The next morning, however, it was clear that there had been major arguments. Uncle Edward and Uncle Hugh had decreed that Aunt Villy, Aunt Sybil and Louise were to remain in the country,
although Louise fought for and obtained permission to go up to London each day to her school, provided she caught the four-twenty from Charing Cross like the Brig and Aunt Rach. But she would have
to stop doing that if Uncle Hugh told her to. Any protests about all this died away during Sunday, as the Allies continued to retreat towards the coast, and in the evening they heard that the
British forces were to withdraw to Britain. ‘If they can,’ Uncle Hugh said, and she saw the tic at the side of his forehead working away. ‘Get me an aspirin, Poll,’ he said.
And Polly came back and said she couldn’t find any. And then Aunt Syb said they were finished.
‘But I bought you an enormous bottle on Monday!’ Polly exclaimed which seemed to have been the worst thing she could have said all round. Uncle Hugh began asking questions, and Aunt
Syb became tearful and cross, and Aunt Villy went and got some of her own aspirin for Uncle Hugh. There was an atmosphere of tension all over the house, she thought; it could be just that the war
was going so badly, but it could be other things. What was so horrible was feeling that everything – every single thing – was or might be going wrong, and not only was there nothing she
could do about it, but on some levels they didn’t even
say
what was wrong. I have no
hand
in it, she thought angrily, although I’m just as much alive as everyone else.
You bet the
consequences
will come my way.
Polly joined her when she was in bed, just starting to write to Dad. She looked miserable, and she got out of her clothes very quickly and left them all over the floor instead of putting them
neatly on the back of a chair as she usually did.
‘What’s up?’ Clary said.
‘When I went to say goodnight to them, Mummy nearly shouted at me and said why didn’t I knock. And then Dad snapped at her, and then they just went through the
motions
of
kissing me, and then there was a kind of silence and I left.’
‘What were they
doing
when you went in?’ Her curiosity – always pretty bad – was thoroughly roused. Perhaps they had been in the middle of
sleeping
together. There seemed to be two kinds of that. But Polly said, nothing: Dad was standing by the window with his back to Mum who was just sitting on the bed taking off her stockings.
‘I’m afraid they were having some sort of row,’ she said. ‘Which they
never
do normally.’
‘It isn’t normally any more.’
‘No,’ Polly said sadly. ‘It isn’t – at all.’
26 May
Darling Dad,
Actually it’s the 27th, Monday morning, a marvellously beautiful day – the kind that you like, Dad, with little drops of dew sparkling on the grass and
interfering with spiders’ webs, and no wind and a sky like delphiniums without any of the pink bits. I’m sitting in the comfortable apple tree that Polly and I often use when we
want to get away from things. The orchard has buttercups and ladies’ smocks in it; I think it is rather a pre-Raphaelite scene, but actually the things they painted are lovely,
aren’t they? It is the soppy expressions on all the ladies wearing thin nightdresses much too big for them that spoil it, if you ask me. But the actual nature bits are frightfully good,
aren’t they? I should be glad to know what you think about this. Miss Milliment doesn’t like them much – she seems to like impressions of nature, but it is probably because
her eyesight is so bad, poor thing.
The news is bad, but I expect you know that. I don’t really understand what has gone wrong: one minute the Allies seemed to be perfectly all right, and then in a few days they are
surrounded by the Germans. It does seem extraordinary, when it is so peaceful here. Peaceful, my foot! About fifty aeroplanes went over just after I wrote that – the most enormous droning
sound. I think they were bombers as they looked so huge, and they were going towards the sea. I do wonder where you are, Dad; at least you aren’t trapped in France and ships can move
about and escape, I should think. Uncle Hugh says Belgium will give in any minute, if they haven’t already. [She stopped for a minute here, wondering whether to tell him about how odd
people had seemed to be the previous evening. There was nothing he could
do
about it, she decided, and therefore it would only worry him. Instead, she wrote:] Mrs Cripps has taken to
perming her hair. You know how it used to be, very straight and greasy – and she had those huge kirby grips that you said you were afraid of finding in the Christmas pudding? Well, now
it’s madly fluffy and stands out all over her head except when she goes to Battle once a week it comes out in the sort of waves you get on the sand after the tide’s gone out, with
little flat curls like snails at the ends. It is not an improvement, which is true, I suppose, of many changes, but that does not stop people from wanting them. Food has changed here. Mrs
Cripps makes meat loaves – rightly named as they seem to have more breadcrumbs in them than anything else. And one day we had stuffed sheep’s hearts that were absolutely disgusting.
But I expect you are living on ship’s biscuit and pemmican (what
is
that, Dad? It sounds like dried pelicans.) and condensed milk because I don’t suppose they can get cows
onto destroyers and just as well because feeling seasick with four stomachs would be no joke. We are keeping chickens now which makes McAlpine very cross, but the Duchy says extra eggs are
essential for Zoë and Wills and Roly. Naturally I come into the band where I am not supposed to need them. The hens are called Flossie, Beryl, Queenie, Ruby and Brenda, the Duchy’s
least favourite names, which brings me to Zoë and the names for the baby. The latest are
Roberta
or
Dermot
. Honestly, Dad, you will have to put your foot down. Some
smaller aeroplanes have just gone over. I wish I was in one of them, flying to you. I really miss you, Dad. [She crossed that out very thoroughly.] I regret your absence. This afternoon I am
going to the dentist in Tunbridge Wells with Aunt Villy who is going to see her mother who is batty there. I very much hope I will go to see her too, as I have never met a mad person. You
haven’t answered about the pocket money, but I’ll have to assume it will be all right or get Aunt Rach to lend me stamps. It is breakfast time – I heard the bell, so I’d
better go and have it, although I hate Force and that’s what we usually seem to have these days; the shop always seems short of Grape Nuts. Aunt Rach measured me against the dining-room
door, and I have grown half an inch since last time which was just before Christmas. Do look after yourself, Dad. Don’t get scurvy which I read is a real hazard for sailors; if you see
anybody with it do tell me what they look like because although it is frequently mentioned in history, nobody says exactly what it
is
. Limes are supposed to be good for it, so all you
have to do is to keep a bottle of Rose’s Lime Juice handy. But it is probably an outdated disease, like the Plague.
Love from Clary.
Tuesday, 28 May
I couldn’t write yesterday because of going to Tunbridge Wells. We only drove to the station and then took the train because of not using too much petrol.
They’ve taken all the names off the railway stations which must be awful if you didn’t know what they were in the first place, but of course I can see it would make things hopeless
for the Germans. Only – surely they won’t be going about in
our
trains? I had two stoppings and Mr Alabone said I must come back in six months. Aunt Villy was very kind.
She took me to tea in a tea shop and we had scones and a rather small piece of chocolate cake. Then we went to Forrest Court which is where her mother, Lady Rydal, is kept. We bought her a
bunch of flowers, very pretty pink and white striped tulips, and Aunt Villy bought her some peppermint creams. I asked if I could see her too, and Aunt Villy said no to begin with, but when I
said I’d really like to (I didn’t say why) she said yes, but I might find it distressing. ‘She doesn’t always remember who people are,’ she said. We waited in a
sort of sitting-waiting room on the ground floor, and then the Matron came and said we could go and see her now, and led us along a long passage that smelled of floor polish and disinfectant.
Aunt Villy asked how she was, and Matron said much the same, it always took old people time to settle down.
She was sitting in bed with a lot of pillows behind her and wearing a bedjacket and her hair, which always used to be done in a puffy bun, all straggling down her back and the room smelled
stuffy and a bit of lavatories. She was talking when we came in, but there was nobody else there. When she saw Aunt Villy, she said, ‘What has become of Bryant? You’ve send Bryant
away, haven’t you? It is most unkind.’ Aunt Villy said she was on holiday, but Lady Rydal retorted that she’d had Bryant for fifteen years and she’d
never
had a
holiday. We showed her the tulips, but she didn’t seem to like them at all, so Aunt Villy unwrapped them and found a vase and got water from the wash basin and arranged them, and Lady
Rydal, who kept picking at her bedclothes, stared at me and said where was my mother? I didn’t know what to say, except that she was dead, but Aunt Villy said quietly, ‘I think she
thinks you are Nora,’ and Lady Rydal burst out, ‘You have no right to speak unless you are spoken to! If only Jessica were here!
She
would not allow me to continue in this
disgraceful place. I am no one’s
dear
! The tea is Indian and they have taken the silver. They keep Hubert away from me. They answer back! They keep
all my friends
away.
I told them that I knew Lady Elgar was at the bottom of this – they could think of no reply to
that
! That woman has always disliked me – not content with ruining poor
Hubert’s career, she has manoeuvred me into this dreadful place and left me to rot! I write to them – Lady Tadema, Lady Stanford, Lady Burne-Jones – but they do not reply; not
one of them has replied and I cannot write to Jessica because she has changed her name . . .’ She went on, and she was throwing herself about in bed so that the pillows fell on the floor
and Aunt Villy tried to put her arms round her, but Lady Rydal seemed surprisingly strong and flung her off, crying, ‘And I do not wish to use the commode! Oh! That anyone should speak to
me of such things!’ and then she began to cry – it was awful – a little high-pitched whiny cry, and this time Aunt Villy was able to comfort her, and she said, ‘If you
would be so kind as to give me a lift, not far, I live in St John’s Wood, in Hamilton Terrace – the number escapes me but it has a blue front door and Bryant will give you a cup of
tea in the kitchen and then we can telephone the police . . .’ And then she looked at Aunt Villy for the first time and said, ‘Do I know you?’ And Aunt Villy said who she was;
‘I’ve brought you some of your favourite peppermint creams,’ she said. And Lady Rydal took them, and opened the box and looked at them, then she said, ‘I have the most
dreadful feeling that Hubert has died, and it is being kept from me. It is the only possible explanation for his not coming to my rescue.’ And Aunt Villy said, ‘Yes, he is dead,
Mummy. That’s why he hasn’t come.’ Then nothing happened for a moment and then Lady Rydal said, ‘They do not understand! I must have Bryant back: Bryant gets me the
numbers for the telephone. The telephone is useless without her! I ordered some cards to be made but I have no means of leaving them! People expect it. I cannot keep in touch! Some wicked
person took me away and tricked me into this place and left me with nothing! A horrible dream that does not stop—’ She broke off and then looked at Aunt Villy, and said in a quite
different voice, low and fearful, ‘Am I in
hell?
Is that what this is?’ And Aunt Villy put her arms round her and said no, no, it wasn’t that at all, and then there
was a knock on the door and a nurse came in, and Aunt Villy told me to go back to the room where we were before so I don’t know what happened after that.
In the cab going back to the station Aunt Villy smoked and didn’t say very much, but when we were in the train she said she shouldn’t have taken me, I must have found it very
distressing, and I said it
was
but that that wasn’t a reason for not taking me. I asked why, as she seemed so
very
unhappy there, Lady Rydal couldn’t just come
home with us and be in bed, and Aunt Villy said it was no good, she wouldn’t stay there, and she needed a lot of nursing because of incontinence. I think that means you can’t wait
to go to the lavatory – an awful thought – but Aunt Villy said they had given her something to make her feel calmer, and they
said
that she would settle down in time. I
wondered whether people go mad out of being bored with life, because Lady Rydal doesn’t ever seem to have enjoyed anything very much, but I didn’t like to ask Aunt Villy because she
did look so upset. ‘She probably loved the peppermint creams after we went,’ I said, because it seemed awful to have spent your sweet ration on somebody who spurned the present, and
Aunt Villy smiled and said she expected I was right. She asked me what Dad gave me for stoppings, and I said a shilling for each one, and she gave me two bob.
When we got back they said that King Leopold had told the Belgians to surrender – so of course they had. He doesn’t seem to be coming to England like Queen Wilhelmina. The other
thing that happened was that the Duchy was in a very agitated state about Aunt Syb, who she said had had such a bad pain that she had sent for Dr Carr who thought she had an ulcer and that she
would have to go to hospital to have a barium meal. What on earth can that be? If you have to go to hospital to have it, it can’t be very nice. When Polly and I were doing our homework
after supper, Aunt Villy came into our room and asked how much aspirin we had been buying for Aunt Syb. I thought one bottle that week, but Polly said she’d bought a second one. Aunt
Villy said that explained it: apparently Aunt Syb had been taking about ten or twelve aspirin a
day
and that had given her an ulcer. Polly was awfully relieved, and of course we said
we wouldn’t get any more now that she’d seen Dr Carr, but afterwards I wondered
why
Aunt Syb had wanted so many in the first place. But this I did not mention to Polly
because what with the Fall of France and her father in London, she has enough to worry about.