fun. I was the only young unmarried female on board, and what a time I had. There were twelve passengers altogether, and they were all damn decent to me and danced divinely, added to which I got off (disgusting expression) with the Captain, quite an achievement if you know the Captain, while the ship’s doctor tried to get off with me. I used to annoy him by calling him Daddy. His wife was also on board, doing the round trip as a holiday. Then there was the fat and amusing little German commission agent. When I sat curled up on one of the settees at tea-time he used to stroke my ankles and tell me what a faithful husband he was and what a bad girl I was, and once when he had drunk too much beer said that it was fortunate we had not met sooner or there might have been trouble. Piglet managed to keep her head well above water although it was a strain at times.
Now I’m trying to concentrate on the session ahead of me. Pop has taken my decision to transfer to Journalism amazingly well. If he was at all distressed he is quite resigned to the change by now.
Wednesday, 18 October
I sat in the Refec drinking tea by myself feeling acutely lonely and very old.46
How is one to get beyond oneself? To get into contact with people – easy and friendly contact. I must get to know the journalists of my year. It is not in the nature of human beings to remain solitary. One wants to feel one is popular and liked. But one wants only a few very intimate friends – people who really matter in one’s life.
All a matter of growth – of patience and endurance and courage.
9.
The Young Girl Glider
Wednesday, 25 October 1933 (aged twenty-four)
The good diarist writes either for himself alone or for a posterity so distant that it can safely hear every secret and justly weigh every motive. For such an audience there is need neither for affectation nor of restraint. Sincerity is what they ask, detail and volume.
Virginia Woolf47
Today begins the Journal I have made so many attempts to commence since the idea first occurred to me one Saturday in the April of 1925.
The desire to express myself in words is so great. (‘From Architecture to Journalism! It’s rather a leap isn’t it?’ as David said in the Bartlett School studio this morning.) I have left the promised security of my father’s protection, and have forsaken the quiet, familiar waters which I have loved so well, to navigate my ship alone upon a stream whose course may lead me God knows where.
Was I right in changing from one thing to another so abruptly? At least these pages shall remain as a record of my endeavours and despair; that it may be known I was not without ambition and lamentably ill-defined faith in myself. So if this self-portrait fails to interest posterity, then my life will have been dull indeed, and I shall have grown into the stupid and tedious woman I have, at heart, such a horror of becoming.
Monday, 30 October
I would I could recall the intensity of my feelings as I came home in the tube tonight. I will write like Virginia Woolf or E.H. Young.48 I will write better than either of them! I am so tired of tubes and trams and washing up, cheap clothes and a bad complexion.
It is now 1.30 a.m. and I am in bed, my hair brushed and my muscles duly stretched, but I cannot sleep. What is one to do when one seems possessed of ideas and ideals too big for one’s meagre capabilities? I can go on living this mediocre life, helping to wash up and entertain and play bridge, queue for shows, go to the pictures, dance occasionally, and read hurriedly in what little spare time I have left. Thus may I continue, placidly, manicuring my nails, patching my vests, planning next season’s outfits, and never achieving anything. On the other hand I could neglect my nails and my hair, leave my stockings undarned, sleep as long as I like, torment Ethel and make myself thoroughly unpopular – that I might have more time to read and study, more time to write and learn. Oh God, what is one to do? Remain pleasant, agreeable, and careful of trifles, stunted and underdeveloped? Or grow fat and selfish and temperamental, dropping deeply into the store of old learning and wisdom and culture, encouraging the growth of one’s intellect?
Friday, 24 November
This evening Lugi gave a farewell party for Gus and Howard who sail on Wednesday for Marseilles. Five of us were squeezed into that little room, already hazy with smoke when I arrived about 7.30. She had prepared quantities of food: grapefruit served in teacups, cold roast beef, salad and baked beans, lemonade and home-made jam tarts and cream.
I sat curled up on the divan next to Howard who waited on me hand and foot. I think he grows more charming each time I meet him. Gus disapproved strongly of the black crepe-de-chine triangle I had tied around my throat. ‘Mausie, take off that bib!’ he said suddenly. ‘It looks awful! We know you have several double chins, but you needn’t draw attention to the fact.’ But I thought the effect on my green frock rather attractive – I wouldn’t concede.
We played Slippery Anne round one of Lugi’s drawing boards that she placed over the diminutive table. Lugi asked me what I was doing for Xmas, and whether I would care to go with her for four days into the country. ‘But,’ I said, ‘I’ve never left the family for Xmas before. It may be difficult.’ ‘Then it’s high time you began,’ said Gus. ‘Do them good.’49
It is so sad to think there will be no more evenings like this for some time to come. With Lugi and Gus I have no fear, no feeling of restraint. I want a room of my own again badly.
Friday, 8 December
Marjorie Walker sat and chatted to me over the dining room fire this evening.50 While discussing her recent activities she related the account of a visit with The Ramblers to the new South Africa House one Saturday afternoon. I wanted to ask them who had shown them round but hadn’t the courage.
‘We had tea,’ she said, ‘in one of the rooms overlooking Trafalgar Square. All the woodwork and panelling is simply beautiful – in stinkwood. I don’t know why they call it that. We asked them but they didn’t seem to know. And in the Governor’s Room (I think she meant the High Commissioner’s) is a really gorgeous Persian carpet. They told us it cost 250 guineas!’
‘Oh, the new South Africa House,’ said Ethel coming in at that moment. ‘A beautiful building isn’t it?’ I wanted to be dramatic, to say with an exaggerated air of carelessness, ‘Yes, I was taken over part of it last year before it was completed. I knew someone who worked for the South African government, and had thought at the time how grossly they were decorating the interior.’ But I threw the stub end of my cigarette into the grate instead and answered, ‘How nice!’ wondering with an odd spasm of pain if he was still helping to control the affairs of his country in London. But his is a name I never bear mention now for fear of the embarrassment it might cause me. Adieu, mon cher vaisseau passant!
Saturday, 30 December
I have not yet broken the news of my intended departure to the family. I am strangely fearful of doing so, yet I must start room-hunting on Monday and move in next Thursday or Friday so that I shall be settled there before the term begins. It seems as though I have been trembling over this secret for months.
Friday, 5 January 1934
I informed Daddy as we waited for the Hendon Lane bus on our way to see Uncle Jack and
