Eileen Alexander - Love in the Blitz

Thursday 18 July Sheila & Allan are coming to dinner tonight. I haven’t heard from Sheila since she went into a Swoon over Hamish’s engagement on the telephone the other night. I’m in Great Solace at the thought of seeing her again.

On Tuesday, Ismay is coming to London & I’m having lunch with her at her flat & then we’re going to a theatre. She said in her last letter that Charles looks worse, if possible, than most people in Battledress, because they haven’t been able to find one to fit him. (What did I tell you? I knew that they ought to have sent up to the Small Ladies Dept.)

Peggy writes that Mr Loewe has had a relapse – but that he’s on the way to recovery again. She called there the other day to find Raphael wallowing in gloom. You know, darling, Raphael has missed his vocation. He would have been a Prince of Undertakers. He is the Platonic idea of an undertaker – and I don’t suppose he’ll Ever know. I’m afraid (if I may borrow your idiom for a moment, dear) that even his best friends won’t tell him.

Friday 19 July Joan Aubertin was in London today. She came to lunch and told me (in the strictest confidence, of course – I wasn’t to tell anyone – not even you) that Sheila had told her (in the strictest confidence – she wasn’t to tell anyone – and particularly not me) that Hamish had bought a Wedding-ring & was hoping that Charlotte would join him in S. Africa on the cargo-boat of an Uncle of a lady-friend of one of his colleagues in the Air Force.

You know, your mother is not the only harbourer of half-witted maids. Lady Nathan’s parlour-maid leaves Alice standing. The other night, Lord N, in his Hospitable way, fell-a-snoring before the coffee had been poured out – so Buxom Nellie told the maid to leave the Cona in the Library. ‘Shall I leave the cups too?’ the girl wanted to know. Lady Nathan thought it would be helpful if she did leave the cups. Then, at dinner, we had some difficulty in mopping up our cream with our raspberries – so Joyce called for spoons. The maid took away our fruit knives & forks and laid pudding-spoons & forks beside our plates. She obviously took the view that, if we looked upon the raspberries as Dessert, then all we needed were dessert knives & forks – but, as we were going to be eccentric & regard them as Sweet – there was to be No Compromise. Pudding-implements were what we needed, and Pudding-implements were what we were going to get, willy-nilly. A Young Woman of Character – the Nathan’s parlour-maid. Joyce has a theory that whenever she introduces Mr Mosley into the Library, she feels as though she were in a conspiracy, and gives Joyce a Lecherous & Understanding Leer – It’s a Great Sorrow to Joyce.

Monday 22 July Joan and I have a Beautiful Scheme, darling. You know that it was announced on the wireless recently that if the town in which you happen to be living is declared a prohibited area, you are allowed to leave it with your debts unpaid for the duration. Well, we thought we’d tap every available Well-Informed Quarter, and find out what the next prohibited area was likely to be – then we’d take a beautiful house there, fill it with lovely furniture, pictures & ornaments, and live there in the Grand Manner, entertaining our friends in Voluptuous tea-gowns, & becoming Centres of Intellectual & Social Life. When our home was declared a prohibited area, we would Move On – to the next potential PA – and so on. Joan has sixteen pounds and I have five – and our only expenses would be train-fares & Removal Vans – so we ought to be able to do very nicely.

Wednesday 24 July Darling, my remark about your last letter being ‘distant’ wasn’t a rebuke. There’s no need to apologize. All your letters are a Solace, whether you have any news or not. The tone of patient exasperation in this letter (I mean your letter, which I’ve just received) is more than justified. I try not to cluck, darling – but it’s no good. I know that I’m adding to your irritation at a time when you’re already restless & irritated. I know that you’d come & see me if you could – That’s the real reason why I’m such a hopelessly inadequate Solace. What you want is sympathy & amusement – and all you get is cluck. Damn you, Eileen, you’d be much better dead. (I’m not suggesting that you think this, though you well might – but I do. I’m sickeningly angry with Eileen Alexander. She hasn’t any balance or any control. She professes to love you & all she can do is worry you. She’s egocentric and a fool – and oh! so ludicrously inept. Tell her once & for all time, to let you alone, darling, and find a Solace worthy of you – a solace who will make you laugh & feel light-hearted & young when you see her, who has life & colour & charm, not one who can only cry & clamour and look pale, not one who would see you ill rather than away from her.)

Monday 29 July I had a letter from Aubrey on Saturday. He goes around the countryside in a car (with or without Attendant Sergeant – It All Depends) ostensibly engaged upon Detailed Reconnaissance – but really drinking Gallons of tea beside the Wye. He’s in Great Solace. Pte Nightingale is sure he (Aubrey) is winning the War – Aubrey is not so sure – but he finds Pte Nightingale’s devotion & loyalty (In Spite of All) Very Beautiful. (All this is, of course, my idiom – not Aubrey’s.)

I hope you’ll find the work interesting in the Air Force, my dear love. It isn’t dangerous, is it? Oh! please God don’t let it be dangerous. Darling, it would be so humiliating to be in Grade II (feet) that I’m almost glad you’re ineligible for Special Duties. Grade II (eyes) is an Intellectual Grade – All the Best People are in it – It’s an honour to be in Grade II (eyes). But Grade II (feet). Oh! no, dear.

Wednesday 31 July My mother & I had a very dull day with Ismay & her mother at King’s Langley yesterday. We looked at the new house that they’ve bought. It has a lovely garden – but nearly all vegetables. Talk about dig for victory – what with the Girl Guides & the Canadian Soldiers Club – and the fruit-bottling – and the sock-knitting – they’re winning the war with a purposefulness unparalleled. It’s all very Disconcerting.

Tuesday 6 August I had a long letter from Joan Aubertin this morning. She says her sister, Alice, solemnly assures her that Chamberlain may not recover from his operation – which was an attempt to put guts into him! (Alice’s idiom – not mine.) She hasn’t heard from Ian again – and she’s had her eyebrows plucked. She says the effect is a Terrific Solace – but I can only say, what a sorrow. She was knitting me a square for my blanket – but the dog got hold of it – it’s Alice’s dog, she says defensively, as though this was enough to exempt her from All Responsibility – but, on the other hand, it was her knitting – ah! Well.

I’m lunching with Pa & Mr Gisborne at the ‘Cheshire Cheese’ today. I gather the food is good but Beefy – but it was a favourite haunt of Dr Johnson – and I’m going there in search of Resolution – the Resolution to Write – a quality which the Great Cham of Literature had, above all others. (A wonderful man, Dr Johnson – the greatest prose stylist of all time.)

Pa & Mr Gisborne talked war across the table & I just sat steeping myself in the Atmosphere. Of course, the place has been exploited – The menus are distinctly Ye Olde … in Gothic lettering with deckle-edging – and there’s an iron grid sentimentally protecting the step worn down by Dr Johnson, Charles Dickens & others. The café was rebuilt in 1667 & hasn’t been touched since. It’s down a tiny alley off Chancery Lane in the city & it has a wrought iron sign over the door. The fact that the shop opposite assures all comers in heavy white enamelling that it sells All Birth Control Appliances, illustrates the profundity that Time Marches On – but otherwise you’d never suspect it. The rooms are low and square with flagged floors covered in saw-dust – and heavy oak panelling & benches – leaded glass, old pewter, and framed playbills, 18th century newspapers, and great mugs of clay pipes everywhere.