LETTERS Whose England?
Sir: Unlike Alexandra Artley (Diary, 24 October), I actually did live in the 'beloved England' that your rather misty-eyed col- umnist thinks 'she knew'. I of course may be wrong, but the tone and content of her pieces make me believe she inhabited the world of movies as seen through the eyes of Launder and Gilliat or the Boulting Brothers. I too enjoy those wonderful representations of England in the Forties and Fifties where class was everything, where everyone knew their place, but where everyone was always happy. The enlightened middle classes — Ian Car- michael, Isobel Jeans — living well-to-do lives but rightly concerned for the well- being of those charming but slightly irres- ponsible working-class folk, dear Irene Handl, rascally Stanley Holloway.
The sun always shone, the taxes were paid and the Welfare State always pro- vided for dear old Irene even if she did nip at the gin occasionally. And caring Dirk could always pop up to London to see Alexandra (or her mother) at the Con- naught.
How it's all changed now. Punks and bureaucrats, Tory politicians and City spe- culators now roam the streets gleefully grabbing child benefit in the very high streets where Peter Sellers once dispensed largesse to the deserving.
The trouble is none of this ever existed. The 1950s I remember was one of outside loos, miserable coal fires, endless bus rides and above all no one with two halfpennies. to rub together. Yes, there may have been some kind of spirit and camaraderie but such fortitude was created by the system which made sure everyone knew their place. It was a time which may look delightful when viewed through rose- coloured spectacles but in reality it was a time dominated by middle-class fear, con- tempt and condescension. If anything des- troyed the Britain I loved it was the welfare and planning obsessed 'haves' who wanted to 'improve' all of us lot, while eating their cake at the same time.
Things are far from perfect today but incomparably more people have more chance, more wealth and, most important- ly, more say in their own affairs. Why is it that when I read Miss Artley I get the impression that it is that reality she above all resents?
Stephen Earl
Flat 1, 21 Pleshey Road, London N7
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