopped, at least. Rooks. Bump (that’s the word with its wobbly wheel) barrow over grass to my entrance. Place the suitcases in. Put door to. Bump off suitcases to bonfire. Bleached, feeling very bleached. Wait. Bandage slipped a bit. Tuck it up. Moon pops out, makes it gleam all white like ribbon round present. Shirley Leatherbarrow’s cake. Those times. That’s pretty, Miss Nightingale! Snorts, titters. People looming up from bridge. Wait. More people looming up, torches, lights, a lantern. Everyone present & correct for Sovereign’s Broadcast. All over Empire they wait, I think. In the hot places, the cold. Everyone in big circle round big dark lump like dormant volcano I spose. Splendidly combustible. All of a sudden Queen’s nice tone. Hush. Heart thumping. Queasy. Shd have placed cases on before but wanted to be sure. No one’s asked me yet. Can’t see him or Miss W. Broadcast gives pop & dies in middle. Groan, like wounded animal. Father groaned in his last hours like that, like he was only being jocular. Starts up again. God bless you all. Cheers. Wipe away little tear. Well, it can’t be helped. Big man empties can of paraffin onto pile & whips
away
his foot from last few drops. Bit of ballet, really. Laughs. Speech. New Eliz. era etc. On & on. Donald Jefferies on stool. Tipsy. Loses paper. Biggest beacon of them all etc. Light new from old (like Father’s chain-smoking) then suddenly feel urge & push barrow forward like in a dream, Rev. Appleton starting long thing on world hunger & world hope, defender of our faith etc. & reach pile with barrow & look up. Feel giddy. Light way to better world etc. Big wheel just in front of me. Shouts from behind of course. What’s in those then Miss Nightingale? Eh Violet? Got yr knickers in those eh – sssshh Norman really! Clapping. Wait. I’m not going to rush things. Bleached. Moon pops out again & makes me giddy watching it rush past thru clouds. Mr Barr as Parish C. Chairman picks mediaeval-looking torch up. Come on, Burslops! Flare goes up, cheers. Big torch ignited, Mr Barr holds it out in front of him, whiffs of paraffin, Mr Jefferies recites little poem but Mr Barr already there prodding flaming torch in & looking serious. Nothing. Whiffs of smoke. Mr Barr laughs & says something then flames. Big flames. Mr Barr steps back & everyone’s face looks like Hallowe’en. Waggon name starts to bubble. Watch out there! Turn around & like oven on my ear. Miss W.’s face leaping up & down, with him, next to him, his face leaping up & down, whole crowd’s face moving up & down as one, mouths open, big dark mouths going up & down just like those foundry men at Hulme Steel Works where I did that dull book-keeping for a month, turn back to it, ERNEST M. BARR (grandfather?) settling with a whoosh & sparks bit of hair-singe, watch out Miss! Retreat, pick up first suitcase hear him behind with a what’s in there Violet but I don’t answer just throw it on.

oh Violet. oh

just throw it on then the other two

you need a rap over the knuckles my girl

oh Mother she’s only little

have another glass Violet smuggled down a bottle go on you’ve a right

then the other two Violet what’s in those look at his face spasms all over his face or is it the firelight big wheel rolls down on fire screams settles in the grass burning like that Catherine wheel that time Father took us to the Municipal do look Gordon &
violet
look whizz whizz & Guy Fawkes with those bangers in his mouth exploding into flaming straw his face was all spasms I’ll say that oh Violet

white bits falling down into our hair I cd see the firelight in his eyes when I looked & that terrible face that man who burned over Germany & limped back Gordon knew him vaguely knew Kenneth he did oh they do remarkable things now what if he’d lived our Kenneth they’ve put the wheel out a bit of a danger always goes down well what’s in those then my dear tugging & tugging at my sleeve he must have guessed but he wdn’t have believed preferred not to know I spose just bury it what’s in those then my dear old letters dead past yes I know the feeling! guffaws & turns to the fire oh his big nose sweaty & gleaming & the cases they’ve gone now no there’s the last one buckling & burning oh I hope it doesn’t open

oh it does the heat or something.

It did.

bang & the lid’s up & look a bit of paper curling up shoots out & up & up

tiny little white thing above the flames.

he hasn’t seen, arm round Miss Walwyn mouth open like little boy

up it goes tiny little white thing drawing maybe up & up into the night & over those lovely poplars gusting away because there’s quite a gust tonight Violet away from all the fire & tiny white thing like that seagull at Cleethorpes

that last time with Kenneth

I cd have stayed

little white thing over the sea

sitting on the cliff

over all that sea

too much champagne

putting it in at last & stamping down earth I thought the crane wd topple over

oh it’s so demeaning being sick

Philis P-W swore she heard a long-eared didn’t tell her of the stone curlew why shd I don’t have the stomach it’s the bubbles

clapping wolf-whistling from Manor School dormitories that’s what I mean about sitting on the lavatory the type little Ivor Gilchrist used to do better than any wolf-whistles I mean & little speech from him clapping in it goes stone pulled over by big burly men stamping down earth stamping

I’m off tomorrow Mr B. Here’s yr cocoa. You are a funny old stick, Violet my dear

oh fuck off

Violet my dear?

Miss W. pulling him away

oh fuck off as Father wd not ever say no

oh fuck off

oh Violet

¹
(five seconds lost due to electrical interference)