Of course I’ll be home for Pop’s birthday – I know what I’m going to buy him too. So does he, if he thinks a little.
Love,
Philip
1 Orwell had spoken at the English Club.
7 March 1943
125 Walton St, Oxford
Dear Mop & Pop
I feel very special this morning, as I am dressed in a white shirt – my exam shirt, you recollect. The sun is shinely [sic] and bright, and I am aware of clouds of work on the horizon. I am very sorry I only sent you 1 postcard last week: I spend my time doing many things which seem important and have no time to write to anybody, except Sunday morning which I set aside especially for the purpose.
This paper is a little battered, but it has been lying under a pile of books and papers. I found it while setting my books in order this morning. I can assure you I am not going about in holes – I darned 2 pairs last Tuesday with great satisfaction. Only not having any khaki wool I had to darn in grey.
I’m sorry I didn’t send the poems to you, if you’d been expecting them – Kitty grumpily acknowledged them: “I feel miserable enough without having poems like that come.” […]
My bookplate arouses dislike – apparently it is the official Star of David. On the wave of Anti Semitism that is almost bound to come after the war I may be hung up on the nearest lamppost. To me it’s no more Jewish than a verse of the Bible. But people don’t seem to like it.
I think I should like to go out & walk now – get some of God’s air into my lungs, ah hah! (violent fit of coughing). All good wishes & much love – are my bulbs coming up yet?
Philip
16 May 1943
125 Walton St, Oxford
Dear Mop & Pop,
Time runs on, and the weather seems settled in a groove of summer. I am wearing my red trousers defiantly and daringly, but not killing myself with work. Everything is very peaceful. I must say, the dark glasses are a great help against hay fever. My nose has snuffles, my throat itches slightly, but as yet I haven’t experienced the real blitzkrieg of sneezing that I usually associate with May & June. The Lord be praised. Aldous Huxley can go to the devil.
There is very little to tell you as far as events go. I have tickets for Emlyn Williams’ production of “Night Must Fall” at the New Theatre next week, and am rather interested to see how it wears after all these years.1 I don’t expect you enjoyed “Holiday Inn”2 very much, if I’m thinking of the right film.
The cake situation is worse than I had imagined, for after standing in the Cadena queue yesterday for half an hour I staggered out with bloodshot eyes clutching two “trifles” and a couple of currant buns. I then bought a very sad-looking lettuce. “It’s got a good heart,” said the shopkeeper, pinching it cruelly, like a warder speaking of a prisoner’s conduct. I bought it out of pity, and gave it Mrs Burchell to revive, with instructions to make 6 sandwiches with it. I now hear she is very alarmed because she thinks I want sandwiches for six from it. This illusion will be cruelly shattered when she comes to clear the breakfast things. The tea is for my intelligent friend, Bruce Montgomery, but I am expecting him to forget.
The proofs of “Oxford Poetry” are done; I have only got 3 in: the two Arabesque ones and a third, inferior one. The book should be out in a couple of months.3
Is Pop finding anything to read these days? I should imagine the papers provide a good deal of amusement. Everyone here is very pleased with the news, and I must say I’m glad Africa is disposed of.4 I don’t fancy England being left to the protection of the Home Guard, though.
Well, I must work. It’s a beautiful Sunday: hope you manage to get out in these days for a little. I expect at this very minute Pop is bowling along like a sea god, somewhere in the vicinity of Barford.5
Love to both,
Philip
1 It was first produced in 1935.
2 A 1942 film directed by Mark Sandrich, starring Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire, with music by Irving Berlin, including ‘White Christmas’.
3 ‘I dreamed of an out-thrust arm of land’, ‘Mythological Introduction’ and ‘A Stone Church Damaged by a Bomb’ appeared in June 1943 in Oxford Poetry 1942–3, edited by Ian Davie.
4 In early May Tunis and Bizerte fell to the Allies, and the Axis forces in North Africa surrendered; 230,000 prisoners of war were taken.
5 Village about three miles south of Warwick. Sydney was a keen cyclist.
27 May 1943
Postcard
125 Walton St, Oxford
A terrible breakfast, that Philip identified as eels, at present reposes in a cardboard box waiting to be disposed of. Ain’t we naughty? The weather continues showery & I feel slightly ill owing to the proximity of Finals. 3 weeks today! Unk! On second thoughts I think it must be the eels. Kitty wrote.
– my new animal. Can’t draw him on a small scale.1
Love: Philip
1 Larkin abandons the fish image of the previous letters, and this is the first appearance of the ‘creature’ which will feature in his letters to Eva for the remainder of her life, and also in letters to Patsy Strang and Monica Jones. See James Booth, ‘The Origins of Larkin’s “Creature”’, About Larkin 40 (October 2015), 9–11, and Philip Pullen, ‘No Villainous Mother: The Life of Eva Larkin’, in Dale Salwak (ed.), Writers and Their Mothers (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), 81–95.
30 May 1943
125 Walton St, Oxford
Dear Mop and Pop,
[…] I came the nearest to literary success this week I have ever been, when Bruce Montgomery had a novel accepted by Victor Gollancz.1 I read the terms of acceptance with bated breath. £50 advance on royalties. It’s a detective novel, written in 10 days. £5 a day, I realise, by a swift brilliant, and untoward mathematical calculation. Nice, eh?
Mop will be interested to hear I still wear nearly as many clothes as in winter. And hayfever has started again, like Hell. I wear the darkened spectacles and carry a battery of handkerchiefs, keeping indoors as far as possible, but twice a day I have to endure a blitz of sneezing and eye-smarting.
Still, you have heard all this before.
News is absolutely lacking. I fiddle at my work. At present I am in a sleepy sea of optimism. I think I am certain to get some degree of a second class, and no matter how hard I work I shall never get a first, so there’s no point in working hard. Or so I think.
I ought to dash off a line or so to Kitty (yes, I really mean it this time) so I’ll draw this brevity shorter. […]
Much love,
Philip
1 The Case of the Gilded Fly (1944).
6 June 1943
125 Walton St, Oxford
Dear Mop & Pop,
[…] Bruce has been having a good deal of fun with Gollancz, swearing the book contains no libellous matter, and trying to think up a new title. He is writing it under a pen-name – Edmund Crispin, did I tell you? I may remark that the new “Arabesque” is out, and is so much better than the old one that I deeply regret not having printed anything in it. But poetry has departed and gone away …
I suppose I shall be in the Civil Service before the year is out. I can’t say the thought gives me overmuch pleasure: the best thing about it is that it’s temporary … No prospects. I s’ll starve after the war, urrrgh.
I think I must write to Kitty now: she wants to spend a holiday in Oxford, apparently, with Walter,1 and she wants the names of hotels. I, unfortunately, can’t remember their names – only “that-one-opposite-the-New-Bodleian” etc.
Much love & kisses to both –
Philip
1 Walter Hewett, whom Kitty was to marry on 12 August 1944.
11 June 1943
125 Walton St, Oxford
Dear Mop,
Here is a noisome (noisesome?) parcel of Light Washing. For many years I have foreborne to send you anything, but now the laundry flatly admits it hasn’t called for a fortnight & won’t call for another week, and I am frankly OUT of handkerchiefs. It is an awful p
osition. If you could do the handkerchiefs and return them as soon as possible, I should be most grateful.
It is less than a week till the exam now. I am awfully frightened. […]
Love,
Philip
20 June 1943
125 Walton Street, Oxford
Dear Mop & Pop,
Well, I hope you are feeling set up after your jaunt to Sheffield, and I expect at this minute (11.6 a.m.) you are prowling around the scullery while Pop is whirling among the lanes on his bike. I am enjoying a brief – very brief – respite from the blitz of examinations. Thank you for your letter of encouragement on Thursday morning – they put the time-table up on Wednesday, of all the [illegible]. I was very afraid on Thursday morning.
How I have done:
Thursday.
Old English – not very well: I should imagine γ or β−
Middle English – slightly better: β− or β.
Friday.
Chaucer – very bad in parts, better in others. β− or β.
Eng. Lit. 1400–1700 – better: β or β+.
Saturday.
General paper. – Fair: β+, I hope.
So you see, as far as I can judge, my marks are in general a second class. I have moments of panic when I think I shall be “thirded” and moments of foolish optimism when I think the examiners might give me a first out of sheer diablerie, but on the whole I think a steady β indicates my level. The exam is held in the Sheldonian Theatre, if you care to look that up in the Oxford book: a big, round building. There is a sea of women, and a little thin file of men down one side of the room – 6 of us in all out of 70 or 80.
Other news there is none, except that I had an airgraph from Colin Gunner – of course, you sent it me – saying he has arrived safely in Tunis and was bathing in the Mediterranean. Philip Brown has found digs for next term, and we still don’t know what to give Mrs Burchell when we go.
Yes, bring Auntie N.1 by all means. Can you come for the day on Tuesday? (that is the 29th, I think – is it?) But I might pass on a warning which is circulating here – don’t come if the R.A.F. bomb Rome. If they do, I am more likely to come and see you, as soon as possible. Otherwise, come and be welcomed.
Best of wishes and love to both of you. I must now return to my bewks.
Philip
1 Nellie Day (‘Auntie Nellie’), the widow of Eva Larkin’s only brother Arthur Day (1888–1941), lived in Ashton-under-Lyne at this time, later moving to Hyde. She and Eva were firm friends.
24 June 1943
125 Walton St, Oxford
Dear Mop & Pop,
Oh dear! Oh dear! Oh dear! Having gently prepared you for my getting a second, I feel I shall have to prepare you for a third or lower. I didn’t do at all well on Monday or Tuesday. Monday in particular – two literary papers that I ought to have done well – I felt sluggish and mentally incapable so that I handed in two gamma or near gamma papers at the end. Tuesday was better, but I knew the morning’s paper (Modern English – language) would be hell and it was. The Spenser-and-Milton paper in the afternoon was much nicer, and I wrote like a mad thing from start to finish.
But altogether I feel anything but optimistic, when I think of the garbled, inaccurate, thin, drivelling, facetious, misinformed rubbish I showed up. Beware! Thirds are given, and I may get one.
No more now. I’ll book a table for lunch at the Randolph for 4 unless I hear otherwise. Thank you for your long and delightful letter. Glad you had a nice time at Sheffield. No news about Civil Service. Yes, 2 handkerchiefs received.
Love,
P.
7 July 1943
Telegram1
Warwick
APPARENTLY I HAVE GOT A FIRST PHILIP
1 Addressed to Miss C. Larkin, 13 Cedar Rd, Loughborough.
8 September 1943
Typescript1
[73 Coten End, Warwick]
Women’s Mineworkers
Appointment Dept.
Ref. No.: Y7844.
Warwick.
8.9.43.
Dear Madam,
We have to inform you that you have been drafted to the Colliery at Pwllycracrach, Mon., for light duties at the shafthead and also in the pit itself. You will present yourself to the Manager of the Dowlais Pit, Pwyllycracrach, on September 13th, for further instructions. Enclosed please find a travelling warrant. (We can’t).
Yours faithfully,
K.W. Ellis [holograph]
Staff Appointments
Officer.
P.S. Well, I hope you are having a pleasant time at the old place and that this didn’t give you too much of a turn. I have got to go for an interview at Bletchley next Wednesday so I am shaping fair to be a Civil Servant of the genre Sadie.2 You know 8–4, 4–12, 12–8 shifts. Oh God. There is nothing very much to say except that we went to see “Casablanca” last night and I enjoyed it no end, even at the third seeing. I adore Humphrey Bogart. Oh, and I also had a tooth out ur-hur-hur. It ached quite a deal and so I went along and complained. He tapped it gravely and said: “Mm, it ought to have cleared up by now. Just step into the other room and I’ll take it out.”
P.
1 In an officially labelled manilla envelope: ‘On His Majesty’s Service’, but with stamp, addressed in type to ‘Miss C. E. Larkin, 73, Coten End, WARWICK’, the direction crossed out and ‘c/o Eastgate Hotel, High Street, Oxford’ written in ink.
2 It seems that, with his recent Oxford first, Larkin was being considered for code-breaking work. ‘Sadie’ remains obscure.
1 December 1943
Alexander House, New Church Road, Wellington, Salop.1
Wednesday
Dear Mop & Pop,
Just a short note to indicate my best address, as no one seems sure if the correct number is 40 or 110 …
We are on the telephone – Wellington, 594.
Worked this morning 9–10.15 then went off to the doctor who was too busy to see me, and asked me to call again tonight. So I wrote for an hour or so at home.
Mr Bennett2 is a charming old man, and has assured me that Cecil Roberts3 is a very fine writer. I agreed. He seems in no hurry to relinquish the reins of office or to let me do much. I agreed to this also.
Mr Buttrey4 called & said a few words. From his hints the whole of the W.E.A.5 seem to have been trying to find me rooms, and he mentions several other shadowy figures who are aiming to meet me – the W.E.A. Secretary, the Grammar School Headmaster, and the County Librarian at Shrewsbury, one Mr Adams. Mrs Buttery thinks 2 gns excessive for the room I have, and I think so too after being awoken at 7.0 a.m. by the news, the screaming of a child, the thumping of heavy-footed men about the house, and Harry James’ Orchestra later on. Nevertheless I get the impression that a powerful organisation is planning to find rooms for me.
I visited Bruce in Shrewsbury yesterday, and wept at the contrast: the enormous beautiful school, set among avenues of rich houses, the regal view of the town from the hill, the classrooms & the bellowing voices from them – and the house he lives in! Sumptuous ain’t the word. Like two Wear Giffards rolled into one.6 I had to sit and watch him eat his dinner – 3 courses – served from silver dishes by a uniformed maid on a table polished so highly I daren’t put the bottle of beer he gave me down on it. He pays 2 gns too, which made me writhe with envy. He is one of the rich in spirit who will always have a happy lot.
As far as I can see, the evening 6–8 hours are the snag of this job. I really don’t see why the reading room can’t close at 8 too instead of dragging on till 8.30. I suppose changes to fit the librarian’s convenience won’t be sanctioned by the Committee …
Mrs Jones, tell Pop, made some remark about joining a Friendly Society re Health Insurance – I suppose the N.A.L.G.O. ranks as one of these?7
Tell Mop my heart was with her when the sirens went this morning.8
With all love,
Philip
1 Larkin had been appointed librarian in Wellington, Shropshire from 1 December.
2 The elderly ‘librarian-caretaker’ who Larkin replaced had been in post since the library first opened forty years earlier in 1903. See Larkin’s essay ‘Single-handed and Untrained’, Required Writing, 32.
3 Cecil Roberts (1892–1976): prolific journalist, poet, dramatist, novelist and autobiographer.
4 Chairman of the Wellington Library Committee.
5 Workers’ Educational Association.
6 Eva had stayed in ‘Wear Giffard’, Cliff Hill, Warwick, during the bombing in 1940.
7 National Association of Local Government Officers. See Sydney’s letter of 2 December 1943, Appendix.
8 See Eva’s letter of 5 December 1943, Appendix, pp. 561–2.
5 December 1943
Alexander House, 40 New Church Road, Wellington, Salop.
Sunday
Dear Mop & Pop,
I suppose I should give you a coherent account of this place, now I have been here some time. On the whole, it is not too bad, at least at present.
I get to the library by 9, to find Mr Bennett already in full possession – at what unearthly hour he gets there I don’t know. But that is a hangover from the days when he was caretaker as well as librarian. We potter about together till about 11 o’clock, him doing most of the work, and I sorting the previous day’s tickets. I have become quite fond of him; he is a kind, gentlemanly, humorous old chap, given to anecdotes and humming a few notes (always the same tune) in a blowing fashion, like a distant trombone. Then we leave the library, and I return here for lunch and meditation. From 3–5 and 6–8 we are open to the public, and that is the principal work of the day. At 5 o’clock he eats his tea there, and I go off to a slatternly café full of soldiers for coffee and spam sandwiches. At 8 I knock off, leaving him to lock up and close the reading room. After eating my supper I lounge till 10.30 or 11, when I go to bed.
Philip Larkin Page 15
