How can he possibly expect anyone to agree to his crazy demands? Does he want a war? It looks increasingly likely. I nearly cried this morning when I saw the men digging up Hyde Park to make air-raid shelters. We all had to go and get gas masks on Sunday, and they are horrible. The eyepieces fog up, and they taste of rubber. Henry telephoned us from Milford, incensed that the Air Raid Precautions people weren’t providing gas masks for dogs, although she was mollified somewhat when I told her about the Daily Mail article on gas-proof kennels that I’d read. Several London schools have already been evacuated to the country, and Toby said there was a huge queue at the petrol station this morning. Aunt Charlotte, back in Milford now, sent a message for us to return to the country immediately, but we are ignoring her. There’s still our campaign, as futile as it now seems, and we need to be in London in case the Foreign Office suddenly calls us in for another meeting.
Oh, and Chamberlain was on the BBC last night, giving a stupid speech. He promised to make the Czechs hand over their territory, and says he will never make Britain go to war “because of a quarrel in a faraway country, between people of whom we know nothing.” He did, however, acknowledge that Hitler was being “unreasonable.” Unreasonable!
Too furious to write anymore.
2nd October 1938
Phoebe told me off (in her mild, Phoebe-ish way) for refusing to go to the thanksgiving service at St. Mary Abbots this morning. I don’t mind attending church in Milford, because the sermons are only about six minutes long (Aunt Charlotte starts glaring at Mr. Herbert at the five-minute mark), and it gives me a chance to catch up with village gossip afterwards. But I hardly ever go to church in London. I’m not very keen on God at the moment, anyway. If He really is all-powerful, if He really does care about the human race, then why hasn’t He arranged for Hitler to get run over by a bus? Why on earth, I asked Phoebe, should I be thankful to God?
“But there’s lots to be thankful for, Your Highness. We’ve got peace now!” Phoebe said. “Peace for our time, peace with honor, that’s what Mr. Chamberlain said!”
It’s a good thing she didn’t say that in front of Veronica.
“Peace!” Veronica cried as we sat around reading the newspapers yesterday. “Peace with honor! Has anyone asked the Czechoslovakians if they think it’s peaceful or honorable? They weren’t even invited to the meeting that carved up their country! And now Poland and Hungary are going to snatch up any bits that they can. Czechoslovakia has been thrown to the wolves.”
“At least it gives Britain a bit more time to get ready for war,” said Simon, frowning over The Times. “The armed forces here are woefully unprepared.”
“Yes, I remember Mr. Kennedy saying that,” said Toby. “Especially the air force—”
“Oh, I don’t believe it!” interrupted Veronica. “Look at this! Chamberlain actually appeared on the Buckingham Palace balcony and waved to the crowds! What happened to the King keeping out of politics? How dare the King misuse his influence to support Chamberlain’s political career!”
“The King’s not supporting Chamberlain. He’s supporting appeasement of Germany,” Simon said.
“They’re the same thing, and both are unconstitutional!”
“Well, you didn’t mind the King getting involved with politics when you were writing letters to him about Montmaray,” Simon pointed out.
Veronica scowled at him. Simon accidentally let slip about his law classes last night, and Veronica was so scathing about it that I suspect she is jealous (she’s been trying to get Aunt Charlotte’s permission to do a course at the London School of Economics but without success). Toby was also upset Simon hadn’t confided in him, but (of course) covered it up with a flurry of jokes, so Simon snapped back. Hurt feelings all round then, especially after Toby and Veronica found out I’d known all along.
“Listen to this,” I said, trying to distract them by reading from the Daily Mail. “ ‘Our Cabinet Ministers became schoolboys again. They clambered about on the windowsills, whooped wildly, and threw hats in the air.’ ”
“This whole country has gone mad,” Veronica said darkly.
While it is nice to know that London won’t be bombed to bits tomorrow, I cannot share Phoebe’s relief about this “peace.” The poor Czechoslovakians! And if Britain cares so little for them, all those millions of people, why would it have the slightest concern for Montmaray? What will happen if—when—Hitler decides to take over the whole of Czechoslovakia and then moves on to the next country? Eventually, all of Europe will be under his control unless Britain and its allies do something to stop him. Will there be war, another world war? Surely there’s another way. Shouldn’t the League of Nations be doing something? All right, Germany isn’t a member of the League anymore, but lots of other important countries are. They could all get together and take nonviolent action, couldn’t they?
However, as the leaders of the world seem unlikely to heed my advice, I’m going to stop writing about current international events and do some more work on my mother’s journal. I haven’t got very far with my deciphering, though, because one needs to have some idea of what’s being written about, in order to guess at the words. And how can I possibly know what my mother was thinking of when she was my age? Was she planning her wedding? Worrying about the Great War? Perhaps I should give up on it and write an overdue letter to Henry and Carlos instead. Or write to Rupert, now back at Oxford, he’s a very soothing person … No, that will start me thinking about Julia, and whether she really is behaving as scandalously as Simon believes.
Bother. Sometimes I wish I could thrash all the troublesome thoughts out of my head, the way the maids beat our rugs clean each week. What would tumble out of my brain? Dust and dead earwigs and snapped-off pencil points, probably …
14th November 1938
Fearsome row this afternoon. Aunt Charlotte arrived unexpectedly from Milford and found Daniel having tea with us at Montmaray House. It was all perfectly respectable—Simon and Toby were both there—but one would think she’d caught Veronica in bed with Daniel, the way our aunt carried on. Of course, Veronica didn’t go out of her way to placate Aunt Charlotte (it occurs to me now that telling the blatant truth can be far more belligerent than telling a lie).
“Well, I wouldn’t even have met him if it weren’t for you,” said Veronica unrepentantly after poor Daniel had been marched out of the house by Harkness, our large and frightening butler.
“What!” cried Aunt Charlotte, clutching her necklace in that way she does whenever she’s forced to think about the “lower classes” (as though she can picture them snatching the jewels from her dead, white, aristocratic neck, as in the French Revolution). “I would never introduce you to such a person!”
“You interviewed him,” Veronica said. “You sent him to Montmaray as our tutor.”
“Well!” Aunt Charlotte spluttered. “I certainly wouldn’t have done anything of the sort if I’d known what type of person he was! Taking an unsavory interest in the young ladies he was being paid to teach—”
“He stopped being my tutor five years ago.”
“Not to mention being a Bolshevik,” Aunt Charlotte went on. “And a Jew. He’s unsuitable in every possible way!”
Unfortunately, she’d walked into the drawing room as we were discussing the horrific events of last week—the Night of Broken Glass, they’re calling it. All over Germany, synagogues were set ablaze, Jewish shops looted, houses ransacked, dozens of Jews killed, tens of thousands of them rounded up and arrested.
“Have you heard from your uncle?” Veronica asked Daniel.
“Not a word, not since the end of summer,” said Daniel. “Although my cousins are in Paris now. A Jewish refugee organization helped get them out—”
Whereupon he turned to find Aunt Charlotte looming over him in a towering rage.
I will give this to Aunt Charlotte—it took her about two seconds to realize Daniel was in love with Veronica, that he wasn’t simply a random Communist we’d met
through Anthony, someone who’d dropped in to collect donations for Spanish refugees. Our aunt is definitely a woman of the world. If she weren’t so snobbish and sharp-tongued, I’d ask her for some advice about my own love life—specifically, if there’s any chance of me ever having one. It’s a good thing her world doesn’t encompass men who fall in love with other men, or Toby would really be in trouble. Although, come to think of it, she’d probably forgive her golden nephew even that (provided he also agreed to get married and produce a couple of heirs, of course).
Anyway, speaking of Spanish refugees, I should note down the latest news. The Spanish government has promised the League of Nations that it will send all the international combatants home, and most of them have already left the war front. There’s also been a big battle going on around the river Ebro since the summer. Initially, this seemed to be going well for the Republican government, but now Franco’s forces have the upper hand. Daniel said it was a huge blow to Republican morale when Chamberlain signed that agreement with Hitler, because the Spanish government had been hoping everyone would join together in an anti-Fascist pact. So things do not look good at all. I’m just grateful all our Basque friends are now safely settled in either Mexico or Manchester.
Better go, I have to smuggle a letter out to Daniel on Veronica’s behalf, as she’s imprisoned in the house till Aunt Charlotte relents. It makes me feel like a minor character in Shakespeare—even though Veronica’s envelope is far more likely to contain a memorandum on fund-raising for Spanish refugees than a perfumed billet-doux signed with a lipstick kiss …
30th November 1938
Back from a house party in Yorkshire. The house was so enormous that the footman had to unwind a ball of string to show us the way from our bedrooms back to the drawing rooms. It was all far too grand (and cold) for me to enjoy myself. I suppose it was nice to see proper, heavy snowfalls for once, but when I went outside to watch the groundsmen clearing a path, I saw the lawn underneath was black with coal dust. It must be an awful job for the staff, keeping the place clean.
There were only half a dozen young people in attendance, apart from Toby, Veronica, and myself, but luckily, one of them was Rupert. It turns out he had some pigeon-racing connection with someone in the household. Billy Hartington was there, too. I sat next to him at dinner, and he spent the entire evening telling me how wonderful Kick was. Which, of course, she is, but surely he could have talked about something else, if only for a few minutes. Billy didn’t even seem to notice Veronica (and she looked absolutely beautiful that night in a new silk Empire-style gown, the exact color of crushed strawberries). So much for Aunt Charlotte’s ambitions for Veronica to become the next Duchess of Devonshire.
The only reason we were invited to the house party was that the Countess who lives in the house had Toby in mind for one of her unmarried daughters, and the only reason we went was that Veronica was desperate to get away from Aunt Charlotte. Our aunt does nothing but nag Veronica now, an unrelenting tirade from breakfast to bedtime. I don’t see how much longer it can go on before Veronica snaps. The only thing restraining her is Aunt Charlotte’s usual threats to stop all our allowances.
“Please, please, marry this girl,” Veronica begged Toby on the way to Yorkshire. “Then you can set up on a country estate far away from London and Milford, and I’ll come and keep house for you.”
“Marry someone yourself,” said Toby, rubbing at the car window and peering out at the icy landscape.
“I’d be tempted to, if anyone asked,” said Veronica glumly. “But the only proposal I’ve ever had was from Geoffrey Pemberton, and his father put a stop to that soon enough.”
It really is depressing to think that the only way we’ll escape our aunt’s guardianship is by handing ourselves over to a man. I have a little more sympathy for Julia now—not that I approve of her current behavior, if she is having an affair. I haven’t seen her since that afternoon at the Ritz, and I wouldn’t dare ask her outright, anyway. But no wonder she was so determined to marry Anthony, regardless of whether she was in love with him or not! He had money and a title, and he wasn’t a violent drunk or a gambler or the Elephant Man …
Heavens, I’m becoming cynical. It must be because I turned eighteen last month and am now practically a grown-up.
Anyway, to return to the house party. There were a few unfamiliar girls there, this year’s debutantes. They all made a rush at Billy, till they realized how boring he was being about Kick, then they turned like a pack of hounds upon Toby, but the Countess put them off with very severe looks. That left Rupert. He was so quiet that none of the girls paid him any heed at first, and then he and Toby wandered off somewhere by themselves on Saturday morning. But that afternoon, Rupert went out into one of the courtyards to put some crushed peanuts in the bird feeder. The shrillest of the debutantes was standing at the French windows and caught sight of him, a robin redbreast perched on his shoulder, a pair of chaffinches pecking in the snow around his feet.
“Ooh, look!” she squealed. “How sweet!” Then she and her friend rushed out to join him, frightening most of the birds away. Rupert was too polite to tell the girls off—he even helped one of them put some food on the platform. I scowled at the scene from the window.
“Annoying, isn’t it?” murmured Toby in my ear.
I agreed wholeheartedly. “Poor little things, it’s so hard for them to find food in winter—and then, when a nice human finally feeds them, they get scared off by a bunch of shrieking girls.”
Toby chuckled. “I meant having to watch someone else discovering his charms. I told Rupert the girls would go mad for his Saint Francis of Assisi act, and look, I was right.”
“It is not an act!” I cried, turning on Toby. “Rupert really loves animals—Oh, shut up!” Because Toby was smirking at me.
“What?” he said. “I didn’t say anything.” Then he sauntered off, hands in pockets, whistling the “Wedding March.”
My brother can be so irritating sometimes—even worse than debutantes.
But speaking of weddings—one thing that has managed to distract Aunt Charlotte from Veronica this week is ghastly old Oswald Mosley. He’s caused a scandal of his own, by marrying Diana Guinness. In Germany, with Hitler as his best man! Not only that, but it happened two years ago and they kept it a secret (no doubt for some sinister Fascist reason) until they couldn’t hide it any longer because now she’s given birth to his son. Apparently, Diana Guinness had been one of his mistresses for years and years, even before his wife died, even before Mrs. Guinness got divorced from her first husband (who is awfully nice; I danced with him once at a ball). Diana Guinness, by the way, is the sister of horrible Unity Mitford, the one who wears her swastika badge everywhere and is in love with Hitler. It’s all too disgusting. But the good thing is that Lady Bosworth is Mosley’s cousin, and now she doesn’t know whether to pretend she knew all along or to be very disapproving like everyone else (which would demonstrate that she either didn’t know what was going on or has no control over younger family members). It’s rather nice to see her in such a fluster, because she found out about Veronica and Daniel and has been giving Aunt Charlotte “helpful” advice on the matter ever since. That’s probably why Aunt Charlotte has been in such a poisonous mood lately. Daniel once told me that there’s a word in German, Schadenfreude, which means “pleasure felt when observing the misfortunes of one’s enemies.” Trust the Germans to make up a word like that, but it does occasionally come in handy …
20th December 1938
This afternoon, Veronica, Toby, and I were in Oxford Street doing Christmas shopping when we saw the most extraordinary thing. The traffic lights had just turned red when suddenly the road was filled with dozens of bodies, flat on their backs. At first, I thought they were dead, knocked down by the buses and vans. But how could so many have been knocked over at once? Then I realized that the men on the road were not only still alive but unrolling posters over themselves.
“Why, it’s the Nati
onal Unemployed Workers’ Movement!” said Veronica. “Good for them!”
“But they’ll get run over!” I cried as the traffic lights turned green. Fortunately, not one of the vehicles moved. Meanwhile, the men had started chanting, “We want work or bread! We want work or bread!” A few policemen turned up and started dragging the men, limp as half-empty sacks of coal, off the road. But as soon as each protester was dumped on the footpath, he crawled straight back to where he’d been lying.
“You know, they’re using the same techniques as the suffragettes,” said Veronica admiringly. “And I’ve read about Gandhi’s supporters in India using passive resistance, too.” I sincerely hoped she wasn’t thinking of adopting similar techniques for our campaign—although I suppose they could hardly be any less successful than writing letters to Whitehall. At least these men seemed to have the support of the onlookers. Not a single person went to help the policemen.
“Well, all those men’ll have jobs soon enough, the way things are going,” said Simon, after we’d finally struggled our way home through the stalled traffic. “They’ll either be making armaments or using them when war breaks out.”
Simon is being very gloomy nowadays. I think he reads too many newspapers. Also, he and Toby have had another row, because Toby has been disappearing for large chunks of the day and refuses to explain his absences. Meanwhile, Henry was cross that she and Miss Bullock had missed out on seeing the protest.
“I would have thought seeing giant pandas would be some compensation,” I said, because they’d been on their way back from the Zoo at the time.
“Well, I could hardly see anything of the pandas—there were all these children in the way,” Henry said. “So I went to talk to the leopards. Do you think, if there was a war and Regent’s Park got bombed, that the zoo animals could escape? And live off rabbits and foxes and things?”