A Day in June

From The Vision of Sir Launfal by James Russell Lowell

And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers.

That's how it's been this afternoon despite the bumble bees - sitting in the sun. reading and drinking a Kir Royale. Just one thing: when I had to recite the above at Sunday school after 'glisten' it was:

'Here in the summer night the spirit waits the silence, the????? and the moonlight.'

Mind you the minister's wife was very romantic so maybe she put in her own two pennorth?

Sally's Doves - see below.

… And to wait.

Story contd

Let us then be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labour and to wait.

Henry Longfellow 1807 -1882

Whenever I dust my little doves I think of Sally; she gave them to me. We always kept in touch but in later years we lived in different parts of the country and didn’t meet in person. Some time back I was watching a TV programme about Elizabeth David, when suddenly I heard that old familiar voice and it was Sally being interviewed in her home. She was obviously old and frail but there was nothing grey about her and I was delighted to see her sand- gold hair and a pretty blue scarf and toning cushion on the sofa that complemented her blue eyes.

Her mother had been a glamour puss and used to berate Sally for not taking more trouble with her appearance. She told Sally that this was a form of arrogance. Sally told me her mother had had a face lift – a rarity in those days. She kept it a secret and people just remarked how well she looked. She even dared to alter her DOB on her passport. As soon as the programme was over I phoned Sally and we had a lovely chat about the old days. To my amazement she told me her age which had always been a state secret. I promised her I would never tell anyone and I haven’t – indeed have forgotten it. The last words she spoke to me were:

‘Pat we did have fun didn’t we?’

Such glorious fun, Sally.

When I got back from France there was an urgent message from Julia. It was Julia who saved my bacon when my leading lady in ‘Family Dance’ had succumbed to a tummy bug. Now she was in trouble. She was producing JB Priestley’s play ’An Inspector Calls’ with a London firm and the young female lead – although exactly right in appearance for the role - simply was unable to learn the part. They had tried everything – to no avail - and Julia was desperate. Julia and her husband had separated and she was struggling to afford to continue living in her charming house. Professional producing provided a vital part of her income and she couldn’t afford to have a dent in her reputation. Just ten days to learn a part, in a play I was unfamiliar with. No probs – thanks to Byron.

I had to get my partner, Mary’s agreement as it would mean ten days away from the shop and I had just been on holiday. However Mary had a back which seized up from time to time, and she would be totally incapacitated, as far as the shop was concerned. She readily agreed knowing that I would catch up with my usual book work, once the play was over.

My plan was to spend three days lying doggo, learning an act a day, and then go with Julia to London for rehearsals, every day until the performances. The fact that I was years older than the character didn’t worry anyone and for once I was grateful to look younger than my age.

I played the part of Sheila Birling, the daughter of a middle class family in the forties. She is very excited about her recent engagement and the family is thrown into chaos when an Inspector calls, regarding the suicide of a young girl. It is typical Priestly with twists and turns and cliff hangers. As the play progresses Sheila feels genuine guilt and remorse for her selfish and thoughtless behaviour and becomes rebellious to her parents. Each member of the family are implicated in the girl’s death.

Once I had learned the lines and the moves there was no time to do other than play it as truthfully as possible; sometimes this is more effective than endless theorising about motives and how one was feeling at that particular moment. The cast were very supportive and helpful – even the girl I had replaced, who had stayed on to help back stage. She was so thankful to be off the hook. The play was successful, Julia was ecstatic and I had a lovely letter of thanks and flowers from the chairman of the firm.

I was feeling quite pleased with myself and then I got a letter from America; a letter that rocked my world and in an instant I was that troubled girl of nineteen again.

I go with the Flo.

Aside

In the forties we student nurses were taught to revere Florence Nightingale and she was always a hero of mine. I even wrote a play about her – just before it became fashionable to denigrate her place in history. In my opinion they were missing the point; Florence was the last person to see herself as a ministering angel. Even Parthe, her sister complained bitterly after a spell in bed,

‘Florence is a dreadful nurse.’

She had that rare combination of great intellect and the will and the power to get things done.

As a young woman she had an epiphany in the garden when she was told she must do God’s will. This resulted in her sacrificing marriage to a man she loved, and pursuing a nursing career at a time when a nurse was a Sarah Gamp- like figure – a blowsy drunk - and no parent would allow their daughter to dream of becoming a nurse. Florence persisted and ended up at Scutari in the Crimea. The tragedy was that the hospital was built on a sewer and the drinking water was polluted by remains of a dead horse which resulted in many deaths and severely damaged her own health

This knowledge nearly destroyed Florence and she wanted to bare her soul but was prevented by the Government, led by Palmerston who wished to keep the scandal quiet.

Norman Stone’s play on BBC 1 last Sunday evening focussed on the period after her return from the Crimea and ended 54 years before her death. I had found trying to cover her long life in one play extremely difficult but it seemed a shame to just give details of the most important work she did in a footnote to the play.

She lived the rest of her life as a semi reclusive invalid and from her sofa campaigned for public health reforms and the recognition of the nursing profession and worked relentlessly for reform in hospital, in the army and in public health. Although she never went to India she had a profound effect on welfare in that country. She was a brilliant statistician and wrote 200 books.

Stone in an interview quotes an NHS nurse who maintained that if everyone had followed Florence’s maxims as far as standards of cleanliness is concerned there would be no MRSA in this country. We certainly followed them in the fifties. When did it all change?

The Dream.

Aside

‘Well,’ as MTL said: ‘there’s always Mendelssohn’s music.’

On the coach there were only two other men; clearly ballet was not so popular with our old boys. We were blessed with clement weather so MTL could sit drinking coffee al fresco, whilst I checked the shops, which were close by, once we had passed the road works. Lunch was at ‘Henry’s’. I had a nutty brown sandwich with egg Florentine, baby tomatoes, spinach and red onion which was unusual but tasty, followed by a toasted brioche with a sort of fruit compote and ice cream – again not the norm but delicious.

The theatre was new to us and what I have noticed about Cardiff is the buildings we have visited seem to be spacious. This theatre has clean lines – much less ornate than the Bath one and sitting in the circle one appreciated the airiness. On entering the auditorium we were surprised to see the cast on stage as if they were a ballet group warming up for a class. MTL commented on how they all looked terribly young and I pointed out that was because we were terribly old.

Secretly I hoped they weren’t going to be dressed in practice clothes throughout but I need not have worried.

David Nixon, a Canadian from Ontario is the Artistic Director of the Northern Ballet Company and he, with co - director Patricia Doyle created this Olivier award nominated version of ‘a Midsummer Night’s Dream’. The dancers are a ballet company, about to go on tour and the time is the 1940’s so there are gorgeous New Look costumes. Theseus and Hippolyta assume the roles of Artistic Director and Principal Dancer. What at first seems to be a ballet studio with barre, turns into a moving train which transports the Company to a world of fairies and floating beds.

As the train enters a tunnel en route for Edinburgh the dream begins.

The choreography brings the play and its characters to life and the wit and skill has one laughing out loud. Right from the first movements in the studio the action is mesmerising and when the music starts one is enchanted. I never found the Bottom bit very funny but there are delightful comic characters including the character of the Wardrobe Master, a very tall lanky Steven Wheeler who plays it as camp as Christmas. If you love music, spectacle, witty dancing and great entertainment don’t miss it.

The weather broke on our return journey and traffic came to a halt on the motorway after a bad accident involving a camper van which must have skidded over onto the other side and seemed to have demolished an oncoming car. Then from Bridgwater the roads were flooded and I couldn’t help noticing that most of the houses on the outskirts had made their gardens into hard standings. As we passed a country side- road we saw a farm worker up to his waist in water, his vehicle submerged and the fire engine approaching him. He waved to us with a big grin on his face. That’s the Somerset way.

Our destination

Cardiff was not looking it's best.


Henry's - a pleasant place for lunch.

Some of the dancers.



Floods outside Bridgwater