Free Henrietta's War by Joyce Dennys Page B

riding better than reading.
    â€˜Don’t take any notice of him,’ said Mrs Savernack, ‘he’s mad.’
    The Conductor sighed. Sometimes, I am afraid, he finds us a little discouraging.
    Always your affectionate Childhood’s Friend,
    HENRIETTA
    September 25, 1940
    M Y DEAR ROBERT
Since the Germans began concentrating on London they seem to have forgotten this part of the world, and we feel almost ashamed of our peaceful nights. I won’t say
quiet
and peaceful, because the soldiery spends most of the hours of darkness rushing madly up and down the streets on motorbikes. Lying warm and comfortable in our beds, that makes us feel more ashamed than ever; but Charles says there is no need to worry, as we shall probably all get our turn in time.
    The Linnet is on night duty at her hospital now. I asked her if she was afraid in the raids, and she said there wasn’t time. The first thing she has to do when the warning goes is to chase down the corridor and persuade a shell-shocked patient to return to bed. Then she collects an armful of babies out of the maternity ward and lays them, cheeping and chirping, under the draining-board in a pantry, and after that she has to put tin basins over the patients’ heads. (And if that isn’t a brilliant hospital idea, Robert, I’d like to know what is.) By that time she is ready to lend a hand, in some lowly capacity, in the operating-theatre.
    Faith, who must be in the mode even when it’s bombs, went to London when the trouble started and came back next day looking very wan. She had thought air-raid shelters would be all song and story and
bonhomie
but found that no one even wanted to talk. They all flung themselves down on their Lie-Lows with set expressions on their faces, determined to Sleep for Victory.
    Remembering the children cheered her up a bit; especially the little boy who announced, ‘I like the screaming ones best,’ while one was actually coming down directly overhead.
    But then everybody seems to be getting terribly tough. Bill writes us the most bloodthirsty letters from the north-east coast. He used to be such a gentle boy, it is hard to believe that his letters aren’t a sort of joke; but if they aren’t, then he is only longing for one thing, and that is for Hitler to start invading England.
    And he isn’t the only one, either. It was Lady B’s birthday yesterday. She won’t allow anybody to buy her presents in wartime, so in the evening I took her up a bunch of roses, and found her surrounded by golden telegrams.
    â€˜Are you having a happy birthday?’ I said.
    â€˜Lovely, thank you, dear,’ said Lady B. ‘Would you like to read my telegrams?’
    I read them, and Lady B gave me a lightning word-portrait of each of the givers whom I didn’t know already.
    â€˜That’s Teddy Barchester. I can’t think why he signed it “Edward”, but they say he’s grown very pompous lately. We used to know him in Rome. A very peculiar man. He used to play the violin and dance at the same time. He was very much in love with me when I was a girl.’
    â€˜Why didn’t you marry him?’
    â€˜My dear! A man who danced while he played the violin! Besides,’ added Lady B simply, ‘he had a wife’; and added after a pause, ‘she died under rather peculiar circumstances.
    â€™ ‘What circumstances? ’ I said, for this sounded as though it might be the beginning of one of Lady B’s most enthralling stories; but she wouldn’t say.
    â€˜I’ll tell you when Teddy’s dead,’ she said. ‘It wouldn’t be fair now.’
    â€˜And who is Queenie?’
    â€˜She used to be the housemaid at my old home when I was a girl. I lent her a frock once to go to a party in, and she hooked her young man at it. She’s very rich now.’
    â€˜What a lot of faithful friends you have!’
    â€˜Yes. I’m a very lucky old