Love in the Blitz

by Eileen Alexander

  I had a solitary lunch with Plato. One of the queer things about the illness of loneliness, my dear love, (and it is an illness like any other) is that most of the time you feel not as though you were actively ill, but as though you were recovering from a painful disease which had drained all the strength out of you.

  Monday 7 June Darling, I don’t know how I could have forgotten to tell you, but the most fantastic thing happened the other evening. Ismay rang me up & in reply to the usual polite enquiry about Malcolm & Charles she said with absolutely unmistakeable ‘Naturally-my-brother-in-law-and-husband-always-do-the-Right-Thing’ Overtones: ‘They’ve both been slightly wounded. Malcolm was in Hospital for seven weeks – Charles for nine.’ Isn’t it typical, my dear love? Darling, Ismay has Missed her Vocation. She ought to have been an Undertaker. Only in dealing with Dead Bodies can one go through life being as True to Form as that without even getting a Jolt – although I don’t suppose she ever will get a Jolt, darling – that’s the Pity of it. Darling, I must Get to Work on Isobel, although I’m bound to confess that she’s not very Promising material at the moment though I might be able to Lure Her Away from the Straight & Narrow with Raisins for which she appears to have a positively Freudian passion. I expect Ismay was frightened by a Christmas Pudding or something before she was born.

  Tuesday 8 June As a matter of psychological interest, my love, does Aubrey show you my letters? Talking of Aubrey, darling, Mrs Turner has once or twice said something about him which I’ve never mentioned to you because it was so fantastic that it hardly merited repetition. Aubrey’s reaction to this situation however, darling, has suddenly made me see why Mrs Turner had the impression she did. What she said, my love, was that, given half a chance, Aubrey would have loved me – and now I see how she came to be misled in that way. I know, darling, that Aubrey has not and never has had and never could have the slightest trace of emotional or erotic feeling towards me but I have just realized that he most sincerely and profoundly wants to be loved in the way that I love you – and so there is a tinge of wistfulness in his attitude to me, darling (It’s very marked indeed in his latest letter) which has nothing whatever to do with me as a person, my love, but only with what I represent, which is unswerving and exclusive love. Do you see what I mean, darling?

  Wednesday 9 June My darling, when I read letter 131 which was waiting for me when I got home I cried for a long time. I don’t think that was due to anything in the letter itself, my dear love, but simply that it afforded no relief from the hellish tension of the last few days.

  Oh! my darling, you know, you know that the fact that you’re not happy in your present job counts a very great deal with me – more than I can say in words – but, because I sincerely believe in your intellectual & moral integrity, I know that you simply couldn’t stand the other racket with its backstairs intrigues and its affairs conducted in the Bar of the Ritz. You would not be just bored and unsettled, my darling – You would be actively and deeply disgusted – and I will not have my paragon of men used and then thrown aside like an old glove – which is what happens to anyone with idealism & integrity in the end.

  Thursday 10 June Darling, I had lunch with Pamela Malyon today & I told her in reply to a direct question (I’m afraid that I’m not looking well at the moment, my dear love) that I felt that I was perilously close to breaking point. Then, darling, she said something which surprised me very much. It was: ‘You can’t let that happen. I have admired you so much during the last few months. In spite of your deep & obvious anxiety & distress, you have always kept your mind fresh and alert. We could listen to you for hours – both when you’re being serious & when you’re being amusing. You have put up a magnificent show. That is the highest kind of courage.’ Oh! my darling, how could she say that? I have for so long been so ashamed of my lack of courage – of my weakness. I have cried enough to fill every Emergency Water Supply Tank in England since you left, my darling. I have felt a hundred times that the strain was too great to bear and that it would be easier to die or go mad. It makes me ashamed to hear her talk of my courage, my darling, sincerely & humbly ashamed. I know my lack of courage has caused you pain, my dearest love, and I have tried to keep myself intellectually & spiritually alive for your sake – but I have succeeded so ill that it shocks me to find that I have deceived people into thinking me better & stronger than I am while all the burden of my failure has fallen on you. Oh! God, I love you so superabundantly and all I can give you is anxiety & responsibility. If only they would let you come home to me, my darling, I would give you everything in the world but that.

  Sunday 13 June Pa tells me, my dear love, that there’s a Leader in the Observer attacking de Gaulle up hill & down dale. That makes me tremble with rage, darling. After all, it was de Gaulle and de Gaulle only who came over to us when our fortunes were at their lowest ebb – it was he who organized the Free French Forces – it was he who was the first to be condemned to death in France for his pains. Giraud & the rest jumped our way only when the tide was turning in our favour. Oh! how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless ally. It is because I prize the absolute values so highly – human justice, human kindliness, human gratitude – that this kind of thing makes me so furiously angry.

  Monday 14 June Darling, Pa was telling me yesterday that my Egyptian shares which he & mum made up to £2,000 on my 21st birthday have doubled in value since the war. You once said, my dearest love, that you thought £5,000 was enough money on which to start married life and now I have more than £5,000 in my own right. Darling, I know this is illogical of me but I so much hope that we’ll be able to manage our lives without any form of regular financial assistance from my parents. I think we should, don’t you, my dear love, with my capital reserves and our joint potential earning capacities? I want most profoundly & sincerely to help you in your career, my darling, but I want to help you by my own efforts. I think I could help substantially towards covering our expenses by writing book reviews & theatrical & film reviews. I can easily meet the people who count in that particular milieu. Sir Alfred Davies knows Charles Morgan well & has often offered to arrange a meeting between us. John Morrison, an old family friend, is a partner in Collins & knows all the critics. All I need, my dear love, is your Moral Support & the rest won’t be difficult.

  Some weeks ago, my love, Peggy Davies gave me a pair of black artificial satin Briefs which she had Spread Out of. They’re French Pattern with brief open legs – quite Obscene. I loathe them. I think black underwear is pretty Nasty anyway but I’ve seldom seen anything as Nasty, darling, as these Breeks. When you see them you will laugh till the tears roll down your cheeks. However, the Coupon Situation being what it is and my black suit being opaque enough to warrant the shedding of a petticoat I wore them – and every time anybody so much as looked at me, darling, I wanted to Burst with Tears and explain that I was Not that Kind of Girl.

  Tuesday 15 June My darling, I had a letter from your father this morning saying that 12 days ago your mother had an operation and that although she’s had a bad time she is progressing favourably now. He adds, my love, that she should have had the operation after you were born but has been putting it off for the past 26 years! Your mother, darling, is unpardonably irresponsible about her health.

  Wednesday 16 June Darling, I don’t know whether either Kitty or I or both of us had a particularly Wanton Air about us this lunch-hour but, be that as it may, we seem to have been the Focus of the Attentions of practically the entire Middle-Aged Male Population of London! The Culminating Incidents were when a Moth-Eaten Newsvendor with an Obscene Leer and No Teeth shouted: ‘Wothcher, darling?’ and later a Bus Conductor Blipped me all over the head with The Star & then put his arm round me (and I ducked more rapidly than I’ve ever ducked in all my life, my love) & said: ‘I didn’t meanter frighten ya, little gel.’ Really, darling, I think I shall have to Hire Me a Bodyguard.

  My darling, letters 133 & 135 were waiting for me when I got home. At
first I cried a very great deal, my dear love, but the sort of horrible cowed stillness that has followed up my tears is something much more terrifying and something which I’ve never experienced before.

  It’s no good, my darling, no good at all, I am just about to embark on the most painful & difficult phase of our separation – a phase without hope. I can’t believe the war will be over in a year and anyway to think of a year – another year without you is the most unspeakable torment. My darling, it’s true that Mrs Wingate was without news of her husband for months when he was in danger but Mrs Wingate has one great, I might almost say unparalleled, advantage over me. She had eight years of emotional rest with her husband before he ever went away from her. She has never had the years of hell & fear that I had because you were always on the point of leaving me. She never had to cling to him in breathless terror because he was going away from her for the night. That has always been a horrible shadow over my happiness with you, my darling, and until we’re married I shall never, never be free from it. I can see the enormous difference that two years of marriage have made for Margaret & Sheila, my dear love. They have known complete emotional security and I have not & you’d be amazed at the strength it gives them, my darling.

  Darling, I’ve been staring blankly at this page for some considerable time. It’s the most tremendous muscular effort to keep my fingers curled round my pen. Not for the first time since you left, my dear love, I feel as though I’d been ill for a very long time. Oh! what a poor thing my love is, my darling, when it can cause you nothing but anxiety and disquietude – and yet it’s such a great love – such an overwhelming tide of love – I’m drowning in it, my love.

  Thursday 17 June My darling, just to show you that I can still smile (albeit a little wanly) even after a night of wakefulness and terror like last night, I’ll start with the story of what happened to Kitty on the ’bus yesterday evening.

  Two women in front of her were discussing Savings, my love, & one said to the other: ‘I ’ad a sister-in-lor oo ’ad a sort of saving disease. Wouldn’t ler ’er ’usband go out evenings for fear ’e might spend a bit of money. Well – after all, we’re all ’uman – and now she’s expecting ’er seventh.’

  I don’t believe for a moment that the war – even the war in Europe, will be over in a year’s time. As you know, my darling, I always believed if we were going to win, it would be a long & slow & painful war. Now that it’s obvious that we are going to win I still think it will be a slow process. In the last war, my darling, when the Germans started to collapse they collapsed quickly and on a grand scale – but then the Kaiser was nothing more than a political enemy & he knew that after the peace he would be treated as a political exile. Hitler and his crew are the moral enemies of Europe, my darling – even if we are disposed to allow them a Gentlemanly Eclipse after the war, Russia will have no quarter, and the German leaders know it. They will flog the dead horse of resistance to the last drop of German blood. Ultimately, of course, darling, the German army will give in through sheer exhaustion but not soon – not soon. Remember, my love, that with 4 German Divisions in the field it took us a year to drive the enemy out of Africa when the whole weight of our armour was thrown in against them. It is said that, at a conservative estimate, there are 40 German Divisions in France alone. I believe that Italy will snap like a dry twig in a high wind – but not Germany.

  Monday 21 June My darling, letter 132 arrived this morning – a lovely letter, my dear love. Thank you for saying that I needn’t do Bosom Exercises any more. It’s true that I would have been Glad to do them for your sake if there had been the slightest hope of their achieving any results but you see, my love, I knew that they wouldn’t help & that’s why, as you say, they served only to make me painfully conscious of my shortcomings. There is nothing to forgive, my darling – you didn’t know that exercises couldn’t possibly help – I did.

  It’s no good trying to explain to other people why it is that every moment away from you is a lifetime of hell. I was reading the first Canto of the ‘inferno’ again the other night, my dear love, and I noticed, not for the first time, that Hell, for Virgil, consisted in knowing Heaven & not being able to get there. A very profound conception, my darling, and one which Milton was aware of as well.

  Wednesday 23 June Darling, why is it Typical of me in particular to have got the Topography of the Seat of Wantonness the wrong way round? After all, my love, I’ve never seen a Seat of Wantonness & I don’t suppose I ever shall – least of all my own which I could only see by doing the splits upside down in front of a Cheval Glass. I’m not likely to perform an acrobatic feat of that Magnitude, darling, even in the Pursuit of Knowledge. However, my love, the important thing is that I Got it the Right Way Round in the End, isn’t it?

  Saturday 26 June Darling, I don’t know enough about Brigadier Wingate to be sure that he is a wholly admirable person but of this I am sure – He has genius & one of the penalties of genius is that people who have it antagonize a great many people who haven’t. It may be that the Hon. Edwin is not fair to Brigadier Wingate simply because he doesn’t understand him – but I couldn’t say for certain until I knew much more about both of them.

  ‘Corners’, Bramley, Surrey 11.55 p.m. My darling, my new era of self-discipline has begun today & these lovely surroundings are helping me enormously. The Murrays have such an enchanting old house, my dear love – all the rooms are on different levels with funny little worn wooden steps leading up and down and low ceilings everywhere with knobbly oak rafters – and they have mellow & gracious furniture – and their garden is a mass of cottage flowers, my darling. Oswyn was being an Arab when we got here, darling. He was wearing a brilliant green turban and was quite naked except for a brightly coloured bath towel which was draped round him rather precariously. He had a Camel which he rode with Fearsome energy. It was two cushions set rather wide apart, my love, but Rudolph Valentino never Streaked Across the Desert more Wildly & Gloriously.

  Oh! I love you, my darling – and I mean to be good & cheerful for your sake.

  Sunday 27 June My darling, I’m sitting in the Murray’s library and I’m covered in ink because my pen has sprung a very spectacular Leak.

  I’m not feeling very well this morning, my love, because I slept badly – I always do in a strange bed.

  We had breakfast in the garden, darling. Home-grown honey and crusty home-made bread & eggs laid in the back garden. There was Ham too for the others, my love. I think hams are lovely things to have on a breakfast table. They’re such a lovely rich seasoned colour. I have no urge to eat ham ever but I just enjoy seeing it there – in the same way as I enjoy seeing hams hanging from ceiling hooks in a cottage kitchen.

  After breakfast, darling, I gave Ruth her sky-blue teddy bear & she loved it. She sucked it ecstatically and tried to Tear it Limb from Limb – no doubt Freud would have a lot to say about the Dark Symptoms of all this but, as usual, he’d be Right Off the Point, my love. Then I taught James to use his drawing slate & read Oswyn’s book to both of them. I thought I’d made a Terrific Hit with Ruth, darling, because she Waggled her Toes at me and Gurgled and Beamed – but then I discovered that I owed my popularity entirely to my Trinket Bracelet at which she kept Clutching Fascinatedly – and that Deflated my Ego more than somewhat.

  Oh! darling, this is a lovely room. There are books & books & more books & for a waste paper basket, there’s an old leather fire-bucket ornamented with a Ducal Coronet and a Twirly initial. I have always intended, my love, that we should have fire buckets for waste paper baskets in our home

  Mr Murray has gone all Rural this morning, darling, in a faded navy aertex shirt and grey shorts & sandals. He looks absurdly like Oswyn & not really very much older. Mrs Murray is busy in the kitchen & Mr Murray is Mending Things and the children are Rollocking in the garden. (Oswyn was a Puckish little English boy this morning in a sun-suit and a Bottle-Green jersey but now he’s an Arab again – but it looks a pretty T
ough Bath-Towel, darling, & seems to be able to Take almost as much Punishment as our Prospective Bed.)

  Monday 28 June My darling, I’m back at work & feeling a little Weary. I spent the whole of yesterday in the open air except for the half-hour in which I wrote to you, my love, and Fresh Air is No End of a Soporific. I didn’t do very much, darling. Everybody else was Intensely Active. Oswyn and James turned themselves into Red Indians in the middle of the morning and Kept Charging Into me with Murderous Intent. The rest of the time they were Immersed in a Red Indian Tent Bloodthirstily Decorated with Red and Black Skulls – which was just as well, my love, because Oswyn’s Red Indian Trousers have split all down the front seam and the Murray’s had some rather Seemly Visitors to tea!

  Mr Murray, looking about sixteen in his absurd little shorts, was busily engaged in hauling a fruit-laden plum tree branch which had been half torn off of the tree in a gale back into place and in Lashing it to the trunk with the aid of Pulleys, ladders and miscellaneous ropes. The Village doctor’s prospective son-in-law was sitting high among the branches shouting instructions.

  Mrs Murray was cooking & cleaning & feeding Ruth and watering tomato-plants & picking peas with unflagging energy and Mrs Hatch (the friend who lives with them, darling) and her little boy, Jeremy, were reading a book in a corner.

  In the evening, my darling, Mr & Mrs Murray & I went for a long walk through sunken lanes shaded with overhanging trees & paved with moss & wild strawberries and looked across the Surrey Downs from a great open field planted with corn and oats & vivid purple and pink peas.

  I’m very sleepy, my dear love, because I was talking to Mr & Mrs Murray about the Post-War World until after midnight last night and I got up at crack of Dawn. Darling, I takes orf me ’at to those Stalwarts who, like Mr Murray, live in the depths of the country and Rise with the Lark to get to their desks in time – but if I were to do it reg’lar I should very soon be Dead, wouldn’t you?