Electric torch batteries – no No. 8s in the village now. Bought 3 in 3 weeks at Boots recently – they all gave out before I had used them more than twice. Man in village shop says that all batteries are now only half-filled owing to shortage of materials.
Wednesday, 25 February (War Diary)
Allowed morning off last Saturday to attend cousin M.’s wedding. When I asked for this my boss said it was most irregular but grinned broadly when he heard Martin was in the RAF and had just returned from Russia.
Sat next to cousin-in-law Peggy in Church. She has just been put in charge of a large scabies-clearing depot and gave me detailed description of the cure while we waited for the bride. ‘Our skin man told us that it was caught chiefly from your bedfellow. It just depends who you sleep with.’ Glad I’ve been warned.
Bride in white satin, bridesmaids in dark green velvet carrying daffodils. Guests for the most part were huddled in cheap drab fur coats. Best man was the pilot who shot down the plane over Victoria station. Snowstorm as we came out of Church. Reception at hotel in Acton, where M. had been head of ARP until he joined up. Food, provided at 4 days’ notice, remarkably good – chicken and ham sandwiches, trifle, fruit salad and cakes in quantity. Drinks not so good. I had a thimbleful of sweet white wine. On Monday B. asked cheerfully if I had got tight at the wedding. Impossible for anyone to get tight at that wedding.
Tuesday, 3 March (War Diary)
Our department is hectically active just now preparing for propaganda for the Works for Warships week. Slogans and posters everywhere. Buckland’s desk looks as though something has hit it. He spent hours last week trying to find out the colours and order of the flags of Nelson’s Last Signal. Phoned Selfridges Information Bureau (closed for the duration owing to shortage of staff), the Imperial War Museum, the Admiralty and God knows what else. No help anywhere. Miss de Groote found it eventually on an Xmas card. We are going to have a tall flat staff with the signal fluttering on one side and little sailors climbing the other, each holding a notice giving the Savings achieved every day. Buckland drew out the model sailor yesterday to unending and useless criticism from everyone who saw it.
Saturday, 7 March (War Diary)
A soldier has dug my two cabbage patches for me. He is stationed in this area and seems to get quite a bit of free time in which he comes to aid the gardener-less folk around here.
Chemist had no Vapex or anything of that nature. No talcum powder. This is difficult to get anywhere now. A store in Slough has a window full of cheap and unnamed product and I bought a packet marked ‘Sample’ for 1s. 9d. at a hairdressers not long ago. Our chemist was selling jars of his own make of cold cream and liquid shampoo.
For supper – mutton stewed with sundry vegetables and one onion; rhubarb and prunes and a mince pie. All very good. (Feel like Pepys.)
Wednesday, 11 March (War Diary)
Made such a noise coughing at the office this afternoon P.A. sent me home.
Stayed Monday night with June. She saw a film recently in which Churchill and Stalin appeared. For Churchill – a few polite claps. For Stalin – a storm of applause.
Menu outside a Piccadilly restaurant quoted pheasant at 25s. or 27s. a helping.
Monday, 16 March
Cough has gone. I can smoke again.
Monday, 23 March
Gus phones. Tells me that Phyllis is now working in a cigarette factory and will be able to send me 100 a week.
Thursday, 23 April
Next week Buckland joins the RAF. I am hoping to have his desk.
Friday, 24 April
We said goodbye to Buckland today. He shakes hands flabbily. He wants to be a pilot, to be at the controls. I have a hunch that he’ll get there – he is the type that has surprised and frustrated the German High Command. Undisciplined, effete, but able to withstand dramatic attack. No one, as far as I know, told him to his face that he will be missed.
Sunday, 10 May
Have begun to chronicle an office romance between the Linnett (a little plump, reddish colouring, pale skin, an efficient secretary) and Tom Hughes (the young engineer). In short it all began with a bicycle. With the cut in the petrol ration Barbara Linnett expects to have to abandon her car in June – in its place she decided she must have a bicycle. But good 3-speed cycles are not being made today, and Tommy Hughes set out to get a second-hand one for her. He knows a lot about bicycles, he liked chasing the adverts, and she kept him at it. The hunt began about four weeks ago, and on Friday they found one. Are they riding out together today? I’ll not be surprised if she receives a proposal of marriage, but I shall be very surprised if she accepts it, at any rate the first time.
So many women seem to be waiting, as I wait, for something wonderful to happen. For the man-they-want-but-never-find to appear and carry them off to Paradise – some not even that, but just to be married. I’m sure that if B.L. ever accepts T.H. it will be partly because she feels herself getting older and opportunities fewer. The majority of women want marriage – there is no doubt at all of that. Careers are only of secondary importance unless they have genius (and very few women have that), or until they realise their best chances of marriage are past.
At work Lizzie de Groote expressed frustration that she had lived nearly a quarter of a century and what had she done? I should have said to her that it is not what one does, but what one is in the process of becoming that matters. Being is so much more important than doing, although it is true, too, that what one does so one becomes.
There is no doubt that women are not happy, that men lack a certain quality that we look for. It may be because women are going through a great stage of change, have reached a new point in their development, can not now go back to the old way of living (and do not want to), and haven’t yet discovered the right way in a different world. This deep trouble has its effect on the men they bear and love. We have enormous influence, enormous power, a great part to play, but not as servants or toys of men, but as living, independent individuals, as women in our own right. But we do not know yet what being a woman means.
Wednesday, 27 May
I hope to see Graham Howe again on Friday. My problem, as briefly as possible, is this: how to get what is in out? I absorb so much, I have gobbled experience, but I do not seem able to use it, or rather it seems to lie in me in heavy undigested lumps. In my job there are occasions when one has to talk clearly, coherently and intelligently. I am asked a question or expected to say something about a particular subject of which I claim to know a little, and I get grossly confused and inarticulate. It is childish and inexcusable. Given time I can get quite a lot out in a rather clumsy manner, and if the person I am talking to knows me well (such as Nockie) I feel that the clumsiness doesn’t matter. But with a new acquaintance or in company (a strange, critical audience, judging me, as I imagine, by my performance) I stumble, blush perhaps, dry up and make a complete fool of myself, and feel sure they must think me an utter fraud.
I have read and listened to millions of words on politics; I have read hundreds of good books (classics and non-fiction). I have studied architecture, I have known artists, I have seen and loved many ballets, plays and films, and I shall go on doing these things. Out of all that absorbed material I should be able to produce something individual and interesting when the occasion demands – an anecdote, an opinion, a description, some appropriate contribution. But I have sat in company recently and felt miserable because I was unable to contribute nothing, and was afterwards asked ‘I hope we haven’t bored you …’ No remark could be more shattering!
A good deal of talk in the Press just now about planning for the world after the war. ‘We have done,’ says Laski, ‘once and for all with the mad competitive economic system which spells poverty for all peoples and war as the outcome of that poverty.’118 I believe that is true. We shall eventually have a more justly planned society.
The kittens dart over the floor like mice. I wish I could keep a cattery. My pleasure in it would be une
nding. Why should I not do that? Breed cats for a living, starting at Homefield, the portion of orchard left at the bottom of the garden would do very well. I would bother no more about clothes, cosmetics and hair-sets. I would forget all I had learned, I would burn my books, give away my fountain pen, and devote my time to the garden and the cats.
Letter from F. last week. He wants to meet me again. Quite unable to answer as I don’t know if I do.
Sunday, 21 June
10 a.m. Red Cross canteen in the village. Local policeman came in for a cold Horlicks. Four ducks were stolen from a house near his last night. People, he says, are helping themselves liberally to small items – his neighbour’s chickens, washing etc. One woman had joint taken from oven while helping another to hang out her washing.
Monday, 24 June
Winnie left me – a shattering blow – to work full-time for our local fishmonger’s wife who has cancer. Have found a very good woman, Mrs Hawthorn, who comes in twice a week and ‘does’ most thoroughly. A bit of a dragon though, and much more expensive.
Political situation most depressing. Tobruk fallen. Shipping losses grave. Some German successes in Russia. We are at times an infuriatingly feeble nation. We talk and blah about our superiority in this and that Service, but when put to the test crumple up like cheap tin.
Went one Sunday to Hampstead to see the exhibition of Modern Painting and Sculpture at Goldfinger’s house in Willow Road.119 Modern artists, the sincere ones, are saying new and exciting things, and their work cannot be explained. One accepts them as inexplicable and tries to learn, slowly, or one rejects them arrogantly as ‘rubbish’.
Monday, 13 July
Part of me wants to have done with Francis, to draw a line and close the book, but I haven’t the courage to convey that to him. I am sorry for him, and still interested, although he bores everyone else. What I must do is to let him come on Sundays (but not for a weekend), and meet the other people who come, and let him find his level among my old and new friends. It would be abominable of me, but if I had to choose between F. (and all that he means to me physically) and my friends, I should choose my friends. I’ve lived nearly a year now since the last ‘flutter’ (disgusting way of putting it – ‘Experiment’ is better) without any other Experiments. It is only vanity and pity that keeps me from breaking up our relationship.
My work for Mr Stevens has met with his approval: material for a brochure on aluminium in the Post-War home.
Sunday, 26 July
I received a bonus on Thursday. Firm is making so much money it does not know what to do with it.
Francis came last Sunday for the day, but I kept him most skilfully at a distance. He takes everything for granted, that I am quite ready to collapse into his arms at the first opportunity. He never takes any interest in my work or new friends. All he wants is to make love to me and to talk about himself. He called me a little bitch because I would not let him touch me. What a man.
Friday, 7 August
Concern over our Government’s interventions with regard to a Second Front to help our terribly pressed allies is universal.120 (‘Second Front Now’ was scrawled in white paint across the road at Henley’s Corner a few days ago but has now been removed). Even people who take relatively little interest in the political aspect of this war are getting worried.
Many people say, ‘We are not ready.’ Why are we not ready? Authorities should have foreseen this Second Front possibility last year, surely, and begun preparations at once. We should have at least some plans made, men trained and material collected for launching an attack on the Continent now. One loses heart and faith in the people who are in control. We have the feeling, strongly, that Powers That Be wish to see Russian might crippled before they will move a finger to help. They do not want Russia to have any say in the Peace Terms. Capitalist interests are still vastly strong, and the propertied bourgeois, although a minority, have still an enormous influence on the conduct of our affairs and are terrified of the idea of Socialism.
But the more our reactionaries try to resist the progress of Socialism, the greater will be their downfall. Socialism is inevitable. Any intelligent individual needs but an elementary knowledge of history to see that it is something which has been developing through centuries and can not be stopped. It will reach fruition in its own time, like all growing things, though it may take centuries more yet of blood and toil and tears and sweat.
Saturday, 8 August
I have made 2lbs of cherry jam. I was cutting thyme for drying when a Jerry swooped over the trees just after 6 p.m., sprayed the searchlight post by the Farnham Common Hotel and peppered the Beeches. He was so low I could have read his number but for the mist which curled about and swallowed him. Guns went tardily into action but he rose and disappeared. A Jerry right over my cottage and I saw it! I began to feel excited again about the war. Action on my doorstep. Later learned that the machine-gunning was directed at a local fete in progress, and that 3–4 bombs were dropped on the trading estate. Two policemen killed.
Am reading I Had a Row with a German.121 It is interesting, but this sort of sentence makes me feel ill: ‘My last chance would be gone to send some loathsome murderer to his end.’ Precisely what distinguishes the RAF fighters and bombers as heroes and the Luftwaffe as ‘loathsome murderers’? If that’s our service mentality, Lord help our post-war world.
Monday, 10 August
Gandhi and Congress leaders arrested. The Star splashes an account of Gandhi’s luxury prison quarters in the Aga Khan’s Palace at Poona – Empire and American raisins, a special British type of soap, rooms furnished by the most expensive London firms, the bed in the Royal boudoir large enough to sleep 18 and where a millionaire Mohammadan slept with all his 12 wives at once, sheets of silk, gardens cooled by fountains …
Gandhi is a man in advance of his time. India is a vast country with a complicated history. There must be other reasons for our refusal to give India her freedom now, besides those relating to our Imperial interests which the Communists shout about. Time may reveal.
Am having a fight with my laundry. The curtains I took to be cleaned on June 20th have been dyed black in error.
Friday, 14 August
Well! The phone rang – F.! He is Coming For The Night one night soon. There’s perseverance for you – God knows I’ve given him little enough encouragement. But as there is no one else I cannot keep him at a distance any longer. Better an affaire without love than an embittered chastity. I have no motive for resistance. I am really rather ashamed of myself. Wish some St George would deliver me from this Dragon.
Mrs Hawthorn has not been since Bank Holiday now. What an abominable creature.
Tuesday, 18 August
I came to the conclusion after much serious thought during the weekend to finish with F., and wrote him a letter to that effect as firmly and as kindly as I could. If this decision means I must do without a lover then I must endure the situation. I am not the only woman who must do without. There will always be some without lovers, either from natural chastity, misfortune or their own psychological tangles. It is a problem for each of us to solve for ourselves – it is not solved by snatching sex out of its place and time.
I have no desire to meet F. again. I have no regrets, either, at having known him.
Wednesday, 19 August
The news of Churchill’s visits to Moscow and Cairo have heartened us but tonight’s account of our latest Commando raid brings a familiar depression. We have lost, apparently, many men and planes and much material. If this is the start of a big attack it would not seem to matter so much, but these nibbles at the French coast – what do we gain by them?
Still without domestic help. Have reduced living to its simplest. Except at weekends all meals and ablutions in the kitchen (the bath and sink being in the kitchen and no other taps in the cottage). Someone said today the war would go on for another 6 years.
Monday, 21 September
Lizzie de Groote and her friend Peter
became engaged last Tuesday – Lizzie’s happiness is a joy to behold. They are two fine, lovable people. But I am envious, terribly envious of Lizzie’s happiness. A happiness it seems I am never to know. I go round my cottage saying, ‘I have this. I have independence, an interesting job, good friends, many interests. These things are valuable and satisfying.’ But living is not quite complete. It is the promise of fulfilment that is the essence of Lizzie’s happiness, a knowledge of growth and future growth. Without that, however ‘full’ one’s life, living is at the core hollow and desolate. It is like being a plant that lives in shadow, that never knows the sun.
Thursday, 1 October (War Diary)
Day off on Monday to shop in town. Searching for winter coat: Weatherall’s no. 1 (top of Bond Street) – no stock at all. Weatherall’s no. 2 (Regent Street) – the coat advertised in Vogue was in window. In Vogue it looked smashing and just what I wanted. Actually frightful, a sort of gabardine with trashy lining. Tried on a navy, belted, fairly good, fashionable cut, said to be ‘pure wool’ but badly finished with a ghastly Red Cross red lining (all their coats now seem to be lined with this material). It needed pressing and looked shoddy. Price 15 guineas. Jaeger, Regent Street – stock extremely limited and nothing under 19 guineas. A very indifferent assistant did not want to show me anything. Wanted to use strong language but went instead to Nicholls further down Regent Street. There the assistant was most helpful. A choice of several good coats but I fell for the first one I tried on – a very soft, real camel hair, great, belted, of classic cut and perfect fit. 13 guineas. Shops generally: stocks very low and much absolute rubbish being sold at high prices. Saw Bambi after lunch.
American soldiers to be seen everywhere. Vahan reports that there is much ill feeling in British ranks at Americans’ better pay and conditions. Tommies not openly hostile but are resentful. Must be a difficult situation. (Barbara Linnett says Americans in Wycombe are not very popular. She finds the typical American to be 5ft nothing with a leathery skin and not her fancy at all). Vahan says that the trouble with the British private is that he does not know how to complain (grumbles enough, but when an officer appears is dumb). Is it due to the pressure of class distinctions, inadequate education, or inherent, characteristic British shyness?
A Notable Woman Page 25