Love in the Blitz

by Eileen Alexander

  As for the work, it is mainly writing letters to the Treasury asking them if we can have more money for more staff. However, I’ve been promised that, in time, if I’m a Good Girl, I Shall See People and Get Things Done.

  Tuesday 11 March Darling, Mr Crotch, who has only recently left the London School of Economics for the Air Ministry, sent for me and told me that, as he had to be away a great deal to sit on Selection Boards all over the country for Meteorological Assistants, he wanted ‘an intelligent and Responsible person to keep an eye on the Recruitment Publicity and correspondence – and that’s where you come in, Miss Alexander’. I looked up, Startled, darling, not having recognized myself from the description at the beginning of the sentence – and said I’d be glad to do the work – which I shall, darling. If I can make one Balloon more comfortable in the Stratosphere by my administrative efforts – then I shall have Served my Purpose in this war.

  Wednesday 12 March Darling, I’ve had a very exhausting day, in the course of which I discovered, to my extreme embarrassment, that I am senior to everybody in the section of the department in which I am working – except Mr Crotch, who is a Temporary Administration Assistant like me. Thus old Greybeards come to me and ask my advice about Procedure in what they please to call ‘Your Section’ – and then I Tell them All I know, darling, which is practically nothing – in return for which they, haltingly and apologetically tell me All they know, which to my bewildered ears sounds almost everything.

  I tottered out of Ariel House at 5.30, completely spent, not having been able even to take ten minutes off for coffee after I’d eaten my sandwiches – and a voice said ‘Can I take you anywhere, Miss?’ It was Mr Gestetner’s chauffeur, Richards, and, having Sworn me to Secrecy – (He’s not allowed to Fritter away Mr G’s hard-won petrol ration) drove me home. What a comfort, darling.

  Thursday 13 March Oh! my dear love, there’s far less to laugh at in the Civil Service than in Welfare – I feel strange and lonely – I miss Miss Carlyon – and her whimsies – I miss the fortnightly visits of the Field Security Police – I miss the People who Know All the Answers – I miss the Complex matrimonial tangles of my soldiers – but I shall forget them all, when I’ve got used to the Air Ministry, darling – so don’t be concerned on my account.

  Perhaps someone will say something human to me in the Department – and then, my darling, you shall have an Epic. (Mr Green, a permanent Assistant Principal, did tell me that he had two sons – but then he Recollected Himself – and was Covered in Confusion at the Electrical Intimacy of the Atmosphere – After that he could hardly Look Me in the Eye for Hours. The Civil Service is like that. People aren’t Men or Women, they’re Male or Female. Where Mr Herbert would have said ‘Hurry Up, Girl’, Mr Green would say ‘Go to it, Female’, – adding ‘In Accordance with Section 85 of the Speeding-Up-of-Production Act.’) Ah! me.

  Tuesday 18 March Mr Crotch read English at London University, darling, and he wrote a Thesis on Caxton for his MA – so we have a Bond, because, after all, Caxton was Malory’s first Editor (and, incidentally, his best in many ways) and, as such, is deservedly celebrated.

  Wednesday 19 March Darling, I took Miss Smith out to lunch today, and, except that I had to borrow 2/6d from her to pay the bill, it was quite pleasant. Miss Smith is Young and Miss Smith is Earnest. She has the Fanatic Zeal of the Reformer – and she wants to build a new Leningrad in England’s green & pleasant land. She is using the Civil Service as a stepping-stone into Parliament. She believes in Living in Sin (though obviously she’s never tried it, darling) because Marriage is Restrictive, Artificial and often Impermanent – and Celibacy (though she didn’t mention this) is obviously Repressive. Miss Smith, a young woman of Drive, does not like being Repressed. She hates Escapism – I was immediately goaded into a State of Pantisocratic Vagueness far beyond my normal Attainments in this field, darling – I couldn’t resist it. She reminds me a little of Ruth Walker (in her Pre-Feminine-Charm phase) except that she has a sense of humour and keeps primroses on her desk. In time she will grow up – but at present she has a touch of Mr Hobsbawm1 about her, which is Disconcerting. She was writing an MA Thesis on Norman Legislation – but she’s Put All that Behind Her – and now concentrates mainly on ARP.2 (She stays in the Air Ministry at night, darling, to do First Aid – but she’s going to ask to be transferred to fire-fighting because it’s more Exciting.) I said mildly that it seemed a pity that she should abandon the Academic Life (her eyes Flashed Scorn) as, after all, Dons were the only people who had ever learnt the secret of Growing Old Gracefully – with Dons, by virtue of their constant contact with the young, Rigor Mortis only set in After Death. (I don’t think I believe all of this, darling – at any rate it had never occurred to me before but I always turn enfant terrible when anyone goes Earnest on me, and There it is.)

  Lionel has measles. My mother would have said, (had that been her idiom but it isn’t – it’s bad enough, darling, having two people in the same family who claim to have written Shakespeare) ‘If Sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in Battalions …’3 She wants to go and see him, but the Civil Service rules are Emphatic on the subject of Infectious diseases, and I’m trying to dissuade her.

  Monday 24 March My mother has just Announced in Triumph that Nurse is coming back to us during the children’s holidays. (Dicky breaks up on Friday (sorrow noise) Lionel on the 10th) to Help in the House (More Woe). Nurse always was a Solace to my mother – I shall never know why.

  Later I took Mrs Elliott – one of the Temporary Clerks – out to lunch. Her husband was a Composer of Music, darling – before he died. He used to compose little things about flowers. ‘Have you ever noticed how mimosa quivers?’ she said Soulfully – ‘Well he wrote a lovely thing for the piano about mimosa – all quivers.’ Apart from that, she’s an extraordinarily nice woman, darling – I hope he loved her.

  Apropos of nothing – There’s only one thing to be said about Aubrey’s most Unlikely sister – She Billows – I never saw such a Billower in my life. Her hair billows and her body billows – so do her clothes – and her voice – as when a field of corn bows all its ears before the roaring East – as Tennyson said in The Princess about somebody’s handwriting. Have you ever read The Princess darling? Leaving out the lyrics – when I put down The Princess I say, ‘Yes’ in my saddest, flattest voice. All Considered, the only kind thing one can say. Aubrey’s sister reminds me a little of The Princess. Dear Aubrey – it’s so like him to have a sister that can’t be said to be a part of him in any way whatsoever, although, as a matter of fact, she looks a little like him, which only makes it all the more absurd, of course.

  Wednesday 26 March Darling, I wish I could do something about your boredom. You’re very restless by temperament, darling, and there are only two ways of dealing with restlessness. It must either be lulled, or stimulated to the pitch where it becomes pleasurable – (horrible word, darling – Delete, as they say in the Civil Service, and read – a pleasure in itself). That’s why I’m so certain (though personally I’m terrified of the prospect for obvious reasons) that Intelligence is the only solution – because that kind of work keys up the restless, enquiring mind and directs it into the right channels. It exploits a quality of mind, which can become dangerous if it’s allowed to rust, like Phosphorus when it’s exposed to the air. The Narcotic method of treating restlessness is useful in small doses – but the effect wears off if it’s used too often – That’s why, darling, I am only a Good Influence in a very limited sort of way.

  Thursday 27 March Darling, I Put my Foot in it right up to my Chin today. I wanted to see Mr Crotch on a Trivial Matter, and when I went into his room, there was a very small old man sitting on his window-sill. He was rather a scrubby, insignificant little body, so I just ignored him, and asked Mr Crotch my question. Mr C. looked a little Put Out, and asked me to come back later, saying that he was Rather Busy now. When I went into him again, he said that I’d chipped in on Mr Gilbert (the head
of the Education Section – a very Exalted Personage and a Civil Servant of centuries of Standing!). He said it didn’t matter, and that Mr G. had just raised his eyebrows and made no comment – but he thought I ought to Know. Well … I haven’t been in the Civil Service long, darling, but I’ve been there long enough to know that the only person who can interrupt a Director with Impunity is another Director – or Something Higher-life Still – like a Permanent-Under-Secretary. Oh! dear, if I go on like this, darling, I shall find myself Unemployed before very long.

  Monday 31 March I’ve just telephoned Mr Lacey to have my teeth out tomorrow – I’m terrified, darling – My mother is coming with me as my Ersatz Courage – (I hope I don’t say anything Indiscreet under Gas – I shall probably Explain that Beauty is in the eye of the Beholder, and that if you loved me you’d be Satisfied with my Bosom – or lack of it – or else say: ‘Of course my mouth opens when you kiss me, darling, it’s all a Matter of Pressure – don’t you remember what Major Wingate said about Love and Pressure?’ or words to that effect).

  Joyce rang up last night to ask me to a sherry party on Saturday after work. I said thank-you-very-much – I haven’t been to a party since August, darling. I expect I shall eat my jelly with the wrong end of the spoon and ask my fellow guests to show me their Passes. Life today is either Work or Love – I’ve forgotten what Social Intercourse is like – on an impersonal Plane.

  Thursday 3 April Darling, this has been a stimulating day. I’ve just come home from work to find a wildly incoherent but intensely amusing letter from Sheila – who appears to be in Berkshire – apparently with Allan, though she doesn’t make this very clear – but she says he was Battery Sergeant-Major this week – which indicates that they are at least in touch with one another! She says she leant over gates and is intensely Rural – she adds that Everybody is passionately interested in Ploughing – They plough up everything – and the inhabitants of her village have lost interest in her since they’ve discovered that she is not Arable! A Beautiful letter, darling – I must show it to you. We were a clever English year – though I sez it as shouldn’t – but Sheila is the cleverest of us all. She says not a word of Hamish – I expect it’s because he’s so irrevocably Lost to all of us – for Prim, Dull, Middle-Class, Respectable Charlotte. Oh! darling, what a sorrow.

  In the middle of the morning, Aubrey rang me up at the Air Ministry – and we lunched together. The Chief Instructress of the Mayfair Secretarial College for Gentlewomen turned out to be a Procuress – Seductive Perfume – Glints in the Hair – and Locked Doors – (according to Mrs Eban – according to Aubrey). Mrs Eban – a Seething Mass of Outraged Motherly Propriety (one gathers) snatched Carmel away from It All and arranged for her to attend a college, more Bourgeois, but less Exciting – They returned home Panting, but exulting, and having saved Carmel from what Aubrey described succinctly as WTD4 we had lunch at the Strand Palace – and we were Attended by an Aged Maidservant who had No Delicacy at All. ‘Five Shillings’ she said loudly, when we had eaten, slapping a pink bill on the table – and ‘hurry up – someone is waiting for your table’. She was Wrinkled and Ugly and, in her limited way, rather Sordid.

  Aubrey has a theory that when he rang up for my number, my mother Mistook him for you – because she went all Secretive and Guarded – until he told her who he was – when she sighed Gustily with Relief and Revealed All – But I expect this was just a Notion – Aubrey is given to Notions.

  He sends his regards – I don’t think there’s anything else – oh! yes, I think he’s a little tired of Joyce – he says that she’s sunk into an Apathy of Negativity – which No one can Penetrate – (But to do her justice, darling, I expect it’s because she went all the way to Cardiff to meet her Solace – and then he couldn’t get leave – although I don’t think she loves him very profoundly or irrevocably – In fact I’m sure she doesn’t.)

  Monday 7 April You know Miss Waterworth and her Naval Commander? Well, darling, he’s Married – not once but Twice in our Rough Island Story. His first wife Left Him and his second Misunderstands him so Dreadfully that he couldn’t possibly live with her and his two-children-by-his-first-wife (wot left him). So he has dinner with Miss W., every night – and she rings him up at Woolwich and calls him ‘darling’.

  Joan Aubertin, after her first day in a Government Office, has learnt the same bitter lesson as I did – That No one has Anything for her to do. This is a Great Sorrow to her – but I’ve been able to assure her that, after 20 years in the Service, she will begin to Unlearn it. (Mr Green has been doing this for at least two years – if not three.) This is something of a Consolation to her.

  Did I ever tell you about Joan and her Situations, darling? She is a One for Situations – They Cling about her like Lichens on a Rock. Two notable ones at Cambridge were the Mr Tanfield Situation (He threatened to Cut His Throat – but he was always doing that – He did the very same thing with Doreen Watson – but we didn’t know, at the time, that it was just his Idiom – and we all waited Breathlessly while Joan Rent her Garments and Wrung her hands). There was also the Mr Salingar Situation – Less Spectacular but of Longer Duration.

  Now, darling, there is the Mr Sims situation, which is on the point of Bursting Into Flower. Mr Sims is a Canadian Officer – with a wife and child – in Canada. He is also a bit of a solace to Joan – on a non-Erotic plane, I’m afraid (‘But,’ she says plaintively, ‘He has a Wife and child.’ I say ‘Yes – in Canada’ – and I say it laconically – but I say it Often – and meaningly). Joan loves Ian – but she likes men – but men nearly always love Joan – Hence this Spate of Situations, over which we all Tear our Hair wildly and Helplessly. Joan is being Unwise over Mr Sims, darling – but one of her major charms is her unwisdom – and after all a Situation here and there does add zest to the life of a Civil Servant – (meaning Me, dear).

  Wednesday 9 April Darling, as I was walking down Harley Road this evening, I saw a man disguised as a tree. He wasn’t Aubrey – or any other Soldier, sailor or Airman (England’s last, best force) but just a civilian – a civilian with his own ideas about ARP perhaps. At all events there he was disguised as a Laburnum in full flower – with almond-branches grafted on – a hybrid sort of tree, darling, and he looked me straight in the Eye and Defied me to Mistake him for a man. Perhaps he was a Surrealist Poet – putting his Soul into his Art – perhaps he was a Madman who thought he was Birnam Wood coming to Dunsinane – We Shall Never Know – but it was a Beautiful sight, darling, in this world where Normality has developed into a cult.

  The Civil Service is a Hotbed of Normality. Today, the APS to the US of S5 rang me up and told me of a man in the Met. Office who acted as a political agent to an MP. He wanted us to do something for him. I went in to consult Mr Green, whose hair literally stood on end at this Departure from the Normal – It flattened down a bit when he heard that the work was Unpaid – but he’ll never be the same again. Everything in the Civil Service depends upon Precedent – and, darling, to see a Civil Servant Giving Birth to a Precedent, is far more vicariously painful than seeing a woman giving birth to a child – It’s such an Unnatural Process.

  Joan comes home each evening with fantastic stories of the Trials of a Health Inspector. She says women are always ringing up to Demand Widows’ Pensions – and when the Inspector Calls to Investigate the Case, nine times out of ten, she’ll ask him (or her) in for a cup of tea, adding ‘that is, if you don’t mind The Corpse’. Darling, Joan has a Theory about why you are no longer employed on Psychological Investigations in the RAF. She believes that the RAF Has Lost Faith in Psychology – because they’ve heard this story:

  There was a little boy who cared for nothing in the world but shooting at things with his catapult – and it was a Great Sorrow to his mother – she Brooded on it for a long time and then decided to consult a Psychologist. The psychologist told her not to worry – that it was probably due to some Sexual Peculiarity (the little boy was six) and if h
e could get the child to talk about it, he’d cure him and All Would Be Well. He sat the lad in a chair and said kindly: ‘Now, Johnnie, tell me what you like doing best in the world?’ ‘Shooting with my catapult,’ said Johnnie immediately. ‘Ah! Yes! Quite’ said the Psychologist, ‘and what do you like doing best after that?’ ‘Collecting stones for my catapult,’ said Johnnie stolidly. ‘And after that what do you like best?’ asked the Psychologist, refusing to be defeated. ‘Finding the cats I’ve shot with my catapult,’ answered Johnnie without hesitation. The Psychologist felt that this was Getting them Nowhere, but he was a patient man and Sure of his Ground so he said: ‘Yes, Johnnie, but is there nothing else you like doing?’ Johnnie paused rather doubtfully, and Then said slowly: ‘I like putting my hands up little girls’ skirts.’ The psychologist’s eyes lit up – This was His Moment. ‘And why do you like doing that, Johnnie?’ he said. Johnnie’s answer came Laconically and Deliberately: ‘To get the elastic out of their knickers for my catapult.’