Mrs Miles's Diary

by S. V. Partington

  The women of the village seem keen on NOT sending their billeted children to a canteen proposed by the ladies of Shere, where sixpenny dinners may be served.23

  Thursday, 14 September

  Went to tea with the Kennings; they have a little London school installed in their charming house. E., the artist, gives up her studio for children’s beds and sleeps fitfully above it on her balcony. Jean, the musician, gives up her music room as a classroom. Mrs K. finds the catering for about sixteen people very difficult.

  Joy Annett told me of driving unexpected mothers and children to cottages on Albury Heath, of the tears, and the reluctance to stay, and the horrified London glance round a tiny cottage room: ‘Oh, I can never stop here.’ Joy regards the dirty condition of the children as most reprehensible, and thinks we must mould the world afresh.

  In the evening Mr Struben, the South African, calls. He has withdrawn his house from the market: he, at about seventy-five, ‘cannot run away from England to my native land’. He is a warden and is short of ARP masks, and perplexed by the demands of visitors for them. It is a funny war: strange faces, people with their masks, often in very clumsy receptacles, walking about, the young women from town with prams looking very cross and worried.

  Here is an extract from the evening paper about the terror going on every moment in Poland:

  Behind the front, farm after farm, village after village, is in flames. Where shops are still intact long lines of Poles stand before them waiting for food . . . As the Army advances columns of Labour Service youths come up in the wake to repair roads and bridges. Hurriedly they impress all available labour, especially Jewish labour. Under their charge long rows of aged Jews with black beards and astrakhan hats are seen at work in the streets. Often they have no picks or shovels and have to dig with their bare hands.

  Friday, 15 September

  The permit has come, and my visitor Minna can go back to her loved cooking stove in Battersea! There are great packings; the beds are left here with pillows and six blankets.

  Saturday, 16 September

  Basil came. We had gone to Guildford, a changed place; many soldiers, many refugee families turning into Woolworths, which had made itself ugly like the rest with strips of brown paper over its windows to guard against the Grand Assault.

  Some hospital units have gone to France from Netley already, and troops carried past Basil’s window, on the broad river in the dark, without lights, slipping away from the land of comfort and home to the Unknown.

  Sunday, 17 September

  We think cars will become very cheap. All is so black at night, people won’t go out, or pay the motor tax to keep a car so severely rationed.

  Rang up May Browne.24 She says she is getting on well at her FANY work: ‘The officers are so civil to us all, they speak to me as if I were Queen of England.’ She thinks the war will last two-and-a-half years for certain.

  Russia has invaded Poland. What news!25

  Tuesday, 19 September

  Poland has collapsed, and the Soviet men are motoring across it freely, annexing it, I suppose, as they go. Jews are being executed in large numbers.

  It’s the second day of the canteen in our village: cold beef and hot suet pudding for the children – so many tiny, who all, in the most distressing manner, carry the gas masks that seem almost as big as they are. This sight moves me more than any other in ‘Hitler’s War’; and also the sight of Clive Modin moved me yesterday, the young man nervously drinking sherry, and explaining to me that he had always had Liberal principles and disliked so utterly and entirely the idea of going into the Army. He is twenty-five, volunteered, and is a Royal Fusilier – to his own amazement – and about to be trained in camp.

  Even small children, such as these evacuees, learned to carry their gas masks with them everywhere.

  Photograph © IWM D824

  Wednesday, 20 September

  Thrilled by stories of the bravery on the sinking aircraft carrier, Courageous, but how bad to lose over 500 lives!26 Hitler says he will drop five bombs for every one of ours.

  Bernard Shaw27 writes an excellent letter on Russia invading Poland . . . he feels Hitler will quarrel with Stalin and lose all.

  Thursday, 21 September

  Lovely letter from Harry in Singapore this morning, by air mail. I have replied by air – long may this way last!

  Felt rather happier today, everything is quiet, and though there were some noticeably worried faces in Guildford, the shops were cheerful.

  Robin gave me a waterproof case for my gas mask to sling over my reluctant shoulder.

  Saturday, 23 September

  The bank cashier is nearly done in by hours of acting as fireman, watchman at headquarters in Guildford, and by masses of work. Grocer harassed – will I mind having only one pound of sugar today, very short – Heinz things likely to go short too. ‘All those books,’ said the newsagent, pointing to the usual conglomeration of magazines and weeklies in gay covers on his counter, ‘will stop at the end of the month. They will have to be ordered separately.’ Our neighbours with the viola fields wonder what to do, as their flowers are now not ordered by London. So it goes on.

  Monday, 25 September

  Heard from Barbara this morning that she has been to London to meet several friends, all thrown out of work by this war and in a financial mess, specially authors. One is a famous children’s writer.

  Little dark-eyed Nancy is to go up to be married in Scotland to her Argyll and Sutherland Highlander who is to be there another few weeks. Her fare is paid for by her kind employers downstairs.

  Joy Annett came, and I told her about the FANYs. She is very keen on joining up, and is to go to Aldershot tomorrow to try. You have to sign on for the duration of the war and to promise to go anywhere they send you. She is so brave, charming and pretty. I do wish her well.

  Tuesday, 26 September

  Mrs K. said on the phone that the West End is full of soldiers billeted: Cadogan Square is known as Barrack Square now, and it is not safe for a woman to walk there at night; the black-out is desperately difficult.

  A lugubrious letter from Sara – no men to repair anything; broken glass stays broken glass.

  Warsaw holds out but is being shot to pieces. German machine guns are even firing at the food queues. How lucky then are we to be here this fair afternoon of September going about our lawful occasions.

  Thursday 28 September

  When will the Germans attack London by air? Oh when? Many offices are returning there full of hope.

  Went to see Miss B. in bed ill. Mrs Coppinger was there; her husband, a naval officer long retired, is minesweeping off Harwich. She confessed she cried over the Russian down pillows on her beds ruined by the little billeting children. The woman’s husband, a painter from Fulham, came and stayed three days, smoking cigarettes in her drawing-room calmly, ‘and never getting up while I was standing’, cries the pretty, injured creature who had given her bathroom to the strangers.

  The cottagers are only now discovering that there is no money in billeting and considerable unrest is reported.

  I asked Robin last night why the Poles in Warsaw, now fallen, held out so long. He said ‘Hate.’

  Met Margaret Bray, who is a land girl and was milking cows at four-thirty in moonlight this morning. Her hostess, who is chairman of a Sudeten refugee committee28 was rung up today to be informed that a) they wanted more pillowcases, and b) some felt so miserable that they even contemplated suicide.

  Friday, 29 September

  The papers reveal what a vast CHAOS this war is, people underpaid, overpaid, people demanding, people wailing, people out of work and likely to be; poets, authors, journalists, artists, actors; household women in vast demand, all cooks bright as rubies and as rare, gardeners longed-for. Meanwhile the Misses Drew, old and undaunted ladies here, have bought a tiny new Peke, who rolls round reproachful eyes at them, and at all cats.

  We have filled in National Registration cards,29 and I have call
ed myself a journalist.

  Sunday, 1 October

  The second month of the War. Rang up May Browne to be told that her army of women soldiers at Aldershot were doing well. A good lot; but there are constantly casualties with girls finding the work too much, etc., so she thinks our friend Joy Annett may soon get in.

  Monday, 2 October

  Churchill made a capital speech on the wireless, finely phrased. He remarked that Hitler had started the war when he wished, but he will not finish it when he wishes. The Germans are to march through Warsaw in triumph. What a march through desolation and dead bodies! They say the city is such a ghastly ruin that even the German airmen reconnoitering above are white-faced and silent.

  Tuesday, 3 October

  Waited ages in the bank – and in the grocers. A man asking for a bottle of brandy was willing to pay the fantastic price asked – there is little left.

  Illustrating American sympathy with us, here is a letter received from my best American friend at Nantucket:

  ‘Both B. and I had bad emotional effects from that awful week of uncertainty. We sat with our ears glued to our wireless snatching at any straw which might mean that war was not upon you. We neither ate nor slept and when the final news came, we both caved in.’

  Everywhere the pace of life slackens in the country. We are going to buy pony traps and horses, we are going to stay at home every evening and get to know our neighbours better. What shall we be like at the end of the war? Poor, and possibly quarrelling among ourselves.

  Wednesday, 4 October

  Yesterday evening listened to the German wireless in English. A good deal about the English and their queer insistence on war.

  Tonight falls the first autumnal rain, bleak, ice-cold, and the ache for our men in France begins to be felt. Robin is telling me how he often lay out in his sleeping bag all night when they were moving, up at Ypres, ‘but took no harm’.

  Friday, 6 October

  Madge found London much more lively than when I was up. A run on warm clothes. She could not get any vests at Lewis’s, and the overall department was besieged by war workers, all very matey while trying them on.

  As I write I hear that ‘ten newsreel cinemas will keep open until ten o’clock in London now’.

  I heard Hitler’s speech at two o’clock. I was not in the least impressed; the only thing that really was of profound interest was his peevishness, and the absence of any exultation in his words. His gabbled offer of peace I feel we cannot entertain. I wonder if we shall put forward any counter-proposals.30

  Saturday, 7 October

  How terrible this pause is. Hitler’s speech has made everybody very miserable. A shadow moves nearer. Old Mr Struben is actually roofing in his rafters with a layer of corrugated iron, as a protection against bombs.

  Sunday, 8 October

  Basil came yesterday, from Netley. He thinks his orders will arrive this week, owing to a note he had from the War Office.

  May B. spoke of the marching away of the troops. Hundreds have left Aldershot. The strange thing is that they don’t march away with song and band, waving of flags and hands, flowers flung at them or tears shed. Not a bit of it! Quietly they slog down the ugly streets of this most hideous of towns, and the maidens in khaki, thick in the streets, often turn to look in at the shop windows, even before the boys have swung past. No excitement. Nothing inspired. May observes the lack of vitality common in the new generation, fed on the wireless and cinema.

  Monday, 9 October

  A day of rain and pessimism.

  I hear Captain C., well known in the village as a shabbily-dressed retired naval man, is now at work again on the North Sea, and very dashing and young in his uniform . . . a resurrection.31

  Tuesday, 10 October

  As we go to sleep, of a night, in this peaceful, beautiful red-roofed village, more wanderers are about in Europe, homeless, threatened, cold, and full of terror. Children and old people, babies and young wives alone, without a refuge. Women who loved their pretty things at home as much as I do, and the evening stroll in the summer dusk with their dear ones. The imagination boggles before the picture, shrinks away from the tears, the perplexity, the obstacles and the poverty. Thousands are starving in Warsaw. Heil Hitler!

  Wednesday, 11 October

  Now all Europe is wondering about the fate of Finland. Fearful regret that one has not been to these Northern countries now threatened, to see them when they were yet happy and free and full of a fine independence.

  Friday, 13 October

  Lunched with General Montgomery’s sister. He is in command of our Third Corps, just going out to France. She said her brother had foretold accurately how things would go, so far; especially he had forseen the friendship ’twixt Germany and Russia.

  Saturday, 14 October

  The gas ration card has arrived, and is too wonderful and mysterious, reminding me of some of the sealed sacred books of the East, whose meaning none – even the wisest – can decipher. Madge says she can understand it, but when I ask if she can tell the difference between her meter and ours in the cellar, she quails. I shall leave it all alone, wear a coat when I can instead of lighting my fire, and have a few extra colds. The kitchen cooking cannot in any way be controlled, at a distance.

  Sunday, 15 October

  It poured and poured with rain. The Sunday papers were full of a curious optimism, and seem to take for granted that Hitler’s game is up. It seems stupid to me. It has scarcely begun.

  Nobody can understand what will happen re Russia v. Finland.32 The Kings Gustav, of Sweden, Christian of Denmark and Haakon of Norway call a meeting. Their thrones must seem to them to be trembling and shaking. I hope they will wear their lovely jewelled crowns, while they still may.

  Monday, 16 October

  Have just heard that there has been an attempted air raid on Edinburgh.33

  A not-too-young lady with scarlet lips, pale face and ugly trousers has called to ask Madge if a house-to-house collection could be made of onions and carrots, to help a refugee nursing home at Shalford. Even one carrot from each household would help!

  Ernest Brown, Minister of Labour34, un-eloquent usually, talks on the wireless about calling up the new conscripts. England expects . . . Scotland expects . . . Wales expects . . . we hear.

  Thursday, 19 October

  Muff the Puss is now exalted when he gets a herring and is dropping all his fancy ways. The butcher tells Robin that he only gets twenty per cent of his usual ration of imported meat.

  Friday, 20 0ctober

  To the cinema: a tragic film with a tragic end, Bette Davis in Dark Victory. Very fine, and singular. There was news. Photos of our Tommies behind the lines, grinning under Glengarry caps at the camera, just as bright as we want to feel they are.

  Madge runs upstairs to tell us there will be no gas or electricity ration after all, so that will make a great difference to the good spirits of our winter.

  Sunday, 22 October

  The sixth week of Hitler’s War.

  Basil could not get back from Netley, telephoning to say he must stay by a very sick patient, to whom he was giving blood transfusions. He said that a convoy of 180 soldiers had arrived from France, the very first. Not wounded, but ill.

  May B. and John Sinclair came. J. S. had noticed a tiny procession of King’s College Choir boys going in to evensong in the chapel, in their top hats, Eton jackets, and alas, gas masks slung on! It struck him as horrible.

  Went to the ten o’clock service. Virginia Shrapnell-Smith came in, and said of her brother Tommy, who crashed fatally last week in an aeroplane, ‘He very much enjoyed the party while it lasted.’

  Monday, 23 October

  Saw two little London boys today in the lane. They said they liked Peaslake village better than Fulham. I showed them some coloured leaves I had picked for a vase. ‘Our lady picks them like that for her vases,’ they said. They then told me that they had crossed the tree trunk that spread across the path from two high banks.
And one in the river. They were keenly interested when I said I used as a child to put paper boats in the Tillingbourne, hoping they would sail safely to the sea, by the Wey and the Thames. They didn’t know the Tillingbourne water went into the sea. They had just had roast beef at the canteen, and apples and rice.

  Tuesday, 24 October

  To tea three people. Mrs H. spoke of interviewing some of the evacuated mothers here. ‘Poor things, they stand in the street and cry, and say their homes will never be the same again, and what have they to do with this village?’

  Talked with May B. on the phone. She spoke of the excessive demand, freshly in, of income tax on her small income. About one hundred and seventy pounds on four hundred! She says it just can’t be paid. All over the country these demands must be ignored, especially in retrospection. A mistake has been made by the Exchequer; the tax will paralyse trade, paralyse individuals, and create more unemployment. May thinks that the government is doing all sorts of foolish things in its attempt to appear prepared this time. Why could not the evacuation, for instance, have been purely voluntary? Why pool all butter, bacon, fats and so on, and charge so little per pound that the poor trader will be forced out of existence, by making hardly any profit? May is busy with the eternal anti-gas arrangements at Aldershot, organising decontamination squads, etc.

  Wednesday, 25 October

  Ribbentrop’s speech is a mass of nonsense.35

  Thursday, 26 October

  Christmas things, rather half-heartedly displayed in the shops, give one a queer feeling. ‘This war may last thirty years if it is not going to have any big offensive’ was the remark I heard, passing from one man to the other in the High Street.

  Friday, 27 October

  Two letters came in by evening post from Harry. Splendid. I wrote him two letters today which was half-a-crown well and truly spent.36