by a miracle had survived when the Lusitania went down in 1915—but Evadne was on an American boat, Hitler would never touch that. And she thought of Dinah and Sylvia, who would stick with their husbands in London, which might at any moment now become the firing line. And of Camilla in Berlin, sticking to Johnny, which would be much worse. And of Charles and Oliver, who could remember a war in South Africa, to say nothing of the one in Belgium, and who were too old now for fighting, praise be—at least, for the sort of fighting which was required of them in all the previous, predictable wars….
Most of all, Virginia thought about her only son Nigel, who had grown up so like his father, even to being a barrister with chambers in the Temple—a rather dim and stranded copy of his father, since the sudden death of his young wife after only two years of marriage. They thought it was just a cold—then she started to cough—and then it was pneumonia and she was gone. No children—nothing for Nigel to go on with. Nobody saw him any more, he was at Winchester about a will case the week Virginia and Mab had left London. Since then he had rung up once or twice, but he was always bad about writing, and now it wasn’t the thing to use the telephone….
She supposed she would hear soon, what Nigel meant to do about the war. At thirty-one he would hardly be called up, not at first, and he had no mechanical sense even about a car, he would never be any use to the Air Force. There was no demand for enlistment now, except in civil defence, and he was already wardening at the Temple. Nigel had gone into himself with his heartbreak, which was hard for her to get used to, but it seemed best to let him alone. Archie would have known what to do about his son, Archie would have helped him through it when poor Phyllis died, Archie would have turned sixty now, if he had lived, but Archie was safe, Archie was out of it, they would have to do without him this war….
7
Sylvia had gone out with Jeff that Sunday morning in London to watch the orderly, self-contained crowds in the streets. A warm sun shone there too, women wore bright summer frocks and no hats, young men had left their collars open. Everyone carried the little brown box which held the gasmask. There were almost no children, almost no dogs.
News of the actual declaration of war was called out to them from a window in Stratton Street by a fellow reporter who had just heard it on the radio. He came down and joined them, young Denis Arnold, hatless and grave, with his gasmask slung over his shoulder, and they all drifted westward towards Buckingham Palace, where in 1914 a shouting, singing crowd full of ignorant enthusiasm had surged.
Today there was no visible change in the face of London as the eleven o’clock deadline passed. No one was taken by surprise, everyone had a fair idea of what it would mean, no one seemedto look backward with regret. But there was no bravado. It was like having a tooth out. You didn’t argue with the dentist at the last minute, you screwed yourself up to it. England was now of a mind to have the tooth out and be done with it.
The three of them were at the edge of the crowd around the Queen Victoria Memorial in front of the Palace when the promised “Warbling Note” of the air raid warning began, about eleven-thirty. So far as Sylvia could see, no one turned a hair, and after the first upheaval in her own middle she felt Jeff’s fingers close tight round her elbow.
“There they come!” cried a woman’s voice lightly behind them in Mayfair garden party tones, and Denis said, “B’God, they aren’t wasting any time!” and laughed.
Wardens wearing helmets and armbands, and police on bicycles with TAKE COVER signs hung round their necks appeared from nowhere, shepherding everybody towards the shelters in St. James’s Park. No one hurried very much.
“Five to ten minutes, between warning and raiders,” Jeff was saying. “They must have
Most of all, Virginia thought about her only son Nigel, who had grown up so like his father, even to being a barrister with chambers in the Temple—a rather dim and stranded copy of his father, since the sudden death of his young wife after only two years of marriage. They thought it was just a cold—then she started to cough—and then it was pneumonia and she was gone. No children—nothing for Nigel to go on with. Nobody saw him any more, he was at Winchester about a will case the week Virginia and Mab had left London. Since then he had rung up once or twice, but he was always bad about writing, and now it wasn’t the thing to use the telephone….
She supposed she would hear soon, what Nigel meant to do about the war. At thirty-one he would hardly be called up, not at first, and he had no mechanical sense even about a car, he would never be any use to the Air Force. There was no demand for enlistment now, except in civil defence, and he was already wardening at the Temple. Nigel had gone into himself with his heartbreak, which was hard for her to get used to, but it seemed best to let him alone. Archie would have known what to do about his son, Archie would have helped him through it when poor Phyllis died, Archie would have turned sixty now, if he had lived, but Archie was safe, Archie was out of it, they would have to do without him this war….
7
Sylvia had gone out with Jeff that Sunday morning in London to watch the orderly, self-contained crowds in the streets. A warm sun shone there too, women wore bright summer frocks and no hats, young men had left their collars open. Everyone carried the little brown box which held the gasmask. There were almost no children, almost no dogs.
News of the actual declaration of war was called out to them from a window in Stratton Street by a fellow reporter who had just heard it on the radio. He came down and joined them, young Denis Arnold, hatless and grave, with his gasmask slung over his shoulder, and they all drifted westward towards Buckingham Palace, where in 1914 a shouting, singing crowd full of ignorant enthusiasm had surged.
Today there was no visible change in the face of London as the eleven o’clock deadline passed. No one was taken by surprise, everyone had a fair idea of what it would mean, no one seemedto look backward with regret. But there was no bravado. It was like having a tooth out. You didn’t argue with the dentist at the last minute, you screwed yourself up to it. England was now of a mind to have the tooth out and be done with it.
The three of them were at the edge of the crowd around the Queen Victoria Memorial in front of the Palace when the promised “Warbling Note” of the air raid warning began, about eleven-thirty. So far as Sylvia could see, no one turned a hair, and after the first upheaval in her own middle she felt Jeff’s fingers close tight round her elbow.
“There they come!” cried a woman’s voice lightly behind them in Mayfair garden party tones, and Denis said, “B’God, they aren’t wasting any time!” and laughed.
Wardens wearing helmets and armbands, and police on bicycles with TAKE COVER signs hung round their necks appeared from nowhere, shepherding everybody towards the shelters in St. James’s Park. No one hurried very much.
“Five to ten minutes, between warning and raiders,” Jeff was saying. “They must have
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