Henrietta's War (14 page)

Sitting at a table, looking severe

‘Sounds a bit Bolshie to me,' said the Admiral.

‘Somewhere for the evacuated mothers to go to, where they could have tea and listen to the wireless, and games for the children – and the Drama Club and the W.I. and all that, of course – and dances for the soldiers – and lectures, perhaps – no class distinctions, just anybody who wants to join – and a children's library – and roller-skating – and the cinema twice a week – and the Ladies' Orchestra – all the entertainments gathered into one place – the great Beating Heart of the town – ' I paused for breath.

‘You do have the strangest ideas, Henrietta,' said the Admiral. ‘Who's going to run this Beating Heart? And, anyhow, another cinema company has taken the hall, so that's that.'

I went home feeling like a barrage balloon that somebody has playfully spiked with a bayonet.

Always your affectionate Childhood's Friend,

HENRIETTA

P.S. We had a sou'-westerly storm last week and the waves playfully pushed back some of the barbed wire on the beach into a sad, tangled loop. This delighted the fishermen, who derive much pleasure from the havoc wrought by the storms as long as it isn't to their boats and nets.

November 20, 1940

M
Y DEAR ROBERT
Charles's Cheese arrived this morning, and we realized with a shock that Christmas is almost upon us. Charles's Cheese is an enormous Stilton which arrives with delightful regularity at this time every year, the gift of a Grateful Patient. Charles unpacks it reverently and lifts it out of the box, murmuring humbly, ‘I don't deserve it. I don't deserve it.' It is then cut in half, and one half is wrapped neatly in a table-napkin and the other half put away. One year we gave the second half to the Savernacks, on the understanding that later in the year they also would buy a Stilton cheese and give us their second half, but they forgot to do this, so we didn't try it again.

My grandfather used to bury his Stilton cheeses in the garden, digging them up from time to time in order to pour bottles of port wine into them. Alas! Those spacious days are gone. But I rather suspect Charles of ministering to his Christmas Stilton occasionally with a modest glass of something, though he is very secretive about it.

From Christmas onward, housekeeping is greatly simplified, because, whenever I say to Charles, ‘What would you like for lunch?' he replies simply, ‘My Cheese.'

Every day it is put on the table in front of him, and he digs at it tenderly with a little scoop. I shall never forget the day Faith dropped in for lunch and poked a great hole in the bottom of it. I thought Charles was going to faint.

And he digs at it tenderly

‘Christmas is nearly here,' I said, when we met at Faith's for a glass of sherry after church. ‘Charles has got his Cheese.'

‘Good gracious!' said Lady B.

‘I sort of feel we ought to do something about a party for evacuees,' I said, hoping this didn't sound as priggish to them as it did to me.

‘Or the soldiers,' said Faith. ‘I was talking to one yesterday, a most cultured man. He plays in the Philharmonic Orchestra. He says he is simply
starved
for music.'

‘What's that?' said the Conductor, like a war-horse sniffing blood.

‘He said there were lots of them who would give anything even to hear some good gramophone records,' said Faith.

‘I have records of all the operas,' said the Conductor, looking round happily, ‘and the Vicar would lend us the church hall.'

So the party was arranged, and Faith said she would get in touch with the Philharmonic Corporal. Lady B and I used up our margarine rations making mince-pies, and even then there didn't seem to be enough, so we bought cakes as well. We managed to get hold of some holly and a little mistletoe, and Lady B brought all her drawing-room cushions, because, as she said, chairs are hard and operas long. The Conductor brought his gramophone, which is one of the superior ones which change their own records, and it was put in a prominent position on the platform. By the time we had finished, it all looked very cosy and Christmasy. At the last minute, Faith got in a panic and rushed out and bought a lot of sausage rolls. Then we sat down to wait.

We waited for half an hour, and then we each had a glass of beer and I sang them ‘Sarah Jane's Tea-party', about the guests who never came. (Do you remember Nanny singing it, Robert?) It didn't go over big in any way, and the Conductor said I was pinching my top notes.

We waited another quarter of an hour, and Faith said for the hundredth time that the Philharmonic Corporal had seemed so pleased and had told her to expect a big crowd.

At the end of another quarter of an hour Faith and the Conductor got into their cars and used up a month's petrol going round collecting Evacuated Mothers and bringing them to the hall.

The Evacuated Mothers sat around and told each other Bomb Stories while the Conductor played ‘Madam Butterfly' on the gramophone.

The party didn't seem to be going too well, so I slipped out and ran home to get some of the Linnet's low-brow records. When I got back the last Evacuated Mother had arrived with a soldier husband, a saucy sort of man who paid Faith compliments, and announced that there were too many ladies at the party, and what it needed was a few gentlemen.

Then he slipped away with a roguish wink and returned, like the spirit in the Bible, with seven others worse than himself, who must have been lurking outside the door.

I don't know whether it was the gentlemen or the Bing Crosby records, but the party now began to go with a bang, and ended with Musical Chairs and Postman's Knock. Every scrap of food was eaten, and the Evacuated Mothers said they hadn't enjoyed themselves so much since they left London.

When they had all gone, and we were sweeping up the crumbs, a little bespectacled face peered round the door. It was the Philharmonic Corporal. It seemed that he had forgotten to tell his friends about the party. We left him playing ‘Rosenkavalier' to himself in the dark.

Always your affectionate Childhood's Friend,

HENRIETTA

December 25, 1940

M
Y DEAR ROBERT
A-Merry-Christmas-and-a-Happy-New-Year! I have wished you that for so many years that I am not going to let Hitler stop me now, even though this Christmas will not be a particularly merry one, and happiness in the New Year is uncertain, to say the least of it.

When we were children and made our own cards, I remember that Mother always made us put ‘Peaceful' instead of ‘Merry' to anyone who had suffered a bereavement.

Well, this year our Christmas here might be better described as Peaceful than Merry in that there was no organized gaiety. Neither Bill nor Linnet managed to get home.

We had a chicken, and Lady B came to share it with us. We decided beforehand that we wouldn't try to be too gay, because if we did, we would all end by being depressed. But Lady B arrived with an encouraging-looking bottle, and Charles, unexpectedly, clambered into a dinner jacket, and they both looked so smart that I rushed upstairs, and, flinging off my sober semi, changed into the new evening dress I had bought just before the war.

I hadn't been able to resist some Merrie Yuletide table decorations, and the last of the green candles were on the table drawn up cosily in front of the fire.

Pop! went Lady B's bottle, and suddenly it became a carefree and entirely enjoyable Christmas party.

‘I wish we had some crackers,' said Lady B, and I dived into a cupboard and produced a box of last year's.

We pulled the crackers, and put on the paper-caps, and blew the whistles, and read each other the mottoes. read Lady B with feeling.

‘Who says poetry is dead?'

‘Sweet is sugar in my tea,

Sweet is sunlight on the sea,

Sweet is blossom on the tree,

But sweeter far are you to me,'

‘Who says poetry is dead?' said Charles.

Suddenly the gaiety ran out of the soles of my shoes, leaving me staring horror-stricken at Lady B and Charles, who were lighting a circular piece of paper in the fond hope that it would afterwards float in the air.

‘What's the matter, Henrietta?' said Charles, looking up. ‘Have you got a pain?'

‘No,' I said. ‘But it's awful the way we are enjoying ourselves like this.'

Lady B put her hand on mine. ‘You know, Henrietta, darling,' she said, ‘I think you are getting to be just the teeniest bit morbid about enjoying yourself.'

‘Yes, but – ' I said.

‘Dost think that because thou art virtuous there shall be no cakes and ale?' said Charles recklessly.

‘Yes, but –'

‘It isn't as if it had cost anything except the chicken,' said Lady B. ‘All the rest was pre-war stock.'

‘Yes, but –' I said.

‘If it's the evacuees you're thinking of,' said Charles, ‘I don't suppose anybody does more for them than I do, and I don't get paid for most of it. I think I
deserve
a party.'

‘Besides, it's fun to snatch a bit of enjoyment under Hitler's nose,' said Lady B.

‘So don't be an ass, my darling,' said Charles, producing some port that he must have decanted on the sly. ‘Get Evensong
8
to come in, and we'll drink the King's Health.'

I went and fetched Evensong from the kitchen, and Charles handed her a glass. ‘The King!' said Charles.

‘God bless him!' said Evensong.

‘And the Queen,' said Lady B.

‘God bless her!' said Evensong.

‘Absent Friends,' said Charles. I caught his eye and knew he was thinking, as I was, of Bill and Linnet.

‘And the British people,' said Lady B, while a big tear rolled down her cheek.

‘God bless 'em!' said Evensong loudly, and threw her glass into the fireplace, where it broke to pieces.

‘Good gracious!' said Charles.

‘I beg your pardon, Madam,' said Evensong, ‘but I really couldn't help meself.'