Tuesday, 17 December
Letters in at last from Rhodesia. Our letters took two months to get out to them, and theirs one month back to me. They welcome Harry and are so kind. Lucky Harry! I hope his ship is out of the danger zone.
Wednesday, 18 December
Frost and fog this morning. The R—s were coming to tea, but wrote to say that their elder boy, RAF, whom Robin met last week, had been killed in the air. The husband has been waiting for a boat to India for months, but must be glad to be in England now, to comfort the poor, broken-hearted mother.
Harrods’ man came with some orders. He told Doris that he had been bombed out of his home, and his missus had been killed. Columns of docile Italian prisoners are marching about in the desert. They do not try to escape. But obviously the Italians never dreamt they would have to retreat. The slightly malicious story is going round military circles in London, that when GHQ Egypt asked for 50,000 sandbags from England, they were sent filled.
Thursday, 19 December
The Greeks are fighting in appalling weather. ‘Conditions at the front,’ says a Times special correspondent in Albania, ‘are almost tougher than can be endured by men who had been softened by the life of modern cities before they turned soldiers. If it were just plain snow or plain cold or plain wind . . . but the three combined, and the high peaks with their rarified air, make it a white hell. It is worst for the Italians, with their heavy equipment.’
Mrs P. told me more of her sister-in-law’s flight from Paris just before the Germans entered. They took eleven days to get to a port. Crowds of refugees were lost and separated, and in certain shop windows agonised notices were placed asking for news.
Shere is humming with traffic as I write in the softly falling grey evening. What would I not give to have a talk with my cousin Alice by the fire? But she is in bleak Edinburgh this afternoon, giving a wedding reception for her daughter Dulcie, who is marrying a brilliant young soldier with examinations before him when he emerges from the army.
The streets of Rome, I read, are thronged today with German officers and men. High German officers are crowding into big Rome hotels, where they very curtly demand special service.
Olive130 has just rushed in to say that Miss Scott in the flat below reports that our light is showing in the kitchen window.
Friday, 20 December
Mrs Heath came in. She had had a terrible time, she told us, in her Sydenham flat. Apparently their blocks stood on a hill. The other block was smashed by a direct hit one October evening at seven-fifteen. Their own flat had doors blown in, windows blown out, and they could not stay in it. One girl only (in the top flat) was saved in the other block, and she miraculously slid down the falling wall. Many people were sheltering in the basement, but they were all killed. ‘Such a pile of rubble,’ said Mrs Heath. ‘They only dug out the last body five weeks later.’
Italy is at last, we hope and pray, cracking up. Posters printed on cheap paper have appeared on the walls in Turin, Milan, Genoa, Florence, etc., saying one word, ‘Basta’ (enough). People going to work wrote on them ‘Bene’ (good).
Saturday, 21 December
Basil sent a beautiful Xmas gift to me, an RAMC badge, circular, glittering with bright stones. He refused a chance to take administrative work in India last week, and still hopes for Egypt. He says great preparations are being made for a jolly Xmas with the troops. ‘The officers are giving the beer.’
Sunday, 22 December
Phyl writes amusingly of a War Fare Cookery Week at Bampton, Devon. Robin was very pleased with the idea of children’s cookery dances. One between two teams, the leader of one side, General Slackness, with accompanying demons clearly labelled Stomach-ache, Nightmare, Hiccoughs, Collywobbles; and General Efficiency, whose team would be made up of Delight and Health, Taking Trouble, and Comfortableness. There should be a dancing battle, and the good side produces arrows to slay the rotters. Robin suggests executions for all the demons with a cardboard axe.
I thought of the Nourishing Soup Dance, to be performed by Mesdames Potato, Mutton-Broth and Lentil.
The papers are full of interesting debate about the immediate fate of Italy.
Later: So Christmas dinner is going to be quite different for different Allied soldiers. It is said the Czechs will eat the traditional carp (no doubt elaborately cooked), the Dutch a goose, the Belgians chicken and sweet tarts.
The German troops occupying countries where they are detested must have hard hearts. How can they listen to the strong yet piteous community singing of the Danes, singing national songs, thousands of them, regularly, together, without feelings of distress?
Monday, 23 December
Perishingly cold. We have two huge logs on the fire. Muff, all soft grey, is settling down on a piece of golden-coloured brocade for the evening. The only food I could get for him today was ‘chicken’s ’eads fourpence a pound.’ No fish, no lights.
The butcher says on the phone as regards a joint for Christmas already ordered: ‘We will see if we can find you something of some sort.’
There has been a fearful air raid on Manchester, and one or two dreadfully bad ones on Liverpool. In one a market slab of turkeys was set on fire and some of the birds were cooked to a turn. These, I read, ‘were given to the needy’.
Ellen McR. writes: ‘Donald is home for seven days’ draft leave before going to the Middle East. I am terribly sorry for his parents. None of us is thrilled and neither is Donald. You see, we are all home-loving and not at all military, and this whole time is revolting to us, but what can one do? We are only one family in thousands and very, very grateful to the many brave souls who are defending us, and of course, must carry on and do what we can.’
Christmas Day
I had a marvellous surprise from Harry. It appears he gave Miss Scott, below, some money to buy me ‘white wine and biscuits’. The gift was so magnificent that a chocolate cake from Fullers was included and a tin of shortbread from Harrods. The wine is Barsac and Graves. This delighted me so much, and took away the loneliness a bit.
Went to church, and observed that all the priceless old glass has at last been removed and replaced by plain glass.
Boxing Day
An artist’s palette would only need the most sombre colourings, if he tried to paint a country lane as I have just beheld it. Dark greys and browns and dull greens, even the ivy leaves a subdued hue. The ancient church looked extremely aged and parchment-coloured. I remember how pale and aged the cathedral at Chartres seemed when I looked at it last under a March sky of freedom.
Sherry party. Mr F. asks me if I will sell my piano. He says he can’t find one for the troops. He lent the village hall instrument to the soldiers for Xmas and it was duly returned with five or six notes silent, and a piece of its woodwork inside. Visiting the piano shop in Guildford, he found many, but they were all booked.
So a war-time Christmas ends. The Rector says that, owing to the exodus from London, the parish has doubled in population.
Saturday, 28 December
Harry has now been at sea nineteen days! How I wish I knew just where he was, and how far off that mysterious African coast. He must be under deep blue skies now, I think.
Sunday, 29 December
The planes have been pouring over us all evening. There are fearsome vermillion flashes glancing in the dark skies over London.
Suddenly we see a light, naked and unashamed, at Netley. Somebody has honestly forgotten to turn it off. Robin rushes to the phone to warn the ARP, who reply alertly that they will inform the police.
Monday, 30 December
Ursula and her husband came about one o’clock. He is in the Metropolitan Police and was most interesting. Every other occupant of their block of flats near Battersea Park has gone save the caretaker. Ursula used to sleep at the Lavender Hill Police Station in the bad raids, but now she goes round to a basement at a friend’s flat five minutes away. She hates turning out and leaving her warm hearth. Kenneth has assisted in
many of the fires in his district, helping to dig people out, and says it has been very awful. He thinks one of his hardest tasks has been to evacuate compulsorily the people round about any time-bomb that is due to explode. He says none of them want to get out, and the police have to be very firm: Kenneth, with perhaps half-a-dozen men, putting in his head at the doors. ‘Is everybody out – are you sure nobody is left?’ These people are taken to Rest Centres in the London schools.
Kenneth tells me that although bits of parapets have been bombed, all the bridges are intact. This is pretty wonderful, considering the enemy uses the river as a guide. He said when he hears bombs dropping, he at once becomes anxious about certain factories and power-stations, and when it’s over he satisfies himself that they (and Ursula) are safe, and feels thankful. One of their great friends has been killed in Dolphin Square.
Later: It appears that the raid over London was perfectly devastating. They sent thousands of incendiary bombs hurtling over the City and dozens of fires were blazing for hours. More Wren churches and the Guildhall are gutted.
I am very sad about St Bride’s, Fleet Street, which is damaged fatally. Went to bed very unhappy. Will Winston get angry? The tame little talk on this vast, hateful fire given by the BBC made us feel sick. No details; everything about the bravery of the firemen and the capital way ARP behaved. We should rub in our great irreparable losses. Dr Johnson’s beautiful house in Gough Square has gone. Feel very miserable.
Tuesday, 31 December
The ghosts of Wren and Dr Johnson are tonight pacing the streets of London. Wren has been sorely bereaved. Eight churches were either destroyed or severely damaged in Sunday’s raid. They had many historical and beloved associations, and with one exception were built on the site of ancient churches that perished in the Great Fire. By fire they have perished again.
1941
Thursday, 2 January
It is eight-fifteen and Robin is down in the Village Hall trying to tell some of the Home Guard about map-reading. I am longing for it to be popular, as he badly wants to help and is rather too old to be guarding bridges, etc. (Later: he came back – they were too busy to have the lecture at all.)
What is happening in Switzerland? There is little news.
We now have Hitler’s New Year message to the German people. It is wonderfully blasphemous. He shouts: ‘Because we are fighting for the happiness of the nation, we are convinced that we shall be the first to earn the blessing of Providence. Up to now the Lord God has given his approval to the fight. If we carry out our duty loyally and bravely, he will not desert us in the future.’
Friday, 3 January
May Sinclair131 came to see me at last. We had both been under duress so had not met since her wedding. Her Farnham shop is still struggling on. But she is worried about the future. ‘If I did what the Government wished,’ she said, ‘I would shut up my shop tomorrow. We are throttled by restrictions. We have a quota of goods only . . . I generally sell some specially choice little linen handkerchiefs at Christmas. I went to the warhouse in the City in November to see if I could have my usual supply. They said, “Oh no, merely a quota, a proportion of what you generally have.” I saw a whole stack of them on the shelf. “You haven’t enough?” I questioned. “Oh, we have masses of them, but it is the law.”’ (That warehouse is now burned to the ground.)
She explained how it was that the City warehouses were, many of them, burned out in the Second Fire of London owing to the lack of roof-spotters. Take the case of the great carpet manufacturers she knows near St Paul’s who lost eight thousand pounds worth of carpets in this very great fire. The manager, a friend of hers, is not young, and was almost distracted by the loss of so many of his assistants to the army. He had ten men’s work to do, and also had to contend with all the dislocations war had made in his trade. He is delicate, with a nervy wife down at their home at Westcliff, who wanted him back early to be with her, so he had to leave London by a train that would reach home ere the blackout. How could this tired, worried, overworked man roofspot himself? And he could not obtain reliable fellows that would do it. Possibly he was too dejected to exert himself. Anyway, May thought it was a clear case for the army to take over the roof-work.
Her husband, who executes orders in the printing trade, has had very bad luck lately. Again and again deliveries have been held back through enemy action. You get your order printed and thankfully put it on the train for York at King’s Cross, and then lo, there is an air raid and it’s destroyed, or the train is delayed by air raids and so delivers the goods too late to be any use. Or you can’t get zinc plates for the printing, the supplies have clean run out, etc., etc.
Joy Annett came to tea. Her brother’s factory at Coventry is burnt out and they are taking it some miles out of the town. Looms will be hard to replace.
Unless one talks to business people, one has no idea what is happening all over England. It is very serious.
Sunday, 5 January
Robin very melancholy, what with having seen the Home Guards playing darts, when he would like to have taken them to map-reading, but chiefly with the cutting icy weather. There was a gathering fog as we went off to tea. I was so concerned at his cries about his cold state that I forgot to post my Sunday mail.
Monday, 6 January
Paper full of Bardia.132 Italian officers and armed troops wished to surrender to a car driven through by Richard Dimbleby (a name suggesting a nursery rhyme) of the BBC. Not an Italian who, when interviewed, didn’t say they were sick of war and Mussolini.
Wednesday, 8 January
Two mothers of airmen called on me, both having come down from houses more than a mile away. Both refused tea, cocoa, or ginger wine.
One mother had already lost her son. The other had two flying sons. One has suffered with nerves ever since he crashed badly in the sea. The other was a pacifist, but is now delighted with flying. Brave mothers both, and ready for any blow, but life for one is changed for always, and you can see it in many little ways, though she is so cheerful.
Mrs R. is entertaining two boy evacuees from the East End. They arrived with only one of every garment. They had never used a toothbrush. Their mother, being requested to do something about it, posted one ‘to use between them’.
Mrs S. talked much of food in war-time. She insisted on me writing down a recipe for a war-time pudding made with flour, a little margarine, a pinch of salt, a pinch of sugar, a little milk, rolled into a dough, fried in the frying pan in margarine and served hot with hot jam or stewed fruit. ‘I really will try it.’
Mrs Rossiter has been helping in West Ham shelters. She says conditions are dreadful and it took them five days to get out of the LCC a permit forcibly to remove a woman suffering from tuberculosis.133
Thursday, 9 January
We went to the cinema. In the news we saw various pictures of devastation by air bombing. There was one horrible photograph of Japanese bombing an undefended Chinese city. Just hell, because the fires shown were innumerable, smoking blackly side by side to the sky.
Rushed up and down the High Street to get a Hovis brown loaf, but failed. It was rather uncanny going into baker after baker and seeing the shelves entirely bare.
Friday, 10 January
The papers begin to be full of the difficulties of small businesses in the City with regard to providing roof-spotters. Hundreds of them have written to the British Legion hoping to secure ex-servicemen at £4 a week. But there are not nearly enough old soldiers to go round. Others have offered as much as £1 a night, to unemployed men with no firefighting qualifications. But the majority cannot afford even £4.
A heroic Pole, whose name should be written here, Henry Brun, chairman of the Association of Polish Merchants, and one of the leading business men of Poland, was tortured to death by the Gestapo after consistently refusing to sign an appeal for funds for the benefit of the Volksdeutsche of Warsaw. ‘There is no power in the world,’ he said, ‘which can make me ask my business colleagues to pay a
ransom for the benefit of our German enemies.’
Saturday, 11 January
I hear from Muriel that Peter, her army son returning on leave, was obliged to sleep on a floor at Waterloo station in freezing cold.
Sunday, 12 January
In the afternoon to call upon poor, pretty Mrs C.,134 who has recently lost her sailor husband. He was knocked down in the blackout in a certain Scottish port, and found with a fractured skull. He died after she got there.
Monday, 13 January
The situation on the kitchen front is precarious. The bit of lamb we had given us as a tremendous favour will last out for just four meals of the fourteen we have to put in, because we have a man in the house. With women only, it would do seven. I think I can get enough eggs, owing to a long and staunch friendship with my cook’s mother, who sells them, for it to be eggs every night, and we must try for a bunny rabbit, but ‘I can’t promise’ sounds down every phone in Shere. Never a fish in the fishmongers, and ‘Not so much as a bone!’ hoarsely whispers the melancholy butcher with laryngitis.
Just going to have tea and toast and jam.
Tuesday, 14 January
Started for Barbara’s, longing first to hear from Harry of his safe arrival. In the train to Reading I talked with a soldier. He said bread is rationed at tea where he is, just two large doorsteps. In the evening, nothing. So he and a group of pals in his hut subscribe for some loaves, and have a kettle and make themselves cocoa. It saves a lot of money, for going into the town and having supper is expensive.
On to Didcot, where Barbara was waiting for me. It was lovely to be back by her rich fire of wood and coal in the oak-beamed house. Blewbury is full of people who have fled out of London, and Sir William Nicolson, the portrait-painter, is installed in a studio hard by.135 He came in after tea. He has painted Winston down in Kent at Chartwell. He says he is a fine sitter. He does not like them to be too still, or ‘they come out wooden in the picture’.
Mrs Miles's Diary Page 14
