Bought a new coat and skirt at Peter Jones. ‘The Govt. want us to go about badly dressed – that’s what it amounts to,’ said the assistant.
Tuesday, 13 June
Tomorrow it will be a fortnight since he phoned and promised to come and help water my lettuces. It has rained almost every evening since then and I have not heard a word. Yet hope persists. Any reasonable person would tell me I am a sentimental, vain, silly woman, clinging to a dream because of a few passionate kisses and impulsive words exchanged three months ago. How many women, I wonder, build a dream from less than that and live with it for years, believing that he will come again and life will glow once more?
Wednesday, 14 June
One of the ginger kittens (Ping, or is it Pong?) has the lambs-wool sock from my bedroom slipper in its claws and is licking it furiously.
I think the two Americans have been swept off by the invasion.
Saturday, 17 June
Pong – or was it Ping? – has met with a most tragic, pitiful end. I came home late this afternoon and was greeted as usual by the family from all directions, but missed Pong (or Ping). Did not start looking until I had had my tea, and then I found him in the shed, rigid and cold, his little chest covered with blood, his pale eyes glazed and lifeless. I had to find out the cause and washed the blood away (that stiff, icy little body that only last evening was curled warmly in my hands).
A round, deep hole like a small bullet wound reached down perhaps to his heart. There were a few bird feathers on the floor near him, and I can only suppose it to have been the beak thrust of some poor wretched bird caught and surrounded by the kittens. The bird had its revenge before it died, and the kittens had their revenge for the death of their brother. Death is a most strange thing, happening somewhere every day, every hour.
Germans are causing excitement over here now with their pilotless aircraft.136
Saturday, 24 June
Have been told in confidence by Mr O. that Mr B. is getting £650 p.a. + bonus + expenses. It is scandalous.137
Sunday, 25 June (War Diary)
The Germans’ new weapon, the robot-plane … The first day they came over we were sent to the shelters. I took one look at them and fled and a great many other people did the same. We have not been sent since although we have had many alerts. One or two of the bombs have fallen quite near. I never hear the alert but am awakened by the vibration of the bomb as it lands. The blast is terrific, everything shakes. Nockie writes that their effect in London is demoralising, to hear them coming and not knowing where they will fall. There is no defensive gunfire. She says she prefers the ordinary Blitz and has I gather had very little sleep recently. She has even sent me a copy of her will to keep in a safe place. Have been told that there are only enough to last another fortnight when they will be replaced by some other Secret Weapon.
The feeling that the war is nearing its end at last is not viewed by all of us with unalloyed jubilation. In fact I have seen no evidence of jubilation anywhere at the thought. The question that is in everyone’s mind is, what will post-war conditions be like? Shall I be able to keep my job or get another of the kind I really want? We feel too that preference will be given to people coming out of the Services – who have of course lost contact as much as any of us. It will be largely a matter of luck and of knowing the right people. It will be a ghastly scramble for work.
What our firm will do or intends to do no one seems to know or will say. We have just launched a New Company ‘to co-operate with designers and manufacturers in all industries on the use of light alloys for post-war purposes.’ We have put out some splashy advertising.
Sunday, 25 June
There is so much in this world to make me happy. Small things such as cats, a good meal, one’s garden, trees in spring and autumn, clouds, colours, fabrics, clothes, companionship, books and music and films, a drink in the friendly atmosphere of an English pub, a ride in a bus, a letter from a friend, staying in bed when one is tired, firelight, starlight, waves breaking against rocks, evening sunlight on a flight of bombers.
Saturday, 8 July
Nockie, bless her, has come to stay with me to get away from the doodlebugs. She will travel to Paddington and back every day. She is in a bad state of nerves.
Saturday, 15 July
The bubble is pricked, and the foolish, foolish heart has had evidence to prove its foolishness. What happened was this. Nockie and I decided last night to cycle down to the Crown for a drink. The Crown is near his house, and I know that he frequents that pub. We got buried deep in a settee so that he did not see us for quite a long time and I was able to watch him unobserved. Surrounded by women – one of them Nockie is fairly sure must have been his wife. She looked nice. Really a nice, pleasant, attractive type – quietly dressed, not over made-up, no elaborate hairstyle. Oh he is a devil. Yes, it must have been his wife (whom he has never once mentioned to me) because when he did turn round and see me he did not come and speak to me. He did not even dare to speak to me outside when we went out to collect our cycles. I have nothing to reproach myself for, except for indulging for so long in sentimental fancies. Wonder what I shall do, what he will do, when we meet again. Or perhaps we shan’t meet again.
Saturday, 22 July
He was back yesterday at the office and gave me a lift to the Pump [pub] and stood me a drink. He may be a rogue but I do like him. It came out in conversation with acquaintance in the pub that Sally-Ann is 10, and for the first time I heard him speak of his wife. They have two evacuee children staying with them – a girl of 15 and a girl of 2.
Monday, 24 July
While I moan about my insignificant difficulties and frustrations, dreadful, dreadful tragedies are taking place a few miles away. A bomb fell near the home of a friend of Nockie’s and badly unnerved this young woman who had seen legs and arms among the rubble and glass in her road. These doodlebugs are diabolical. We had one over on Saturday evening here. It sounded as though it were flying right over the cottage, then it stopped and drifted for 2-and-a-half minutes. It fell, we are told, at Marlow. Out of a clear sky, with no sound, no warning, falls a terrible destruction.
And in spite of our triumphs in France and Italy and the great Russian push along a 1,000-mile front, and the attempt on Hitler’s life and rumours of revolution in Germany – these raids go on, unnerving the war-weary, hardworking population in London and southern England, as they are meant to do. Shall we stand the strain? Yes.
Saturday, 29 July
On Monday I go to Cornwall with Joan for a week. I took the last two kittens and The Kittyhawk to the Cats Home this morning and went through agony. How is it one can suffer so acutely for a cat? I loved The Kittyhawk and now she is no more. I shall never again see her black and dull gold little body uncurl from the bushes to greet me, or follow me to the post, or those big, black accusing eyes lifted. All over. In a way a great relief – three cats to feed was no joke, and the problems with recurring families just insurmountable.
Saturday, 5 August (War Diary)
Cornwall. We expected the journey to be grim. The weekend before conditions at Paddington had been simply appalling – I heard nothing but the most depressing tales of crowds and jammed corridors. Settled eventually in corner of non-smoker, two Canadian sailors sat opposite. We gave them some of our sandwiches just before they embarrassed us enormously by showering quite a dozen packets of chocolate from their kit bags onto our laps.
We were met by Jill (Joan’s eldest sister) whose husband is stationed with the RAF Transport Command at Newquay. They had just moved into a cottage at St Mawgan and insisted upon my staying with them. My face is shining like a beacon, my hair has dried to the texture of hay, I feel a little middle-aged and aunty-ish, but I am on the whole well and happy. All round here is full of RAF and evacuees. Was told of one little boy who had been in bad raids in London who threw himself flat at the sound of the first plane overhead.
Sunday, 20 August
Allied successes on th
e Continent. Russians on Prussian soil. The Americans in Paris.
And my heart and intuition rejoicing over a triumph of their own. It is all rather unbelievable. I am ridiculously happy and very scared. He gave me a lift again on Friday. We arranged to meet at the One Pin, and we came back to the cottage. Nockie went to bed early. I am not going to describe what followed.
I am not yet his mistress, but I hope and intend to be. I said, ‘I am not a husband snatcher and it’s time you went home.’ He replied slowly, ‘I am not a husband that wants to be snatched,’ and did not go home. Later he said, ‘I am a hungry husband – hungry just as you are.’
He loves his wife, there is no doubt about that. But for some reason she can not have any more children and ‘for no selfish reasons on her part’ dare not have anything to do with him. He is quite obviously an unsatisfied man physically, and as intuition told me right from the beginning, a very genuine, intelligent, trustworthy person. He said that he had cycled round here time and time again wanting to see me, not daring to call. Still find it hard to believe – the things he said, the warmth of him, the warmth in his eyes. It envelops me wholly. I will accept what he says and what he offers and demand no more.
Tuesday, 22 August
He has decided to come on Saturday – his wife and daughter evidently still away.
It’s no good letting one’s imagination leap ahead with this affair. I must take it step by step, problem by problem. A handful. Heavens yes! Perhaps he has exhausted his poor wife, perhaps that is the answer. As for me I am just terrified – of failure, humiliation, disillusionment, and all the possibilities of being hurt and shaken by this new adventure. It is an experiment and must be so regarded. But it is real and true and down to earth at last. No more slipshod, sentimental dreaming and desiring. Have wished for it for so long and now it is here, very hard and sharp and actual.
Saturday, 26 August
11.30 p.m. Black. So black I can hardly write about it. But I want to record my deep, deep gratitude to my unfailing, wonderful friend Nockie – I don’t know what I should be doing without her – near suicide I suspect. He never came, or let me know why.
Heart has suffered a bitter reverse and is numb. All the interest I have had for him since Redditch seems dead in a single blow, and there is no desire or feeling left for him at all. Not even hate. But anger – that he should treat me like that. I went to quite a lot of trouble in my preparations for the evening’s entertainment, and until 6 o’clock I felt happy and sure about his coming. Then doubt crept in, increased and grew intolerable.
He told me he was coming back from Winchester today via Ascot and would come to me from there. He chose this evening. My feeling is that he has got in tow with someone else and forgotten all about me, or shelved the problem of letting me know. Some crony or old girlfriend at the races and been drawn into a party with them.
‘Don’t show that you’re angry, don’t let him see that it matters,’ Nockie says. ‘You have probably learnt more about him tonight than you would have done had he come.’ She doesn’t think I am in love with him. I don’t know. Tonight certainly I am not.
Sunday, 27 August
We have exhausted all the possibilities and I will not believe the worst until I have proof of it. He has not phoned or sent any message. I cannot believe he is quite so callous and rude. I pray for him, wherever he is. It is ignoble of me to think such evil of him. God please help me through this.
26.
Arsenic Blue
Thursday, 31 August 1944
He lost so much money at the races on Saturday afternoon that he got roaring drunk and was in no condition to come to see me in the evening. That was what he told me on Tuesday, and only then because he happened to catch sight of me in the bus queue as he passed in his car and gave me a lift. And was not going to explain, I am sure, if I hadn’t been bursting with rage and demanded it. I said that he might have at least phoned on Sunday, but this had not occurred to him. It is all terribly, terribly galling. He realised he had behaved badly, but I doubt if the thought much troubled him after I had gone. A very sordid, shabby little man. Phoney, like everything about HDA and its leading personnel.
Yet desire is such that the heart (all beaten and battered again) cannot forget or leave go. I now want to help, perhaps tempted by the role of ‘saving angel’.
My motives are selfish: I want to be made love to. I want to help him because of the hope of ultimate reward. Would I offer to help him if I knew I could never have that? Offer friendship without sex and see what happens. Would he, could he, accept and give as much back again?
Friday, 1 September
I yearn for some real hard work that I can do well and that will be appreciated. Our department at HDA has practically nothing to do now. I am sure there is no future for me in Publicity.
Wednesday, 4 October
I have made an appointment to see Dr Howe again on Friday. I have got to get out to him the story of my latest emotional entanglement.
I have had only one further meeting of any consequence. About a fortnight ago I was walking down the main office corridor and heard someone behind me call ‘Miss Pratt!’ When I saw who it was I smiled back and walked straight on. He can catch me up if he wants to, I thought. But he didn’t.
One word about Tommy. He has left HDA and takes up his medical course in London next week. He does not intend to lose touch with me nor I with him. All the emotional complexities dispersed, and what remains is a pleasant and strong friendship.
Tomorrow am going to see Lady in the Dark.138
Saturday, 7 October
I walked the streets of London yesterday after seeing Graham Howe, feeling as though I owned the earth. G.H. was interested and amused, and summed M. up as the type of man with unusually quick and sure intuitive powers, living in the ‘Eternal Now’, able to assess a person and a situation in a moment, and make a woman feel as though she is the only one that matters in that moment, skimming the cream of the situation for himself with skill, and then forgetting all about it in the next new and different moment. His emotional life has no continuity and his wife justifiably will find him ‘impossible’.
‘You must be realistic about him,’ said G.H. Also I must uproot that morbid little plant sown by the old hag in Hove who promised I should be married ‘to a married man’ next year. The trouble, G.H. explained, about these fortune-tellers was that only 50 per cent of their shots reached the right target, and they pick up one’s fantasies and desires and tell one what one wants to hear. So go away, Ghost. You have possessed me too often and too long.
Wednesday, 11 October (War Diary)
Life at work is all shamefully ‘cushy’ but I don’t know what to do about it. I sit back watching events and personalities, fascinated. Our production programme has been greatly decreased, shops are closed and men turned out by the 100 (they say there are over 1,000 unemployed in Slough now; Labour Exchange has no work to offer them).
Attended a meeting with Sir George Schuster on ‘Can We Afford the Peace?’ His speech followed the theme of several of his recently published articles on the same subject. We must concentrate on increasing our industrial productivity, make plans for industry at home first so that full use is made of our natural resources and industrialists should come forward to the Government with their own plans.
I read somewhere the view that the change from war to peace would be so gradual we should hardly notice it. It will not be something definite and spectacular like Lights Up, Bananas for all, unlimited fully fashioned real silk stockings at 2s. 6d. a pair and everyone with a job they like and able to afford their own plot and bungalow.
Thursday, 26 October
Have spent a good part of this and last evening sorting through papers, books, pamphlets and letters accumulated over the past four or five months. It appals me, the swift passage of time, all there is to notice and absorb, and how little of this information I take in or use in any way. Daily papers, the Listener, Radio Times, Archi
tects’ Journal, Fabian literature, miscellaneous monthly periodicals – lent me, given me, bought myself – and all set on one side to read when I have the time. But I never have the time, and the mass of printed matter becomes too much. I abandon it all, store it on bookshelves and forget about it. (And then the letters I should write …)
Ethel brought out (she left here on Monday) the other evening a photograph of the loved one (Father) taken by a street photographer in Acton many years ago. It startled me into remembering how much I had loved him too. It was an excellent, exact likeness. The amused twinkle in his eyes, the dear, lived face, the creased suit. Silken white hair and a grey tobacco-stained moustache. Was I ‘in love’ with him? Is it my father I am seeking? Is it his image I impose? But I never wanted him physically – that I will deny vehemently to my dying day – consciously or unconsciously. But the warmth and sympathy and happiness he gave me, perhaps I am seeking that. That gladness of heart at the sight of him, – the little girl full of deep trust and joy running into outstretched arms, sure of her welcome, sure of sympathetic attention and guidance and comfort.
Saturday, 11 November
God, I am so lonely. It is not the practical fact of being alone that is difficult to bear, it is this personal isolation – this being on a hill – this wanting to share my life, an arm to link mine to, a warm companionship. And a female companionship wouldn’t help at all, really it wouldn’t. Yet for years women have struggled to free themselves of man’s domination, and to stand alone, free and independent to make their own lives in their own way. All that these women fought for I have, and I am crying, ‘It is not enough!’ We are incomplete without our men. We are unlit lamps.
Monday, 13 November
I came home in a vile mood, really deep arsenic blue, thinking of M. as usual, and more than usual having seen him three times and spoken – actually walked down the main corridor with him – once. (‘Good morning! And how are you?’ ‘Oh, very well – and you?’ ‘Bearing up.’ ‘So long as you are not bearing down …’)
A Notable Woman Page 30