Love in the Blitz

by Eileen Alexander

  Wednesday 1 December My darling, Joyce & Bernard have just left. When I got home this evening I had the most horrifying emotional experience, my dear love, – horrifying because it was a moment of real insanity. When I found that there weren’t any letters for me, my darling, I had an almost (but, thank God, not quite) uncontrollable urge to do myself some physical violence, (Banging my head against the wall was what occurred to me at the time, my love) to shift the terrible emotional pain inside me. Do you understand, my darling? The effort of self-control was so terrific, darling, that I feel now as though all the blood had been drained away from my body.

  Fortunately, my dear love, no special social effort was required of me this evening. Bernard was watching too intently for opportunities for a little Discreet Mollocking and Joyce was telling us about her presents with more animation than I’ve seen her display over anything this many a long year.

  Thursday 2 December Joyce & Bernard are spending their honeymoon in Skye, my darling, in MacLeod of MacLeod’s Castle. Bernard threatens to Go Away after their wedding in a brown bowler and to spend his honeymoon in a Kilt. He does not, for the present, propose to Pedal Away on his bicycle with Joyce on the Carrier but no doubt the thought will strike him sooner or later. I distrust the whole atmosphere of this Strange Union.

  My darling, letter 195 was waiting for me when got home & it created order out of chaos so that I shall be able to sleep tonight. My dear love, as you say, you know how I am. I am sick with love – but I love my sickness, my darling, and I wouldn’t be without it for the world.

  Wednesday 8 December I’m so profoundly sick of the Air Ministry, my darling, that I’m going to take half a day’s leave on Tuesday afternoon. Mr Murray’s going has crystallized my loathing of the Civil Service, my darling. As long as he was there I felt I had a friend who, like me, looked upon the humanities as the most important things in life after personal relationships & to whom I could always go with my anxieties & intellectual Discoveries & hopes & fears. I’m very fond of Mr Needham & Kitty & Pamela & Mr Ormond is a pleasant soul but it’s not the same thing, darling.

  Saturday 11 December Letter 199 was waiting for me when I got home. In it you say: ‘… when you sink into the depths of depression because Felicity Boon isn’t as conscious of the mystical significance of the Double Bed as you are, I feel it very hard to feel or to offer you sympathy, as personally I don’t care two hoots what Felicity Boon thinks about anything, particularly anything which is as peculiarly her own business as the choice of a bed.’ It’s cost me something to write that out, darling, because when I read it I felt as though you’d slapped my face hard & suddenly & now I feel it all over again. I think there’s a good deal that you’ve forgotten about me, darling, as you’d have realized that it was not in my nature to share a small room for 9 hours a day with a person without being affected by what they say & think. Remember, darling, that I was easily hurt even when I was with you & the bloom of happiness & spiritual peace was on me. Now I have a raw & open wound in my breast & the slightest pin-prick hurts me unbearably. In a way I’m glad you don’t worry about my despair, my darling, but in a way I’m sorry because it shows that you will never know the depth of my love (and I want you to know that, my darling) because you can’t know it unless you can understand precisely what it means to me to have to be separated from you. You see, darling, if you did know you would worry because you’d realize how thin a veil separates me from insanity.

  Of course, darling, I’ve never heard anything so fantastic as your remark that there is nothing you can do about my despair. The Lord giveth – the Lord taketh away – by a single word you can set my heart singing & my eyes shining with joy. Please, please, my love, don’t write to me when you’re tired. Your letters never make me happy then & sometimes they cause me unspeakable pain.

  Monday 13 December Darling, Mr Ryman, the Goldsmith, hasn’t got any showrooms only offices. He showed unmistakable respect for a Girl who wouldn’t wear Utility Gold & refused to be Fobbed Off with Platinum. When I got into his Inner Sanctum, my darling, he opened an enormous safe and got out a lot of little tobacco tins labelled ‘18 carat gold’ ‘22 carat gold’ ‘15 carat gold’ etc. He opened the 22 carat gold tin, my darling, & poured onto the table a wonderful assortment of watch-chain links, bits of pre-historic wedding rings & watch cases & little lumps of twisted metal. He asked me to choose any piece of gold whose colour pleased me, darling, & I chose a reddish lump & he weighed it & said that he could get a wedding ring out of it, he thought. Then darling, he showed me hundreds of drawings – a dazzling display. Finally, I saw one exactly right. Last of all he took my finger measurement, darling, & said the ring would be ready in a fortnight. Then he asked me what I wanted in the way of engraving inside, my darling, & I thought ‘Gershon-Eileen’ & then I wrote out a cheque for £3. 8/-, my very dear lord, & now please may I have my husband?

  Wednesday 15 December Darling, I forgot to tell you I came home in a taxi the other night, & when I got out & paid the fare the driver said chattily that last time he’d been to our house was at 11 o’clock at night a couple of years ago when he’d brought a fare who had Knocked & Rung most Positively without achieving any results. Finally he gave it up, darling & asked the taxi driver to go to the nearest call box & ring Primrose 5220 & say that Mr Hore-Belisha wanted to be Let In. ‘I knew who you wos, Sir, the moment I set eyes on you,’ the driver said. He said, ‘and ’e says to me with rather a sad little smile. “Well, what do you think of things, driver?” And I sez: “Ah sir, if they’d let you finish wot you started we’d be doing better than wot we are,” and then I telephoned & they let ’im in and ’e stayed for a couple of hours & I sat & waited for him. When he came out, I took ’im ’ome and he asked me in for a drink and we ’ad a long talk. ’E’s a fine man & there isn’t a working man in the country that doesn’t wish ’e was back.’

  I saw in this morning’s paper, darling, that Deanna Durbin had got her divorce apparently on the grounds that her husband always switched off the wireless when she wanted to listen to concerts! Oh! darling, & we have the temerity to believe that we are living in a civilized age.

  Saturday 18 December My darling, I spent my ’bus journey this morning Examining my Conscience. I went back over all the old ground, darling, starting from the time when I first realized that Joan was being unfaithful to Ian with Captain Sims. In the early stages, my love, I remembered only compassion & understanding in my attitude – no censure, just sorrow that the weight of circumstances had been too much for her – but looking back at the later stages of our rift, my darling, – the time of Captain Sims last innings and the incidence of Robert, I realized that there had been a serious change in my attitude. I had imperceptibly drifted from Compassion to Self-Righteous Moral Indignation & now I wonder whether, if I hadn’t felt so Morally Superior I couldn’t have helped her more. You see, my darling, I have no right to be Morally Superior. It is so easy for me to be chaste & faithful – I am quite sexless as far as other men are concerned & yet I sat in judgement on Joan & she’s not the only person on whom I have sat in judgement. Let him that is without sin cast the first stone. You see, my darling, I owe my sexual chastity to you just as I owe everything else that is good in me to you.

  Darling, Pan is a Hopeless Case. He telephoned this morning & Mum asked him how he’d got on (meaning that she wondered how he’d done in his end-of-term exams) and he said carelessly: ‘Oh! Not too good.’ ‘What do you mean not too good?’ said Mum. ‘How did you get on in Spanish?’ ‘Oh! I was top in Spanish.’ ‘And what about your other subjects?’ ‘Well, I was top in all of them too.’ ‘Well,’ said Mum, a little exasperated, ‘what on earth do you mean by Not Too Good?’ ‘Oh!’ said Pan, Surprised, ‘I wasn’t talking about Trials, I was referring to yesterdays Rugger practice.’!!!

  Sunday 19 December On Saturday, darling, Pamela & I were alone in our room for the afternoon & she began very shyly & diffidently to talk about her marriage. She said,
my darling, that while she had flu & was whisked away to her mother’s flat she suddenly realized with overwhelming panic how utterly dependent on her husband she was – being away from him was like being shut in a room with no sun & no air. She said, my darling, that on her wedding night she’d been a little frightened & she’d suddenly noticed that her husband was frightened too & realized how much a part of one another they were & had felt a wave of happiness & exultation unlike anything she’d ever known before. She realized, darling, that love was stronger than she was and it gave her a tremendous sense of having suddenly taken on a grave & solemn responsibility. That’s why she looked anxious & preoccupied in the early months of her marriage, my darling. Oh! I know how she felt because it is an Awe-inspiring discovery to find that you are possessed by something so much more tremendous than yourself – but it’s a discovery that I made long before my marriage, my dear love.

  Monday 20 December I am not looking forward to Joyce’s wedding tomorrow, my darling. It will be like watching a rather heartless drawing-room comedy – and when I think of it, the words of Blake’s sad little lyric hums in my ears. ‘My silks and fine array – my smiles and languished air – by love are driven away – and mournful, lean despair – brings me yew to deck my grave – such end true lovers have.’23 Aubrey described the engagement of Joyce & Bernard as a Merger, my darling. I would rather call it a cool, well-bred Gentleman’s Agreement.

  Tuesday 21 December My darling, this has been a Gruelling day. Dr Minton having once Got Me into his Lair, my love, Put me Through It. He said that the whole of the back of my nose was blocked with two prongs of broken bone and the result was a formidable accumulation of catarrh. He warned me, my darling, that it would probably mean a small operation which would incapacitate me for a fortnight or so & sooth to say, my love, I’m anxious to have it done as quickly as possible so as to be quite well by the time you come home or I get my job with the British Consul, as the case may be.

  I got back very late for lunch, my darling, & only just had time to have a bath and change into silk stockings, my black dress with the tartan collar & my new hat. We were able to get a taxi to the synagogue, my darling, & we arrived early & exchanged conversational gambits with the Salamans, Col. Samuel, Hetty Sebag Montefiore, Neville Laski & others. The service, my darling, was printed with a full translation and I liked the form of it so much that I shall keep it as a model for our own, my very dear love. I didn’t have any feelings at all about Joyce & Bernard during the marriage service or afterwards, my darling. I felt absolutely impersonal about the whole thing.

  Afterwards, darling we went to the reception in a taxi with Colonel Samuel & he confessed that weddings & military marches always made him cry. The most embarrassing occasion, he told us, my love, was the Victory March after the last war, in which he bestrode a Recalcitrant white horse over which he had no control whatsoever and the tears poured down his face.

  Joyce looked extremely beautiful, my darling. She wore very rich cloth of gold which fell about her more like moulded draperies than a dress & she had a deep border of heavy lace at the bottom of her veil. Ursula was Eclipsed & she knew it. She wore dark red velvet and a little Juliet cap – rather theatrical but pretty – but the most Beautiful Thing of all, my darling, was to see Matthew & his wife together. Fore God! If they stood back to back they’d span the Thames. There they were – their outsized Sam Brown’s straining at the buckles – Her vast Bosom jutting outwards like the Prow of a Great Ship – their faces having some of the Spherical Benignity of the Moon. Fascinating, my love. I could hardly take my eyes off them.

  Wednesday 22 December My darling, I’m lunching with Joan Wilson at the Churchill Club today. I hope she doesn’t tell me any more of the Sordid Details of her brief marriage because I feel far too heavily burdened with sorrows of my own to be able to bear hers as well. As one of the people who have the educational future of England in their hands, she’s just a jest in rather poor taste – as a living, breathing, sentient human being, she’s an emotional mess.

  I asked her, by the way, darling, if there were any openings for Civilians in Army Education or adult education generally at the moment & she said that they were simply crying out for people with my sort of interests & aptitudes & that, if you come home & I resigned from the Air Ministry she’d put me in touch with the people concerned. Oh! darling, darling, if only you were able to know with some semblance of precision what is likely to happen to you within the next few months’ time there is so much I could be doing in preparation for your return. I was so grateful to Joan for having shown me some beauty that I asked her to dinner tonight.

  Later: Joan gave me lots of interesting information during the evening, darling. She’s very enthusiastic about me lecturing in the London Area & wants to get things moving at once – but, of course, my darling I must hang on at the Air Ministry until I know where you are likely to be in the course of the next few months.

  Monday 27 December You know, darling, I really don’t like Mr Melville. I went into him this afternoon about something and murmured conversationally that I supposed he’d be taking a day’s leave instead of today & he said oh! no he wouldn’t. I remarked that I thought he was unwise & pointed out that Mr Murray’s policy of unremitting industry over a period of years had brought him a nervous breakdown which had necessitated 6 months’ sick leave. He said callously, my darling, that Mr Murray needn’t have slaved as he did in the Private Office. He needed only to ask for extra staff to get it. It was clear, darling, that Mr Melville had little use for men who were oblivious of self-interest. He’s an unscrupulous careerist.

  I’m going to see Farquhar’s Recruiting Sergeant at the Arts with Miss Bradbrook tomorrow evening, my dear love. I think I shall enjoy that.

  Tuesday 28 December Miss Bradbrook has just told me that The Recruiting Sergeant is off & that they’re doing a modern Norwegian play about the sunny side of life – at least, my love, it’s got a title something like that but Miss Bradbrook says Gloomily that it’s probably just a piece of Ironic Symbolism – she’s never come across a Norwegian writer yet who wrote about anything but the Darkest Places of the Soul. ‘If you have any Christmas Spirit,’ she said. ‘Prepare to Shed it Now’.

  Mr Melville sent for me to talk about my work. It was a long, long, session, my love. I agreed that I was apathetic about the work, darling. He said he was going to make it his business to give me work that was more inspiring & asked if there was anything I would specially like doing. I surveyed the whole field of S9’s responsibilities, darling, but couldn’t find a grain of Inspiration anywhere. Mr Melville did the absolutely unpardonable thing at one stage, my love, in saying that S9 had a reputation as one of the most inefficient Branches in the Ministry & that we must all help in Redeeming a Good Name, Damn his impudence, my dear. It just isn’t true. He’s determined to wrap Mr Murray’s name in a dark cloud so that he can later take the credit for Rehabilitating his Branches. He sees us all not as Mr Murray saw us as people with hopes & inspirations & dreams & loves & philosophies of our own but as Material to be exploited to the best possible advantage.

  My darling, I got home late from the Theatre and I found letter 203 which is a continuation of letter 202 which is still to come.

  Oh! My darling, you must be very, very sure of your homecoming to say that you’re ‘almost as sure as sure can be that in the event of (my) being offered a job with the British Council (I) would have to turn it down’. I can hardly take it in as a possibility, my dear love. It’s like a wishfulfillment dream. I am afraid of waking up.

  I enjoyed my evening with Miss Bradbrook, my darling. The play was a Tragi-Comedy called On the Sunny Side of the Street & it was pleasantly inane. Miss Bradbrook described it as a psychological Dance of the Seven Veils, my darling, & she certainly Has Something There. After the theatre, my love, we had supper at a Greek Restaurant off Leicester Square & Miss Bradbrook told me that your old Flame, Miss Robertson, had resigned from the
Junior Bursarship & was going to Rehabilitate Europe. ‘Poor Europe’, she added sadly & parenthetically.

  Wednesday 29 December Pan has just telephoned to say that letter 202 is waiting for me at home. Oh! My very dear love, the knowledge that there’s something to go home for will carry me through the day on wings.

  Oh! darling, I just can’t take in the implication of the miraculous possibility of our being together in 2½ months’ time at all. I can’t believe it. I read the words over and over and over again. I read them out loud in a whisper & in a shout. I read them to Mum & Pa to make sure that they sounded the same in company as they sounded in a room empty of everyone except me. I reminded myself, my very dear love, that there were at least Seven Types of Ambiguity and I asked myself whether this sentence belonged to any of them or to other types not considered by Empson but oh! darling, darling, even after all this the words still seemed to say: ‘with any luck I should be home within three months’. Of course, my darling, they meant far more than just that. They meant a Spring wedding with primroses and crisp Scottish air for our honeymoon & release from the bondage of despair & frustration. They meant life, my darling, a new & lovely life for us together with a fresh start as far as work is concerned & death to the weariness, the fever and the fret of separation. 2½ months are nothing, my very dear love. Once I know that at the end of that time I shall be in your arms again they will dissolve like frost on a window pane when you press a warm hand against it. I feel as though I were suspended on a column of air an inch or two above my bed, my darling. I can’t, I can’t apprehend the idea of so much joy. I feel as I felt the day you asked me to marry you.

  Thursday 30 December Darling, letter 204 arrived this morning. Of course it isn’t difficult for me to Obey your Esteemed Instructions and Pull Myself Together when the air is tingling with hope.