Love in the Blitz

by Eileen Alexander

  Darling, I want to have lots of fun with my will which I shall make on the day of our marriage. As far as material Bequests are concerned, you are, of course, to have everything I possess, except my vinaigrettes, which with your permission, I want to leave to the Fitzwilliam because I don’t believe in the private ownership of National Treasures. At least, my darling, I shall want you to enjoy them during your lifetime but after that I should like the Fitzwilliam to have them, please. The fun will come in with comic little bequests. Darling, I’m going to introduce a wholly new Attitude to Will-making. I don’t see why it should be a Gloomy, Dry-as-Dust, Legalistic Ceremonial. Death is not sad when you are happy – only when you are frustrated & unsatisfied. I should like to form a Society for the Propagation of Willy Nilly Wills, my dear love. Will you be my first member?

  Darling, have you any knowledge of the connection between Venereal Disease & tea & buns in the middle of the morning? It puzzles me a lot because this is the sort of thing which is always Cropping Up in Sir Philip Joubert’s Reports: ‘There is a regular interval for tea & buns on this Station in the joint airmens & airwomens mess. There have been 5 cases of VD on the Station in the last 6 months.’ It seems, darling, that the incidence of Venereal Disease is in direct proportion to the length of the tea-and-buns break, which are indissolubly wedded in the IG’s mind. Can it be, my love, that the Heyday in the Blood is at its Height at eleven o’clock in the morning or have Tea & Buns some Aphrodisiac Properties that I Wot Not of?

  Wednesday 15 September I came home in such an intense state of cerebral excitement last night, my dearest love, after an exhilarating discussion with Mrs Wingate (whom I am now to call Lorna, darling) first on Zionism and then on the purpose & meaning of life, that I couldn’t sleep because the threads we’d pulled out of the skein of philosophy went on unravelling by their sleeves right through the night. Her husband left again for furrin parts yesterday. They had a month together owing to the goodwill of the PM.

  Joyce telephoned this morning, my dear love, to thank me for the flowers &, very nervously I Braced Myself & asked her if she was sure that this was what she really wanted. She said that it was, my darling – with apparent conviction. I’m lunching with her tomorrow, my love, & she has promised to Tell Me All.

  I told Sigmund about my interview at the M of I, darling, & he said that he felt it his duty to warn me, to prepare me for, later disappointment, that it was most unlikely that, having once found out that I was Jewish, the M of I would offer me an appointment in Cairo. I can’t bear to think of it, my darling. That way madness lies.

  Thursday 16 September Darling, I’ve been having lunch with Joyce. There really isn’t much All to it, darling. It’s just that in the course of one of Bernard’s Quarterly proposals it Came Over her in a Wave (so she says) that she was going to accept. She is now flashing Lady Waley Cohen’s Arf Oop on her finger and has become encased in a shell of enamel. I hope it isn’t too brittle a shell, my dear love. They’re going to be married in March and Papa has Stumped up for the Right Clothes for meeting Relatives and Bowing to the Tenants at Honeymede – so life for Joyce is a Welter of Dressmakers and Family Parties. She just doesn’t speak my language at all anymore, my darling.

  Saturday 18 September Darling, I really enjoyed Joan’s party immensely. First of all I am beginning to be rather fond of Bernard Waley Cohen – he has so obviously the Right Attitude to Being Engaged. He is bursting with Look-What-I’ve-Gottery, my dear love, and he Confided in me with pleasing naiveté that ever since last Friday evening he’s been ‘waking up with a jump’ in the night and saying to himself; ‘Good God – Joyce has accepted me at last.’

  Joan is going to have a baby, darling, and Dr Minton anticipates no complications. Good! Good! Oh! Excellent Good i’ faith.

  My dear love, I’ve no doubt that the facts about Brigadier Wingate are true – it’s only the interpretation which is wrong. If I were to say, my dear love, that the first time I met Brigadier Wingate he talked to me about his sexual organs it would be factually true but it would not be the truth – because he has a very profound, philosophical mind & uses personal metaphors to express general truths – and his use of this particular metaphor was neither strange nor shocking, darling, because it was so absolutely right for the particular generalizations about the Chivalric Code in which he was indulging.

  Monday 20 September My darling, Prince Lotfallah telephoned to Insist that we should lunch with him at the Ritz which we did after mild protests. We had a rotten lunch, darling, but it was amusing to hear old Lotfallah Hot on the Trail of a new throne. He was in an Expansive Mood, my love, & gave me a red enamel Utility lighter. Nellie & Basil and Nellie’s daughter & son-in-law Vi & Robert Henriques17 (Robert writes a lot of Bad Novels, darling, but he’s a Good Man at Heart) were lunching at the Ritz too but we only had time to exchange a brief greeting.

  Darling, one last crowning touch to a Good Day. Mrs Crews has just telephoned to ask herself to dinner on Thursday night.

  Pan has been sick all evening, my dear love – mainly I think because Dicky smashed one of the best arm chairs into seven pieces (but Pan has put it together again with Durofix) by throwing it at him in a fit of crazed rage & Pan worried himself ill about what Mum would say about it & feared, not without justification, my love, because that’s what happens nine times out of ten, that he might get blamed for the whole business.

  Tuesday 21 September Darling, you have been Misinformed about Lorna & her husband’s relations with her parents. The last thing Brigadier Wingate said to Sigmund before he went back to India was: ‘For God’s sake don’t let Lorna’s mother Get her Claws into her.’ Brig. Wingate can’t stand Mrs Patterson but Lorna gets on very well indeed with her & has in fact just gone to stay with her now. Neither of them get on with Papa Patterson – at least Lorna does sporadically but not for long.

  Friday 24 September My darling, I was pleased with Mrs Crews because she noticed my ring at once and said how beautiful it was (a woman of very real discernment, Mrs Crews, darling). She was asking about Aileen Little who used to be a pupil of hers, my love, & I told her about her Young Man’s abortive attempts at Divorce. (You see, darling, the trouble with Aileen’s Young Man is that he’s such a terrific Gentleman – very large G. He wouldn’t have Aileen as his Co-respondent so he keeps on booking rooms at Hotels with a strange woman & spending the night in the local pubs with his friends – just Nipping Back in time to be Found in Bed with the Woman by the maid with the early morning tea. Well, my love, no judge has yet been found who will swallow so bald & unconvincing a narrative as such Episodes provide – so he is still tied to his wife.) Mrs Crews smiled reminiscently, my darling, & said: ‘Divorce is a Great Adventure’. Referring to her adventures on the torpedoed ship later in the evening, darling, she said: ‘I was born for adventure, you know, because I have No Imagination.’ If any other woman had said that, my love, one would have suspected her of inviting contradiction but not Mrs Crews. She stated it Vigorously & Emphatically as an incontrovertible Fact (which it is.) I have never known anyone, my love, who views herself so completely dispassionately. It’s one of the things I like best about her. Incidentally, my love, you will be Interested to hear that she still has Good Legs. She says I must avoid Turkey like the plague, darling. She says that of all the dreary spots she’s ever been to Ankara is the worst. (‘No drains – no drains at all.’) She then went on to Blow the Gaff on World Politics. (She’s editor of the Turkish BBC News Service, darling, & she doesn’t ’arf know All.)

  Pan has just come in to say: ‘Really, the care you take over your letters to Gershon – one would think that you were writing for future publication.’ I looked at him Sternly, my dear love, & said: ‘Oh! no, I’m writing for a far more important reason than that.’ But one day, he’ll learn, my love. Pan is the sort of person who will love a woman as I love you.

  Sunday 26 September I had a salad at Quality Inn with Estelle, darling, & I had an old wound
accidentally & very painfully re-opened. You see, darling, for some time now I have felt that Horace is less interested in me than he was. He seldom comes to see us & when he does he hardly does more than bid me good evening in between sips of beer. Estelle & I had been talking casually of Joan when I remarked lightly that Horace seemed to have Cast Me Off – was it perhaps because he found Joan more entertaining? To my astonishment, my love, Estelle took me up quite seriously on this & said that Horace had been extremely disappointed over my harsh & unreasonable attitude towards Joan’s very natural & proper desire to lead her own life away from the irksome interference of my parents. I asked her very quietly what Joan had told her & it appears that she had made assignations with Horace & Estelle very shortly after she left us for the express purpose of ‘justifying’ her departure. The story she told, my dear love, was very much the same story as she told David & Sylvia & Sheila & Joyce. She couldn’t call her soul her own in our house – she had expected sympathetic co-operation from me – one of her own generation & instead, when she left I had practically refused to speak to her & so on. Darling, it was a wicked thing to do &, as you know, an unconscionable distortion of the facts and it explains why almost everyone who knew us both was so Queer to me for a time after she left – the very time, darling, when I was quarrelling almost hourly with my parents for their criticism of her attitude & behaviour. Darling, in self-defence, I told Estelle the whole story but I made her promise to say nothing to Horace. I didn’t want to tell her, my dear love, but I hadn’t the character to remain silent under her rebuke. Of course, darling, it doesn’t really matter because now Joan & I are on very Impersonal terms & we never talk of anything more fundamental than clothes or our respective Ministries but I can’t help being strangely hurt all the same.

  Monday 27 September I’m in rather a wakeful mood, my dear love, so if you were here I’d like to lie awake with the light on kissing & clipping merrily with pauses for you to catch sight of the titles of some of my books and say, par example: ‘The Booke of Margery Kempe. What’s that about, darling?’ And I would Shake my Head & say: ‘Pas pour Jeune Filles. It’s about a Dirty Old Woman in the Middle Ages who was in love with Christ & whatever she was after it wasn’t an Immaculate Conception,’ & you’d raise your eyebrow, my dear love & say: ‘Dear Me, and what about The Castle? to which I would reply: ‘Darling, I made a point of not reading The Castle – everyone at Cambridge who read Kafka omitted to shave or wear socks. They also walked in processions feeding Gruel to Distressed Miners.’

  I was looking through my Poems this morning, my love. God, but they’re Awful. I shall have to let you read them, darling, before we are married in case they make you change your mind. Patience Strong’s Quiet Corner in the Daily Mirror seldom sinks lower. Whatever I may be now, my dear love, it’s very certain that between the ages of thirteen and sixteen I was No Poet.

  Wednesday 29 September Darling, Jean & Aunt Teddy, my cousin Robert & his wife & Bernard, our free French protégé, were here to dinner & at about 8.45 I brought Robert & Dorothy upstairs to see our furniture. They admired it & we talked of This & That in my room until about 9.20 when Mum called up to say that Mrs Seidler wanted to speak to me on the telephone. Oh! darling, what havoc was there in Mum’s room. Her wardrobe had been wrenched open and your Damascus box, where she keeps most of her jewellery, was on the floor with trinkets littered all over the place – her handbag had been wrenched apart & there were sixpences & keys & handkerchiefs all over the floor. A very daring burglary, my darling. The thieves had climbed in through a bedroom window while we were at supper & had obviously been disturbed by the sound of our voices when we came upstairs & had fled leaving the whole place in confusion. They’d taken £50 in pound notes from Mum’s drawer – £4.10/- and a gold fountain pen & gold cigarette lighter from Pa’s pocket, Mum’s diamond dips, worth £500, four or five of her brooches, worth about £100, 12 pairs of silk stockings & all the clothes ration books which were untouched because they have only just been issued.

  Oh! darling, I would have been entertained by the Flatfoots blowing on the shiny surface of the furniture to see if their Steamy Breath showed up any finger prints and taking statements Right & Left if it had not been so distressing to see how Mum was affected. She trembled & looked pale, my dearest love, & I know how she felt because all these things were presents from Pa. Everything, except the the money & the ration books &, of course, the stockings were fully insured, my darling, but money is no compensation for losing things you love & have worn on days when you were especially happy.

  A CID man is coming tomorrow morning, my darling to Grovel on the Floor with a Magnifying Glass & I trust he turns out to be a bit more like Lord Peter Wimsey than his three uniformed subordinates. Darling, Pa & I had to do all the Detection for them! We thought of picking up Shiny Objects with a handkerchief to preserve finger prints. We suggested that there might be marks on the window sill. They just stood stolidly round & said that this was a CID Case – The Trade union attitude.

  I’m afraid that I am writing wild & whirling words. I feel terribly ashamed, my darling, at my relief that they didn’t step across the way & clean out my vinaigrette cabinet.

  Thursday 30 September Darling, this has been rather a Quare day Surveying the Wreckage & Making Statements to the Plain Clothes Man from the CID. (I am a Material Witness, you see, my love, because I Discovered the Remains. Joan is never going to hear the end of this. After all, my love, she witnessed what was only an Abortive Burglary. This was the Rill Thing.)

  I was Impressed by the CID man, darling. He was Quiet & Competent & he Inspired Confidence and seemed to know his stuff. He dashed away to interview the local pawnbrokers.

  Mr & Mrs Lipchitz came to dinner tonight, my love, & Mr Lipchitz told me that after my discussion with him and Michael Foot at their house one Sunday, Mr Foot had said, when I left, that I was too clever for a woman. In a queer way, darling, this stung me – perhaps because there was a Flavour of Patronage about it – perhaps because I have a tendency to Fight the Battle that was won decades ago – the Battle for the Rights of Women – anyway, my love, be the reason what it was in very Poor Taste, darling, since he’s a great friend of Mr Mrs Lipchitz and I was terribly ashamed of myself afterwards but I couldn’t do anything about it because the harm had been done. Darling, one of the things you’ll have to do for your little Solace when you’ve married her is to Curb her Tongue. A little Tactful Barracking, my love (an essentially unilateral Art) is what is required.

  Another little bit of All, my darling, is that Estelle rang up this morning to ask me to tea on Sunday & mentioned casually that Horace would be there – so it rather looks as though she told him that I thought he’d Cast Me Off & he wants to prove that I still have a Little Niche in his Heart.

  Apropos of our discussion about women & wantonness immediately after marriage, my darling, Victor told me something the other day which seemed to have some bearing on the matter. We were discussing Aunt Gladys & Uncle Solly & saying how strange it was that, in spite of community of interests & backgrounds and temperament, they were unhappily married – not Cataclysmically unhappy, my love, just Dissatisfied & Disgruntled – & Victor told me that when she was in S. Africa recently, & things were going Badly with her & Uncle Solly, Aunt Gladys told Doris that the trouble had started on their wedding night. Needless to say, darling, their marriage was not in any sense an Arranged marriage. Uncle Solly married Aunt Gladys because he loved her & she married him because he was Handsome & because she was Bored with Parental Restrictions & because she very much wanted children. She told Doris, darling, that, on her wedding night she neither knew nor ever guessed at any of the Facts of Life & that the discovery of what marriage meant was a shock from which she had never recovered & the thought of being wanton with Uncle Solly (or, for that matter, with any other man) filled her with Horror. This, my darling combined with Uncle Solly’s misplaced Prudery, is, I am sure, the reason why, although they have con
sulted specialists all over the world & Aunt Gladys has had three operations, they have never had any children. Of course, darling, that really proves nothing because Mum, too, knew nothing about wantonness when she married but the fundamental difference was that she loved Pa very deeply & that he is very much more sensitive than Uncle Solly.

  The fundamental factor in love is the desire to give your lover everything that it’s possible to give him in passionate gratitude for the unspeakable joys which he has given you. (I speak as a woman, my darling. I suppose it’s a little different for a man.) To hold back or shrink away from anything your lover asks of you is impossible & unnatural. Do you remember, darling, that I told you once that I had a Genius for love? I know I have, my very dear love, but it has not yet reached full maturity – that will only happen when I am your wife. Oh! darling, darling, no genius can grow & prosper without inspiration & one day I shall tell you of the thousand ways in which you have inspired me so that, from an ordinary, restless spoilt little girl, I have become a visionary who knows the meaning of Eternity!

  Sunday 3 October This hasn’t been much of a day, darling. Soon after lunch I set out for Horace’s house. Joan was there, darling, & it was the first time I’d seen her since Estelle told me what she’d said about my attitude when she left us & that made me unhappy too. I hardly listened to the talk, darling, which was a pity because there was some Wholesale & Trenchant Debunking afoot. Horace said bluntly: ‘My dear girl, you won’t get a job in Cairo – not if they know you’re a Jewess. They’re going to Sell Palestine Down the River & they want as few Jews about as possible while it’s happening.’ ‘They’, of course, are Power Politicians Backed by Big Business. On the way home, my love, Joan told me that Joyce is getting married in December. Joan is feeling so ill that she thinks she’ll have to give up her job immediately. She’s sick all day & can’t bear the sight of food. She looks very ill indeed, my love, and has lost about a stone in weight in the last fortnight. Having babies can be a Trial at Times, my darling. Never mind, my love, we shall have as many as you want. I Refuse to be Daunted.