Love in the Blitz

by Eileen Alexander

  Mrs Seidler has just arrived dear. She asked after you, and said such nice things about you that I think I’ll find her a Solace for the rest of my life.

  Saturday 13 July Some of the characteristics that I have of my own, darling, are the following:-

  a.) The ability to talk vaguely to strangers about anything, as though I were interested in them and it. (As it is, I only talk to people who interest me on subjects that amuse – but I do know how to be universally ‘sociable’.) In future I shall try & put this into practice.

  b.) A real joy in household usefulness, efficiency & neatness – countered by a dislike of doing these things myself – but rather than see a room or a house messy & ill-managed, I would do it – and now I shall do it – in spite of the fact that if I left my room in a mess someone would come in & clean it up.

  Bombshell of the Year – Sheila has just rung up to say that Hamish has announced his engagement to Charlotte – & Joan & I were congratulating one another on Tuesday on his Impending Happy Release – and now this has Happened. Oh! woe – how are the mighty fallen. Mr & Mrs Falconer are Numb – Sheila is Shattered – so is Allan – so am I – so, doubtless, is Joan. Charlotte arrived in London with him & her mother – All Dewy & Clinging – then she went to Devonshire & sent Sheila a pot of cream. This, says S, tragically is The End – & she rang off in Sorrow & Anger.

  Tuesday 16 July I had a letter from Aubrey this morning – His address is 14th Battalion S. Staffordshire Regt, Racecourse, Hereford. He seems happier in Hereford than he has been anywhere since he was encased in the habiliments of war (this is his idiom as well as mine). He has a batman called Nightingale who is a Great Solace to him. He says he asked him the other morning whether he ever sang in Berkeley Square, to which Pte Nightingale replied Rather Beautifully ‘No Sir’ and would he be wanting anything else? Aubrey says that the Paddock at Hereford has the finest array of Duncans in captivity, and that is a further solace to him. He loves letters, darling – write to him if you can spare the time – after you have written to me.

  Wednesday 17 July What a Beautiful Picture, darling, – you in the Air Raid Shelter trying to make your mother & Raymond & Alice aware of the Consummation of the Marriage of Literature & Life.

  No – I’m not surprised about Hamish & Charlotte – only in sorrow. She’s such a dam’ silly, prim, kittenish little thing. I don’t know why Allan is shattered – probably because Sheila is. I’ve never known him to have any reasons of his own for anything yet – but Charlotte is enough to make anyone come out in a rash of sheer irritation – & Allan, like the rest of us, is very fond of Hamish.

  Darling, I do blame my school-fellows for being unkind about my appearance. You don’t know what it’s like to be fat & ungainly & acutely conscious of your supreme unattractiveness – & while I didn’t want anyone to try & soothe me with mendacious flattery – I was grateful to the people who made no comment at all. I’m still very self-conscious about being plain – (Joyce says that what I lack is showmanship – the power to make the best of my appearance & to make an impression on people by physical self-confidence. Look at Ursula, she says, 50% of her charm is good showmanship. No-one stops to remember that she has nobbly features & is too thin – because she’s vivacious & assured & she dresses & carries herself strikingly – perhaps she’s right) and Nurse’s constant jibes are a real Sorrow.

  Thursday 18 July Sheila & Allan are coming to dinner tonight. I haven’t heard from Sheila since she went into a Swoon over Hamish’s engagement on the telephone the other night. I’m in Great Solace at the thought of seeing her again.

  On Tuesday, Ismay is coming to London & I’m having lunch with her at her flat & then we’re going to a theatre. She said in her last letter that Charles looks worse, if possible, than most people in Battledress, because they haven’t been able to find one to fit him. (What did I tell you? I knew that they ought to have sent up to the Small Ladies Dept.)

  Peggy writes that Mr Loewe has had a relapse – but that he’s on the way to recovery again. She called there the other day to find Raphael wallowing in gloom. You know, darling, Raphael has missed his vocation. He would have been a Prince of Undertakers. He is the Platonic idea of an undertaker – and I don’t suppose he’ll Ever know. I’m afraid (if I may borrow your idiom for a moment, dear) that even his best friends won’t tell him.

  Friday 19 July Joan Aubertin was in London today. She came to lunch and told me (in the strictest confidence, of course – I wasn’t to tell anyone – not even you) that Sheila had told her (in the strictest confidence – she wasn’t to tell anyone – and particularly not me) that Hamish had bought a Wedding-ring & was hoping that Charlotte would join him in S. Africa on the cargo-boat of an Uncle of a lady-friend of one of his colleagues in the Air Force.

  You know, your mother is not the only harbourer of half-witted maids. Lady Nathan’s parlour-maid leaves Alice standing. The other night, Lord N, in his Hospitable way, fell-a-snoring before the coffee had been poured out – so Buxom Nellie told the maid to leave the Cona in the Library. ‘Shall I leave the cups too?’ the girl wanted to know. Lady Nathan thought it would be helpful if she did leave the cups. Then, at dinner, we had some difficulty in mopping up our cream with our raspberries – so Joyce called for spoons. The maid took away our fruit knives & forks and laid pudding-spoons & forks beside our plates. She obviously took the view that, if we looked upon the raspberries as Dessert, then all we needed were dessert knives & forks – but, as we were going to be eccentric & regard them as Sweet – there was to be No Compromise. Pudding-implements were what we needed, and Pudding-implements were what we were going to get, willy-nilly. A Young Woman of Character – the Nathan’s parlour-maid. Joyce has a theory that whenever she introduces Mr Mosley into the Library, she feels as though she were in a conspiracy, and gives Joyce a Lecherous & Understanding Leer – It’s a Great Sorrow to Joyce.

  Monday 22 July Joan and I have a Beautiful Scheme, darling. You know that it was announced on the wireless recently that if the town in which you happen to be living is declared a prohibited area, you are allowed to leave it with your debts unpaid for the duration. Well, we thought we’d tap every available Well-Informed Quarter, and find out what the next prohibited area was likely to be – then we’d take a beautiful house there, fill it with lovely furniture, pictures & ornaments, and live there in the Grand Manner, entertaining our friends in Voluptuous tea-gowns, & becoming Centres of Intellectual & Social Life. When our home was declared a prohibited area, we would Move On – to the next potential PA – and so on. Joan has sixteen pounds and I have five – and our only expenses would be train-fares & Removal Vans – so we ought to be able to do very nicely.

  Wednesday 24 July Darling, my remark about your last letter being ‘distant’ wasn’t a rebuke. There’s no need to apologize. All your letters are a Solace, whether you have any news or not. The tone of patient exasperation in this letter (I mean your letter, which I’ve just received) is more than justified. I try not to cluck, darling – but it’s no good. I know that I’m adding to your irritation at a time when you’re already restless & irritated. I know that you’d come & see me if you could – That’s the real reason why I’m such a hopelessly inadequate Solace. What you want is sympathy & amusement – and all you get is cluck. Damn you, Eileen, you’d be much better dead. (I’m not suggesting that you think this, though you well might – but I do. I’m sickeningly angry with Eileen Alexander. She hasn’t any balance or any control. She professes to love you & all she can do is worry you. She’s egocentric and a fool – and oh! so ludicrously inept. Tell her once & for all time, to let you alone, darling, and find a Solace worthy of you – a solace who will make you laugh & feel light-hearted & young when you see her, who has life & colour & charm, not one who can only cry & clamour and look pale, not one who would see you ill rather than away from her.)

  Monday 29 July I had a letter from Aubrey on Saturday. He goes around the countryside in a car (with or
without Attendant Sergeant – It All Depends) ostensibly engaged upon Detailed Reconnaissance – but really drinking Gallons of tea beside the Wye. He’s in Great Solace. Pte Nightingale is sure he (Aubrey) is winning the War – Aubrey is not so sure – but he finds Pte Nightingale’s devotion & loyalty (In Spite of All) Very Beautiful. (All this is, of course, my idiom – not Aubrey’s.)

  I hope you’ll find the work interesting in the Air Force, my dear love. It isn’t dangerous, is it? Oh! please God don’t let it be dangerous. Darling, it would be so humiliating to be in Grade II (feet) that I’m almost glad you’re ineligible for Special Duties. Grade II (eyes) is an Intellectual Grade – All the Best People are in it – It’s an honour to be in Grade II (eyes). But Grade II (feet). Oh! no, dear.

  Wednesday 31 July My mother & I had a very dull day with Ismay & her mother at King’s Langley yesterday. We looked at the new house that they’ve bought. It has a lovely garden – but nearly all vegetables. Talk about dig for victory – what with the Girl Guides & the Canadian Soldiers Club – and the fruit-bottling – and the sock-knitting – they’re winning the war with a purposefulness unparalleled. It’s all very Disconcerting.

  Tuesday 6 August I had a long letter from Joan Aubertin this morning. She says her sister, Alice, solemnly assures her that Chamberlain may not recover from his operation – which was an attempt to put guts into him! (Alice’s idiom – not mine.) She hasn’t heard from Ian again – and she’s had her eyebrows plucked. She says the effect is a Terrific Solace – but I can only say, what a sorrow. She was knitting me a square for my blanket – but the dog got hold of it – it’s Alice’s dog, she says defensively, as though this was enough to exempt her from All Responsibility – but, on the other hand, it was her knitting – ah! Well.

  I’m lunching with Pa & Mr Gisborne at the ‘Cheshire Cheese’ today. I gather the food is good but Beefy – but it was a favourite haunt of Dr Johnson – and I’m going there in search of Resolution – the Resolution to Write – a quality which the Great Cham of Literature had, above all others. (A wonderful man, Dr Johnson – the greatest prose stylist of all time.)

  Pa & Mr Gisborne talked war across the table & I just sat steeping myself in the Atmosphere. Of course, the place has been exploited – The menus are distinctly Ye Olde … in Gothic lettering with deckle-edging – and there’s an iron grid sentimentally protecting the step worn down by Dr Johnson, Charles Dickens & others. The café was rebuilt in 1667 & hasn’t been touched since. It’s down a tiny alley off Chancery Lane in the city & it has a wrought iron sign over the door. The fact that the shop opposite assures all comers in heavy white enamelling that it sells All Birth Control Appliances, illustrates the profundity that Time Marches On – but otherwise you’d never suspect it. The rooms are low and square with flagged floors covered in saw-dust – and heavy oak panelling & benches – leaded glass, old pewter, and framed playbills, 18th century newspapers, and great mugs of clay pipes everywhere.

  Wednesday 7 August I’m very tired, dear, – I’ve done nothing all day but go with my mother to the butchers to help her buy several miles of miscellaneous sausages – and take my shoes to be repaired. I woke up this morning with a great Longing upon me for tripe & lemon sauce – I mentioned this to my mother who said hesitantly that she wasn’t sure that it was Kosher. We rang up Mrs Greenberg to find out what she had to say about it – but she wasn’t very helpful – she said it wasn’t on her Forbidden List – but that she’d never seen it in a Kosher butcher’s shop. We approached Mr Rubenstein in some trepidation, and timidly put the question to him – He emerged from an Outsize in Bowler Hats, and stood for a moment bemused and blinking in the sunlight. He murmured something about having to get a Certificate for it – and any way they weren’t issuing it since the war – but the major problem still remains unsolved – and to whom should I turn in my bewilderment but my solace? Tell me, darling, is tripe Kosher or is it not? Everybody Hedges so, when confronted with this seeming-simple question that I begin to believe that it must have some Awful Mystic Significance – like the Question in the Fertility Rites of Antiquity. If it has any such Significance, you will know it. (After all we know Everything between us, don’t we, dear?) So Tell Me All.

  Thursday 8 August Miss Sloane rang up this morning to ask me if I’d like to become PA No. 2 again for a time – if I had nothing better to do – I said I had nothing better to do (and I said it more in Sorrow than in Anger, darling) and promised to call at Leslie’s Office on Monday & do what I could.

  Oh! and one other news item before I go to sleep. Lord Lloyd’s secretary phoned Pa to ask whether I’d got a Civil Service job yet. Lord Lloyd, he said, was particularly anxious to be kept informed. This may mean nothing or it may mean a great deal. I’m not banking on it as a Great Hope, but it’s encouraging, isn’t it, dear? I’ll never say another word about Lord L. He’s really been extraordinarily kind in the matter.

  Saturday 10 August Pa & I had Words this morning – because neither of us were smoking. He said I did nothing but sit in my room & write letters – He hoped I was proud of my War Effort, he added acidly. I said that I only stayed in my room to Keep Out of the way of his Incivilities. My mother intervened soothingly and there the matter ended.

  Darling, please don’t start your letters ‘Dear Eileen’ – I always feel as though you’re about to Congratulate me on the birth of my third son, or ask me to dinner to meet your deceased wife’s sister – such an interesting woman, you’d have so much in common – or offer me a ticket in the House to hear your Budget speech – or ask me to return that book I borrowed from you in ’86 – and I always miss the Solace of the first page, because I’m busy adjusting my mind to the queer convention which moves you to start a letter to me in the same terms as you would start a letter to your grocer – ordering a pound of tooth-picks. Plunge straight into your letter, darling, please, and then I won’t have the disconcerting feeling that you’re writing ‘Dear Eileen’ to gain time – & thinking ‘What on earth shall I say to her today?’

  I came back home from the cinema to find a long & Beautiful letter from Aubrey waiting for me. He says he despatched one to you by the same post. Don’t I get your friends to write to you, darling. Aubrey is Running His Regiment. He is being Exploited & Overworked by the High Command. Aubrey has Told Me All. He has unburdened himself to me in what some people might call a Big Way (only that’s not my idiom). ‘Now you’ve got me pouring myself out,’ he says & goes on to describe the Company Commander as ‘an elderly commercial traveller with a nauseous accent, no knowledge of war but an expert grasp of cross-bow tactics picked up as a subaltern at Agincourt, periodically goes to bed with gout leaving me to command the Company.’ Poor Aubrey – Nor was there any sorrow like unto his sorrow, as you might say. Let’s write to him, darling – he needs Solace.

  Monday 12 August Think of me in the next few days, recording applications for the abolition of Rats & other Vermin (unspecified) in tenements, in a ‘neat, round, complacent hand’ – which reminds me of an authentic remark made by one of my father’s Egyptian Students in the days when Pa was Professor of English Law at the University of Cairo. The young man had been absent from his class for several days, & my father went up to him after the lecture and asked whether he’d been ill or anything. The young man looked woeful & said no, that he hadn’t been ill – but that his wife had died – but it was the idiom in which he announced this unhappy event which was so remarkable – because, darling, believe-it-or-not, he said – ‘The hand that rocked the cradle has kicked the bucket.’ My father has never really been the same since.

  Listen, my love, (talk about trembling fingers) has it occurred to you that if you should become hurt or anything, on active service – I could only find out about it by reading the casualty lists in The Times or by casual report? I’m not being morbid – just provident – D’you think you could ask Basil to write to me, if your family were to hear that anything had happened to you?

 
What’s the good of saying to me that the question of your going abroad ‘probably won’t arise for months’. What are months? – Darling, I have resources of love to last me till eternity – and then there shall be new reserves in store – and you talk to me about months. If you spent every second of your time with me for the next seventy years, I should still be clucking at the end of it because you were going to leave me for an hour – and you talk to me about months. Oh! darling, don’t go overseas – at the thought my heart is turned to stone – I strike it & it hurts my hand.

  Saturday 17 August Yesterday was quite Adventurous. I was just coming back from Haverstock Hill with Lionel – I’d been there to have a piece fitted onto the end of my gas-mask at the Town Hall – when the sirens went. We walked into a shelter in a leisurely way, sat down on one of the benches – and I did my knitting until the All Clear sounded an hour later. There was one girl in the shelter besides Lionel & me. Most people took no notice of the warning at all. I arrived very late for lunch with Jean – but she was quite happy, contemplating a heavy gold signet ring which one of her Air Commodores has just given her.

  I was on my way home to change for dinner with Joyce, when the second warning went. I took shelter at Hyde Park Corner – and knitted again. When I got to the point when I had to measure what I’d done – I enlisted the help of four old charladies (all girls together, y’know) and they rewarded themselves for their assistance by Telling me All – inveighing darkly against ‘Them’ the while. ‘They’ are the bloated plutocrats who own offices, carpeted in rich Persian carpets which have to be swept and cleaned without so much as a ’oover – O’ course it’s the ’ousekeeper – She takes the money. Very Sinister, darling.

  Then there was a ’bus driver off duty. He was musing on the Queerness of the Passenger breed. ‘Last winter,’ he said, ‘I was drivin’ along an’ I sore an old gel lying frozen in the snow. My pal & I, we got aht and started rubbin’ ’er feet & ’ands – and we gave her a drop o’ spirits & she came rahnd “It’s Orl Right Muvver” I sez – “Muvver?” she says. “How dare you call me Muvver, young man. The name is Miss Sylvester.” Blimey, I sez to myself – That’s torn it. But my pal, ’e looks at ’er thoughtful like … “Miss Sylvester” he says, y’ought to be ashamed o’ yourself, old gel.”’ He had his wife & children with him & he was telling us what a Good Thing Education was. He drew himself up to HFH14 and said he had won a Scholarship to a Secondary School – but he hadn’t taken it.