Mon. April 13th 1953
Clearing. Spam fritters.
Miss W. back from her holiday somewhere: loads of giggling above now needless to say. Squealing. Typed ‘The Life As Lived’ all day, up to August 1939. Not a hint of my interview in July. He does get his dates a bit out sometimes. Comes of not keeping strict diary. Tempted to hear on but that’s never been my way. I type what I have to type, & hear what I like to hear. The Nanking Road rather good. Took in cocoa tray and Miss W. had got there first. Felt like that time Gordon brought Father’s slippers down while I was on the toilet & I was only about seven. Betrayed. Miss W. in easy chair said oh here’s Violet now can you help us. Herbert thinks the name ‘Ulverton’ is because they used to have wolves but I say it’s either owls or Canute. Canute of the waves? I enquired, coolly. Yes, she said. Then something about Canute and his bodyguards and their manners. Well, I’m not one of her pupils. So what do you think, my dear? from Herbert. I said History’s not my subject, Mr B., and I have more important things on my mind than nomenclature (that was the word, uttered straight out). Then H. did his vulgar bit. The valley’s shape and all that. Just to make me flush, no doubt. Who the devil lopped off the V, etc. Gives out big roar of laughter. Miss W. tut-tutted I’ll give her that. Sometimes I wonder whether Herbert ever quite got over his teenage years, as they say about Mozart I believe. Miss Walwyn is rather full of herself, that’s the trouble. Up too many pegs, as Father always snapped about Kenneth, poor soul. Though only a quarter Jewish, in the end.
Tues. April 14th 1953
Mild, v. bright sun. Bovril.
Typed ‘The L. As L.’ up to December 1939. Nothing. That is, nothing on myself. I think he must have got his years wrong. That doesn’t bode well for whole, does it? No appetite — funny butterflies feeling in stomach. Dull play about talking pigs on wireless. Light only has Accordion Band on. Third just thumpy Beethoven. Have to drown giggles somehow. I’m very worried, actually. A Daisy Powder or I’ll not get off at all, though the packet’s rather old (got it after V.E. Day for obvious reasons!) Finished Cherry Heering, talking of that. Meant to offer some to Herbert. Never seems to be free of an evening to come down, these days.
Wed. April 15th 1953
Mild, sunny. Bovril.
Up to August 1940. Nothing! Only: ‘I gave the papers to my secretary and drove immediately off, exultant with a newfound feeling of liberation from all the daily dross of this scheming, sick world.’ No appetite. Awful caved-in feeling in stomach. Doan’s haven’t helped. Mother used to swear by Cockle’s for nervous indigestion. That awful giggling. Squealing. Like Mr Oadam’s pigs. Coronation Committee Meeting 6.30: Mr Donald Jefferies said he’s got every waggon in the parish & lots of implements for the bonfire. I said did he hear that interesting programme on Sunday? He said obsolete equine carriages have nothing to do with our new Elizabethan era of streamlined speed & efficiency. Dr Scott-Parkes took off his spectacles and mentioned possibility of national famine if we didn’t increase productivity. Like he tells you to eat plenty of greens or else. Mr Daye said we must increase crop yields by something or other. Mr Stroude said what happened to the ploughing-up policy and chortled (that’s the word). Then they all went on and on. Mouths moving, arms waving. Subsidies. Phosphates. Batteries. Fifty per cent something. Hill farming obsolete. Policy at half-cock. Artificial inseminating vital (I think that’s what my Minutes say). On and on. Lots of nodding. Felt such a fool about the waggons, like I was simple. Low tonight. Secretary! Want to read on but never been my way.
Oh Herbert
Thurs. April 16th 1953
Warm, clear intervals. Potato soup.
Up to end of 1940. Nothing. ‘My secretary opened the door & Mr Alfred Bestall entered.’ Alfred, of course. Nice man. Herbert nearly got Rupert in 1932. He just couldn’t get the face right. Very good on Nutwood & surrounds, though. That lovely valley.
Fri. April 17th 1953
Warm, sunny. Bread & dripping.
Up to August ’41. Nothing. ‘The feeling that my energies were at their peak was a potent one, and only when my secretary came in with a cup of cocoa (O the reins of routine!) did that flowing current of creative electricity cease.’ I’d thought he’d have brought me in when the Project idea was floated. That time in the shelter. Walked the river up to Grigg’s Wood and back. Clear my head. Lovely still day. Everything a bit like glass. Thought of those singers who can shatter it (glass). Made attempt (no one about) on Saddle Bridge leaning over but came out a funny squeak. Fancy if I had and the world suddenly went with a pop. Could almost imagine it, it all looked so fragile and leaves sticky & translucent, like Shirley’s first in the hospital. Its eyelids. Sunlit trees and water and whatnot. Felt just like a little girl again, on the bridge. Looking into the water. Making my squeak. Yes yes.
Sat. April 18th 1953
Warm, gusty. Bovril.
End of ’41. ‘It was leafing through a book on fossils in the shade of the pear-tree, and seeing a photograph of a prehistoric fly caught in amber, that re-awoke that long-buried dream, and only when my secretary interrupted my reverie with some lemon barley water, did I descend from that glorious, potent mountain!’
Interrupted
Sun. April 19th 1953
Cool, raining.
Holy Communion. Felt dizzy, left before sermon. Thought angel was about to fall on top of me. Suffocating. In bed. Excused presence at lunch. V. low. Nothing in me. Glass of milk helped.
Oh Herbert
Mon. April 20th 1953
Mild, squalls.
Typed. Summer of ’42. Nothing. Nothing at all. Those spool things make me giddy, going round and round like that.
Tues. April 21st 1953
Mild, grey. Tomato soup.
Typed. End of ’42. Nothing. ‘Well, I suppose you have felt this power, this desire to change the world. Come on now, have you not? I have! My secretary has not. My baker has not. Your linoleum salesman has not. But we have!’ Letter from Museum (only took them eight months): ‘The item you retrieved from the River Fogbourne is not, as you thought, a Saxon dagger but a bradawl, probably eighteenth century.’ A non-spiral boring-tool, apparently. Might have known.