The Kind Hearted Man Killer Takes a Trip

 A few years ago I wrote a fictional diary of a young woman, which I set in the 1940s and 1950s.  This woman was labouring under a curse after upsetting the local “witch”, and the curse had the unfortunate effect of killing off every man that she came into contact with. A bit daft maybe, but I enjoyed myself and that’s the main thing.

Well, this being the 1950s, of course I couldn’t not include a visit to the Festival.  Here’s the extract:

27th May 1951

Managed to scrape a new outfit together for the trip to the Festival.  Got my bridesmaid outfit skirt altered and wearing it with a more comfortable and plain blouse.  Will take my angora cardigan too but it promises to be fine if this weather holds.  Shoes need repairs though.

I think Jenny might be a bit jealous but Joan is adamant that she wants it to be just us two.  She says she wants to ask me something.  I’m not going back to the café while he’s there.

3^rd June 1951

Got my clothes all out ready and a pack of sandwiches.  Long day tomorrow, got to be up so early but don’t think I can sleep. Neither of us has been to London before.  Hope we don’t get lost and there are plenty of signs.  Joan came round this evening and we studied a map for ages.  Got our route from King’s Cross to the South Bank all worked out.

5^th June 1951

What a day yesterday was.  Very long and tiring.  The train journey went without a hitch and we did well on the underground though I found it quite frightening.  I’m not rushing to go for a ride on that again. Now I know how a sardine feels – one that’s being cooked in its tin.  The Festival was marvellous although we spent a lot of time queuing, the worst of it being the queuing for drinks when we were so thirsty after the underground ride.  We picked a lovely warm day. And it felt so nice being with Joan again too.  It was just the journey home again that disturbed my holiday feeling.  Our train was quite a late one, and after Grantham we got the compartment completely to ourselves.  That’s when Joan told me that she’d been wanting to talk to me without any big ears flapping and now was her chance.

“I’m not happy, Lou.” She said to me.  “I’m at my wits end I just don’t know what to do next.”

“Bill?”  I guessed, and she nodded. I knew it.  She regrets the day she ever clapped eyes on him and certainly regrets marrying him so quickly.  She admits she’s been a complete fool and doesn’t know whether to be embarrassed or just plain miserable.  I felt ever so sorry for her.  I had thought she’d brought it on herself but I can see now what sort of a man he is.  One who has to have it his own way all the time and who bullies and coaxes until he gets it.  He wanted her money and went right out to get it. Daft Joan bought the house with her own money and put it in his name.  He’s taking the money that she earns at the café.  If she leaves him he’ll get it all.  It’s all so unfair.

So then we came up with our plan which I’m not going to write down now.  All to do with my curse.  It’s a bit distasteful for me I must say but I’ll do it for Joan.

Here comes the shameless plug that I’ve been working up to. You can download this book onto your Kindle for the festive sum of 99p by clicking

Here

Or you can read bits of it on the blog here:

 http://kindheartedmankiller.blogspot.co.uk/

Unfortunately this is in reverse order, what with it being a blog. 

Provincial Posturing

There were some efforts to celebrate the Festival away from the South Bank.  Elsewhere in London there was the science exhibition in Kensington, and the architecture/town planning example at Lansbury (Poplar).  Themed exhibitions were set up in Glasgow and Belfast; while the Festival Ship, Campania, toured the coastline. A Festival Village was chosen.  This was Trowell, Nottinghamshire, an industrial D H Lawrence type of place now best known for its motorway services.  There was some controversy about this, as Trowell is not the typically pretty English village that people like to see on their biscuit tins.  However it was centrally located.

The inhabitants of Trowell celebrated with small events and the cleaning of the church clock. There is not a great deal left to remind inhabitants of this temporary glory – just a small obelisk.  The same could be said of the South Bank. Aside from the Festival Hall (which I presume many people don’t realise is named after this particular festival, if they think about the name at all) there just remains a commemorative circle on the floor where the Skylon hung.

Away from the officially sanctioned Festival exhibitions, towns and villages across Britain took matters into their own hands.  Again, it is not easy to pinpoint exactly what many of them did.  Trees were planted, cricket matches took place – the sort of thing that you have to know what to look for.   So I was delighted to spot this on a recent visit to Newark, Nottinghamshire. 

The park gates are dedicated to the Festival and this plaque remains to tell us all.  I suspect that the gates were going to be hung up anyway and that the council saw this as an opportunity to give their own nod to the Festival, supplemented by a bit of dressing up or something.  I can see this happening in many places.  Money was short and those in power were scared to be seen as frivolous.  At the same time, they wanted to get their bit of publicity and show the public that they did care about this kind of morale boosting.

There are little bits of Festival all over.  But you have to keep your eyes peeled. I go to Newark several times a year – and this is the first time I have ever noticed this plaque. Perhaps the only subtle thing about the whole event are its physical remains.

Homes and Gardens

Short story by Sarah Miller Walters.  For more of Sarah's stories, visit her Amazon page:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sarah-Miller-Walters/e/B00DZPX09U

Homes and Gardens 

Bobby and Flora had agreed to meet at the entrance to the Festival Gardens in Battersea. It was Saturday afternoon, a half day off work for them both.  Spring was growing old, but it was not yet time for the summer holidays.  People had not quite abandoned the city in favour of the seaside or the countryside. Instead, they all sought respite by investigating what the famous festival and its pleasure ground had to offer. “Come on then,” husbands said to wives, and mothers said to their children “Let’s go and see what all this festival fuss is about.”

Because of this crowd of curiosity, Bobby and Flora’s meeting point could only be reached by determined shuffle. But they had been married since New Year’s Day – long enough now that just a glimpse was all that was needed. Their clothes, their gait – the shape of a bare forearm would be enough. Bobby balanced himself on the edge of the pavement, confident that his wife would find him. When she did, she touched his sleeve, which was rolled over two or three times. She carried a lemon coloured cardigan in the crook of her arm.

“I’d really like an ice, Bobby.  Let’s go and join a queue.”

He ran his finger ends through her permanent wave and smiled. “Alright. Whatever my wife wants, she shall have…”

“…except a home of her own, we can’t work ruddy miracles.”

Flora finished their catchphrase off and they both chuckled. On a day like this, when the return to their temporary home at Bobby’s parents’ house was hours away, they could treat the matter lightly.

Bobby bought two small ices.  They walked quickly, looking for somewhere to sit before the drips ran any further. Every deck chair and every seat was taken. Even finding a decent gap on the grass wasn’t so easy. But they found a satisfactory place to settle, just at the edge of a shadow.  Flora sat on her cardigan, her legs tucked underneath her skirt. Bobby stretched his own legs outwards, showing a sock that was threadbare. They ate quickly and licked their fingers.  Young boys dashed about them in short trousers, their legs still milk bottle pale. Their mothers and grandmothers sat gratefully in deckchairs, the tips of their noses beginning to turn pink.  Flora leaned into Bobby’s arm.

“What were we supposed to be doing this afternoon?”

“Going to look at that flat in Brixton.”  Bobby answered without enthusiasm.

“I’m sure that it will have already gone by the time that we get there. And it seems such a long way from our families.”

“I know.  Wasting our time really aren’t we?”

Flora nodded carefully.

“Aw let’s not bother.  Who wants to live in Brixton?”

“Not me!  What shall we do instead?”

 “Shall we go along to Waterloo to the Festival? Have a bit of a spree?” He whispered to the top of her head with a smile.

Flora grabbed Bobby’s arm. “Can we? We shouldn’t, we’re meant to be saving up!”

“Doesn’t hurt once in a while to enjoy ourselves does it?”

Flora was on her feet before he’d finished speaking, brushing the back of her skirt.

*

They queued to get out of Waterloo, then queued to get through the Festival turnstiles. Once they had entered, they absently joined another queue.  Five minutes later, this one seemed to disperse, revealing just the plinth of a sculpture. Bobby and Flora walked around aimlessly for a time, taking in the colours and staring up at the Skylon. They joined the slow moving line for the Dome of Discovery. Flora put her cardigan on, ready for the shade. When they quietly left again an hour later, the sun was lower in the sky.

“Do you think that your mother will be cross? She might start to wonder where we are.”

“Well, there’s not much we can do about it is there? If we send her a postcard it won’t get there until tomorrow.”

“Ought we to think about getting back?”

“No!  We’ve paid our five shillings to get in, I want my money’s worth!”  Bobby turned and took hold of Flora by the shoulders.  “You have to stop worrying about upsetting them.  You seem to be tiptoeing around all of the time, but it’s your home now. Just for a while.”

“I know.  But I feel like a guest…and I can always tell when your mother disapproves of me.  I seem to do or say something wrong every week. “

“I understand, you know.  I feel the same sometimes…and I’ve always lived there.” He ticked Flora under the chin. “It’s not your fault.  Don’t worry. We’ll get a home of our own soon.”

They held hands and began to walk without purpose again, taking in the honeyed reflections. They sauntered underneath the rumbling railway bridge, stared up at the old familiar Shot Tower, and then found themselves at the Homes and Gardens Pavilion. They both remained quiet, but felt each other’s frustration. At last, Bobby spoke out:

“I wonder how many houses they could have built instead of all this?”

They stood beside a mock-up of a sitting room, artfully laid out and ready to receive a modern family.  The chairs looked a little uncomfortable, there was none of the clutter that made it look homely. But it was so different to the faded Victoriana at Bobby’s parents’ home, which was all dark wood and claret florals.

“We ought to go and get some food in one of the restaurants, then stop here for the night.” Flora giggled with a hint of nervousness.

“Yes, yes we should.  Make a protest.”

Flora looked up at Bobby.  He looked directly back at her.

“Shall we do it? Come back before closing time, sit down and refuse to move?”

“Oh but Bobby, darling.  What would be the point? What would you want to gain from it?”

“Some attention!  We say that we won’t move until the authorities give us somewhere to live.”

“But Bobby, we might get into terrible trouble.  You might lose your job…and then we wouldn’t be able to afford to live anywhere anyway.”

Flora took hold of Bobby’s sleeve.  He thrust his hands into his pockets and pushed out his chin. This worried Flora even more, it marked a determination in his spirit. There was only one thing for it.

“Let’s go and try and get a drink in a restaurant.  I’ve never had wine before, I’d like to try some.”

If the effect was anything like a pint of mild, Bobby would be a lot easier to handle afterwards. And she wouldn’t care what his mother said when they got home.

The lights began to glow on the South Bank.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sarah-Miller-Walters/e/B00DZPX09U

Festival of Film

Also published on my History Usherette blogspot - see foot of post for link

Before the opening credits of ‘The Magic Box’ (1951), the Festival of Britain logo flashes onto the screen. The film was shown at the Festival, before it went on general release. We can therefore assume that it was meant to fit in with the ethos of the Festival – a celebration of British achievement. It certainly showcases the best of contemporary acting talent, with a long list of stars performing in tiny cameo roles. Some parts are so tiny, it is literally a case of blink and you will miss them.  I certainly missed seeing Googie Withers, Sheila Sim and Marius Goring. Others have slightly more prominent five-minute pieces, giving us a taste of the kind of role that they were famous for. Margaret Rutherford as a bossy yet coquettish dame, Laurence Olivier as an incredulous policeman, Joyce Grenfell as a fussy spinster and Eric Portman as an angry businessman.  I could go on. It is a veritable pageant of drama skills. 

The talent is a literal celebration of British film-making. But the storyline also looks at the life of film pioneer William Friese-Greene (played by Robert Donat).  Fitting in with the Festival’s celebration of British science, it seems to say – ‘Look! It was us that invented film! But we are so modest with our achievements while other nationalities blow their own trumpets so loudly that they drown us out!’

Having watched the film myself, I wasn’t impressed with the character of Friese-Greene. He is portrayed as a very selfish man, who puts his inventing before his wives and his children. His first wife dies of ill health – the film suggests that this was exacerbated by the debts that her husband ran up by eschewing proper work. He marries again and his six sons are all shown as suffering from his single minded attitude. In the end, three of them join World War One as under age soldiers in order to stop becoming a financial burden on their parents. This second marriage ends when his wife can take no more.  He apparently destroyed the opportunity to become a rich society photographer because of his obsession with developing a moving picture.  I was flabbergasted at this – surely he could have invented at evenings and weekends?  This is how the rest of us have to follow our dreams!

I wonder if the 1951 audience took a different  attitude?  Were they meant to view him with sympathy as a man who gave up everything and got no recognition for his ground breaking work?  This would sit more comfortably with the Festival ethos. Does ‘The Magic Box’ depict a long gone set of values, when it was understandable to put genius before family? When a man could get away more easily with neglecting his sons? A fascinating question of 1950s morals and mores. 

http://historyusherette.blogspot.co.uk/

amazon.co.uk/Sarah-Miller-Walters/e/B00DZPX09U

About Britain - A Festival Series

Although the epicentre of the festival was the South Bank, it did concern itself with the promotion of the British Isles as a whole. The festival office published a series of 13 hardbacked books called ‘About Britain’.  Each guidebook took a particular region and was

“Planned to give you the fundamental facts about its scenery, its monuments, its buildings, its natural history, its people and their work and characteristics.”

They featured photographs, illustrations by popular artists, tours and a gazetteer. Clearly much thought went into these books, and they encouraged British people to appreciate their land and to explore it.

 I have a copy of the Wessex book, which was written by Geoffrey Grigson. It’s a beautiful portrait of one of my favourite parts of the world, made at a most fascinating point in time.  The 1950s are significant to this country for the founding of the first National Park in the Peak District. This was also a time of growth for the green belt movement.  Within Grigson’s text we are shown the reasons why this was happening. It shows that there was concern even then that Hampshire was rapidly becoming another of the Home Counties, and therefore an extension of the London conurbation. Grigson wrote of “…that uneasy Hampshire feeling that London is only just out of sight beyond the chalk hills.”  Also, of Bournemouth, he writes that “…it has increased like water spreading from a spilt bucket…”

 This book delivers an aura reminiscent of the work of Grigson’s contemporary, John Betjeman, who famously railed against modern ribbon developments of mock Tudor bungalows.

1950s Britain needed homes. But it also needed to preserve its landscape.  This festival inspired book shows the early attempts to draw attention to our now never ending housing conflict. 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Sarah-Miller-Walters/e/B00DZPX09U

After the Festival Finished

It is the 30^th September 2015, and 64 years ago to the day, the Festival of Britain closed.  Everything was destined to be broken up and dispersed. It seems so melancholy that the party had to end, but I suppose that if it had continued on indefinitely then it would have lost its charm.  Perhaps it is better that the Festival remains a fading memory, and that those of us who find relics feel that we possess a piece of lost magic.

Just a few weeks ago, I took my children on a visit to the London Eye.  There was a method in my madness…I wanted to set foot on the Festival site.  I have walked from Waterloo to Charing Cross before, and have seen the Festival Hall and glimpsed the site from Hungerford Bridge.  But this was before I got really interested in this bit of history, and I never made the detour to stand where the Skylon hovered.  Until now.   I stood on the circle marking the spot and looked up.  Then from the Eye, I looked down on the site that I have seen so many times depicted in black and white.

It seems so small!  In my imagination, the Festival stretched on forever.  But using the markers of Waterloo, the bridge and the Hall, I could see a site that was more compact then I would have ever thought.  When you see a list of what was packed into the main site, I have admiration for the planners for getting it all in!

I feel glad that the South Bank is still given over to pleasure.  The London Eye is superbly situated and whoever decided to put it there deserves some praise. The gardens were packed full and entertainers on the river side helped to bring a carnival atmosphere…I could almost close my eyes and be back there.

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Come into the Parlour...

The Homes and Gardens section of the Festival guidebook gives a little insight into how we wanted to live in 1951.  Of course the first consideration at that time was simply having enough houses to fit everybody into. It compares what a crowded island we were (are) with the considerably less populated New Zealand – and it went without saying that the blitz had destroyed some of our most densely populated districts.   The guidebook firmly acknowledges that British housing had a journey to travel at that time.  In retrospect, we know that town planners and architects tried several experiments over the coming decades – some successful, some famously not so popular.  The high rise experiment that was soon to follow has now been pretty much consigned to history’s dustbin. That high rise living didn’t work has in part been put down to the British people wishing to cling to a more traditional way of life – one of chats over the back fence and a living space on two levels. 

Going back to the festival guidebook, there is a clue in there that we wouldn’t take to architects messing about with the layouts of our houses. There is some discussion on The Parlour. It seems an old fashioned notion to us now, we have eventually weaned ourselves off the parlour or front room.  Decades of cramming ourselves into some of the smallest housing units in the developed world have taught us to leave no room unused. But back then, we clung to it.  The guidebook tells how newer housing built without a parlour tended to have a corner of the modern living room given over to the same function where an “altar to the household gods” was set up.  People missed the function of the best room, where all their treasures could be displayed. This shows how reluctant we were to give up our traditional house layouts (or the middle classes at any rate – no mention is made of those families crowded into the run down houses in Notting Hill and such like).  I wonder why town planners were so slow to pick up on what was written here in black and white?  A fine example of the establishment thinking it knows best, and the British people stubbornly rejecting it until they were forced to.

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