Henrietta's War Read online

  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

  MY 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

  MY 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 t
own, 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.

  In the end we had to put it on the dustbin-lid and carry it between us.

  ‘I hope it isn’t one of those explosive ones,’ I said nervously, as we reeled, panting, up the garden path, and the lodger gave a contemptuous snort. The next minute a little figure staggered out from behind some bushes. It was Mrs Simpkins, wearing corduroy trousers, which she had treasured for goodness knows how many months against such an emergency, over her nightgown.

  ‘It’s my bomb!’ cried Mrs Simpkins, like a lion defending its cubs.

  ‘We’ve come to put it out for you,’ said the lodger.

  ‘I don’t want you to put it out for me. I want to put it out for myself.’

  ‘The sand-bag is too heavy for you.’

  ‘It isn’t. It isn’t. I’ve been practising.’

  ‘Ours has got more sand in it.’

  ‘It’s my bomb!’

  We glared at each other, our faces distorted with passion in the lurid light. Suddenly the bomb went out. It must have been burning for some time, and perhaps it wasn’t a very good one, anyway.

  Always your affectionate Childhood’s Friend,

  HENRIETTA

  May 14, 1941

  MY DEAR ROBERT

  There are rumours that we are to have another change of soldiery, and that means another row of fortifications. Sometimes the new soldiery pulls down the fortifications it finds when it arrives, and sometimes it just adds to them, but it always gives us to understand that until it came we had been but poorly protected, but that now we may sleep peacefully in our beds, secure from Invasion.

  We already have many guns which poke out of unexpected places. Some of them don’t even poke, and are so cleverly concealed that even visiting generals are deceived.

  The gun I hate most is the one which is hidden behind a little trap-door. Every morning when I take Perry for his walk on what nature and the British Army have left us of the cliff path, the little trap-door is open and a wicked-looking muzzle peers out with a baleful, one-eyed expression. It always seems to be pointing straight at me. If I hug the wall it still points at me, and when I move over to the other side and risk my life by walking on the extreme edge of the cliff the gun slews slowly round in my direction.

  I remind myself that I am the daughter and granddaughter of soldiers, and try not to walk more quickly. I remember Mr Churchill’s speech and the Charge of the Light Brigade. I move to the middle of the path, and so does the gun, and I remember how our father never allowed us to point guns at anybody, not even toy ones, because it was a Dangerous Thing To Do. I remember that yesterday was real gun practice day, with the cliff path closed to the public, and I wonder whether just one teeny little shell may not have been left in by mistake. I remember the Linnet’s remark that you simply wouldn’t believe what a lot of soldiers are in hospital because guns have gone off when people didn’t know they were loaded.

  The Whinebites’s telephone never stopped ringing

  Mrs Whinebite gave a party during War Weapons Week. We each had to bring half a crown and our own tea, and though we were all glad to do what we could for the W.W.W., everybody felt she had no right to take all the credit herself, though the anachronism idea was hers. In the corner of each invitation was written, ‘Please bring a War Anachronism with you.’ This created a good deal of excitement in the place, and for three days the Whinebites’ telephone never stopped ringing, because some people didn’t know what an anachronism was, and the others rang up to make sure they had got the idea all right.

  The party was quite a success. It started rather stickily because it was a very cold day and Mrs Whinebite is the sort of person who never lights a fire once the spring cleaning is done. But the Conductor threw a lighted match into the grate and pretended he had done it by mistake, and soon we had a good blaze and everybody cheered up. We made rather a lot of crumbs, eating out of our paper bags; but, as Faith said, that was Mrs Whinebite’s fault for not providing us with plates.

  Some of the anachronisms were quite good. Of course, a lot of people brought what had once been boxes of chocolates, and there were a few pathetic dance programmes, and one or two city-banquet menus which people kept reading aloud to each other. Faith brought a Mrs Beeton cookery book which began, ‘Take the yolks of eight eggs and a pint of cream.’ The Admiral brought an A.A. route for a motoring tour from here to the north of Scotland, and Mrs Simpkins’s brother, old General Tayling, who is eighty-four, came as himself. He said he was an anachronism of this war if ever there was one. We voted for the prize, which was an extremely handsome one three large onions. Lady B won it with her quotation, ‘The Carpenter said nothing but “The butter’s spread – too thick.”’

  Always your affectionate Childhood’s Friend,

  HENRIETTA

  May 21, 1941

  MY DEAR ROBERT

  Everybody is beginning to think that it is time Faith gave the Conductor a definite answer one way or the other. He has been losing a lot of weight during the last few months, and though that may be due rather to the rationing than to Faith, his behaviour to the choir, ever since Christmas, can only be the result of nerves strained to breaking-point.

  Last Tuesday when we sang an F sharp instead of an F natural three times in succession, which is really nothing for this choir, the Conductor threw down his bâton and walked out.

  I was very angry with Faith for causing so much unnecessary suffering, and when she came round yesterday afternoon while I was weeding the kitchen-garden path, I determined to take her to task, as they say.

  ‘How nice you look, Faith,’ I said, which was a bad beginning, but I just couldn’t help saying it.

  ‘This old rag?’ said Faith, as she always does. Then she lay down among the bluebells under the mulberry-tree and said she’d been up with the A.R.P. all night and was worn out. The bluebells exactly matched her eyes, but I hardened my heart against her, and said,

  ‘You don’t do a rap of work during the day, anyhow.’

  Faith sat up. ‘Why are you being so unkind to me, Henrietta?’ she said piteously.

  ‘Why are you being so unkind, if it comes to that?’ I said, stabbing at a large dandelion with my hoe.

  ‘I can’t marry him,’ said Faith sadly. ‘He snores.’ And she lay down among the bluebells.

  I put down my hoe. ‘Faith,’ I said, ‘how do you know he snores?’

  ‘I hear him at the A.R.P.,’ said Faith, with her eyes shut.

  In silence I picked up my hoe and renewed my attack upon the dandelion. After a little time Faith sat up again. ‘Henrietta,’ she said, opening her bluebell eyes very wide, ‘why did you say that?’

  ‘Let it pass,’ I said. ‘I always thought you sat up on hard chairs all night with your gas-masks on. This is the first I’ve heard of beds and snoring.’

  ‘There’s only one bed,’ said Faith.

  ‘Surely you don’t all – ’

  ‘No, no. Of course not. It’s a very small camp affair. The one who’s on duty all night, whether there’s an alert or not, has The Bed.’

  I laid down my hoe a second time and joined her among the bluebells, for I found this conversation of absorbing interest.

  ‘Tell me, Faith,’ I said, ‘do the men get into pyjamas?’

  ‘No,’ said Faith. ‘They take off their collars and ties.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘All except Mr Savernack, who keeps his on and lies outside the blanket.’

  Outside the blanket

  ‘Quit
e likely it is Mrs Savernack’s wish, Faith.’

  ‘Quite likely, Henrietta.’

  There was a silence while I reflected, not for the first time, that the Civil Defence has all the excitement of this war.

  ‘Colonel Simpkins is a very quiet sleeper,’ said Faith.

  ‘I have always looked upon him as the perfect type of English gentleman.’

  ‘At eleven o’clock the Admiral comes and puts out the light and says “No more talking”.’

  ‘That must be rather dull.’

  ‘Yes. But you see, it isn’t fair to the one in The Bed if we chatter all night.’

  ‘Quite.’

  Soon afterwards Faith went away. I walked to the gate with her, for she seemed rather sad. ‘I shouldn’t bother too much about the snoring,’ I said, squeezing her arm. ‘A lot of people snore in camp-beds who never snore anywhere else.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ said Faith, brightening a little.

  ‘I’m sure of it. And I think it’s Simply Wonderful What You Are Doing, Faith.’ I think it is the duty of all those without brassards to make this remark as often as possible. It never fails to gratify, and in this case it worked wonders. Faith positively danced down the road, and stopped at the corner to wave.

  Soon after she had gone the Conductor appeared. When I told him Faith had gone he said he wouldn’t wait, and for the second time that afternoon I left my weeding to walk to the gate.

  ‘Faith’s been telling me about the A.R.P.,’ I said. ‘I had no idea people had to sleep down there all night. I think it’s Simply Wonderful – ’

  But the Conductor wasn’t listening. A tender smile lit up his face. ‘She does snore so, bless her heart!’ he said. ‘You know, Henrietta, you simply wouldn’t believe such a loud noise could be made by such a darling little nose.’

  Always your affectionate Childhood’s Friend,

  HENRIETTA

  June 4, 1941

  MY DEAR ROBERT

  Lady B is going to sell her house. Everybody was very much upset when they heard the news, for she has always seemed to us to be in her perfect setting, and her evacuees set up a doleful howling. However, she told them that if there was room in her new flat she would take the one who was the least trouble with her. She says after that their behaviour was so exemplary it quite embarrassed her.