World War ll London Blitz: 11-4-40 to 11-25-1940 Last night was a very bad night again, the Germans making up for all they didn’t give us on Sunday night. Fourteen bombs have been dropped in this immediate vicinity. South Street is a mess.

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November 4, 1940

Eleven a.m. For the first time in fifty-six nights we had no alert last night. It is presumed that the heavy rain made the enemy’s bases on the other side of the channel unsuitable for safe landing. Our first alarm for today sounded at ten a.m., and no all clear has come yet.

I have just finished bathing and dressing for the day, and I have had a very agreeable surprise I decided to wear the black dress Miss Canham made for me about a year ago, and which I have never yet worn. It is miles too big! I have lost so much girth in my middle the skirt now drops right to the ground. As it is the dress is not wearable. I will keep it on for today so that Dr. Keighley can see for herself how I have diminished under her regime. I shall probably sign off with her today. Last Monday she told me to try my leg in visco-paste again, so on Thursday I put on fresh plasters, and to my great satisfaction, the leg has been quite comfortable under the plaster all week. So it would seem extravagant to visit her once a week simply to get weighed. I can continue to observe the diet she gave me, and reduce weight, without needing to pay her per visit to step on her weighing machine. I have lost about thirty pounds since the beginning of August. My average loss is about two pounds per week. If I could get myself down to twelve stone, or somewhere around one hundred and seventy pounds, I shall be content to stay at that. After all, I am a very tall woman, and I do not want to look gaunt.

Well, with a new book, here is a new resolution. Or, rather, an old resolution re-affirmed. I made it this morning, and this is why. These last two or three weeks Ted has begun to read through all the Scott we have in the house. He has also gone around talking in what, I suppose, he thinks is an imitation of the Scottish accent and dialect. I haven’t found it a bit amusing. It’s so silly. It’s typical of Ted, both the reading, and what he thinks is a joke, in his imitating. To me it is simply on par with the mind of a schoolboy of fourteen. Scott belongs to the schoolroom and as for imitations, well they’re childish too. Last night Ted finished The Heart of Midlothian, whose heroine is that horrible girl, Jeannie Deans. At breakfast this morning he remarked, Now I’ve finished Jeanie Deans.

So you’ve lost an interest in life, I commented, Oh no. There are plenty of more Scott's to read. Anyhow I don’t think this is one of his best, not enough story in it. Not enough action. He could have made a better story of it, I think.

I never find much story in Scott. Take, The Bride of Lammermoor. for instance. It’s very dull. You plough on and you plough on and you plough on and nothing happens.

Your language! You don’t plough on why don’t you express yourself correctly? What you mean is, that the story is very inadequate, and you don’t like it. Isn’t that it? Why you can’t say what you mean, I don’t know! ‘Plough on and plough on’ Psh!

He kept on about ploughing on, etc. etc., for another five minutes. I said no more. I didn’t answer his questions as to why I spoke as I did, or speak as I do. I said nothing. Inside I took a vow. I vow, that beyond the necessities of courteous speech required by etiquette in the routine of daily life, I will never speak to Ted Thompson, or in front of him, again. To speak spontaneously, or to express any private opinion in front of Ted is to be corrected or derided, and squashed. Always squashed. Who the hell is he to correct everybody’s utterance?

Only one day last week he came home mightily pleased with himself, and told me a tale about how he had corrected somebody in the shelter. I’ve forgotten the incident he related, but he wound up by saying, I didn’t half make him look a fool, I can tell you. I put him in his place all right. He did look an ass when I’d finished with him!

He was so pleased with himself; he’d been scoring over a stranger. Why? Isn’t it horrible? Yes, conversation with Ted is impossible. Well, I won’t talk to him, or to anyone else when he is present. I have taken this vow before, but today I take it finally and keep it finally. He can talk, in fact, nothing can stop him talking but I won’t.

There is a possibility that Artie may come home on leave today. I sure hope he does. On Friday we got a letter through from Cuthie. It was written July Seventh, practically four months ago. He said he was well, and that he had talked with some other fellows from the R.A.F. and from what they told him he realized he was very lucky to have escaped unharmed as he did. Last week I began to scribble again.

November 5,1940 Guy Fawkes Day

It is U.S. Election Day. In the eight o’clock news this morning I was very amused to hear that last night Wendell Wilkie held the air, giving his last campaign speech, for an hour and a quarter, assisted by Bing Crosby and Mary Pickford. This is simply ridiculous. It is as though Churchill should broadcast to the Empire assisted by Jack Payne and Cecily Courtridge.

Last night was a very bad night again, the Germans making up for all they didn’t give us on Sunday night. Fourteen bombs have been dropped in this immediate vicinity. South Street is a mess. It is shut from the public from Victoria Road to the Market Place. There are big craters in front of the Havana and in The Plaza Car Park. Also in front of Boots and the police station. There are unexploded bombs in Ives Nursery Gardens, in Errol Road (Bertie’s Road) in Gilbert Road, and one nearly opposite this house, between here and the main road. We have had notice to keep all our windows wide open. There was another bomb in Eastern Road and I don’t know where the rest are, but there are fourteen in there three or four blocks: I don’t know how many in the rest of the town. We are now, four-fifteen p.m., having our seventh warning for today. What shall we get tonight? Ted has decided to move the bookcase out of this dining room, and bring in its place the parlor sofa. This is a good idea. For two months he has been sleeping on the floor, in front of the bookcase, but if a blast tumbled the bookcase on top of him, the books would almost surely kill him. Anyhow, it’s getting too cold to sleep on the floor. So we have this shifting job to do this evening. I have been carrying lots of the books into the parlor, but

now must rest, as I am too tired to do any more. Artie didn’t come home last night, so I’m afraid we shan’t see him this week after all.

November 6, 1940

Roosevelt is in. Good.

Forty-Three bombs were dropped on Romford on Monday night. One lodged in the Gasometer, but in the water part. Captain Davis has been here today to remove it. This is the engineer who successful removed the bomb from St. Paul’s.

News from Rome: Last Wednesday the Pope blessed two hundred Italian officers, received in audience, saying to them, We bless all you who serve the beloved father- land with fealty and love. So they were off to invade and destroy Greece, with the Pope’s blessing. My God! What decent English person could remain a Roman Catholic!

November 7, 1940

When my new young charwoman arrived this morning she had seen last nights destruction on her way here. She passes the water-works, and she tells me four more houses are completely demolished there, and others, more than she could count, on Clydesdale Road and Melrose Avenue. She was very shaken, and very angry.

They didn’t tell you these things, she exclaimed. It is only when you see for ourselves that you know.

That’s right. Specific news is never given out, on the B.B.C. Everything is minimized. We, the public only know what happens in our own localities and that we are never officially told about. We have to suffer or to see for ourselves, and then we know. On, this devilish war! When will it end?

November 11,1940 Armistice Day

I went out this morning, my first outing since the end of June. I walked all around the block, down this road to South Street, along South Street to the Market Place where I went into Adam’s to buy some articles then up the Market to Stone’s; then up further to Junction Road; and then down Junction and home.

It is one square block. I am as tired as though I had climbed a mountain. Into the doctor’s this afternoon, and she said I shouldn’t have walked so far. Down to the end of the street and aback would have been ample. She said. I expect so but I wanted to do some shopping. Commodities are becoming scarce. The shops seem only to have what they have on hand; as their supplies give out they apparently are not able to obtain renewals. Prices are soaring too. I chiefly wanted some scales and a new coffee pot, some Pyrex ware, and some knives and scissors. I also wanted a milk saucepan and a double boiler, but these I couldn’t get. Anyhow, in all I spent three ten. This is a lot of money to put into hardware.

November 12, 1940

It is a very stormy day. News of further earthquake shocks in Romania. The oil fields are reported destroyed. Good! This will save our R.A.F. the job.

Good air report today also. Yesterday we were raided all day long. In all we had 8 alarms, though the last all clear came through at nine-fifty p.m. We had a raid less and quiet night, thanks to the storm, which was terrific.

Yesterday the enemy came over in groups of one hundred and fifty. With them was one lot of Italian bombers, eighteen in all. Of these, our boys brought down thirteen, in the Thames Estuary, and the others turned back without showing fight. So that’s another smack for the dirty dagoes. The Greeks are punishing them too, of an Italian Battalion of twelve thousand men, in the mountains to the north of Greece, the Greeks have destroyed about two thirds, and the rest have run away back into Albania, leaving most of their equipment, guns, field kitchens, even personal belongings, behind them, strewn through all the ravines. The Italians don’t want to fight. In the Mediterranean they won’t bring their navy out. Then why don’t they over throw Mussolini?


Today Molotov has arrived in Berlin, bringing a suite of sixty-five specialists with him. What for? Russia also doesn’t want to fight. She only wants to stand by and pick the bones.

November 15, 1940

Ten a.m. The first raid of the day is in progress. Wednesday night was fairly quiet because the weather was very stormy but last night, though misty, there was moonlight, and we had a very bad night indeed. Barrage was very heavy, but nevertheless we heard bombs falling but whereabouts in this neighborhood I have not heard.

B.B.C. reports the raids last night were worst, in a midland town, where the casualties reported are very heavy. But it was pretty bad in Romford too.

Yesterday Ted told me that Tommy Skilton had been hit again on Wednesday night, this making the third time he has had it, in addition to having his workshop on North Street destroyed. The bomb took the roof completely off his house, and fell through into his kitchen, blew out everything and blew to bits even his bicycle, which was in his shed. Mrs. Skilton is terrified, and wanted to leave at once. Naturally!

Three-twenty p.m. I was interrupted by the incursion of my neighbor, Mrs. Thomson. I seem doomed always to have some female leech around. I have had peace from this woman for three weeks, whilst she was in Devon; but she came home on Tuesday this week, and seems to think she has to come in to see me everyday. She was here all Thursday afternoon, and now all this morning, she’s a darned nuisance.

The raids are continuing all day. There was much gunfire at dinnertime and what sounded to be hundreds of planes flying over; but we could not see them. The one o’clock news told us that the worst raids last night were on Coventry, on the scale of the first heavy raids on London, and that there are at least a thousand people killed, and much of the city destroyed. Glorious war!

When I opened this book to note this morning, was astonishment at the depth and tenacity of our aversions. Yesterday whilst we were at dinner there came a very important sounding knocking at the door. When I opened it I saw two nuns, one of whom accosted me by name, saying, Mrs. Thompson! You remember us? We used to call on you at your other house, don’t you remember? The Poor Clare’s of Woodford?

Immediately anger rushed through me. Wait a minute, I said, but closed the door in their faces. Had the door been un-shuttered, so that I could have seen through the glass panel, I should not have opened the door to them, for I will never willingly open my door to any nun. I came in to Ted, and said, There are two nuns here, begging. You had better see them. Don’t bring them in here.

So he left his dinner at once, opened the door to them, and invited them into the parlor. They conversed together for a while, and then he showed them out again. When he returned to his meal he actually had tact enough to say nothing. Was I angry! They were looking for a meal, of course. Where did they pry out our change of address? And come here to beg? I did not recognize the one who spoke to me, but she knew me all right. I had a shock when I opened the door to them. I could think of nothing. Anger and hatred suffused me on the instant. God! How I loathe nuns! So deep is this hatred in me that I was physically upset for hours. My heart increased its beat, and my legs and hands were trembling until after I had my tea. This is what Ted’s lunatic religion can do to me.

I have been busy cooking today. Artie does expect to get leave this next Monday so I made a batch of pastries this morning, and since dinner I have mixed up a couple of fruit cakes which are now in the oven. Presently I am going to make flapjacks, and tomorrow I’ll make a chocolate layer cake, and some fudge. If I can stock the pantry with homemade goodies before he arrives, we’ll have more time for talking when he does get here.

November 25, 1940

Artie didn’t come. His leave was cancelled, but he was promised leave on the twenty-fifth, so perhaps he’ll come today. I don’t know where last week went. I did get some letters written but nothing else.

Yesterday Ted invited young Mr. Simpson in to tea. When Simpson was received into the church this year, Ted was his godfather. Now Mrs. Simpson and the baby have evacuated to Ireland, and Simpson is waiting to be called up. Meanwhile he is boarding at Haga’s. All the talk yesterday was of the absurdities and idiosyncrasies of Haga. Haga is the town quack and he is another religious manic. He is an excessive Protestant; brought up in Norway as a Lutheran, he is a heretic from Lutheranism. He was a stanch First Day Adventist once, but he left that faith also. Instead of becoming an indifferentist or an agnostic he still remains actively religious, but he can find no sect to agree with, and has a religion apparantly all his own. Of course, he is violently anti-Catholic.

Psychologically Haga is explainable. Now nearly sixty years old he began his life as the son of a poor Norwegian farmer, a pious Lutheran. He had very little education, but was thoroughly indoctrinated with a fervent Luther- anism. At about the age of twenty he left Norway, and he has never returned there. He went to India, and also to the States, making his living as a masseur. Somewhere on his travels he married a Welsh girl; another ignorant person.

In nineteen hundred and three he came to England, picked out Romford on the map, and settled here. He continued to make his living at massaging. Now he added hydropath, sunbathing, Swedish exercises, light treat- ment, etc. He set himself up in a house, and began adver- tising his cures. Perhaps he did make cures. Anyhow, he succeeded in making a living, and bringing up a gamily. He writes to the paper practically every week in the year, instructing the public either on his special field of medicine (so called) or on his special brand of religion.

So far as this goes he is on of the town’s jokes. You see, nobody takes him seriously, and he is a man without any real anchorage in life. By profession he is definitely a quack, the real doctors in town will have nothing whatever to do with him. By religion and by nature he is a wanderer. He has left his native land and his native religion. He has no country, no religion, and no profession, and he has married a foreigner, so his very children are half and half’s; so nothing about him is genuine, everything is half-fake. His evangelizing is the way to compensate his ego.

Last night Simpson was full of tales about how Haga
behaves in his own house. He is definitely an eccentric we laughed about him. It was unkind, but he is laugh- able. What I noticed was the unconscious assumption of superiority on Ted and Simpson’s part simply because they were Catholics. This is laughable too, but they don’t know it.

Haga is a muddle-head; but neither Ted nor Simpson thinks for himself or herself. They accept the authority of the church. Why? Because they feel they need an outside authority. Haga is authority for himself. It just depends what kind of person you are.

Simpson is another weak specimen of a convert. He has swallowed all the bait. He is an ordinary fellow, respectable, but ignorant, educated sufficiently to make a living of course, but with out culture. Ordinary. I can’t stand the ordinary. He is one of the respectable lower classes. I can’t stand the lower classes! They may be saints, but oh they bore me! I detest this mania for theology that men get.

Whether it is Ted or Haga or Simpson, they’re all the same. Why theology? Isn’t it because theology doesn’t require either brains or learning? They can read it up in books and memorize it. It’s easy. Real knowledge, science, or mathematics, or philosophy or engineering, or music or doctoring, need a keen and alert intelli- gence, practice, and a trained mind. In short, a genuine ability and a good education. If a man is a dud in a real science the fact is immediately apparent; but if he is a fool for even a wise man spouting theology, nobody can prove him either right or wrong, and neither the error nor the correctness of his theological opinions will make any difference to his practical life.

As I see it, theology is the cheap diversion and solace of the half-educated and the half-baked. I’ve never known a strong man bother himself with theology. So, Simpson, another of Ted’s duds! To lack a proper educa- tion, a classical education, what a lack! These poor fools talk about God and Heaven and Hell and think they have knowledge, and Oh, I’m so weary of fools! 

World War ll London Blitz: 10-3-40 to 10-28-1940 The guns opened up immediately on the warning, and have not ceased all night. It was the worst evening we have ever had.

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October 3,1940

I am in an awful mood. I am sick with my leg, which gets no better. I am angry and miserable with this loath- some devilish war and I am fed up with Ted. I feel I hate men and all their stupidities. I am sick to death of my particular man. I loathe marriage, and what I long for is not the freedom of Europe, but my freedom. Oh to be free! To have my life, and my body, to myself! Ted is intolerable to me.

As time goes on everything that is primitive Methodist and working class in his origins, comes more and more to the front; and this is the kind of person that is not my kind of person, never was and never will be.

There was another interruption and annoyance. My neighbor, Mrs. Thomson, called in and has only just left. She comes in every time there is a warning, and this is just too much of a good thing. She is a nice enough person all right, but another that is not my sort, so I get bored with her and her chatter. I would rather be alone. However, since she doesn’t like to be alone in an air raid, I don’t choke her off. I would let anybody in during a raid. It is so awful to be frightened.

Yesterday we had nine warnings! We have had no warning yet this morning, but Mrs. Thomson has been in to see me anyhow.
A week or two back during a raid Selma went to Arden Cottage, and her father wouldn’t let her in the house. He stood in the doorway and prevented her entering. He swore at her, and told her to go back to her own place. That’s Bert Thompson, dirty selfish old beast. I would let anybody into my house if a raid were on, gypsy or tramp, or any friend or stranger that asked shelter but old Bert refuses admittance to his own daughter.

Yes, Selma’s a fool, but she is still his own flesh and blood. He begot her. I say Damn the Thompson’s. I think they are the coldest blooded and self-willed lot I have ever come near. They are Egoists, and without natural affections. Ted is on my nerves most frightfully. As for his religion, he’s worse than ever. Every morning he will go to mass. The all clear does not sound now till half past five or six o’clock. Any sensible person would then go to sleep, safe quiet sound sleep, for an hour or an hour and a half and allow the other members of a house to sleep too. Not Ted. Oh dear no! He must dress and go to church, and he wants his breakfast early please. What sense, what religion, what goodness, is there in that?

We haven’t slept upstairs in bed for five weeks or more. I sleep, as much as I can, on the sofa, pushed over into a corner, and Ted lays on the floor on cushions, under the dining table and all night long the guns go and the bombs drop. You would think that when dawn came and an hour of quietness a man would sleep, wouldn’t you? Yes, and a man would. Not Ted! Not my pious idiot. He has to dress and go to mass. He also has to do whatever else he wants to do. He wants what he wants when he wants it. When he wants it! He calls that love. Well, I don’t. I call that unadulterated selfishness. He doesn’t love me because he loves me. He takes me because he loves himself. He wants a physical satisfaction, and because I am his wife, he just takes it for granted. That isn’t love. Oh no. It’s just gross beastliness. Last night he wanted, and I put him off. I have no feeling. I am angry and miserable and frightened by the war. My leg makes me feel sick with pain and I am very uncomfortable, only partially undressed and huddled on a couch.

Well, he retired to his pillows on the floor, but in the early morning, an hour before the all clear came, he was at me again. I simply couldn’t. I feel I should cry. So then he wanted to argue the situation! This only made me stonier and angrier than ever. Ted and his damned talk! Oh, I am so sick of it! Ted’s superciliousness, his belittling, his sneering, his criticizing are wearing me down. His damned tongue!

So he left me, in a huff, and went and dressed himself, and then he sat and read Sir Walter Scott until it was time to go to church. That’s it, the damned church! If I had given in to him, he would have dressed and gone out to early church just the same. Oh. I knew that quite well.

That’s what I cant’ stand I can’t mix up love and religion. I can’t reconcile the two: not ever. What I want, is love?

Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth. Yes, let him. That is not Ted’s way. If he ever kissed me, called me by a pet name, spoke endearingly, fondled me, coaxed me, brought me a tiny gift, showed me even ordinary affection and comradeship, but no. So I freeze. I have even stopped wanting this sort of love and these signs of love. I only want to get away from him, not to have to see him more, not to have to listen to him, not to have to talk to him, because whatever I say is wrong. He will correct my grammar or phrasing if he cannot correct my reason or sentiment: above all to be able to forget him.

What I want is my own life; myself for myself. To be free of him, Oh God, to be free! Marriage lasts too long. I’ve known that for years.
Two Forty-Five p.m. and it is raining heavily, and no warnings today, so far, though I have heard guns several times.

Feeling better for my dinner. We had hot roast loin lamb, potatoes, and vegetable marrow, stewed pears, flapjacks and coffee. Here is again one of my nuisances. I have to cook a mid day dinner every day, and so I never have a clear day to myself. I have no time. Very literally, I have no time. This again is one of the reasons Ted and I are at odds so much. We see too much of each other, and he is around the house entirely too much, considering the sort of man he is. For Ted is a petty man. He is also a bossy man; so he interferes with things which are none of his business; and petty things, like how many slices of bread I cut, or where I place a chair, or open a window, or a stove-draught. He wants to know what is in a bureau drawer, and tells me the kettle is boiling. And so on. I don’t say anything, but I chafe. He keeps tabs on the pantry and watches supplies. This is because he is wasting himself. He is applying to a tiny private home the energies and qualities he should be using on a big business. I find it very trying. He told me lately I was a damned bad housekeeper and I ought to be ashamed of myself. This is because I threw away half a loaf, which had begun to go moldy. He didn’t make me cross. I just thought how silly he was. I never did set up to be a perfect housekeeper, and I have done an awful lot of housekeeping in thirty-five years. Anyhow, I didn’t marry him to be his housekeeper. If he doesn’t like my housekeeping he must lump it.

Again, I know from where this source of criticism derives: from Herbert. If Ted and I see too much of each other, it is equally true that Ted sees too much of Herbert. Herbert is an uncouth, ignorant, brutal, selfish old bully. Herbert holds the Victorian working man’s ideas about women and about wives. That’s why Dorothy couldn’t stand him. To Herbert a wife is a servant and a possession, a creature who exists primarily to minister to her owner, and moreover, she should be thankful to him that he supports her.

That’s what I feel about Ted and his “love”. As he takes a smoke or a drink whenever he feels like it, so also he takes a wife. She is to be handy to him, like a bread box or a cold joint or a whiskey bottle, for when he happens to have an appetite. I loathe such love. I loathe such takings. As for his religion I loathe that too. Ted places his religion before everything else in the world, certainly before live flesh and blood. If any man come to hate and me not his father and mother and wife and children and brethren and sisters he cannot be my disciple.

October 4, 1940

Yesterday I was interrupted by the noise of large explosions and a sudden warning. Mrs. Thomson came rushing in, in a panic, and was followed soon after by Mrs. Jude, very pale and very frightened. She had been walking on South Street when everything happened in a clap, and she had to run all the way up to this house. It is not safe to be on the streets now after any warning, for the Germans have taken to low diving, and then machine-gunning anyone in sight. They gun trains and buses, people in the streets, workers on the roads and fields, and even the cattle and sheep in the meadows.

This particular warning lasted until five p.m., soon after which Ted came into his tea. Mrs. Thomson was still here, but Mrs. Jude had left, because of being home for Mary Bernadette. Then Ted was rude to Mrs. Thomson, at some remark she made he led her on, and then put her through the third degree with questioning. It is Ted’s delight to make the other person look like a fool. He thinks he is smart. Really he is colossally rude. Besides, who commissioned him to correct everybody? By what infallible standard of general wisdom? Ted is fatuously presumptuous, and as I listen to him I think he is a damned fool. Like this morning at breakfast. He was telling me about a man in the office yesterday who got so cross. He has sent the man to look at a house, and on his return to the office the man asked, What about the roof? What about the crater?
So I said,‘Well, what about the crater?

The man said, "Yes, that’s what I’m asking you, what about the crater?"

So I said again,"Well, what about it? You know more about it than I do. I haven’t seen it, you’ve just been there.’ And he got so cross, said Ted, and went out.

Ted laughed. He thought that was funny. I don’t think that funny at all, or the way to do business. It seems as though Ted can’t be polite. If he didn’t know there was a crater before the door, he could surely have civilly told his inquirer he didn’t know anything about it. Ted often tells me tales about how he scores off the people who come down into the office, and when they get cross, he is only amused. When they leave the office, as this man did yesterday, and as I have been told of others doing, Ted thinks they are wrong, not himself. It is a mania with him correcting other people. It seems nobody answers him as he thinks they ought to answer him, and he will accept nobody’s statement about anything. He is really peculiar about this, and he gets worse.

Last night the Germans were around here for a long time. The explosion of bombs about a quarter to one wakened me. There were so many of them I lost count. It sounded as though they were trying for the station or the hospital again, and they came nearer, and almost directly overhead, and house shook. I expected to be blown up any minute. Ted slept through it all!

That racket died down, but there was another attack, nearly as bad soon after three o’clock. Finally everything quieted, and at last I fell asleep, and I slept so soundly I did not hear the mornings all clear, nor wake up until Ted turned on the radio for the seven o’clock news. He remarked on my sleeping so soundly, but when I told him of the very bad night Romford had gone through, he said, Are you sure you weren’t dreaming? I said no more. What is the use of talking to him? He went out to church, whistling.

As a matter of fact, last night was one of the worst we have had for over a week. I lay trembling, and could not hold still. I expected the house to be bombed any minute. I prayed without ceasing, but I prayed to God. Only God. NO thought what ever of Jesus, or Mary, or Michael, or Joseph, came to my mind. Only God. Only God.
When the immediate danger receded what I thought about was this book. I thought I might be killed any day or any night now. This book may be destroyed too if these premises are destroyed. Or it may not be destroyed, it may be found and read. What if it is read? These outbursts about Ted, which I pen, aren’t they unkind?

Yes, maybe they are unkind. Maybe I shouldn’t put them down, maybe I should myself destroy them and quickly.

Do I want Ted to find out what I think about him? I feel about him? I wonder. Isn’t he as tired of me as I am tired of him? Isn’t it true we would both be happier apart?

Am I ashamed of what I have written? No, I am not ashamed. I try to state the truth. I try to find the truth of things for myself; that is, as they matter for myself. I am not a happy woman. I could have been a happy woman. I just happened to have married the wrong man, a very common tragedy. Ted is to me as I have described him to be. I am as I am, as this book must disclose and no matter what I try to disclose, or to hide. So, let the record stand.

Five-fifteen p.m. A warning was sounded at one o’clock, and the all clear has not been given yet. Mrs. Thomson has just left, as she must go cook a dinner for her husband. She has been here all afternoon. Ted came in at one-fifteen p.m., said he was going to have his dinner anyhow, and there was not many people in the shelter, as it was dinner hour. I remarked it was St. Francis Day, and he replied,Yes, and our St Francis’s too, old Bert’s birthday today. How old today? Seventy Two.

Not much of a saint in Bert’s makeup. Ted is the saint of the Thompson family. Bert is a gross and sensual old beast. Ted said that benediction was at 6 tonight, so he would work late at the office, and go straight to benediction before coming home. So tea would be late tonight.

Now I must put this book away for the weekend. I would like to keep on writing. There is much I need to clear out of my system. However, there is no time. Mrs. Thomson has eaten my afternoon. Every now and again we hear gunfire, but no planes overhead. Romford was not bombed last night. The noises I heard must have been in Dagenham, where Brigg’s was bombed, and a school. There is a heavy impenetrable cloud overhead, and this is very dangerous, for the enemy cannot be seen. What will he do to us tonight, I wonder. Ilford got it badly yesterday afternoon; also Harold Park and Dagenham. In Harold Park a bomber dived and machine-gunned women on the street.

At eleven o’clock this morning Hitler and Mussolini met at Brenner Pass. What deviltry have they cooked up for the world today? Men! All Europe is being crucified for the ambitious policies of these tow maniacs. Why do their own people submit to them? For they destroy their own as well as others. Why does the pope say nothing? Because he is an Italian? Or because he is just playing safe, saving his skin and his properties, like the rest of the plutocrats? Anyhow, he says nothing, no more then he did when Italy murdered Abyssinia, or raped Albania. I guess he is just another politician. Well Au-Revoir. I have written enough for a while; too much, most likely.

October 6, 1940

Seven-fifty a.m. I open this book at this hour to cool my anger. We have just passed through a most awful night. The warning was given at seven thirty-five last night and the all clear did not come until six-fifteen this morning. The guns opened up immediately on the warning, and have not ceased all night. It was the worst evening we have ever had. It was pretty bad Friday evening; so bad, that both Mr. and Mrs. Thomson came in here for company. But about one o’clock this morning the raiders were directly overhead, and began dropping bombs. I don’t know yet where they fell, but one was so close that this house tottered. I began to cry. I couldn’t help myself, in fact, I weep now, recording it. Ted was undismayed. There is callousness and cold bloodedness about ted, which I abhor.

Well, at ten to seven he started to dress. At seven the first warning of this day was given, but Ted proceeded with his dressing, and went to church in his usual way. He left the house at seven-twenty though mass doesn’t begin till eight, and he will not be back until nine-twenty. I feel furious with him. I say Ted Thompson is a maniac. I say his daily church going is an obsessive habit. I say his craving for communion is on par with a drunk’s craving for alcohol. I say his self given mania for correcting and instruction every person he comes in contact with is colossal impertinence and I say none of his church going, none of his talking theology, none of his acts of piety is real religion or real goodness. I say it is all excessive unbearable self-righteousness, and self-love in the nth degree

Ted is a fool out and out. He didn’t have to go to early church today. There is a mass at nine-thirty and there is another mass at eleven a.m. Wouldn’t any sensible man have taken two or three hours sleep this morning and allowed his household to sleep? Of course he would. Not Ted. This compulsion to go to early mass is maniacal. He is a maniac. Isn’t it because of his craziness that we are here in England at all? That the twins are in the war? That Cuthie is a prisoner? Oh my God how I fret and fret for my children! In nights like this one, which we have just passed through, I fear I shall never see my children again. The bombs strike anywhere. They are just as likely to fall on this house as any other.

I think of Harold, of Eddie, of all of them, and my heart breaks with grief and longing. Ted? It is just as though he never had children at all. He moves along serene and blithe in his own world of dreams. He thinks of no one, except the figures of this mythical world of Roman Catholicism. Like the old fool Petain a Vichy he is convinced that all the troubles of the world would be cure by the return of the people en mass to the church.

That’s all that matters to Ted, the church. He has no affection for anybody. Human beings do not matter to Ted except himself and his will and his own soul. That is all he can “love” his own soul. I say, curse him. He is an intolerable man, impatient with this fool and so angry. Impatience and anger doesn’t help any. Well, let me dress. Here is another day to get through.

Five-thirty p.m. A few minutes ago Ted left the house to go to church; this is for the third time today. He is playing the organ, as Miss Hale is away. A warning is still in progress, and only fifteen minutes ago the big gun was firing. The warning was given at two-twenty p.m. and the barrage has been constant ever since. A whistling bomb fell very near, about four o’clock. Ted has gone out to church all the same. This is already our sixth warning for the day. How many people will be at church?

October 7, 1940

It is eight-forty a.m. and another early writing. Ted left ten minutes ago for his Monday’s round, and a warning is still on. It went at six-forty five a.m. and is the second one for today. After practically continuous raiding all yesterday, there was no warning given after the all clear at eight-forty p.m., so we have had a quiet night, and the B.B.C. says it has been the same all over England.

This is the first raid less night since the intensive war on Great Britain began. It was a stormy night, wind and rain of the Equinox, but peace from the Germans.

Ted went upstairs to bed, and remained there till the warning at five-fifty a.m., but I stayed down here on the couch and I was at ease. Not to have Ted in the same room with me, that is a certain sort of bliss. I realized it when I lay down alone in the darkness; I was free from him, free from the constraint of his presence.
For me to be with Ted is always to be under a sense of constraint. It has been that way from the beginning. He oppresses my spirit. From the very first weeks of our marriage it was like that. When he began to deride the things I cared about, when he began to maul at my inner woman, my personality, then I had to begin to protect myself, my secret self. It has always been like that. Everything that is precious to me, and in me, I must hide, must protect. So it is a strain, a long strain. I do not hate him, but I long to be free of him, forever free.

In our American life I did have long free days to myself, business and traveling took him away from the house on twelve hour stretches, but here in England I hardly ever have longer than a four hour period free from him, and in these short periods I have to get through my house jobs, and listen to the neighborhood women, whom I cannot escape. That is why I cannot read or write or study any more. I have no free time; house and husband and neighbors consume it all.

Now the war takes even more time away. It is impossible to do anything while the raids are on. All one can do is sit still in shelter, perhaps knit, perhaps pray, perhaps talk with someone who happens in, and drink tea or smoke a cigarette together. Most of the raids last at least an hour, and we get five or six a day. Last Wednesday we had nine. Then in-between raids we have to do our work.

Then there are meals to fix, the everlasting meals. I am sick. My leg is really very bad. Often when the big guns go, often without warning, I feel a fissure in my leg crack. It seems as though this leg will never heal. The pain of it often makes me sick to my stomach. Sometimes I am even reduced to crying with the pain. I must go now and dress my leg, and this is a job, which takes me nearly an hour every day. Perhaps I can write again today.Writing, even the mere physical act, is my dope.

October 8, 1940

Ten fifteen a.m., and the first all clear of the day has just sounded. The first warning was given at eight-forty. The all clear for the night did not come until seven this morning. Last night was the longest nigh of raids we have yet had. It began at seven-forty p.m. I suppose as the longer nights increase we shall endure ever longer and longer hours of raiding. Sunday night was free of raids, but last night was worse than ever. Yesterday we were raided practically continuously. Saturday night’s bombs fell on Stanley Avenue, the second time, on Lodge Avenue, which is very close to us, and on Gideon Park. On Sunday afternoon they fell on the railway line, at Brentwood, and at Gidea Park, completely demolishing Gidea Park Station.

Today is a beautiful day, and in myself I feel very much better. Last night I was able to surrender to Ted for a little while (love on a sofa!), so my nerves are assuaged. My mind is not altered. My thoughts about we two are the same as ever. I have brought down a Dorothy Richardson to browse in; also Mrs. Eddy. I need these two good feminists to buck me up. When I listen to the drivel that men talk, in the house and on the radio, I scorn the whole darn shooting match of them. When I turned on for the eight o’clock news this morning there was an unctuous parson’s voice saying: In quietness and confidence shall ye possess your peace.

Yes, exactly. What a tag to hand out to the world today! There is no quietness. There is no confidence. A hellish war is on, and there is no certainty that we are going to win it. For a whole year Hitler has been conquering Europe, and quite possibly he may conquer England too. It certainly looks that way. The strong-minded can possess their minds: true, but they cannot alter circumstances. The people who were bombed last night; the thousands who came up from a night in the Tubes this morning; in what quietness and confidence do they possess their peace?

Ten-Forty: second warning sounding, so Au-Revoir.

Two-fifty pm. As I knew it would happen Mrs. Thomson was at my door before I could put this book away, and she stayed here through three warnings, until Ted came home for dinner.

This is what I hate: this loss of my precious time. I want to be writing. I want to put down for my children the story of my life: my life as I see it and interpret it, and this desire is urging me more and more imperatively. When life for all of us in this island is becoming daily more dangerous and more precarious, I feel I must write now, whilst I know I still have time in the land of the living. Not that it would matter if my children never knew the truth of my life. At the back of everything I suppose is my deep desire to state the truth of myself, ready to await the recognition of that female descendant of myself who will be most like me, a repetition of myself. This is great egotism of course, and I know it.

There it is. Fifty or sixty years hence some other woman, some lonesome creature of my blood may be able to find in my old writings the explanations for her own cursed self. All I can manage are these sporadic diaries. What I want to do is to write the whole story from the beginning, in one connected straight forward whole. Because of the daily conditions of existence this I cannot do. It is a pity because I feel my powers failing. If I could have uninterrupted time, no housework, no neighbors, no air raids, no routines, I could write. I could write very well, and I know it. As things are I can do very little; practically nothing. My days are frittered away, and I with them. Henley wrote, I am the master of my Fate.

But Henley was a man.

October 9, 1940

Last night again we had a little love on the sofa. This surprised me and was very pleasant. If only Ted could love me more and the church less we should get along together much better than we do.

When I woke this morning I was full of thoughts of Grandma Side. Perhaps I had been dreaming about her, though I do not recollect a dream. Perhaps it was because she stirs in my memory as a good feminist, the first I ever knew, and most likely the last I shall forget. Anyhow, I loved Grandma Side, and never forget her. If only a grand daughter of mine could know and under- stand and love me, as I know and understand and loved her. I should know content in my old age. Queer, isn’t? That two old people inhabit my mind in abiding affection, for all my life? Grandma Side and Charles Voysey; over and over again through out my years these two come to my mind.
Full of visitors today. Myrtle Arch was here this morning; also Mrs. Thomson, and this afternoon Mrs. Branney. Yesterday afternoon I had a long visit from Dick Brazier. Raids have been very bad all day. Six on London, but only three here in Romford, though the afternoon one lasted a long time: from two forty-two p.m. until four-twenty p.m.

October 10, 1940

Eleven-Ten a.m. Mrs. Thomson only recently left. We have had two bad raids already this morning. The first one, between nine and ten this morning, we had swarms of machines overhead, beyond counting. Our men took off towards the river, and the Germans in droves, came sweeping in from behind. Flying right over these houses. No bombs dropped, the battle must have been elsewhere.

Last night was a terrible night. I don’t know how we can keep on enduring these nights. Bombs dropped on North Street, and in the stadium on the London Road. No casualties! I’m beyond praying. I just lay and shake and cry. Churchill makes his famous speeches, but Hitler is winning the war anyhow, no matter what they say. If it lay with women we should call for an armistice tomorrow. What sense is there in this stupid fighting? No! Men talk themselves into a war, and then they talk themselves into going on with it. Men’s talk, how I hate men’s talk, men’s minds! Though I’ll make an exception for the Archbishop of York! He talks on the air once a week now, and most of what he says makes sense.

He talks like a Catholic, Says Ted.

He doesn’t. He talks like a man of sense, and a gentleman. He is the cultured Christian, speaking to sensible people. By the way, here is a delicious tid-bit which I must chronicle. It came over the radio this morning. The early morning parson was talking about the humility of Jesus, and he gave this anecdote.

It is told of Saint Philip Neri, he said (and what’s an Anglican got to do with St. Philip Neri?) That he was sent on a mission by the Pope to inquire into the sanctity and credentials of a certain nun in Rome who was making a stir with the populace with her good deeds and prophecies. The people were saying she was a saint. So Saint Philip Neri was sent to make investigations concerning her. After a long journey he arrived at her convent, all travel stained and weary. With out waiting to tidy himself from his journey he went to the convent as he was and asked for the nun. He was shown into the parlor, and she came to him at once. Thereupon, sitting in his chair, he stretched out his leg and asked the nun to take off his muddy boots for him. The nun indignantly refused to do. So this was enough for St. Phillip. He left the convent at once and went straight to the Pope. He reported to the Pope, ‘You have nothing to fear from that woman. She has true humility.’

Beautiful story, isn’t it? Such a man’s story, all the masculine point of view. Just showing what men expect from women, service and obedience, and the acceptance, without the slightest demur, of man’s orders and man’s discourtesies. Who the hell was St. Phillip Neri to request a woman to take his muddy boots off! Moreover, this must have been a woman of learning, as well as of great repute. But no! The female must grovel to the male!
This morning’s parson hands it out as an edifying story. Lord! What fools men are!

Eleven-forty a.m. The Sainsbury boy has just been in with the groceries. He tells me that four bombs were dropped in the first raid this morning. One got “The Crown” and near by houses on the London Road. One fell in a field in the Arterial Road, and two fell on Marlborough Road, destroying several houses, and two cars that were on the road. The men in the cars were killed; one had his head blown off. One of the houses was the home of Sainsbury’s porter, who, the boy says, has been released to go home. Two of Sainsbury’s men were killed on the street in that bad raid we had on a mid day in August. Oh God! This fool war!

October 11, 1940

The war is getting worse and worse. On Wednesday night the Germans bombed forty districts of London. Last night they bombed thirty-six districts. Our fifth warning for today is just sounding. Last night we had an awful fright, soon after eight o’clock. The alarm had been sounded at seven twenty-five. Soon after eight we heard a bomb whistling, descending. We thought surely it was going to hit this house. Ted ducked and got under the table! There were two close following thirds, the house rocked, but we were not hit. Then two more followed, a little further off. Altogether Romford received nine. I sat and cried. I cannot pray anymore. I seem just paralyzed.
The firing went on the rest of the night, but no more hits came in this neighborhood. Today we learnt that the evening’s bombs hit in Victoria Road for the fourth time! Albert Road, and Lodge Avenue, and Westmoreland Avenue. Craters made and houses demolished, including two pubs, but now casualties.

Our first alarm sounded this morning at seven thirty- five whilst Ted was at church. Mrs. Thomson came in at once, and stayed for breakfast. Ted left early for the office, but before Mrs. Thomson left the second warning sounded, at eight-fifty a.m., and the raid lasted for one hour. The third was at ten-forty-five a.m. until twelve- fifty p.m., during which time Mr. Kessey was here and the fourth two-thirty p.m. until three-twenty p.m.

It is impossible to get anything done, and the wear and tear on our nerves is exhausting. If only I had some money I would board The Clipper and fly to New York. I was only saying to Ted last night, just before the bombs fell, how awful these nights were, and I didn’t know how I was going to stand a whole winter of them. A dozen nights like these last two nights and I’m afraid I shall go raving mad. The men are still talking war, war, and war. The politicians infuriate me. Anyhow they don’t fight. They only specify and egg wars on.

October 12, 1940

Today the Thomson’s called in at the office and gave a week’s notice. Mrs. Thomson is going to Devon, and he is going to share a house with a fellow-worker at Plessis whose wife and children have gone to Bradford, and who lives in Ilford. So it is goodbye Mrs. Thomson. Both of them spent the evening in here, and it was as well they did, for in chatting and laughing together we were distracted from the outside noises.

October 13, 1940

After, all, it is not goodbye Mrs. Thomson! She came in here about noon, all tears, to say she had changed her mind. She could see, she said, that John really didn’t want her to go, so she couldn’t leave him. He had gone down to the station, to see could he get his money back on the R-ticket, which he had bought yesterday. All morning they had been packing up, and now, the work was in vein, and everything to be unpacked again. So I invited them to dinner. I knew they had no supplies in their house. After dinner, when they returned next door, to work whilst there was still daylight, I invited them to come back for tea, at blackout time. Of course they came, and in a very happy and united frame of mind together.
After tea we played bridge for a couple of hours. During the evening the uproar picked up again outside, worse then ever. The moon is now coming to the full, as there is plenty of light for the raiders. In the middle of the evening they were right overhead, and we heard bombs dropping very near by. The explosions were terrific. One whistling bomb sounded as though it was going to drop at our very door. I felt we ought to duck under the table. We didn’t. We went right on playing bridge. The men didn’t budge, just winked at each other. This was just as well for us; they steadied us.

October 14, 1940

It is three-fifty p.m. just back from the doctor’s in time to get under cover from the raiding. Raids have been going on all morning. An all clear did not sound until two-twelve, so I’ve just had time to get my visit in. At last I am on the mend. My leg is healing. I am to keep on with the white ointment for another week, and then when she see the leg next week she will decide whether or not I can put it back into it usual plaster of visco-paste. During this week I have lost three and a quarter pounds, which is very encouraging: nearly a half-pound a day. Last week I didn’t lose an ounce. If I could get done to thirteen stone I would be satisfied. After all, I am a very tall woman.

Mrs. Jude was in to see me this morning. As usual, she gave me the town news. She only just got into the house before the warning sounded, at about half past eleven, and all the time she was here a battle was going on above us. Ten bombs were dropped in Romford last night. The most serious damage was in North Street, where Haysom’s was struck, and completely demolished. Haysom’s is Romford’s largest furniture store, and occupied nearly a block. This morning there is nothing there but rubble and cinders. No lives lost. Sunday, of course, and not a soul is on the premises. Presumably the Jerry’s were trying for the Romford food storage plant, which is just behind Haysom’s. North Street and the Arterial Road frequently get hit. The Arterial Road, of course, is a military road, so a legitimate target. It has trenches all along it, with soldiers cap-a-pie, and big gun emplacements, and tank traps, and so on. The funny thing is, the soldier’s, or the trenches, never get hit, only the neighboring shops and houses.

October 23, 1940

I have something marvelous to record. We had an almost quiet night last night. The alert sounded at six fifty-five p.m. and the all clear, after a noisy evening, sounded at eleven-thirty p.m. Then we only had on short period of danger in the night, from about twelve-thirty a.m. to two a.m. All day no warnings until now,the first one sounding,six thirty-five p.m. This is probably for the night. The weather has been bad, that’s why we’ve had practically twenty-four hours peace. It’s too foggy for flying. There have been sporadic raiders today, but not in this neighborhood. Yesterday Laval saw Hitler in Paris. The rumor now is, that France is going to declare war on England. Well, maybe! Anything is possible in this crazy lunatic war.

October 25, 1940

Two months today to Xmas, as Ted remarked at breakfast. It is ten-thirty a.m. and a raid on. After several days of cold mist and rain, today is a beautiful day; therefore the raids have begun early. The first warning went at eight-fifty this morning, and there is no clearance. Twice already I’ve had to go into my corner and grab a cushion for my head at the threatening whistles very near and overhead. This makes me furious. I am so angry at this war. The stupidity of it even more than the cruelty and fearfulness, fill me with rage. Men, blasted fool men, creating war. When I listen to all the poppycock that’s spoken on the air I’m simply derisive. For here are men again, exhorting, bragging and begging, diddling with facts, and trickling out sob-stuff about glory and about self-sacrifice. Damn lot of plausible Pharisees, that’s what most of the talking men are. Who are they? The old men. It’s the young ones, the ignorant, innocent, inexperienced boys, who are sent out to die.

Some smarmy parson on the war this morning was talking about the acceptance of pain and suffering; the same old lines, the same glibness and triteness. I say suffering does not ennoble. There aging is a man’s word: “noble.” I ask why must suffering be accepted as the will of God? I should say that ninety percent of the suffering in the world is not the will of God, but the infliction by men upon mankind and it need not be.

Two-fifty p.m. Mrs. Cavus came calling, and stayed until dinnertime. She looked very pretty in a new winter outfit, brown in color, and chic. Of course we talked about the war, and agreed together that if the women could have any say in the matter, it would end tomorrow.
At one o’clock news we heard that Petain had seen Hitler, last night. Hitler also saw Franco yesterday. What are they cooking up for Europe now? Petain is eighty- four, and a pious Catholic. He was the man who surrendered France to Hitler. Now he talks about the salvation of France laying in her return to an agricultural economy, the cessation of the practice of birth control, the destruction of Masonry, and a return to the bosom of the Catholic Church. If only all men would return to the true faith, which, of course, is Roman Catholicism, then everything in the world would be lovely. Silly old fool! Old, that’s what’s the matter with him.

What about the Pope? The Pope says nothing, and keeps on saying nothing. Mussolini makes the Italians behave disgracefully, but the Pope never utters even one little admonition. No. The Pope is an Italian, and a politician, and he plays for safety. The Italians marched into Albania on a Good Friday, and the Pope even said nothing to that. There used to be a question when I was young, What would Jesus do?

Anyhow, Jesus didn’t sit in a palace, with armed guards, and keep a shut mouth whilst his countrymen behaved like skunks. After all, when one stops to think about which are the Catholic countries, which the Catholic people, who would choose to be a Catholic? Ireland, the dirty Irish, the quarrelsome murdering lying Irish: Spain, with the Spaniards making murderous civil war: Belgium, with the Belgian coarseness and their Judas King: France, with Frenchmen so cynical or so soppy: Mexico with its illiterate and murderous Mexicans: and Italy, with its rape of Abyssinia, annexation of Albania, its stab in the back at falling France, the treacherous Italians. No, a white man has no sort of affiliation with any one of them. Oh, what moment of madness when I joined the church!

October 28, 1940

The Italians have declared war on Greece. An ultimatum was handed to the Greeks at three a.m. this morning, to which a favorable answer was demanded by six a.m. The Greeks refused to accede to the Italian demands, so at six o’clock the Italians began their attack on Greece. At seven o’clock the first air raid warning was sounded over Athens. Last night Hitler and Mussolini met in Florence. I suppose this further aggression was what they then decided upon. The filthy little Italians! What is the Pope going to say to them now? Is he going to say the same old nothing? 

World War ll London Blitz: 9-1-40 to 9-23-40 Our last warning yesterday sounded at nine p.m. The all clear was not given until five fifty-five a.m. this morning. Seven more raids today.

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September 1, 1940

Ted had just gone out to mass, and I am waiting for the kettle to boil so that I can get a cup of tea. Yesterday I lived through what has been the most terrifying day of my life. Today may be even worse. We were raided six times yesterday, starting at half past eight in the morning, with the last raid at eleven-thirty until midnight. Then at twelve fifty-five this morning they came again, and the all clear was not sounded till three fifty-five this morning. So already we have had the first raid of today. The whole week has been full of raids, with an average of four a day, but yesterday surpassed all, in number, and in intensity.

Ted got no meals yesterday. The first warning went, as he was ready for breakfast. He did not return to the house, as we had a second alarm at ten-forty. He came in looking for lunch at twelve-fifty and at twelve-fifty five the siren went again, and off he had to dash to his shelter. When we were starting to eat just after five-thirty p.m. the sirens went again! Then we were raided at seven-fifty p.m. and again after eleven-fifty p.m.

The raids at one p.m. and five-thirty are the worst Romford has yet experienced. At mid day fifteen bombs were dropped in the very center of town. The first one fell in Victoria Road, only missing the railway bridge by a half block. Then in a straight line across all those little roads towards Hornchurch and the Romeo, fourteen others were dropped, demolishing shops and houses and killing many people. Rumor gave the estimate dead as fifty, but we do not know the actual number yet. Perhaps it was more. I sat alone here in the most awful terror I have ever known. The noise was devilish, the house shook so much I expected it to fall upon me, and the suction in this air is indescribable. Machines were dwelling right over the house, and each bomb as it fell sounded as though it might be in the back garden.

It lasted for an hour and I thought every moment was my last. I prayed as I never prayed in my life before. Not calmly, thinking about what I was saying, but wildly, incessantly, petitioning like any frantic child, God be with me! Jesus save me! Mary save me! Joseph save me! God be with me! God be with me!

Well, he was. I am still alive. In that hours terror I had no mind, no intellect. I simply called on God and all the saints I knew, the angels and the whole hierarchy of Heaven to save me. I wasn’t a mind or a person, considering, deliberating. I was a frightened human atom, calling on my Gods. The greater the terror and helplessness the stronger flared my faith. In that awful hour I believed The Faith as have never believed it before, even when I thought I did. Today I still believe. I must. Reason has got nothing to do with it. Belief is instinct. Perhaps it was yesterday that was the day of my real conversion.

Now I am going to dress ready for the day. I expect it will be a bad day. It is this Sunday a year ago that the war started. Anyhow the Germans would rather war on a Sunday than any other day of the week. Last Sunday, Artie wrote us, there was no church parade for the army. Our men stand ready every instant for the defense. With God they will save England. How many young men must die today? Oh, God help us!

September 3, 1940

A year today since the war started. Five raids yesterday. Three today.

September 5, 1940

The raids are increasing, lasting longer, and much more violent. Today’s list is: twelve-thirty a.m. till three am. Calling us from bed. Ten-fifty a.m. until eleven am three-ten pm till four-forty p.m. nine-ten pm till five am, tomorrow Friday, the sixth.

September 6, 1940

Raids worse and worse. After spending the night downstairs, we finally went up to bed at five a.m. when the all clear sounded. At five twenty in the morning the alarm came again, so we went downstairs at once. The raid lasted until six a.m. Then more raids followed through out the day. When the all clear came at eleven- twenty p.m. we went up to bed, but before we could settle to sleep the warning came again at eleven forty-five. It cleared at one instead of five, so we were able to get a little sleep. We did not wake until seven-twenty, still downstairs, but Ted dressed in five minutes, and rushed off to seven-thirty mass anyhow. Such enthusiasm! I believe. I have faith. I certainly haven’t got that urgent need to go to church. I can pray at home.

This morning finds us smiling anyhow. I think Ted is one of the funniest men in the world. Last night when we went up to bed at eleven-thirty he wanted to love. I couldn’t. The siren went and I went cold. Ted was surprised!

You don’t mean to say you lose feeling! Oh, don’t let that happen. Don’t let Hitler kill your pleasure for you. You don’t mean to say he can? You’re frightened? You don’t want to be loved? You want to get downstairs? Oh, Lady, what a shame! Oh, curse Hitler! Damn him!

Funny isn’t it? This morning he rushed to mass. Yes, the Thompson men do what they want to do all right. I was reading an article in the Times Literary Supplement today, on Wilfred Blunt. The writer commented, He (Blunt) could never accept that it was an abiding law that nothing is constant but change, nothing sure but love and death. I thought to myself, What love? Love to man means coition, and nothing else; and he will have it, even though the bombs are raining from the heavens. Oh, men are funny. It is a good job women can laugh at them.

September 7, 1940

First raid, very violent indeed: five-fifty p.m. till six-forty pm. There was death again dropping on the crowds of Saturday shoppers. Second raid, started at eight thirty-five p.m. continued without ceasing until five in the morning of Sunday.

September 8, 1940

Last nights raid on London was the worst yet. Last night was terrible. Ted and I cowered here in this little dining room. Ted pulled the couch into the corner, so I could keep my legs up, they get so bad when I sit, holding them down, for hours, and he rolled himself into a blanket, and lay on cushion spread on the floor. Several times I thought we were surely destroyed. I prayed and prayed, and here we are still alive, and a roof still over us. The radio announcer told us that the raiders had concentrated on London, especially the East End and the riverbanks.

Our R.A.F. brought down ninety-nine German machines, but our civilian casualties are grave, over four hundred killed, and between one hundred and fourteen hundred severely injured. One bomb fell into a shelter holding one thousand people! Several bad fires have started. This has been the worst raid of the war so far, and London has suffered tremendously. Oh God help us!

Our first raid today did not come till twelve-thirty in the afternoon and was comparatively short, ceasing at one-twenty-five p.m. Our next, and last, still proceeding, began at eight-o-five p.m, nearly an hour earlier than their usual evening start. Raid ended at five thirty-five a.m. of Monday the Ninth.

Another night of terror. Ted rolls up on the floor and can even fall asleep. I lie on the sofa and tremble from top to toe. The situation is completely frightful, and we are only on the fringe of it. What the actual hell further into London must be, God knows.

September 9, 1940

It is eleven-fifteen a.m. now Monday the ninth, no figures yet available. No raids so far today. The sky is clouding at last! If only the rain would fall, that would be a blessing. Most awful fires are raging in the city; I don’t know how man can cope with them. Oh God, send us rain! I don’t know what has happened in Hammer- smith. According to the radio most of the damage has been further into the center of the city, and at the docks.

September 10, 1940

First raid five-ten p.m. till six twenty-five p.m. second raid eight-forty p.m., lasting till five-fifty a.m. of Tuesday the tenth. This is the worst raid yet. City badly hit.

We had five more raids lasting from mid afternoon until five in the morning. These night raids are worse and worse. They are concentrated on London, and doing great damage, and killing many civilians. Everything is Hell. We had raids lasting on and off from mid morning until the following day.

September 12, 1940

Three-twenty p.m. No raid so far today. Yesterday’s afternoon raid on London was the heaviest yet, but we brought down eighty-nine German Machines, to our own loss of only twenty-seven.

Last night’s raid was a little less successful than the other night raids for the Germans, because we had brought heavier anti-aircraft guns into action, and their bombers could not get through so well as the other nights. There was just as much damage done in Aldgate East London. Yesterday afternoon they got Buckingham Palace! This week London has suffered tremendously. Huge fires at the docks, Eastham, Bow, Poplar, Whitechapel, Bethnal Green, Bishops gate, several London hospitals, churches and museums, railway stations, schools, workhouses, shops, factories, devastation seems to be endless, St. Paul’s churchyard, Cheapside, The Bank, Regent Street. No rain.

Today a strong wind is blowing, but the moon won’t be at the equinox until the twenty-first, and twenty-second. The Briton and Londoner are not terrorized. He is simply coldly angry, and more determined than ever to lick Hitler and his Nazi’s. The devil himself can’t
frighten an Englishman.

I am frightened. Many bombs have fallen here in Romford and nearby, houses are stuck into heaps, and people killed. I lie in the corner and pray. That’s all I can do. Last night the gunfire was simply terrific. The din itself scares you. We were told this morning that it was our heavier guns in action, and that they were effective in checking the German onslaught.

September 13, 1940

Our last night warning was sounded at nine-ten p.m. and the all clear did not come until five-fifty a.m. this morning. The rest of this days raids: seven-forty a.m. to eight thirty-five a.m. nine-fifty a.m. to two p.m. This was a terrific bombardment of London. Amongst the targets hit was Buckingham Palace. Four p.m. to four-twenty p.m.

September 14, 1940

Our last warning yesterday sounded at nine p.m. The all clear was not given until five fifty-five a.m. this morning. Seven more raids today.

September 15, 1940

I had an hour of inexplicable exquisite happiness this morning. First of all I had a good sleep in bed, the first for a long time. When the all clear came at three-thirty this morning I decided to go up to bed, and hope for two undisturbed hours, in coolness and comfort. I slept along until seven o’clock, when Ted came up and began to dress for church. He goes to church every morning, raids or no raids. Then after breakfast I had time to get a good bath and dress in all fresh clothes, such a treat! Then the day was wonderful, bright and sharp and clear, one of those astringent autumnal days which I have always loved. I put on a dress I had never worn before, a dark blue crepe I bought at Pontings last year.
When I came downstairs, about quarter to eleven, I was feeling fine. I felt well and lithe and beautiful. I felt grand, Ted was out in the garden, and the dining room was full of sunshine. I turned on the radio and a most enticing dance was playing. I felt so fine, so happy, so well, I began to dance. All alone by myself in the little room I danced and danced. I danced every dance the band gave out. I was happy. Happy. Then, ten minutes after the band finished, came the first siren of the day eleven fifty-five a.m. It lasted for an hour, and when the all clear came I was back to my normal sobriety. Four raids today.

September 16, 1940

A day of incessant raids: six raids.

September 17, 1940

The second warning of the day sounded just now at nine-ten a.m. The first lasted from eight to eight forty- five a.m. Last night was one of the very worst yet. When the all clear came just before three o’clock, we decided to go up to bed. We thought the Germans were through for the night. Not a bit of it! Just before four the sirens sounded again, and the onslaught, lasting until five thirty-five a.m. was even heavier than in the first part of the night.
The main attack, of course, was on London, but what damage was done we have not been told yet. When Ted came in from mass, at eight this morning, he told me that one bomb hit the presbytery last night, but bounced off the roof again without doing much damage. The Germans deliberately pick out churches and hospitals for targets. They have hit Westminster Abbey, and nearly destroyed St. Paul’s Cathedral. However, with the latter we were lucky. A bomb weighing a ton buried itself in Dean’s Yard, by Amen Corner, but did not go off. At awful risk our demolition squad was able to dig it out and rush it to Hackney Marshes, and it exploded there. Had it exploded when it fell, the whole Cathedral would have been brought to the ground.
Buckingham Palace has been bombed three times. Hits have been made on the Law Courts, Trafalgar Square, the Houses of Parliament, and St. Thomas’s Hospital. Cheapside is practically laid flat. Regent Street has suffered badly, and Victoria Station, and Clapham Junction are practically wiped out. Nearly every London hospital has been bombed, and many churches. Some are quite demolished. Many city shelters, built to shelter hundreds of people, have been hit.

On Sunday the R.A.F. brought down one hundred and eighty five German machines, one hundred and thirty five of them bombers. Our losses are supposed to be only twenty-five machines and twelve pilots. 

Maybe. Who really knows what the truth is? All we really know is what we actually see and suffer for ourselves.

As far as can be conjectured this sort of war can go and is going on indefinitely. God help us all, it’s simply hell on earth. Today is cloudy and windy. The equinox is near. Clouds are worse for us than clear skies, for the Germans can hid behind the clouds and bomb us before we know they are over us.

Oh my God, what a world! Now the clock has struck ten and everything is quiet outside, thought the all clear has not been given yet. Oh, here it comes, ten o’clock. Well, now I must bathe and get dressed before the next warning sounds. I have to cook this morning too. Au-Revoir. Three more raids today.

September 18, 1940

Eight raids today. Eight warnings. This is the worse day yet. Last night was terrible. London is the main objective. Here in Romford Victoria Road was hit for the second time: three stores and four houses demolished there. On Eastern Road the Inland Revenue Offices were destroyed and on South Street, Jays, the furniture shop. Again, the Germans must have been trying for the Railway Bridge and station, as all these places lay near it.

Mrs. Branney came in this morning, between raids and Mrs. Jude came into lunch. Mrs. Jude had a tale that invasion has been tried. She says her window cleaner man, who came from Frinton yesterday, told her that at Frinton hundreds of dead Germans are being washed up on the shore. Maybe.

September 19, 1940

Three-Thirty p.m. Only one raid so far today After a very long night raid, lasting from eight o’clock last night until half past five this morning, all has been quiet except for one short warning lasting from eight fifty-five a.m. until nine-ten a.m. The night was awful. There is indiscriminate bombing against London. The B.B.C. said the casualties were again very heavy, in central London over ninety known to be killed, and more than three hundred severely wounded. Oxford Street, Berwick Street, Berkley Square, Piccadilly, Grosvenor Square, Marble Arch, got it last night. This is just plain murder.

When Ted came into lunch he told me he had had a mother and daughter in the office this morning, looking for a flat, and they told him they had been bombed three times! First in Poplar, where their house was demolished; then in Walthamstow, where they had gone for refuge, and again in a church, St. James the Great, where they had been transferred for safety.

One night last week over three hundred men, women, and children were destroyed in a school, to which they had been taken “for safety” after their homes had been destroyed. There is no safety in London anywhere. Hell! Hell! Goddamn Hitler.

I am most awfully tired, and getting very cranky. Nerves, of course. Last night Ted gave me a whiskey, but it didn’t help me to sleep anyway. Ted rolls up on the floor and goes sound off, but I lay on the sofa and quake. Sometimes I can doze off, in a lull, but directly the guns begin again I awake immediately. The barrage is very heavy, but the planes fly over steadily just the same. In

daylight our men can bring them down, or chase them away, but at night it is a much or difficult job. Modern war. My God, it’s awful. 

I notice I’m not praying so much. Either I’m getting used to bombardment, or else I’ve got greater confidence in our A.A. guns.
Anyhow, my thoughts are straying again to Mrs. Eddy, and her Christian Science. It is because I hate the works and words of men so much. I listen to the treacle that comes over the air: men talking. I listen to Ted and his damn foolish chatter and I know I hate the minds and talk of men. I hate men. I look at this world, which men have made, and I listen to their explanation and their exhortations, and I despise the idiots. Then they explain the almighty, and the mind and intentions of God! I think them presumptuous silly fools, and I think their religion worthless. No: give me a woman’s religion: give me a woman’s reason. No woman can be such a damn fool as a damn fool man.

Why must God be masculine? Oh, Christian theologies all seem to me so childish. I listen to Ted, so naïve, but thinking he’s so full of wisdom! I simply lump him for what he was in his beginnings, a Primitive Methodist. Well, that’s all right for that type of mind, but it’s not my type of mind, and I simply can’t stomach it.
I notice that Ted never expects intelligence in his listeners, never expects even an ordinary standard of education As for culture; all his assumptions are that it is non-existent.

As water seeks its own level, so do people. We are happiest when we all with our own kind, the sort of people we sprung from. So with Ted, he came from the poor and the uneducated, the chapelgoer’s, and unconsciously he assumes that all people in the world are only those sorts of people. I find this dreary and boring.

Ignorant people bore me. They may be good they may be saints, but Lord, how they bore me!
Here is something, which interests me. It is a letter, which was printed, in last Saturdays “Times.” I transcribe:

To the Editor of the Times

Sir, in my great misery I came across the following by Sir Walter Raleigh, written in fifteen-ninety-six.

Hope in it may comfort other as it has me, I send it to you:
I believe that sorrows are dangerous companions, converting bad into evil, and evil to worse and do us no other service than multiply harms. They are the treasures of weak hearts and the foolish, the mind that entertained them is as the earth and dust whereon sorrows and adversities of the world do, as the beasts of the field, tread, trample and defile. The mind of man is that part of God, which is in us, which by how much it is subject to passion by so much it is further from Him that, gave it to us. Sorrows draw not the dead to life but the living to death.

I am, Sir, The father of a missing pilot. St. James’s Street. S.W.I.
Yes. The mind of man is that part of God which is in us. My mind is that part of God which is in me and my mind is all I have in this world to help me. Reason, Conscience, and Love, which Voysey used to preach about.

Without my mind I am not. I cannot put my mind in blinkers. I cannot bamboozle my mind. I believe, as I must, not as I’m told. I can not do otherwise. As a man thinketh in his heart, so he is. Ted is one sort of a man, and I’m another. I’m not masculine at all. I’m woman. I feel as a woman, and I think as a woman, no matter what the pundits lay down. I accept no man’s values, no man’s rulings, and no man’s authorities.

I know my own heart, my own mind, my own soul,and my own God. My God is not the old Jehovah, not the gentle Jesus. My God is the God Jesus was talking about, Light, Life, Love, Wisdom, Beauty, Spirit, Truth, Joy. The spirit of truth, the comforter. The father in me, and me in the father. The mind of God in my mind.

Oh well, I cannot stop to sort this out now, but it is like the bouquet Mrs. Eddy made up. I don’t care if she was a plagiarist. In fact, I don’t care what sort of woman she was. She did get a hold of a great idea, and she did get it over to the world, especially to the world of women, who needed and still need, a woman to speak the mind of woman.

Men have spoken for us too long. We will speak for ourselves now. At least I’m jolly sure I will. There is no man living who can speak for me. No man can tell me anything contrary to my own mind and have me accept it. As for accepting the man! Oh, I groan.

September 20, 1940

Eleven Thirty a.m. air raid is on. The first warning of the day, sounded at eleven-ten. The weather is colder, cloudy, and blustery. The airplanes are passing and circling overhead, but I’ve heard no guns or bombs yet. Probably the main attack is again on the city. Last night was a most awful night. The warning was given at eight p.m. and our guns went into action immediately. The all clear did not sound until five-fifty am this morning. The B.B.C announced at eight that the damage on London had not been so severe as in some previous nights, most of the bombs falling on the outskirts of the city, in the East, Southeast, and Essex. Right here in Romford it was one of the most terrifying nights of the war. Bombs seemed to be falling all around us. I have not heard yet what damage was done, as nobody has been in yet. I was most horribly frightened, and fell back again into my praying. This is instinctive and primitive. There is nothing else one can do but call upon Go. Reason simply has nothing to do in such a situation of terror and helplessness.

Last night the Archbishop of York gave a talk on the air, What is wrong with the world? I like this man. He does talk sense. Sense, which is neither male nor female: sense, which is truth and reason. Why isn’t there more churchman like him? Why isn’t he made the chief spokesman for the Religion of England, instead of that old timeserving dodder, the Archbishop of Canterbury?

Later in the evening Thomson from next door came in. He wanted to telephone to Mrs. Thomson, in Cullompton. He told us Plessis had been bombed on the previous night. They employ seven thousand people. Luckily no one had been killed. He also told us of different experiences of various people in the firm who live in the East End. Walthamstow has been particularly badly hit. In one rescue school, three hundred and ninety three people had been killed in one raid. He said, that on Wednesday night, when the raids began again, the women of Walthamstow began screaming. The A.R.P. wardens had to remove them forcibly, and their screaming was awful.

Of course it would be. The damned lying papers, and news reporters, and B.B.C. announcers, will insist that the people are standing up to the raids with fortitude. Grim and gay, says Churchill. I don’t believe it. No woman can be gay about war. Women loathe war, and all war-makers. Women recognize the common sense of Jesus, who said, Go and be reconciled with your adversary quickly, whilst you are yet in the way, and before he delivers you to the judge and you will be fined to your last penny.

Women are not fools. Women are life preservers, never destroyers. Women know costs, and women will not, and cannot, waste.

September 21, 1940

We had only one other daytime raid yesterday. It lasted from seven-fifty p.m. until eleven fifty-five p.m. So, when the all clear came we went upstairs to bed. However, the warning came again at one twenty a.m. this morning, and lasted until half past five. This was an awful period, and I thought every minute we should be stuck. There was one most awful explosion, which nearly frightened me to death.

When Ted came into breakfast, he was ready to weep. The big explosion we had heard had been a land mine, and it had exploded in Havering Drive. Amongst others, the Ryecroft house had been destroyed, and the whole family killed. Ted was grieving fro young Peter Ryecroft, a young musician Ted liked very much.

Bombs had been dropped in various spots, one at Strathmore, opposite the laundry: two on Oakland’s Avenue: one on Kingston Road, opposite the nursing home: one in the back brook at Arden Cottage: and one by the post office on Carlton Parade. Water and gas mains were broken, and we were with out gas here until repairs were completed at about five this evening. Our other raids today were from eleven-fifteen a.m. till eleven-fifty a.m.: six-ten until seven-twenty p.m. and the last given at eight-eighteen p.m. is still proceeding.

September 22, 1940

It is worse and worse. Last nights raid lasted until four forty-five am this morning. Another land mine was dropped; this time between Stanley Avenue and Carlton Road. About two hundred houses are shattered and down, but luckily nobody was killed!

Two more raids today. I am sick with fright and nerves. I keep crying. I long to be in America. If I had money I would fly on the clipper. As it is, I must stay here. Oh, God preserve us!

September 23, 1940

It was another awful night. Our last evenings raid began at seven-ten p.m. but the all clear came at two forty-five a.m. Ted went up to bed but I didn’t. I knew the Germans would be back again before daylight, and sure enough, back they came at three-thirty a.m. Ted, of course, came down stairs, very promptly. The all clear came at six o’clock.

On the seven o’clock news we were told of the sinking of one of the vessels carrying refugee children to Canada! The ship was torpedoed and sunk over six hundred miles out in the Atlantic last Tuesday night. The full ship’s company totaled four hundred and six, including two hundred and fifteen of the crew and one hundred and ninety one passengers, including the children. Only one hundred and twelve of were rescued, and two hundred and ninety four were drowned. In all thirteen children, of who seven were traveling under evacuation scheme, were landed from the rescuing warship.

Ninety evacuee children were traveling with nine escorts. Only seven of these children and two of their escorts have been landed. The remaining eighty-three children and seven escorts have been lost.
This is German warfare, on a par with the present indiscriminate bombing of the women and children of London. The whole civilized world curses Hitler. I hope he burns in hell forever. Four-thirty p.m. now, we have has two more raid for the day so far. It has been announced that the King will broadcast to the nation at six o’clock this evening so I expect we shall get a heavy raid right then.

I went in to see Dr. Keighley this afternoon. I am still losing weight, but my leg is still very inflamed, and painful. She gave me some medicine for my nerves today. I am all on edge, broody and weepy. I feel I cannot endure this damn war any longer. I’ve got to endure it.

Mrs. Ryecroft was found in the debris of her house, but not the slightest trace of Peter could be found. Mrs. Ryecroft was pinned right through her breast by a big beam. The rescue squad had to saw her in half to extricate her body. This is horrible. I weep and weep. I think such violent and sudden death may descend on me in any hour, and I weep for my children, whom I may never see again. My boys. Oh God, preserve me, and give me my children in this world again.

When speaking of the Ryecroft’s Ted said, But they are all in heaven! Such a remark drives me crazy. Heaven! What one wants is life in this world. Would it console me to think my dear ones were in Heaven? No, not ever. I want life here, where I know it, in the flesh. I want my sons to live their full human span, not to be destroyed in their flower. Oh God, save us, save us, and bring this war to a speedy end.