Henrietta's War (15 page)

Always your affectionate Childhood's Friend,

HENRIETTA

January 15, 1941

M
Y 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

M
Y 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

M
Y 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 suddenly 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.