Henrietta's War Read online

  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

  MY 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

  MY 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 yo
u’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 Evensong8 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.’

  Always your affectionate Childhood’s Friend,

  HENRIETTA

  January 15, 1941

  MY DEAR ROBERT

  Everybody is feeling rather flat and low after the strenuous holiday season we have had. Not that anybody actually enjoyed it, but it kept us too busy and exhausted to think, and that is a good thing these days.

  Yesterday Faith walked into Lady B’s drawing-room, where she and I were enjoying a little quiet knitting, and plumped down into a chair.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ said Lady B, looking up over the top of her spectacles.

  ‘I’m depressed,’ said Faith.

  ‘Good gracious!’ said Lady B. ‘Don’t let Hitler hear you saying things like that.’

  ‘Well, I am depressed,’ said Faith. ‘It’s so dark in the mornings, and if you like the idea of pink brushed-wool stockings, I don’t.’

  ‘What’s the matter with you? said, Lady B’

  ‘They aren’t going to be pink brushed-wool,’ said Lady B soothingly. ‘They’ll be something snappy in lisle. And anyhow, with your legs, my dear Faith, you have nothing to fear.’

  ‘Soon there won’t be any face-powder,’ said Faith, who was determined to have her grumble out, ‘and now they aren’t going to sound our siren any more.’

  ‘Aren’t going to sound the siren any more? ’ said Lady B and I, laying down our knitting, for this was a matter of deep interest. ‘Why?’

  ‘They say it frightens the old ladies.’

  ‘Well, I am sorry,’ said Lady B. ‘I was getting quite fond of it.’

  ‘They’re going to sound it if bombs are dropping,’ said Faith. ‘

  Surely that will be hardly necessary?’

  ‘The Bomb Snobs will despise us more than ever,’ said Faith gloomily.

  ‘You should talk to them about the invasion in the spring,’ I said. ‘I always do. Charles says he talks about the barrage on the Somme in the last war, and they hate it.’

  ‘It is only lately,’ said Lady B, ‘that I have realized what extraordinary restraint the people who fought in the Great War have shown all these years.’

  ‘It’s because they were men,’ said Faith, who prefers the opposite sex to her own.

  ‘About your depression, Faith, dear,’ said Lady B, tactfully changing the subject. ‘I suggest that you paint the stairs or turn out a cupboard. It’s an almost certain cure.’

  ‘I think I’d sooner paint the stairs than turn out a cupboard,’ said Faith doubtfully, and soon afterwards she and I took our leave.

  On the way home Faith and I had the delightful and almost unique experience of knocking on the door of the police station and telling them they were showing a chink of light. This threw Faith into the highest good humour, and when I left her at her gate the black cloud had lifted and I could see she had forgotten it had ever been there.

  Always your affectionate Childhood’s Friend,

  HENRIETTA

  January 22, 1941

  MY DEAR ROBERT

  Evensong says that now ‘Awfuls’ are rationed we shall have to put our Thinking Caps on when ordering the meals. Personally, I have always had to put my Thinking Cap on when ordering meals, even in the days of plenty, and I don’t consider the morning’s agony in the kitchen any worse now than it was then. In some ways it is better. What housewife has not felt shame when, with the foodstuffs of the world at her disposal, she has, after ten minutes’ deep thought, said, ‘And then, I think, we’ll have a rice pudding’?

  To-day the daily ordering of meals has become a sort of game, in which the Housewife makes the moves and the Cook says ‘Check!’

  HOUSEWIFE: And afterwards we will have pancakes.

  COOK(triumphantly): No lemons, Madam!

  H. W.: Then we’ll have apple fritters.

  COOK: I’m afraid I couldn’t spare an egg for the batter, Madam.

  ...has become a sort of game

  H. W.: What about a macaroni cheese?

  COOK(with glee): There’s not a bit of cheese in the place!

  H. W. (warming up): Sardines on toast.

  COOK (smugly): Well, Madam, we’ve got some, but we have been asked not to open tinned foods, haven’t we? Of course, if you really want sardines –

  H.W.: No, no. We won’t have sardines. What about a plum duff ?

  COOK (sarcastically): Of course, if you don’t mind having it without any currants –

  H. W.(loudly) : Then we’ll have a Nice Rice Pudding.

  This is the K.O. for Cook, who retires muttering.

  They say that oatmeal is to become our staple diet from now onwards. Charles, who has never allowed a spoonful of porridge to pass his lips, received the news without enthusiasm.

  How do your hardships compare with ours? I hope I may never know.

  Always your affectionate Childhood’s Friend,

  HENRIETTA

  January 29, 1941

  MY DEAR ROBERT

  I have got a croaking sort of cold and am having a day in bed.

  This, as you know, is a tremendous treat.

  All the morning pale yellow sunshine poured in through one window, and in the evening bright golden sunshine poured in through another. The sea was a delicate mother-of-pearl colour, the birds were practising a few simple singing exercises for the spring, Perry was asleep under the eiderdown, and I had a nice book about the spacious days of Queen Victoria to read.

  Now a ridiculous round, red sun has sunk into the sea, a few late seagulls have flown across the green sky to their dormitory on the cliffs, an entirely undeserved day of enjoyment has come to an end, and it is time for the black-out.

  Sometimes I think the lookers-on have the best of it, and to get the full savour out of life one should take firmly to the sofa early in youth and stay there, like Jane Austen.

  Have I told you I am getting worried about Perry’s food. Even a little dog like him needs some raw meat occasionally, and he breaks out into a sort of reproachful eczema if he doesn’t get it. Now there is talk of dog-biscuits running short, and Charles is beginning to drop hints about Perry being a very old dog and having had a very happy life, and what a shame it would be to keep him alive if he weren’t healthy; and the fear, which has been lurking at the back of my mind for weeks, draws another step nearer.

  I don’t quite know why we are all so devoted to Perry. If ever there was a selfish, self-centred dog, it is he. Neatly upholstered, as Faith says, in black satin, and with little tan gloves on each paw, he is pleasing to the eye, but there is little real St Bernard-like nobility about him. In return for our devotion he gives us a grudging affection, and though there is a legendary belief in the family that he is fond of me, I know it is only because I devote my life to his comforts. Aloof and snubbing to our friends, he occasionally fawns upon people we dislike, and he has a disturbing habit of su
ddenly barking shrilly at nothing, and making us all jump. He has an unaccountable phobia about being trodden upon, and if you so much as touch him with your foot he screams loudly and rushes into a corner, giving any strangers who happen to be present the impression that we are in the habit of kicking him across the room. A firm believer in warmth and a hater of fresh air, he sleeps, winter and summer, with a rug over his head. Fires are lit for him, windows are shut for him, doors are opened to let him in, and then, almost at once, opened again to let him out.

  There is little real St Bernad-like nobility about him

  ‘What fools you do make of yourselves over that dog!’ say our guests with scorn.

  ‘Perry?’ we say nonchalantly, trying to hide the fact that we are deeply wounded by this remark. ‘Oh, he’s a great character.’

  ‘Personally, I only like big dogs,’ says the guest. ‘Alsatians, and so on.’ And in about twenty-four hours Perry has another willing slave opening and shutting doors for him, giving up the best chair to him, trying to pat him (a thing Perry never allows), and holding him up at the window to bark at the pussies.

  Yesterday I met Mrs Savernack on the cliff path with her Spaniel, her Dachshund, her Cairn, and her Dalmatian. Mrs Savernack herself was not looking well. She gave up her meat ration to the dogs months ago, and just lately has been giving them her butter and margarine as well. Mr Savernack says he and the servants have to keep their rations under lock and key. The dogs, I thought, were looking pretty fit.

  ‘How are you managing about Perry’s food?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, we just order a dead horse for him every week,’ I said brightly.

  ‘I’m glad you can joke about it, Henrietta,’ she said, looking at me with cold dislike.

  ‘Come home and have some tea,’ I said, for I felt sorry for her. ‘We’ve still got a little butter.’

  Mrs Savernack brightened visibly. ‘Have you?’ she said. ‘Justinian would love a little butter.’

  ‘I’m not offering butter to your Dalmatian,’ I said, ‘or to any of your dogs. In fact, I think we’ll park them at your house on the way home.’