could see, unless some better use were found for my unimaginable talents in London, or the war casualties became so high that the barrel had to be scraped clean, I was likely to remain in Cornwall.
Sometimes I made unpatriotic use of the meagre allowance of petrol we were permitted, and drove around in search of food to feed our guests. There was a farm in Roseland, owned by the friend of a friend, where a few discreet eggs could be bought. Driving home we reached Truro. It was market day and busy, and just as I entered the town I touched my horn at a pedestrian and the damned thing stuck and would not stop. It is not a large town, but it seemed large that day. I drove right down the hill, through the crowded streets and up the other side with the horn relentlessly blaring. Everyone stood and stared. It was as well I was not picked up because in addition to a wife and baby son in the car I had eight dozen blackmarket eggs in the boot.
To complicate things a little more in our home life, my mother, always a difficult person to satisfy where maids were concerned, had by early 1940 run through a succession of them and been left frequently adrift and untended; so in the end we said she must come and live with us, at least for the duration of the war; though I think we all knew it meant for the duration of her life. We were able to give her a private sitting room, and the arrangement worked fairly well.
By 1943 the airfield at Trevellas, two miles away, was fully operational, and one day a flight lieutenant called and told us we must provide accommodation for six pilot officers. For this the Government would pay us 6d a night.
Of course we welcomed the young men â all younger than I was â and we made many warm friendships, none of which, alas, endured. Our young men were constantly changing; and not many survived the war. We lost two while they were staying with us â not from enemy action but from hideously ordinary flying accidents. They were the cream of youth: supremely fit, intelligent, high-spirited, zestful, courageous but fatalistic. There were some Poles among them too â equally splendid men. I have written about two of them in my novel Cameo .
A further complication in our lives, though a happy one, was the birth of our first child, a son, Andrew, in June 1942 â about the time of the Battle of Stalingrad. But while Jean was carrying him â clearly as a result of the tension and overwork of the last three years â she developed asthma, a complaint which was almost to kill her in the next half decade. She began to have savage monthly attacks, from which after two days in bed she would begin to crawl about, thin and wasted but with the tremendous stamina that she had, rapidly becoming her old self again. Then she would have about three weeks before the next attack. This, plus half a hotel to run, six young airmen to be seen to on occasion, a delicate mother-in-law who could do nothing in the house, and now a young baby to tend, was more than enough for one young woman.
Of course we got away from time to time, thanks to my motherin-law and one or two other people who could temporarily take the load; and these short holidays â in spite of everything much more high-spirited than our honeymoon, because now the dangers were out in the open and could be faced and some of them already defeated â quickly made up for anything lacklustre in the first. Several times we went to London and ignored the air-raids with theatre-and concert-going. Once at the ballet at Sadlerâs Wells we saw a young girl dancing one of her first key roles. When we came out, the sky was ablaze with searchlights. We hoped they were out to welcome the arrival of Margot Fonteyn.
During my time as a coastguard I spent many long hours looking down at the remains of a wreck. Only the weed-grown timbers showed, a skeleton of a French ship called La Seine which had been driven ashore in a January gale in 1900.
Sometimes I made unpatriotic use of the meagre allowance of petrol we were permitted, and drove around in search of food to feed our guests. There was a farm in Roseland, owned by the friend of a friend, where a few discreet eggs could be bought. Driving home we reached Truro. It was market day and busy, and just as I entered the town I touched my horn at a pedestrian and the damned thing stuck and would not stop. It is not a large town, but it seemed large that day. I drove right down the hill, through the crowded streets and up the other side with the horn relentlessly blaring. Everyone stood and stared. It was as well I was not picked up because in addition to a wife and baby son in the car I had eight dozen blackmarket eggs in the boot.
To complicate things a little more in our home life, my mother, always a difficult person to satisfy where maids were concerned, had by early 1940 run through a succession of them and been left frequently adrift and untended; so in the end we said she must come and live with us, at least for the duration of the war; though I think we all knew it meant for the duration of her life. We were able to give her a private sitting room, and the arrangement worked fairly well.
By 1943 the airfield at Trevellas, two miles away, was fully operational, and one day a flight lieutenant called and told us we must provide accommodation for six pilot officers. For this the Government would pay us 6d a night.
Of course we welcomed the young men â all younger than I was â and we made many warm friendships, none of which, alas, endured. Our young men were constantly changing; and not many survived the war. We lost two while they were staying with us â not from enemy action but from hideously ordinary flying accidents. They were the cream of youth: supremely fit, intelligent, high-spirited, zestful, courageous but fatalistic. There were some Poles among them too â equally splendid men. I have written about two of them in my novel Cameo .
A further complication in our lives, though a happy one, was the birth of our first child, a son, Andrew, in June 1942 â about the time of the Battle of Stalingrad. But while Jean was carrying him â clearly as a result of the tension and overwork of the last three years â she developed asthma, a complaint which was almost to kill her in the next half decade. She began to have savage monthly attacks, from which after two days in bed she would begin to crawl about, thin and wasted but with the tremendous stamina that she had, rapidly becoming her old self again. Then she would have about three weeks before the next attack. This, plus half a hotel to run, six young airmen to be seen to on occasion, a delicate mother-in-law who could do nothing in the house, and now a young baby to tend, was more than enough for one young woman.
Of course we got away from time to time, thanks to my motherin-law and one or two other people who could temporarily take the load; and these short holidays â in spite of everything much more high-spirited than our honeymoon, because now the dangers were out in the open and could be faced and some of them already defeated â quickly made up for anything lacklustre in the first. Several times we went to London and ignored the air-raids with theatre-and concert-going. Once at the ballet at Sadlerâs Wells we saw a young girl dancing one of her first key roles. When we came out, the sky was ablaze with searchlights. We hoped they were out to welcome the arrival of Margot Fonteyn.
During my time as a coastguard I spent many long hours looking down at the remains of a wreck. Only the weed-grown timbers showed, a skeleton of a French ship called La Seine which had been driven ashore in a January gale in 1900.
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