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.
Part 2
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.