Why so soon again? Or, alternatively, did Aunt Blanche omit to summon him at Cook's original request, made almost immediately after my departure? If so, for what reason, and why have I been told nothing?
Can think of nothing else throughout very unsatisfactory breakfast, prepared by myself, in which electric toaster alternately burns the bread or produces no impression on it whatever except for three pitch-black perpendicular lines.
Tell myself that I am being foolish, and that all will be cleared up in the course of a post or two, and settle down resolutely to Inside Information column of favourite daily paper, which I read through five times only to find myself pursuing long, imaginary conversation with Cook at the end of it all.
Decide that the only thing to do is to telephone to Aunt Blanche this morning and clear up entire situation.
Resume Inside Information.
Decide that telephoning is not only expensive, but often unsatisfactory as well, and letter will serve the purpose better.
Begin Inside Information all over again.
Imaginary conversation resumed, this time with Aunt Blanche.
Decide to telephone, and immediately afterwards decide not to telephone.
Telephone bell rings and strong intuitional flash comes over me that decision has been taken out of my hands. (Just as well.)
Yes?
Am I Covent Garden? says masculine voice.
No, I am not.
Masculine voice ejaculates—tone expressive of annoyance, rather than regret for having disturbed me—and conversation closes.
Mysterious unseen compulsion causes me to dial TRU and ask for home number.
Die now cast.
After customary buzzing and clicking, Robert's voice says Yes? and is told by Exchange to go ahead.
We do go ahead and I say Is he all right? to which he replies, sounding rather surprised, that he's quite all right. Are the children, Aunt Blanche and the maids all right? What about Winnie?
Robert says, rather vaguely, that he believes Winnie has gone home for a day or two, but they seem to be Managing, and do I want anything special?
Answer in the weakest possible way that I only wanted to know if they were All Right, and Robert again reiterates that they are and that he will be writing to-night, but this A.R.P. business takes up a lot of time. He hopes the Canteen work is proving interesting and not too tiring, and he thinks that Hitler is beginning to find out that he's been playing a mug's game.
So do I, and am just about to elaborate this theme when I remember the Sweep and enquire if I can speak to Aunt Blanche.
Robert replies that he thinks she's in the bath.
Telephone pips three times, and he adds that, if that's all, perhaps we'd better ring off.
Entire transaction strikes me as having been unsatisfactory in the extreme.
October 11th.—Nothing from Aunt Blanche except uninformative picture postcard of Loch in Scotland—in which I take no interest whatever—with communication to the effect that the trees are turning colour and looking lovely and she has scarcely ever before seen so many holly-berries out so early. The children brought in some beautiful branches of beech-leaves on Sunday and Aunt Blanche hopes to put them in glycerine so that they will last in the house for months. The news seems to her good on the whole. The Russians evidently not anxious for war, and Hitler, did he but know it, up a gum-tree. Much love.
Spend much time debating question as to whether I had not better go home for the week-end.
October 12th.—Decide finally to ask Mrs. Peacock whether I can be spared for ten days in order to go home on urgent private affairs. Am unreasonably reluctant to make this suggestion in spite of telling myself what is undoubtedly the fact: that Canteen will easily survive my absence without disaster.
Mrs. Peacock proves sympathetic but tells me that application for leave will have to be made direct to Commandant. Can see she expects me to receive this announcement with dismay, so compel myself to reply Certainly, with absolute composure.
(Do not believe that she is taken in for one second.)
Debate inwardly whether better to tackle Commandant instantly, before having time to dwell on it, or wait a little and get up more spirit. Can see, however, that latter idea is simply craven desire to postpone the interview and must not on any account be entertained seriously.
Serena enters Canteen just as I am preparing to brace myself and exclaims that I look very green in the face, do I feel ill?
Certainly not. I am perfectly well. Does Serena know if Commandant is in her office, as I wish to speak to her.
Oh, says Serena, that accounts for my looks. Yes, she is.
I say Good, in very resolute tone, and go off. Fragmentary quotations from Charge of the Light Brigade come into my mind, entirely of their own accord.
Serena runs after me and says she'll come too, and is it anything very awful?
Not at all. It is simply that I feel my presence to be temporarily required at home, and am proposing to go down there for ten days. This scheme to be subjected to Commandant's approval as a mere matter of courtesy.
At this Serena laughs so much that I find myself laughing also, though perhaps less whole-heartedly, and I enquire whether Serena supposes Commandant will make a fuss? Serena replies, cryptically, that it won't exactly be a fuss, but she's sure to be utterly odious—which is precisely what I anticipate myself.
Temporary respite follows, as Serena, after pressing her nose against glass panel of office window, reports Commandant to be engaged in tearing two little Red Cross nurses limb from limb.
Cannot feel that this bodes well for me, but remind myself vigorously that I am old enough to be Commandant's mother and that, if necessary, shall have no hesitation in telling her so.
(Query: Would it impress her if I did? Answer: No.)
Office door flies open and Red Cross nurse comes out, but leaves fellow victim within.
Serena and I, with one voice, enquire what is happening, and are told in reply that Her Highness is gone off of the deep end, that's what. Long and very involved story follows of which nothing is clear to me except that Red Cross nurse declares that she isn't going to be told by anyone that she doesn't know her job, and have we any of us ever heard of Lord Horder?
Yes, we not unnaturally have.
Then who was it, do we suppose, who told her himself that he never wished to see better work in the ward than what hers was?
Office door, just as she is about to reply to this rhetorical question, flies open once more and second white veil emerges, which throws first one into still more agitation and they walk away arm-in-arm, but original informant suddenly turns her head over her shoulder and finishes up reference to Lord Horder with very distinctly-enunciated monosyllable:
