Joining the Dots: A Woman In Her Time. Juliet Gardiner

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ The King spoke at 9 p.m. We listened to his modest speech and drank sherry happily and rather dazedly … before going out to see the sights … enormous crowds shouting, cheering, dancing, huge bonfires fed by ARP properties, magnesium bombs, great logs of old chairs, tables, ladders etc. with dancing rings of young people circling them, beautiful floodlit buildings, lighted windows, torchlight processions and a good humoured gaiety with no rowdyism … Robert [her husband] and I went about together happier than for years remembering it all for ever. Light after darkness. Thank God for this day of days.

      I Don’t You Know There’s a Peace On?

      Whatever a person’s class, the dolorous grey cloud of postwar austerity hung over the whole country within days of the end of the war. The wartime excuse for shortages, regulations and bureaucratic inefficiencies – ‘Don’t you know there’s a war on?’ – was inverted almost as soon as the VE Day celebrations were over, the bonfires damped down, the children’s street parties cleared away. ‘Don’t you know there’s a peace on?’ became the ironic, resigned, sometimes bitter question in those early postwar months – one that particularly affected women. Rationing persisted until 1954 when meat was finally taken ‘off the coupon’, and in many cases shortages were more acute than during the war. It was estimated that housewives spent an average of at least an hour every weekday in a queue. Grocers’ shelves were half empty; bread, which had never been rationed during the war, was limited to two large loaves a week of unappetising grey bread adulterated with a high chalk content and, consumers suspected, cattle feed. Strange new products were imported such as blubbery whale meat (advertised as being like steak but in fact with a fishy aftertaste) and barracuda fish, known as Snoek, that no one wanted to eat despite exhortations to mash it with chopped-up spring onions and serve it on toast, so it was eventually fed to cats, some domestic, some feral, living in roaming posses on bomb sites.

      Manufacturers with nothing to sell valiantly tried to keep their brand names in the public eye for the day when they did. ‘Won’t it be nice when we have lovely lingerie, and Lux to look after our pretty things? Remember how pure, safe Lux [soap flakes] preserved the beauty of delicate fabrics?’; ‘Soon all Heinz 57 varieties will be coming back into the shops, one by one’; ‘Unfortunately, Cadburys are only allowed the milk to make an extremely small quantity of chocolate … so if you are lucky enough to get some, do save it for the children …’

      The 1946 exhibition Britain Can Make It, staged at the Victoria and Albert Museum – the windows of which had been blown out by bomb blast, hastily replaced by requisitioning all glass production for the purpose – was designed to show that the country could again establish itself as a manufacturing nation, turning swords into ploughshares, or rather Spitfire parts into ashtrays. But though one and a half million people flocked from all over Britain to queue for a glimpse of the phoenix rising, the exhibition was soon wryly mocked as ‘But Britain Can’t Have It’ since most British production went for export to repay the staggering debt of $3.7 billion that the country owed to the United States. As Mollie Panter-Downes, London correspondent of the New Yorker, wrote, ‘the factories which people hoped would soon be changing over to the production of goods for the shabby, short-of-everything home consumers, are having to produce goods for export. The government will have to face up to the job of convincing the country that controls and hardships are as necessarily a part of a bankrupt peace as they were of a desperate war.’

      The ambivalent adjustment to peace could be seen in the faces of the demobilised fighting men, as they exchanged their khaki or blue uniforms for ill-fitting suits. Many of the jobs they’d left when call-up papers arrived had disappeared, despite promises they would be kept open for them when they returned from the war. The workplace had changed, new skills were needed, and the colleagues who’d remained at home had overtaken them. Many women, while thankful to have husbands home again, were uneasy about having to relinquish the head-of-household role they’d been obliged to assume and to have their decisions questioned, their independence compromised. Those women who would have liked to continue to work outside the home found formidable barriers in the way: priority was given to men when it came to job vacancies; the nurseries set up during the war to enable women to work were peremptorily closed down, like theatre cloakrooms when the performance was over.

      In addition, husbands often disapproved of their wives working, and a slew of childcare ‘experts’ pronounced on the damaging effects of maternal deprivation, insisting that mothers should remain at home, nurturing, caring. It was a measure of the largely unwelcome return to pre-war convention that women who had driven ambulances, heavy lorries and jeeps during the war were not expected to get behind the steering wheel of the family car. Fathers drove while their wives sat in the passenger seat, forced to read the map and give their husbands directions.

      Both women and men came to miss the unexpected pleasures of war: the intense ‘live now for today for tomorrow you may die’ mentality that had led to transitory passions and fleeting, often illicit, affairs. Women yearned for the near-Hollywood glamour that one and a half million GIs from the United States had brought to Britain from 1942 until the attack on ‘Fortress Europe’ on D Day. They missed the catchy, energetic beat of the imported American music and the invitations to US bases where, with any luck, Glenn Miller might be leading his orchestra on the trombone. Those dances – the Lindy Hops and Jitterbug Jives – were a world away from the sedate waltzes and foxtrots of formal occasions, or the jolly, communal country dancing in village halls up and down Britain.

      As the euphoria of victory flattened, diarist Madge Martin felt guilty that though she dutifully attended the harvest festival in her husband’s church, she found no pleasure in the display of nature’s mellow bounty.

      In Barrow-in-Furness in northwest England, the middle-aged Nella Last, who had found a new confidence and purpose in her wartime work with the Women’s Voluntary Service, wondered what she could do now that there was no need to raise money for the war effort, serve tea and buns to war workers, or provide clothes and comforts for the troops and refugees. Was her life to revert to looking after her uncommunicative, stick-in the-mud husband, tending her garden, and polishing the brass ornaments in her house until they gleamed?

      II A Child’s War

      As a small child I of course had no reference point for pre-war or for the war. I missed neither white bread nor the choice of shampoos. I presumed that it was normal to carry, snail-like, an edited version of your home around with you, taking aspirins and sticking plasters in a sponge bag; cotton, needles, matches, batteries and string in an empty waxed cardboard Meltis Fruit Jellies box, in case these were unobtainable on your travels.

      Hertfordshire, the county in which I was brought up, had been designated a ‘neutral’ area during the war, one that neither sent nor received evacuees under the official government scheme, though of course many private arrangements were made ‘to get the children away’ from designated danger zones. Some stray bombs had fallen not far from my home, evidenced by craters in the roads or fields, some of which were absorbed into the landscape as ponds. By the time I was born, virtually no one carried a gas mask anymore and the Anderson shelters were gradually colonised by weeds and brambles.

      I had few toys and those I had were invariably hand-me-downs from my parents and often incomplete: lead farm animals with matchsticks for legs, Dinky cars with a wheel missing. A home-made stockinet rabbit I called Tipsy was a particular companion that I pushed around in a wooden box on wheels for a pram. But I was not aware of the absence of the playthings that might have filled a middle-class child’s toy cupboard in the 1930s.

      There are a few reminders of war, however, that I do recall from those early postwar years. One was the evidence of destruction on trips to London, when my mother and I went shopping or visited the Wallace Collection at Hertford House, which was my mother’s favourite cultural venue. She loved the domestic interiors by Dutch and Flemish artists such as Vermeer and Pieter de Hooch and found it convenient that it was just round the corner from Selfridges, and СКАЧАТЬ