Firewatching was quite peaceful. There is a curious timelessness about it, as if one were really in one’s marble vault … but Now therefore while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew … and … Spring will not wait. Anyway it might have been one of those times before Christmas instead of After Christmas. After Christmas … that’s the title of this part of this book.
Saturday 20 March. Watching Honor writing a great long letter to George this evening, I thought, the greatest luxury now would be to be allowed to write a great, long silly letter to Gordon. As it is I suppose I must go on drearily in this book. My clever book. I seem to write in it only when I am depressed, like praying only when one is really in despair – on the whole I’ve been fairly happy this week though. Tonight rather low. But after all that is to be expected. Low and dull.
Tuesday 23 March. Firewatching. West wind and small rain and I thought all the usual things coasting down through the dark on my bicycle – riding or walking in the dark, especially to firewatching, is surely the most detached and lonely time. One cannot feel really sad because one seems to be outside oneself. It’s the state I once described to Gordon – it gets on very well, like ‘Social Success’, until suddenly it’s ‘Oh God, it’s awful, I wish I were dead.’ And now I’m sitting in this uncosy high-roofed room with no sound but the ticking of my common little clock and the click of my companions’ knitting needles.
The other day I thought ‘And now it’s Spring’ and decided that this would be quite a good tide for a novel. Well, why don’t you write it? Ah, but is it Spring? I know that the air is warm and sunny, birds sing at dawn and twilight and the daffodils are out in the Coppice garden, and violets blue and white, sweeter than the lids of Juno’s eyes – I know, but what about the dusty heart? Not much spring there – yet. Turning out of Manilla Road this evening I heard the sound of dance music in the dark. And the tune was ‘My Devotion’ – is oh such a dreary emotion.… Very suitable.
I often pass the pre-Raphaelite tomb, or rather the path leading to it, but I have never been there again. But I will go one day. You (reader) may say, Why do you make such a thing of it all? To which I will snap (like Trivia) Well, what about your own life? Is it so full of large, big wonderful things that you don’t need tombs and daffodils and your own special intolerable bird, with an old armchair or two and occasional readings from Matthew Arnold and Coventry Patmore?
On Sunday we [Barbara, Hilary, Honor and the children] went to Weston – it was a gloriously sunny day and we were lucky getting taxis. It is a large bright Betjeman place – surely he must have written something about it – with many hotels and boarding houses. We walked into the middle of a very serious invasion exercise and were twice turned back for unexploded bombs. After that we walked along the beach to the pier, eating sweets and gathering little pink, yellow and white shells. At the pier the sun was very hot. We looked at the naughty peepshows and Hilary and I went on the figure of eight and the Racing Speedway clinging together and shrieking! What a place to come to when one is lonely and miserable, as Honor did in the autumn when George first went and she wasn’t hearing from him.
Saturday 27 March. In the afternoon Honor and I made sandwiches and cut bread and butter for Julian’s birthday party. We had the Yehudi Menuhin concert on. He played the old Mendelssohn and of course I wept a little over the slow movement, alone in the back kitchen, my hands immersed in the washing-up water, need I say. It was a very successful party. After tea I gathered fresh flowers for my room. Once there was a Saturday when all I could find was two November roses, rather browned off at the edges.
As dusk fell I grew melancholy. I am ashamed to say that I am sometimes just plain jealous when I think of other people who can be with Gordon. It is sometimes intolerable to be a woman and have no second bests or spares or anything. I struggled with this feeling – I hope I have got the better of it, for now, at any rate. It only makes me more miserable when I feel angry and resentful. Testing Time… Well certainly I am being tested. I cannot answer for him. Does the road wind uphill all the way? I asked myself, waiting for kettles to boil tonight. Yes, to the very end. And remember, one step enough for me. Sunday tomorrow and plenty to do. One step…
Sunday 28 March. Afternoon we sat in the sun and listened to the Messiah. I wrote home, went to the post, pumped up my bicycle, put cotton over the peas. And then lay on a mattress with my face close to the ground, thinking about that poem by Robert Graves, the man seeking lost love, who has become so sensitive he can hear wormtalk and moths chumbling cloth etc. Hilary and Sandy went at 5.30.
After supper Honor and I Baldwinned our legs – she was delighted, never having used a Baldwin before. We listened to a Stephen Potter poetry programme, where, curiously enough, that Robert Graves poem was read – then Scott Goddard’s Theme and Variations programme. Very nice. Brahms-Handel (I like the 1st) and Strauss Don Quixote.
Monday 29 March. Better today. When I got back to the Academy the first thing I saw was a new examiner sitting at a table, wearing earrings, gaiters and a hat. By teatime she had removed the hat, as if (somebody said) she had really decided to stay.
There was much talk and agitation about a circular which had appeared that morning, dealing with the release of Examiners [in the Censors Office, making them liable for call-up] under 41. Thirty-five yesterday but forty-two today. Anyway I felt a little smug having already volunteered, but it unsettled a good many people.
Honor had had two letters from George – written not much more than a fortnight ago. It brings things nearer if we can recall what we were doing when he wrote, so I have decided to put down the events of each day anyway. And of course the usual dreary reflections when I am miserable. Oh mumbling, chumbling moths, talking worms and my own intolerable bird give me one tiny ray of hope for the future and I will keep on wanting to be alive. Yes, you will be alive, it will not be the same, nothing will be quite as good, there will be no intense joy but small compensations, spinsterish delights and as the years go on and they are no longer painful, memories. Too many like the curate’s too heavy eiderdown which he flung off him in the night.
Or it may not be like this at all. You don’t know. Nobody does.
Tuesday 30 March. This morning I had a notice from the WRNS asking me to go for my medical on Thursday – unless I’m having a period, which I will be. So I was almost inclined to write as in Crews Mail letters – ‘Well, I might be seeing something, you know what I mean’.
At tea Honor read from a letter from Pen. She wrote about Gordon – that of course he wasn’t happy, but that it might be a good thing for him to have to work things out for himself. I’m so glad he is with nice, sympathetic people like David and Pen. Pen says they don’t allow him to dramatise himself, which is of course a very good thing! But oh I hate to think of him being unhappy and me not being able to do anything for him. Well, we are neither of us happy and nobody can help us but ourselves. One day, perhaps.…
Wednesday 31 March. Quite a good uninterrupted working day. Blustery weather. I bought 2 pairs of fine utility stockings. After tea fitting a dress on Prue and doing a little sewing.
Thursday 1 April. Well, the beginning of the fourth month and a donkey, then two donkeys eating the cabbages in the garden. (April Fool.) Felt very weary and aching all over. At 6 o’clock Honor and I went to the concert at the Colston Hall. We had supper in the [BBC] canteen, caught the last 89 home and walked the rest of the way. Windy coming over the bridge. That walk at night is still painful to me – I can’t help remembering. The place where we first kissed and such sentimentalities!
Monday 5 April. Had my day off and lay in bed till 9.30. It was a glorious, unnaturally hot day with sun shining all the time. I went without stockings. Hilary and I had lunch at the Buttery and afterwards did some shopping. Quite like pre-war – it was the kind of day for spending and wending and squanderbugs, but we didn’t buy much. I had my hair cut and styled – quite nicely and read a novel all about Censors – then did more sho
pping and arrived back at about five. In the evening Yehudi Menuhin broadcast – he played the Brahms Concerto. We also listened to a prodigiously long play by Val Gielgud. After tea Prue walked down to the Bridge by herself and we were all feverishly looking for her.
There are certain notes on the violin (or is it a certain way of playing) that gives me the same lovely, out in the cold feeling as walking or riding down to firewatching in the dark. Why, this is strange, I don’t know the reason, probably just some chance association.
Tuesday 6 April. Today I had another summons for my WRNS medical – I am to go on Thursday. I do hope everything goes all right – then I can start Part II of After Christmas. I’ve never before felt so conscious of ‘making a life for myself’ – I suppose the continuous effort is good for me, some people probably have to do it all the time.
I got home in time to have some of Elizabeth’s birthday tea – Mary had made some lovely things. Julian had a good report – Honor said ‘Gordon will be pleased’. Yes, I know. How could I bear not to have as much of him as she has had and still has in the children. No, I couldn’t. Julian is going to see him next weekend. And I am going to stay with Rupert and Helen Gleadow in Chelsea.
Honor and I have groats last thing at night – Lovely!
Wednesday 7 April. I got back to the Coppice in time to share in yet another birthday party. Honor seemed rather depressed – she hasn’t heard from George for over a week. She told me Julian is going to Gordon next weekend and not this – they will be at Arkesden. She also said that Gordon has now ‘supplied the evidence’. This news flung me into a turmoil of emotion so that I spent a most miserable evening. Now why was I so miserable? Well, for one reason – I couldn’t help thinking how joyous I might have been at this stage being reached. Whereas now I have no reason to hope – I don’t even know if Gordon ever thinks of me and nobody can reassure me on that point. So I went round in miserable circles – to know what one wants and see no prospects of getting it – what pain, sometimes I feel I must talk about it, and let go for a minute (yes, there were some tears privately) – then I can start again being drearily splendid. I also had the idea Honor might know definite things – future plans of his that didn’t include me – oh – I can’t write about this futile wretchedness. There it was – and I didn’t go to sleep till comparatively late. Darling Honor made me groats.
Friday 8 April. A cold day. I washed very carefully, having also had a bath the night before. For today was my WRNS medical. I felt very weak at the knees and found it difficult to work – I left at twelve, had lunch at the Buttery where I fortified myself with roast pork. By this time it was sunny, so I walked down to the army Recruiting Centre where the medical is held. It was one o’clock by this time. There were several other girls there. We were put into a waiting room decorated with ATS posters and a ‘No Smoking’ notice. I read my novel, Table Two by Marjorie Wilenski (obviously about the Censorship) and talked a bit to the others – various types and ages. First of all we filled in a medical form – then went upstairs and undressed, except for shoes, knickers and coat – then produced a ‘specimen’ into a kind of enamel potty with a long handle like a saucepan – of which I was quite glad. Next came examination of eyes, ears etc., weighing and measuring by an elderly doctor, then heart, lungs etc., by a woman. All quite quick. After that I dressed again and had an interview with an extremely charming WRNS 1st officer – she had my London forms and correspondence but couldn’t really tell me much, except that my application was marked ‘urgent’ and that they probably had something in mind for me. And I mustn’t be too impatient. Oh, but I do hope I get in now. My heart is set on it. The whole thing took over two hours and I felt terribly tired, really exhausted after it. A thorough emotional upheaval, what with everything.
When I got home I lay on Honor’s bed. She was upset at having told me about Gordon and the ‘evidence’ last night. I told her what it really was that upset me and we talked about it. Really there is no reason to feel more depressed than usual – nothing has changed and Honor has no inside information about Gordon’s plans. But she thinks Gordon may not be the right person for me – and that I am probably brooding over an idea. Oh, I don’t know. It may be – but oh it was good wasn’t it – Surely I didn’t see what wasn’t there? Patience and Courage still – And struggle on. Lead, kindly light and one step enough for me.
Friday 9 April. And what exactly, may Posterity ask, was all this ‘struggle’ about? Why this need for Patience and Courage? And the bewildered English spinster, now rather gaunt and toothy, but with a mild, sweet expression, may hardly know herself. Really, if I ever have any children I think I must call them Patience and Courage. Twins – rather dreary stolid little girls.
For the first time I had lunch in the British Restaurant. Very good hot food, rather too many potatoes, but a lovely steamed pudding. Masses of dockers etc. And this spinster with T chekov’s My Life on the table, but not reading it.
I got home to find the kitchen very tidy and silent. It reminded me of the last day I saw Gordon (December 28th). But then it was dusk and I walked through the house crying.
Saturday 10 April. Today I went to London to stay with Rupert and Helen Gleadow. I travelled on the 1.45 train, in a carriage full of silent people who insisted on having the windows too wide open. I went straight to Chelsea and found 22 Cheyne Walk just on the corner, opposite the bridge and looking over the river – I rang a likely bell and in a minute the door was opened – ‘Are you Helen?’ – ‘You must be Barbara.’ I’ve done this before, in the summer of 1938 when I met Elsie for the first time in 86 Banbury Road. Helen has fair curly hair and very blue eyes, is vivacious and sweet – we were able to have a good gossip before Rupert arrived. I saw him out of the window on his bicycle. He was wearing blue corduroy trousers and looks so nice without a beard – quite his old self. We had cowslip wine and beer and a nice dinner and much pleasant amusing talk. I was conscious of feeling happier than I have done for a long time. We went to bed fairly early. I noticed in the bookshelf in my room Francis Stuart’s Try the Sky which Gordon had once spoken of – I glanced at it but deliberately didn’t read it!
Sunday 11 April. Rupert and Helen went to Morley College to ‘pursue the arts’ leaving me with a lovely tray of breakfast and Tristram Shandy of which I read a little. It seems a nice inconsequential sort of book – the sort of book one would like to have written – or might even one day write. I got up about eleven and had a delicious bright green bath with pine essence and bright pink Spanish geranium soap. Rupert and Helen came back about half-past one and we had lunch – they opened a tin of apricots for me and we had a flan. Also some olives. Afterwards we went for a walk in Battersea Park – all the flowering trees were out – lilacs nearly, double cherry and magnolia. There is a nice pond (or lake) – also deer and wallabies (?).
I was back in Bristol about nine – I was like a drowned rat when I got home. But Honor was there with a lovely supper, so I undressed and ate.
I really feel it did me good going away and being with Rupert and Helen, who are so blissfully happy together they hardly seem to be real. Oh, but it can be done! They said my eyes had far too much sparkle for one who had been crossed in love. Honor had to send £25 to the solicitors yesterday.
Monday 12 April. I changed from one unglamorous pair of stockings to another. I worked quite hard all day. Honor had been speaking to Gordon on the phone. And he had sent a message for me – asking when I was going to the WRNS and that he would be thinking of me. This made me feel absolutely terrific – how it helps, just a word like this.
And cigarettes have gone up to 2/ 4 or 2/ 6 for 20 – so life’s consolations grow less and less – and soon it will be just Matthew Arnold and memories. Or the future and the whimsical and perilous charm?
Tuesday 13 April. I went into Blight’s and looked vaguely at materials – red spotted chiffon for a spinsterish nightdress. Hilary and I are going to have our rooms spring-cleaned tomorrow so we moved all the b
ooks and things – now my room is bare and dusty and echoing. We began playing and singing hymns – and I remembered some things I’d forgotten, favourite bits and lines – ‘the angels’ armour and the saints’ reward’ – ‘the drift of pinions, would we hearken, beats at our own clay-shuttered doors’ – and of course my dear old favourite ‘God moves in a mysterious way’. But of course
‘His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour,
The bud may have a bitter taste
But sweet will be the flower…’
Wednesday 14 April. I made a potato and leek soup for supper – then went firewatching. It was a beautiful evening. On the bridge I saw a girl warden (rather plain) being kissed by a Doughboy (a hidey-ho, a sweet and lo, a come and go boy). Lucky pigs I thought. The atmosphere reminded me of those summer evenings when Gordon and Honor and George and Hilary and I used to walk down to The Rocks and The Commercial and the Club. But in those days G. and I, though arm in arm, would talk only of British Israelites and other general subjects.
Thursday 15 April. Had breakfast at the Copper Kettle after a hot, restless night. My bed had a rock in the mattress and I couldn’t avoid it. We were served by the usual inefficient waitress, who is like ‘Can I do you now, Sir’ in ITMA.
I went to Woolworth’s in the lunch hour and bought various beauty aids – also looked longingly at ginghams and cherry-red linen in Jolly’s window. Oh, but the sun was shining, and in the afternoon a bird sang so that it could be heard even among the censors.