Go out into Trafalgar Square and see gigantic poster on Nelson’s plinth asking me what form MY service is taking.
Other hoardings of London give equally prominent display to such announcements as that 300,000 Nurses are wanted, 41,000 Ambulance Drivers, and 500,000 Air-raid Wardens. Get into touch with Organisations requiring these numerous volunteers, and am told that queue five and a half miles long is already besieging their doors.
Ring up influential man at B.B.C. — name given me by Sir W. Frobisher as being dear old friend of his — and influential man tells me in tones of horror that they have a list of really first-class writers and speakers whom they can call upon at any moment — which, I gather, they have no intention of doing — and really couldn’t possibly make any use of me whatever. At the same time, of course, I can always feel I’m Standing By.
I say Yes, indeed, and ring off.
Solitary ray of light comes from Serena Fiddlededee whom I hear in bathroom — on door of which she has pinned paper marked ENGAGED — at unnatural hour of 2 p.m. and who emerges in order to say that until I start work at the Ministry of Information, she thinks the Adelphi Canteen might be glad of occasional help, if voluntary, and given on night-shift.
Pass over reference to Ministry of Information and at once agree to go and offer assistance at Canteen. Serena declares herself delighted, and offers to introduce me there to-night.
Meanwhile, why not go and see Brigadier Pinflitton, said to be important person in A.R.P. circles? Serena knows him well, and will ring up and say that I am coming and that he will do well to make sure of my assistance before I am snapped up elsewhere.
I beg Serena to modify this last improbable adjuration, but admit that I should be glad of introduction to Brigadier P. if there is the slightest chance of his being able to tell me of something I can do. What does Serena think?
Serena thinks there’s almost certain to be a fire-engine or something that I could drive, or perhaps I might decontaminate someone — which leads her on to an enquiry about my gas-mask. How, she wishes to know, do I get on inside it? Serena herself always feels as if she must faint after wearing it for two seconds. She thinks one ought to practise sitting in it in the evenings sometimes.
Rather unalluring picture is conjured up by this, but admit that Serena may be right, and I suggest supper together one evening, followed by sessions in our respective gas-masks.
We can, I say, listen to Sir Walford Davies.
Serena says That would be lovely, and offers to obtain black paper for windows of flat, and put it up for me with drawing-pins.
Meanwhile she will do what she can about Brigadier Pinflitton, but wiser to write than to ring up as he is deaf as a post.
September 25th. — No summons from Brigadier Pinflitton, the Ministry of Information, the B.B.C. or anybody else.
Letter from Felicity Fairmead enquiring if she could come and help me, as she is willing to do anything and is certain that I must be fearfully busy.
Reply-paid telegram from Rose asking if I know any influential person on the British Medical Council to whom she could apply for post.
Letter from dear Robin, expressing concern lest I should be over-working, and anxiety to know exactly what form my exertions on behalf of the nation are taking.
Tremendous scene of reunion — not of my seeking — takes place in underworld between myself and Granny Bo-Peep, cantering up at midnight for cup of coffee and cigarettes. What, she cries, am I here again? Now, that’s what she calls setting a real example.
Everyone within hearing looks at me with loathing and I explain that I am doing nothing whatever.
Old Mrs. W.-G., unmoved, goes on to say that seeing me here reminds her of coffee-stall run by herself at the Front in nineteen-fourteen. The boys loved it, she herself loved it, Lord Roberts loved it. Ah, well, Mrs. W.-G. is an old woman now and has to content herself with trotting about in the background doing what she can to cheer up the rest of the world.
Am sorry to say that Demolition Squad, Stretcher-bearers and Ambulance men evince greatest partiality for Mrs. W.-G. and gather round her in groups.
They are, says Serena, a low lot — the other night two of them had a fight and an ambulance man who went to separate them emerged bitten to the bone.
Should be delighted to hear further revelations, but supper rush begins and feel that I had better withdraw.
September 27th. — Day pursues usual routine, so unthinkable a month ago, now so familiar, and continually recalling early Novels of the Future by H. G. Wells — now definitely established as minor prophet. Have very often wondered why all prophecies so invariably of a disturbing nature, predicting unpleasant state of affairs all round. Prophets apparently quite insensible to any brighter aspects of the future.
Ring up five more influential friends between nine and twelve to ask if they know of any national work I can undertake. One proves to be on duty as L.C.C. ambulance driver — at which I am very angry and wonder how on earth she managed to get the job — two more reply that I am the tenth person at least to ask this and that they don’t know of anything whatever for me, and the remaining two assure me that I must just wait, and in time I shall be told what to do.
Ask myself rhetorically whether it was for this that I left home?
Conscience officiously replies that I left home partly because I had no wish to spend the whole of the war in doing domestic work, partly because I felt too cut-off owing to distance between Devonshire and London, and partly from dim idea that London will be more central if I wish to reach Robin or Vicky in any emergency.
Meet Rose for luncheon. She says that she has offered her services to every hospital in London without success. The Hospitals, says Rose gloomily, are all fully staffed, and the beds are all empty, and nobody is allowed to go in however ill they are, and the medical staff goes to bed at ten o’clock every night and isn’t called till eleven next morning because they haven’t anything to do. The nurses, owing to similar inactivity, are all quarrelling amongst themselves and throwing the splints at one another’s heads.
I express concern but no surprise, having heard much the same thing repeatedly in the course of the last three weeks. Tell Rose in return that I am fully expecting to be offered employment of great national importance by the Government at any moment. Can see by Rose’s expression that she is not in the least taken in by this. She enquires rather sceptically if I have yet applied for work as voluntary helper on night-shift at Serena’s canteen, and I reply with quiet dignity that I shall do so directly I can get anybody to attend to me.
Rose, at this, laughs heartily, and I feel strongly impelled to ask whether the war has made her hysterical — but restrain myself. We drink quantities of coffee, and Rose tells me what she thinks about the Balkans, Stalin’s attitude, the chances of an air-raid over London within the week, and the probable duration of the war. In reply I give her my considered opinion regarding the impregnability or otherwise of the Siegfried Line, the neutrality of America, Hitler’s intentions with regard to Rumania, and the effect of the petrol rationing on this country as a whole.
We then separate with mutual assurances of letting one another know if we Hear of Anything. In the meanwhile, says Rose rather doubtfully, do I remember the Blowfields? Sir Archibald Blowfield is something in the Ministry of Information, and it might be worth while ringing them up.
I do ring them up in the course of the afternoon, and Lady Blowfield — voice sounds melancholy over the telephone — replies that of course she remembers me well, we met at Valescure in the dear old days. Have never set foot in Valescure in my life, but allow this to pass, arid explain that my services as lecturer, writer, or even shorthand typist, are entirely at the disposal of my country if only somebody will be good enough to utilise them.
Lady Blowfield emits a laugh — saddest sound I think I have ever heard — and replies that thousands and thousands of highly-qualified applicants are waiting in a queue outside her husband’s office. In time
, no doubt, they will be needed, but at present there is Nothing, Nothing, Nothing! Unspeakably hollow effect of these last words sends my morale practically down to zero, but I rally and thank her very much. (What for?)
Have I tried the Land Army? enquires Lady Blowfield.
No, I haven’t. If the plough, boots, smock and breeches are indicated, something tells me that I should be of very little use to the Land Army.
Well, says Lady Blowfield with a heavy sigh, she’s terribly, terribly sorry. There seems nothing for anybody to do, really, except wait for the bombs to rain down upon their heads.
Decline absolutely to subscribe to this view, and enquire after Sir Archibald.
Oh, Archibald is killing himself. Slowly but surely. He works eighteen hours a day, Sundays and all, and neither eats nor sleeps.
Then why, I urge, not let me come and help him, and set him free for an occasional meal at least? But to this Lady Blowfield replies that I don’t understand at all. There will be work for us all eventually — provided we are not Wiped Out instantly — but for the moment we must wait. I enquire rather peevishly how long, and she returns that the war, whatever some people may say, is quite likely to go on for years and years. Archibald, personally, has estimated the probable duration at exactly twenty-two years and six months. Feel that if I listen to Lady Blowfield for another moment I shall probably shoot myself, and ring off.
Just as I am preparing to listen to the Budget announcement on the Six O’clock News, telephone rings and I feel convinced that I am to be sent for by someone at a moment’s notice, to do something, somewhere, and dash to the receiver.
Call turns out to be from old friend Cissie Crabbe, asking if I can find her a war job. Am horrified at hearing myself replying that in time, no doubt, we shall all be needed, but for the moment there is nothing to do but wait.
Budget announcement follows and is all that one could have foreseen, and more. Evolve hasty scheme for learning to cook and turning home into a boarding-house after the war, as the only possible hope of remaining there at all.
September 28th. — Go through now habitual performance of pinning up brown paper over the windows and drawing curtains before departing to underworld. Night is as light as possible, and in any case only two minutes’ walk.
Just as I arrive, Serena emerges in trousers, little suède jacket and tin hat, beneath which her eyes look positively gigantic. She tells me she is off duty for an hour, and suggests that we should go and drink coffee somewhere.
We creep along the street, feeling for edges of the pavement with our feet, and eventually reach a Lyons Corner House, entrance to which is superbly buttressed by mountainous stacks of sandbags with tiny little aperture dramatically marked “In” and “Out” on piece of unpainted wood. Serena points cut that this makes it all look much more war-like than if “In” and “Out” had been printed in the ordinary way on cardboard.
She then takes off her tin hat, shows me her new gas-mask container — very elegant little vermilion affair with white spots, in waterproof — and utters to the effect that, for her part, she has worked it all out whilst Standing By and finds that her income tax will definitely be in excess of her income, which simplifies the whole thing. Ask if she minds, and Serena says No, not in the least, and orders coffee.
She tells me that ever since I last saw her she has been, as usual, sitting about in the underworld, but that this afternoon everybody was told to attend a lecture on the treatment of Shock. The first shock that Serena herself anticipates is the one we shall all experience when we get something to do. Tell her of my conversation over the telephone with Lady Blowfield and Serena says Pah! to the idea of a twenty-two-years war and informs me that she was taken out two days ago to have a drink by a very nice man in the Air Force, and he said Six months at the very outside — and he ought to know.
We talk about the Canteen — am definitely of opinion that I shall never willingly eat sausage-and-mashed again as long as I live — the income tax once more — the pronouncement of the cleaner of the Canteen that the chief trouble with Hitler is that he’s such a fidget — and the balloon barrage, which, Serena assures me in the tone of one giving inside information, is all to come down in November. (When I indignantly ask why, she is unable to substantiate the statement in any way.)
We smoke cigarettes, order more coffee, and I admit to Serena that I don’t think I’ve ever really understood about the balloons. Serena offers to explain — which I think patronising but submit to — and I own to rather fantastic idea as to each balloon containing an observer, more or less resembling the look-out in crow’s-nest of old-fashioned sailing vessel. This subsequently discarded on being told, probably by Serena herself, that invisible network of wires connect the balloons to one another, all wires being electrified and dealing instant death to approaching enemy aircraft.
Serena now throws over electrified-wire theory completely, and says Oh, no, it isn’t like that at all. Each balloon is attached to a huge lorry below, in which sits a Man, perpetually on guard. She has actually seen one of the lorries, in front of the Admiralty, with the Man inside sitting reading a newspaper, and another man close by to keep him company, cooking something on a little oil-stove.
Shortly afterwards Serena declares that she must go — positively must.
She then remains where she is for twenty minutes more, and when she does go, leaves her gas-mask behind her and we have to go back for it. The waiter who produces it congratulates Serena on having her name inside the case. Not a day, he says in an offhand manner, passes without half-a-dozen gas-masks being left behind by their owners and half of them have no name, and the other half just have “Bert” or “Mum” or “Our Stanley”, which, he says, doesn’t take you anywhere at all.
He is thanked by Serena, whom I then escort to entrance of underworld, where she trails away swinging her tin helmet and assuring me that she will probably get the sack for being late if anybody sees her.
September 30th. — Am invited by Serena to have tea at her flat, Jewish refugees said to be spending day with relations at Bromley. Not, says Serena, that she wants to get rid of them — she likes them — but their absence does make more room in the flat.
On arrival it turns out that oldest of the refugees has changed his mind about Bromley and remained behind. He says he has a letter to write.
Serena introduces me — refugee speaks no English and I no German and we content ourselves with handshakes, bows, smiles and more handshakes. He looks patriarchal and dignified, sitting over electric fire in large great-coat.
Serena says he feels the cold. They all the cold. She can’t bear to contemplate what it will be like for them when the cold really begins — which it hasn’t done at all so far — and she has already piled upon their beds all the blankets she possesses. On going to buy others at large Store, she is told that all blankets have been, are being, and will be, bought by the Government and that if by any extraordinary chance one or two do get through, they will cost five times more than ever before.
Beg her not to be taken in by this for one moment and quote case of Robert’s aunt, elderly maiden lady living in Chester, who has, since outbreak of war, purchased set of silver dessert-knives, large chiming clock, bolt of white muslin, new rabbit-skin neck-tie and twenty-four lead pencils — none of which she required — solely because she has been told in shops that these will in future be unobtainable. Serena looks impressed and refugee and I shake hands once more.
Serena takes me to her sitting-room, squeezes past two colossal trunks in very small hall, which Serena explains as being luggage of her refugees. The rest of it is in the kitchen and under the beds, except largest trunk of all which couldn’t be got beyond ground floor and has had to be left with hall-porter.
Four O’clock News on wireless follows. Listeners once more informed of perfect unanimity on all points between French and English Governments. Make idle suggestion to Serena that it would be much more interesting if we were suddenly to be tol
d that there had been several sharp divergences of opinion. And probably much truer too, says Serena cynically, and anyway, if they always agree so perfectly, why meet at all? She calls it waste of time and money.
Am rather scandalised at this, and say so, and Serena immediately declares that she didn’t mean a word of it, and produces tea and admirable cakes made by Austrian refugee. Conversation takes the form — extraordinarily prevalent in all circles nowadays — of exchanging rather singular pieces of information, never obtained by direct means but always heard of through friends of friends.
Roughly tabulated, Serena’s news is to following effect:
The whole of the B.B.C. is really functioning from a place in the Cotswolds, and Broadcasting House is full of nothing but sandbags.
A Home for Prostitutes has been evacuated from a danger zone outside London to Aldershot.
(At this I protest, and Serena admits that it was related by young naval officer who has reputation as a wit.)
A large number of war casualties have already reached London, having come up the Thames in barges, and are installed in blocks of empty flats by the river — but nobody knows they’re there.
Hitler and Ribbentrop are no longer on speaking terms.
Hitler and Ribbentrop have made it up again.
The Russians are going to turn dog on the Nazis at any moment.
In return for all this, I am in a position to inform Serena:
That the War Office is going to Carnarvon Castle.
A letter has been received in London from a German living in Berlin, with a private message under the stamp saying that a revolution is expected to break out at any minute.
President Roosevelt has been flown over the Siegfried Line and flown back to Washington again, in the strictest secrecy.
The deb. at the canteen, on being offered a marshmallow out of a paper bag, has said: What is a marshmallow? (Probably related to a High Court Judge.)
The Russians are determined to assassinate Stalin at the first opportunity.
A woman fainted in the middle of Regent Street yesterday and two stretcher-bearers came to the rescue and put her on the stretcher, then dropped it and fractured both her arms. Serena assures me that in the event of her being injured in any air-raid she has quite decided to emulate Sir Philip Sidney and give everybody else precedence.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 468