Henrietta's War (18 page)

April 23, 1941

M
Y DEAR ROBERT
Ever since last October I have been trying to make Charles buy a new overcoat. Every time I suggested a visit to our Cathedral Town Charles said he couldn't spare the time, and what was the matter with his old one, anyway? It had cost enough, goodness knew, and he'd only had it six years.

I said it was a nice coat, but rather shiny. Charles said he liked it shiny, and there the matter rested for a time. But last week, when Faith ran into Charles just as he was stepping into his car, and stopped and got out her lipstick and pretended to use him as a looking-glass, it began to dawn, even on him, that perhaps it really was time he got a new one.

Last Saturday morning he suddenly appeared and said he'd just got time to rush in and buy himself a coat before lunch. I was quite stunned by this news and could only stand and stare.

‘Hurry up, Henrietta,' said Charles. ‘You know the shops shut at one.'

I dashed off to put away the mop which I happened to be holding in my hand and fell downstairs. I landed on my head, there was a loud cracking noise in my neck, and I thought what a silly way it was to get killed in the middle of a war. My hand seemed to be hurting a good deal, too. A Pott's fracture, no doubt, I thought grandly, remembering my V.A.D. days – or was it a Collis?

I lay on the floor with my eyes shut, feeling pleased that for some time I would be unable to dig in the garden, wash up, clean the bath, or take Perry for walks. I pictured myself propped up in bed, one arm in a sling, my head becomingly bandaged, and Charles tip-toeing in with a bunch of violets. My whole being, as they say, was flooded with happiness at the thought, and I groaned slightly.

... and fell downstairs

Nothing happened, so I groaned again, and Matins poked her head over the banisters and said she
thought
she'd heard somebody falling downstairs, and Charles came out of the dining-room.

‘What
have
you been doing, Henrietta?' he said crossly, and helped me to my feet.

‘I think I've got a Pott's fracture, Charles,' I said.

‘No, you haven't,' said Charles.

‘My head, my head!' I wailed, feeling that things were not going according to plan.

‘Is it bleeding?' said Charles.

‘No.'

‘Poor old girl,' he said, patting my shoulder kindly. ‘Now, hurry up or the whole damn place will be shut up.'

I always enjoy going to Charles's tailors. The place has a pleasing ecclesiastical air, and all the shopmen, who are slightly deaf, look like bishops. We push open the door quietly, Charles takes off his hat, and we creep up the aisle.

‘Yes, Sir?'

‘I want a new overcoat.'

‘Did you say socks, Sir?'

‘No. Overcoat.'

We make a hushed entrance into the tailoring department, which is full of sober tweeds. On a stand, in a prominent position, is a pink evening tail-coat adorned with the Hunt's excruciating facings, a relic of the days of peace and plenty and a gesture of defiance to Hitler. One of the Dignitaries comes forward, his hands clasped, and a tape-measure hanging round his neck like a stole.

‘I want a ready-made overcoat,' says Charles loudly and clearly. ‘I haven't got time to come in and be fitted.' This remark is received in shocked silence.

‘Your father used to say he'd sooner have no coat at all than a ready-made one, Sir,' says the Dignitary with the stole, looking down his nose.

‘My father didn't have to work as hard as I do,' says Charles grimly, and we are led from the tailoring into a very small lift, where we find ourselves pressed against the Dignitary's watch-chain.

The ready-to-wear department is deserted and there is a large spider's web on the overcoat stand. Nevertheless, Charles buys himself an extremely nice, warm, pre-war coat with a touch of blue in the tweed.

My finger is still very purple and swollen, and I show it to everybody with pride. Unfortunately, I am able to weed and wash up, but I have had to draw your pictures with my left hand this week, Robert.

Always your affectionate Childhood's Friend,

HENRIETTA

April 30, 1941

M
Y DEAR ROBERT
On the radio there is talk of invasion but let's not think about that. I am going to tell you instead about Mrs Savernack and Perry.

It was yesterday. Mrs Savernack came round looking very worked up but ten years younger than usual. She pressed a damp, cold parcel into my hand and appeared almost too moved to speak.

‘What is it?' I said.

Mrs Savernack gulped. ‘Meat for Perry,' she said in a strangled voice.

I threw my arms round her neck and we mingled our tears. Then a dreadful thought struck me. She has had some sheep billeted on her in one of her fields for the last fortnight, and more than once Charles has remarked that whenever he goes to the house to see Mr Savernack, who has influenza, Mrs Savernack, rendered desperate by the sufferings of her dogs, is to be seen standing at the window, staring out hungrily and fingering her gun.

We mingled our tears

I drew away from her and looked searchingly into her face, where the tears were not yet dry. ‘Where did you get it?' I said.

‘It's all right, Henrietta,' she said. ‘It's horse.'

‘Not Gertrude?' I said, in a hushed whisper.

‘No, not
my
horse – just horse. The dogs like it all right, but it makes 'em smell a bit.'

I couldn't wait for Charles to come home to lunch, so I rang him up at his surgery. ‘I've got wonderful news for you,' I said.

‘Is the war over?' said Charles hopefully.

‘No. But I've got some meat for Perry.'

‘You haven't!'

‘I have! It's horse. Mrs Savernack says it makes them smell a bit.'

‘Well, Perry never has been what you might call an Attar of Roses.'

‘No. I don't suppose we shall notice much difference.'

‘Horrid little dog!' said Charles with deep affection, and rang off.

My dear Robert, the radio is still talking of invasions, but outside the seagulls are beginning to get ready for the Summer Visitors. No bathing-hut attendant or lodging-house keeper looks forward with as much pleasure to a good season as do the seagulls. About this time of the year they begin preening and prinking in a very self-conscious manner, standing on one leg on the chimney-pots on cold days, and standing, still on one leg, on the windlasses on warm days and gazing out to sea with noble expressions on their faces. This behaviour, which is intended as a sort of curtain-raiser, provokes many exclamations of admiration from the Spring Visitors, who are too cold to sit about and give the birds their full attention. We call the visitors Grockles. Don't ask me why. In Cornwall they're Emmets. Mrs Savernack would know. She – God bless her – knows everything.

Always your affectionate Childhood's Friend,

HENRIETTA

May 7, 1941

M
Y DEAR ROBERT
It really is extraordinary how one can become accustomed to anything in time. I shall always remember the first time the siren went off, and how we all jumped out of bed and went down to the scullery, and my knees shook. Now, when it wails on and off all night, we just turn over in bed and grunt. But the other night was different.

‘Do you hear a funny noise?' I said to Charles.

‘Yes,' said Charles.

‘What is it?'

‘Oh, somebody firing something at somebody,' said Charles, and fell asleep again.

I got up and looked out of the window, and saw what looked like every house in the place ablaze. The next minute there was a deafening crash on the landing, which I thought must surely be an incendiary bomb until I remembered that the prearranged signal of danger with our lodger in the attics was to be a saucepan thrown down the well of the stairs. A second later she appeared in the doorway, a pocket Amazon, holding aloft the dustbin-lid which she takes up to bed with her every night. ‘Come on!' shouted the lodger. Now's our chance! Incendiaries.'

‘What a racket you two are
making!' said Charles peevishly.

‘Come on!' shouted the lodger

‘But Charles! The place is on fire!'

‘Do you mean this house is on fire?' said Charles, showing interest for the first time.

‘Not actually this house.'

‘Well, I can't leave the telephone, in case I'm wanted at the hospital,' said Charles, and composed himself to slumber once more.

The lodger and I went into the garden, and the sight which met our eyes was better than any firework display, but it was all at the other end of the town, and everywhere the lights were going out one by one as though snuffed by giant fingers.

‘Everybody's putting them out except us,' wailed the lodger, beating on her dustbin-lid in a distraught manner.

Then we saw the incendiary bomb blazing merrily in the Simpkins's garden. We knew Colonel Simpkins would be out with the A.R.P., and Mrs Simpkins was alone in the house. I rushed back to the porch for a sand-bag, found it was too heavy to lift, made a supreme effort, struggled with it for a few yards, and fell down.