by Barbara Pym
On Saturday morning Hilary brought me breakfast in bed – toast seems a luxury – and the softness of the bed. I got up in uniform and went into Clifton with Honor. We talked about Gordon as we walked down North Road. I said I was trying to forget him and she thought it much the best thing to do. He will, obviously, never be any good to me. All this I acknowledge and it hurts me – but – wasn’t he like that always? And didn’t I know? I can’t say more – we had coffee at Lloyd’s Café and then I went into the Censorship where I stayed nearly an hour. I felt homesick when I saw the letters, but knew I couldn’t go back there.
A real Coppice Saturday lunch with Sally grizzling and Gill looking beautiful in a red dress with a black peasant jacket. Heard a lot of music during the weekend, all the things I’ve longed for – Berlioz Fantastic Symphony, Brahms Piano Concerto No. 1 (in D minor), Mozart Sinfonia Concertante, Brahms-Haydn Variations, Dohnanyi, and the rest. Lovely and all too short – so that I began feeling sad on Sunday morning at the idea of going back. Honor and I went to church and heard a sermon about up with your listless hands and strengthen your feeble knees – for me, surely. Julian looked angelic. He is going to learn the piano – lovely picture of his aged father at his first concert, weeping in a box while he plays the old T chaikowsky. Honor dreamed I had told her the whole Wrens thing was a failure – of course it hadn’t been – even though it hasn’t done anything positive and concrete for me yet – it has at last given me a change, less opportunity to think of G. – no associations – and the feeling that I am trying to do something about it.
Monday 6 September. I got up at 6 and managed to say goodbye bravely – it was a lovely morning and I rode down to the BBC on Hilary’s bike – then got the 7.50. I tried to read Pater’s Marius the Epicurean which I’ve always found soothing, but somehow it didn’t work and I found myself thinking instead. Wandering round Oxford Circus trying to get silk stockings I had an insane desire to see Gordon, who may be still in Scotland, and in the taxi to Fenchurch St and at the station I was very near to tears. That funny raised-up station in the middle of the city and Poor Jenny sits a-weeping, trying to eat a very stodgy sausage roll. In the train I noticed a nice churchyard, very green and overgrown with little leaning tombstones, in the middle of buildings and ruins and a curious Russian-looking edifice.
Italy gave in and we are all so busy dissecting shrimps that we hardly noticed. I’ve been working in the Mail Office and though at first I didn’t like it I’m getting to now as we are really busy and were working till 6 today – Saturday.
Gordon has written another Radio play to be broadcast on 14th September – but I shan’t hear it – I haven’t even bought the new Radio Times.
How exciting it is when the men come in from abroad in their white hats and shorts, looking sunburned and ragged.
Sunday 12 September. After supper went to St Alban’s church. I like to see some other side of the life of Westcliff. In my enthusiasm I brought away an English hymnal and prayer book. I shall read some of Marius the Epicurean before Tea Boat.
Wednesday 15 September. Tuesday was Gordon’s play and this is the first week I haven’t bought a Radio Times. I went to the Services Club and saw from the paper that it was at 10.30 – too late for me to listen anyway. I felt dramatic standing there in the dusk alone in that funny little room, too lazy to do the blackout.
It’s better to be dramatic than just a lonely spinster, though it comes to the same thing in the end.
Friday 17 September. I am thinking of finishing that radio play I started, also an amusing spy novel. And of learning German at the Southend Municipal College. I’ll think ahead. After the war.
Last night had a very nice dinner at Gavon’s with P.O. and Priestley. How long is it since I had dinner out with a nice chap! We had loud blaring music all the afternoon, which was pleasant at first, but later one wanted to escape from it, as there was a loud speaker in every house.
In the evening I enrolled as a student at the Southend Municipal College, to take the Intermediate Course. A crowd of spinsters, spectacled young men, nondescripts, Forces men and women – crowded into the great hall and up to the little tables where the various departments were stationed. At the languages table was a little elderly woman in a grey cardigan with some feather or bird in her hat. When I said I already knew some she nodded eagerly and said ‘Splendid, splendid’. Then we all queued to pay our fees. It was all like an early H. G. Wells novel – Kipps or Love and Mr Lewisham. Surely there ought to have been a beautiful young woman teaching wood-carving?
Saturday 18 September. London. Went up to London on the 12.37 train, together with a crowd of liberty men – but got a seat. Had tea with Muriel Maby and Betty Rankin in the flat belonging to Muriel’s friend – I loved it all. We walked round Chelsea afterwards and I began to feel really human and myself again – as if something were thawing inside me – Mulberry House and Mulberry Walk – and I don’t approve of a garage being called after Carlyle. And do you remember Jane writing: ‘I died yesterday and was buried at Kensal Green – at least you have no knowledge to the contrary.…’ Some nice houses, with dignity, which is what Southend and Westcliff hasn’t got. We rode to Piccadilly in a bus and then had dinner at the Berkeley Buttery – cocktails and baby chickens – and oh I enjoyed it all so – seeing different people, and we also walked in Berkeley Square then back to Fenchurch St with no miserable feelings – only anxiety lest I should fail to catch the train and be adrift!
Sunday 19 September. Another good day – worked in the morning – mechanically at checking and victualling sheets and talked to 3/O Hawksworth about all sorts of things, German poetry, churches, censorship, and will my face fit at 271 High Holborn?
In the bath Marvell and Matthew Arnold and Heine. And what literature can compare with English poetry for variety and richness – and people who like the same thing find it the hardest thing in the world not to like one another – so if there could be a marine who liked Matthew Arnold and Brahms.… Anyway a good weekend. On the way back from blackberrying, chapels and meeting houses – Christadelphians, a small square house in an overgrown leafy garden. And a chapel with a curious obelisk-like monument – which might have been a chapel or a rather ornate garage and petrol pump. It adds to the pleasure of life to notice things.
Monday 20 September. Had a letter from Rosemary – she is worried about Emile who may even be prisoner of the Germans now. Oh, it’s terrible what people are having to suffer.
Went to Intermediate German class at the Southend Municipal College – enjoyed it very much. Found it quite easy, though it will do me good to revise the grammar.
Monday 27 September. Things seem to have begun to move for me – I mean about a commission – Do you play any games? Not if I can help it. Or the greatest indoor sport and you know what that is, dear Reader. And what is my degree. And Pym must take squad drill – and we are all laughing about Pym in the Wardroom. And will you sign a paper saying that you are willing to go overseas. And no I’m damned if I will – but I do it and think, well I’ll deal with that when I come to it. If I ever do get it it will be the biggest laugh ever – I shall be quite the phoniest thing in the navy. A grown up person playing a fantastic game. You see, Reader, I am now completely myself again — the most unlikely person to be in the Wrens – but there’s no reason why I shouldn’t do it as well as other people.
On Sunday I went out to Kew to see Rosemary and Sybil. We went into the Star and Garter and had a pint, and while I was there, hat adrift, face flushed, glass in my hand and voice talking loud Naval jargon, a woman came up to me and asked how she could join the WRNS! Then Rosemary and I walked to Kew Gardens. We talked about our lives as we walked. Of course we’re both pretty splendid. We both want the same kind of things. And fancy people not getting married and having children when they are able to. She encouraged me by so obviously thinking I had done the best thing in joining the WRNS. I gave her a pretty comprehensive picture of what it’s like and how people of our so
rt feel about it.
We went back to the flat and had high tea about six – beautifully arranged salad – if all else fails we can always start a teashop.
October
Just to think, I’ve been saying to myself that it will soon be a year since G. declared himself and we had that brief, stormy but heavenly two months. It’s Sunday October 3rd, a gloriously sunny morning with an undercurrent of cold air, rather like a spring day. I’m sitting looking at the sea and listening to rather too many seagulls. I am reading Room of One’s Own. Most delightful and profound – if I had the time I would write an essay about life in the WRNS.
Officers – pay them the respect due to their uniform but otherwise assess them as people.
On Being Yourself, and how you cannot be too much yourself or the life wouldn’t be endurable. On Friday evening I was having supper when Marion Booth, a very attractive looking MT driver came and sat by me and we talked about German and Rilke and the necessity of hanging on to the things that matter – painting for her, writing and literature for me and music, of course. This is important, otherwise you will lose yourself completely, as you do in the first week or two. ‘… it is much more important to be oneself than anything else.’ So Virginia Woolf. I wonder what she would have made of service life.
Sunday afternoon. At 3.15 I went to a CEMA concert at the Queen’s. The singer sang a group of Schubert songs and apologised for having the words with him but he was using a new translation and might otherwise burst into German. How stupid that one should have to use a bad English translation – this kind of thing makes me bristle and wonder if we are worth saving! The pianist was good. He played Brahms, Chopin and Ravel.
Wednesday 6 October. The Wondrous Dance. I feel I should write something about this, but I don’t quite know what. I had been inoculated in the morning, Dr Levy. ‘Now nurse, be sure that the needle is sharp. It is better to have a sharp needle. I do not believe in economy in these matters – it is foolish to economise in needles when the war is costing us 11 millions a day’ etc. Anyway after inoculation I wasn’t feeling quite at my best. But I managed to get partners at the beginning, though I didn’t dance very well. I felt very tired, probably because of the inoculation. Left at 10.40, alone in pitch dark and drizzling rain. When I got back into my cabin leaned my head against the wall, not unhappy, but thinking the obvious thing – where in the whole world, etc. But mixed with this feeling was a kind of satisfaction – well, I’ve been to the Wardroom dance. I’m trying. Saturday 9 October. Leave started.…
Had breakfast and caught the 7.45 train to Fenchurch St. Very cold and misty. Went to Paddington by Inner Circle. How I love Paddington Station. Already a mass of people was beginning to queue for the 10.25 Cornish Riviera Express. I went to the Restaurant on Platform 1 and had some toast and coffee – the room has pretty pale green walls and on the table a notice reminding customers that the GWR have NOT adopted the principle of adding a service charge. Got home about four – changed into a red dress with unwrenlike red bows in my hair. Then wallowed in the luxury of bed.
Sunday 10 October. Oswestry. Breakfast in bed – enjoying my room – sunshine, books, light clean walls and pictures – the bright Raoul Dufy over the mantelpiece. After lunch lying outside in the sun.
Tuesday 12 October. Being on leave one is humanised again, listens to the news more, gets more into touch with the war. Coming home in the train I was reading the Spectator and an article by Harold Nicolson, in which he mentions looking up his diary for 1940 – the Battle of Britain period. It occurred to me that were I to look in this volume in three years time what dreariness I should find. One would hardly know that there was a war on at all, and certainly not have any idea that I was an intelligent and presumably thinking person. Or perhaps I do think a little, but not about anything that really matters to anyone except myself.
Thursday 14 October. Yesterday Italy declared war on Germany. What a strange mad war. A pity they didn’t choose our side three years ago.
I am a wretched melancholy creature when I would like to be noble and strong and very intelligent. I lie in a hot bath brooding about G. (yes I still do in spite of putting him right out of my life) when I ought to be thinking about the Metaphysicals in a scholarly way or planning a great comic novel.
Friday 15 October. Bristol. Hilary met me at the station yesterday and we came straight up to the Coppice in a taxi. A lovely welcome of course – but poor little Sally lying on the sofa looking rather plain and peaky, just like a child in a novel by Charlotte M. Yonge. And Dick in his dressing gown – Lulu and Dan and darling Mary. Prue is ill too, and now as I write is sleeping through the Fantastic Symphony of Berlioz.
I asked Honor if there was any more news about the divorce – and she says it is going to be heard NEXT FRIDAY! They had not intended to tell me until it was over.
Well, there it is.
My first feeling was one of elation – I went upstairs to change and stood for a long time looking out of the window, over the trees and gardens of Brackenhill. But now of course I’m sobered down. There is really no cause for rejoicing as far as I’m concerned.
Saturday 16 October. A very melancholy day, but in some ways a satisfying one. Because I’ve really faced up to the fact that Gordon doesn’t really love me as I love him and will never ask me to marry him when he is free. He told Honor a week or two back that he didn’t intend to make any more ‘experiments’. And she also told me, when I asked her, that according to Pen Lloyd James he regarded it as a pleasant sentimental episode which was now closed. He must have said that as long ago as the winter. So now what becomes of my illusion that this was a great renunciation and that he had ever for a moment wanted the same things as I do? Well, the illusion is dead or dying. But I’m not bitter about it. I still love him of course and in the months (or years!) that follow I shall no doubt ache for him sometimes – sweet, hopeless person, the most delightful companion. I was of course wretchedly miserable in the evening and tore up all his letters. But I have been realising that it would come to this soon and am really glad that I have had the courage to ask Honor and face up to it.
Sunday 17 October. Had breakfast rather late. And a surprisingly happy and calm day. Had lunch with Honor and the children – Julian amazed us all by saying that the king was in church, but we haven’t really got to the bottom of it yet – I mean how could he be?
Monday 18 October. London. When I got out of the train at Paddington in the twilight full of dim hurrying figures I felt about the most lonely person there. Oh, to be cherished and comforted at a journey’s end. It was nearly seven o’clock and I hurried on to Platform 1, hoping that the restaurant might be open. I sat at a table with a young Canadian officer who offered me a cigarette. We got talking and he finished by paying for my meal. I couldn’t say to him – you’ve brought comfort and friendliness to a rather lonely and miserable person, but that’s what he did.
Wednesday 20 October. Westcliff. Hawksworth thinks I ought not to be a Censor Officer, but suggests Intelligence or Staff Officer. But how could this be managed? I mean, nobody ever tells one anything about anything – but it would be lovely.
Friday 22 October. Was very busy today on the Marine index and thinking all the time about Honor and how she was getting on with the divorce.
About 5 o’clock they rang through from Regulating to say there was a telegram for me and should they read it. It said ‘Successful and Painless. Love. Honor.’
Sunday 24 October. London. Caught the 7.40 to London and now am sitting in the Tottenham Court Road Lyons Corner House having had a second breakfast. It’s nice to be in London on one’s own. Had some coffee and an almost continental fruit flan in Old Vienna. It’s nice, red plush and a chandelier and the waiters surely were once eminent Viennese businessmen and lawyers. I felt I had to have a glass of water with my coffee even if I hadn’t felt thirsty. I had decided to go to a concert but wasn’t sure which one as there were three to choose from – the L.P.O. were playing, and it wasn
’t till afterwards that I discovered their programme contained both the old Tchaikowsky Piano Concerto and Prokofiev’s Classical Symphony – so I could have been nicely torn to pieces. But I chose the Albert Hall and heard a lovely programme with Boyd Neel conducting.
After the concert went into the big Lyons where I soon got a seat at a table with two young men – (one very dark and good looking, who reminded me of poor Friedbert) and a sergeant. We soon all got talking about music and so I had quite a jolly tea. Talking about Lyons the dark young man said that one needn’t ever feel lonely there, which was a new aspect of it to me, as I’ve always thought of it as the sort of place where one was essentially lonely, especially with all the crowds and music and glittering decor. It was the first time I ever haven’t been and I enjoyed it.
Sunday 31 October. Winter will soon begin. I often used to think it would be romantic to be by the sea in winter. Now that I am by it I scarcely look at it. Though perhaps I meant wild dramatic sea, not Westcliff’s tame suburban waters.
November
I had a lovely weekend in Bristol – unmarred by any real Gordon misery – but plenty of tender rather sad memories – it’s come round again to that time of year. Our feet rustling through the leaves and the dark mornings. But how completely he is Honor’s, really.
Friday 12 November. I was sad yesterday evening and alone in the redirection room began writing a poem. As soon as I’d had supper I hurried out to the Municipal College to a gramophone recital – whirled away from my misery along the London Road in a blue-ly lighted trolley bus. The lecture was at the School of Art – a modern building, rooms full of Greek plaster casts – (Oh God, oh Montreal – surely Westcliff might be such a place?). Our room was full of books and had a blackboard and a screen, and rows of chairs. Mr May, the lecturer, is a tall, distinguished looking grey haired man, wearing a striped flannel suit. A white haired woman in a turban (his wife!) put on the records. The audience was rather scanty – an old man, one or two civilians and three soldiers.
