A letter, at last, from Hugh last night, describing the crossing. ‘Foursome in corner playing bridge in whispers. Outside, in corridor, troops more jovially playing pontoon. Wonder why officers prefer bridge. Anyway, cards awful bore. Prefer writing to the Noun …’
That’s me. One of his special names for me. Grew from a joke we shared. ‘Moog’ is another – he read the word in one of Saroyan’s stories.
‘She’ll be sleeping cat-like now, forgetting the Hugh interlude. For Hugh a lovely one, unforgettable, nostalgic. She must wash her ears. All sorts of thoughts tumble madly – stoated kittens.’ (Two of Dinah’s last brood were attacked and killed by some wild wood creature. A grisly business.) ‘Talc; weariness, gentle soft wearing of contented passion; Observer in bed; chopping a forest of trees; stew and beer; endless radio Christmas carols; the Moog moralising immorally; warm welcoming fire; Christmas frost and New Year snow; Kew Theatre and crumpets; hours of solitary reading while Lucie …’ (his usual name for me) ‘earns my keep. Wondering why Lucie hasn’t married –p’raps she has – and how lucky for Lucie it wasn’t to me.’
He is in Brussels now. Nice Hugh. Dear Hugh, our memories – yes, thank you for them. Now my memories come forward: Hugh, the first Sunday he was here, getting up first to get the tea and coming up and sitting on the edge of my bed. ‘Tell me, do you usually have a big bush thing right outside the sitting room door? Well, it’s there now.’ Gale had blown over the rose arch.
And then sulkily, army overcoat over pyjamas, army boots on feet, coming to deal with squealing stoat-attacked kitten. And saying, ‘You know, Lucie, I have missed you. I’m not used to missing people.’ Slouch hat and my raincoat over civilian clothes, his face outlined against the white night Xmas sky. Stretched in armchair by the fire flipping through books, and catching my arm – ‘Don’t go …’ His dark head on my pillow and impudent dark eyes over the edge of the sheet. Stamping snow from his boots all over the clean kitchen floor.
Saturday, 17 February
Have been reading through 1944 entries, and forgot all about pork chops cooking, and they are now leather.
Redundancy ‘purges’ have been carried out periodically among the staff since the autumn and now the Central Production department, already reduced to about 13, has been told that it will cease to function by the end of March and they can all look for other work. The stamp shops will be closed down entirely by then. Already familiar faces are missing, like candles on a Xmas tree being blown out one by one.
At our Wycombe works there has been a strike because 20 men were sacked and 20 Italians taken in place of them (lower rates).
Sunday, 18 February (War Diary)
In Windsor yesterday afternoon, after a hair appointment, bought some scrubbed carrots. When I remarked on their cleanliness the woman said that it was still a penalty to scrub root vegetables.
Nockie is now on the senior staff of an aircraft firm at Edgware [de Havilland] writing about aero-enquiries.
Monday, 19 February (War Diary)
The Machinery of Government question has caused a crop of letters in The Times and Telegraph.
A letter from Hugh. ‘This office is a military almshouse for the lost and lame – I fear contracting the palsy. The Demon Rum is a great evening temptation and I sit with another Desert Rat beside a wood stove in a café and reminisce garrulously. Verily we have become Desert Mice. Have not reconnoitred the local blonde market yet but preliminary observation not encouraging. Their teeth are bad after four years of Boche occupation. Anyway, only Yank privates and British quartermasters can afford them. I hear there is a war on somewhere near here but can scarce credit it. Slough is more embattled.
‘Nearly all here fear the future and look upon the Army in their inner consciousness as an uneasy refuge. I pray for your letters.’
Tuesday, 20 February (War Diary)
Went to see Gas Association’s Kitchens Exhibition at Dorland Hall. Crowded with women opening and shutting oven doors, peering into cupboards and refrigerators.
Items of interest: scoop drawers of plastic or glass (plastic were much lighter) for flour, cereals and other such loose foods used in cooking; one or two new patent door fastenings; an Ascot heater covered in transparent plastic presumably to show its innards; plastic table tops that looked rather like cork which would not show marks from hot plates; coloured enamelled steel sinks, possibly easier to keep clean. On the whole, however, was disappointed. Enamel was chipping on some sinks, and much substitute material used which gave appearance of shoddiness. Notices informed me constantly that ‘This is a dummy’.
Thursday, 1 March
At office R.W. telling me this afternoon domestic details of the Royal family. She and her parents have lived in Windsor all their lives. Her father owns a pub. They know several of the Castle staff and hear a good deal of gossip.
Of the two princesses, Margaret Rose is the most popular – she chatters to the servants and takes a lively interest in their activities. Elizabeth acknowledges them but remains aloof. One or other of them often accompany their mother when she goes on her tours of inspection. There is an air raid shelter 12 feet below the castle – made as a flat with every convenience – and stock for a six-month sojourn.
Lunch menu in staff canteen today: kidney soup; sausage toad, herrings in tomato sauce; chips, spam, pickles, mash, sprouts; chocolate steamed pudding, rice pudding, dried peaches and custard. The food has not been nearly so good since the canteen management has been taken over by Mrs F. To hear her you would think her rissoles were the most delectable food on earth.
Friday, 2 March
Saw Mr Oliver this afternoon. A few weeks ago he fell off a bus and broke his wrist and has not been able to do much work, but hopes to turn out something for our next big Discussion Group Meeting on the Case for Private Enterprise. We discussed a possible design for this poster. He suggested a photograph of the firm’s first two bays – to imply how this particular private enterprise has flourished – but we decided that that would be too personal and finally decided on a silhouette of two bays and of a large factory. This co-operative bringing to birth of an idea made me feel good for ½ an hour or so. It always does – it’s something very few people understand about poster work.
Monday, 6 March
Hugh phoned late last night. He is in England again – originally on some special, secret mission until he fell down some stairs and broke his wrist. He says he MUST see me, and threatened to come here today, but phoned again tonight to say he was in hospital once more.
Thursday, 8 March
So happy. I found him sitting in the armchair on Tuesday evening, the fire lit, the curtains drawn. His arm in a sling but looking well – in fact, better than I’ve seen him. I was surprised at how pleased I was to have him here again. Surprised to find that I wanted to be made love to again. We are planning a weekend in London before he sails.
Saturday, 10 March (War Diary)
On Tuesday the Management gives a Premiere showing of our new film on Castings to the Aircraft Industry. A message from W.’s secretary that one of the men invited is dead.
Came in and made bed with clean sheets and then set about de-fleaing Walter. I have had him in the cottage only twice & on each occasion was atrociously attacked – never have I been so bitten in England. ‘Keatings’ is now unobtainable but the Ministry of Food (why the Ministry of Food?) issues little cartons of Mixed Pyrethrum Powder. I sprinkled this inside an old pillow case and put Walter firmly in it & rubbed him thoroughly.
Tuesday, 13 March
I’d been looking forward to the weekend with Hugh too much. I was longing for it, planning all the details and bubbling with happiness yesterday. I ought to have known better.
This evening I receive a message to say that he has been sent overseas on a special mission – returning Monday. If his orders to sail for the Middle East next weekend still stand, then it’s all over and it will be very unlikely I’ll ever see him again. Oh, does it so much matt
er? It seems to tonight. We both satisfied a need in each other. My need will go on. He heads for his dream in Greece and his wife in Palestine.
This time last week he was with me.
Wednesday, 28 March (War Diary)
Allied cruisers are swarming across the Rhine. Churchill says the end is in sight, Eisenhower that the Germans are whipped. Two women in the Doctor’s surgery this morning said, ‘Why don’t they give in now? If they would only give in so much more bloodshed would be saved.’
My ears troublesome again. Dr B. treated them just after Xmas – had been having boils in them and much discomfort since time before. He said it was a kind of eczema. Also, developed a septic finger last week, I think from handling some old and dirty forgings. I must rest it as much as possible and he had a splint applied. As it is my right hand it is infuriating. I can’t do a thing and shouldn’t really be writing this.
Saturday, 31 March
I wait in desolation for my meal to cook. It has been on the kitchen stove for nearly an hour and a half. Stewed mutton and Spanish onions. Broccoli and rhubarb which arrived only half an hour ago. My finger is no better, no worse. The Doctor saw it this morning – said ‘It’s in the balance now. You must keep your hand in a sling or I won’t answer for the consequences. That woman who has just gone out, she had the same trouble and now she has lost her nail.’
Everyone I have met recently or heard from is expectant, even exultant. There is much hope in the atmosphere. Young men on leave at the Social Centre, so Jackie told me, were saying ‘It’ll all be over by Easter Monday.’ D.J. more soberly, ‘The end in sight very possibly. But it may take another 3 months.’ I offered to take Ethel to the theatre for her birthday in February but she did not like the idea of running the gauntlet of V bombs. Now she writes, ‘Is not the news thrilling? One wonders just how soon one may expect Victory news. Yes, then you may take me to the theatre. Do! What a treat!’
Tuesday, 3 April
Have tried to obey Doctor’s orders – finger looks about the same.
Curly bought a wireless in place of mine. Mine apparently in a rather bad condition. Curly owns a wireless & sports shop in Slough and is having this done for me all out of the kindness of his heart.
He has just had a raw deal, he told me, and feels that by doing someone a good turn that he gets himself readjusted to living. He has been helping to run a Club but has a very poor view of its members – the petit bourgeoisie of Slough. All out for their own interests, he said. ‘And you feed them today knowing that if they saw you in the gutter tomorrow they’d tread on you.’
To see a Red Cross film show tomorrow: Blood Transfusion; ABCD of Health; Green Food for Health; First Aid on the Spot; Conquest of a Germ.
Sunday, 8 April
Nockie has been here and it has been a wonderful and exciting weekend. The fantastic thing was that last night M. phoned. I still don’t believe it. I thought it would be Curly to say he was returning my radio. I heard a voice saying, ‘So you’re not alone this evening?’ I gasped, ‘What?’ ‘You’re not alone this evening?’ ‘N-no …’ ‘Well I did say I’d phone and I have. I’ll try again …’ ‘Yes, phone again …’ ‘When?’ ‘When you like …’
Not once did we exchange names. I knew his voice. Oh, it was ridiculously fantastic! Nockie could not know or feel the wonder of the miracle of his having phoned at all. It was honeydew that my imagination fed on to saturation point nearly all night.
Tuesday, 10 April
Lydia at lunch said she had had an unexpected visitor last evening. She seemed elated and happy and would not tell me who the visitor was. That look in Lydia’s eyes as though she knew something I didn’t. I may quite well be imagining it, or misinterpreting. But oh, I am so beaten up by the old hunger, that desperate desire for something which seems adult and important, and to the brink of which I am always being led and then left, deserted, shivering and bewildered.
28.
Oh, the Swine!
Thursday, 12 April 1945
Just after lunch yesterday Lydia let fall a remark which shot me up. Pointing to one of Mr Oliver’s posters she said, ‘M. doesn’t think much of Oliver as an artist. We were looking at a cartoon, and I mentioned Oliver, and M. said …’ And so on. I had to find out when and where she had had this conversation with M. All afternoon my mind was in a turmoil. If he was playing the same game with her as he had with me then it was time she knew my story.
We had arranged to see a Dancing Display (Aid to China show) at the Social Centre in the evening. This was my opportunity. Now I like Lydia enormously, enormously. She is attractive, has courage, brain, imagination and grit. She has a sense of humour and a lively interest in many things. She is a flower opening. Whatever M. was up to with her, it was only fair that she should know of his ‘line’ with me. Besides, I was burnt up with curiosity and jealously. I have had my suspicions for weeks – ever since he asked about her, and have sensed from stray looks and several remarks and intuitive hunches that something was taking place – though I didn’t like to think what – between them.
I found it very difficult to break through, to frame and utter my first question, but I did it. ‘Do tell me – I am eaten up with curiosity. Where did you have this conversation about Oliver with M….’ Something like that. There wasn’t time before the show to go further, but afterwards over a cup of coffee we had it out.
I told her my story first. Hers is a business offer. She could not give me details, and I don’t want them, but M. has plans for starting something on his own with one or two other men, and making use of Lydia’s artistic talents and engineering experience. It was a good offer and interested Lydia very much when first made five weeks ago. But then he apparently hung fire (how typical of M.: not a word, not a gesture!) and she was very offended. However on Monday he approached her again, and had some drawings to show her, and wanted her to meet him that evening. Of course she said come round to my flat. Which he did, and discussed the matter in a business-like way with much enthusiasm. But, business finished, he then began the patter he put over to me with such success at Redditch.
Heart, could you have more Proof Positive of his villainy? Lydia was surprised and a little uncertain as to what she should do. She had no personal interest in the man (I believe that) and wanted to regard the whole affair on a strictly business footing. However, she humoured him (they danced to the wireless) and eventually turned him out at about 11 p.m. (from what she said he would obviously have stayed given the slightest encouragement).
I failed to board the last buses home, all full to overflowing, so went back with her for the night. We went into my story in great detail. She thinks his business deal is genuine enough, but this new light on his character is making her hesitate. I would not spoil a good chance for her – but oh, the swine! That he should be making passes at her too! Not of course surprising but painful to hear about. I am a fool! Foolish, foolish little man. I could have loved you so much.
Thursday, 19 April
This evening at the office Mr B. called me in to say he was releasing our office girl J.C. as there was so little work for any of us at present. He thought Miss W. and myself could manage. He evidently realised I am quite valuable to the department and that I can stay on if I want for a few more months at least. Which I do, strange as it may seem.
More letters from Hugh. He has sent me his Will and made me his executor.
Wednesday, 25 April (War Diary)
‘God is pleased’ said N. ‘that we are freeing the concentration camps in Germany.’ The horrors that have been revealed by the Allies are past belief. All the people I know cannot understand how any human being in a so-called civilised nation could treat other human beings like that. We just cannot understand it. The authorities who ordered such torture, and the men and women who had to supervise and control the camps must be mad, terribly mad. One suspected the Nazis of a certain amount of brutality and sadism, but not on this scale, involving the death by starvation & deliberate d
egradation of 1,000s and 1,000s of men, women and children – the children the worst of all. As at least one newspaper correspondent has pointed out, if they were trying to wipe out their enemies it was at least logical to gas and cremate them. But these methods are hideous, unvarnished sadism. All civilised, balanced people must be shocked to the soul at the reports that have come out – German people among them – and it is said that some have claimed and do claim that they knew nothing of what was going on.
It is indeed a terrible lesson to the whole world. Did the Nazis think they would never be discovered? They must have done. As to the whole German race bearing the blame – maybe they should and must. But as M. said, when your loved ones are threatened what can you do? Would you be brave if your husband, mother, child might be whisked away from you if you didn’t submit to the authorities? I suppose the fault is in being so ignorant and disinterested in ‘politics’ as to let the State grow to such power. This seems to me the moral – the lesson we have to learn from the story of the German concentration camps, and it should be broadcast and bought home to everyone. But officialdom won’t do it.
I thought that I should revel in not having to draw curtains any more at night. But as soon as it gets dark an unprotected window makes me feel guilty and uncomfortable. I draw my curtains.
Thursday, 26 April (War Diary)
Letter dated 6th March from brother Pooh in Suez received before Easter:
‘We are under orders for Alexandria and expect to be leaving Suez at the end of this month or beginning of next. We are both quite pleased about it as it will make a change and in some ways may be better for us than coming home.’ They have been in Suez since the beginning of 1939 & should normally have had 3 months’ leave at the end of 3 years.
A Notable Woman Page 32