Monday 18th December 1939
I am back at the Chateau and it is difficult to believe I have been away.
Sitting with Lydia in a draughty Nissan hut late on Saturday afternoon, waiting for the plane to land, I felt I would have done almost anything to stay with her and not return to the Château with its frequent stress and misery – and temptations. Nor was the thought of military rations after a week of good food appealing. Mrs Roberts had produced a roast pheasant for our early Christmas dinner, brown and succulent and hung for the minimum amount of time. (It may not be traditional, but neither Lydia or I like gamey birds.) And the scents of spiced fruit and good coffee that pervaded the week – I wish it didn’t already seem so unreal.
And yet even at home in England, the war is making itself felt. No bombs, thank God, but plenty of trenches being dug. The Government is refusing to consider the use of the London Underground as a refuge, saying that it might be needed to transport troops and war supplies. No food shortages, at least not yet, but allotments springing up everywhere – even the Tower of London moat is now growing vegetables. “Just in case.” says the Government. Though we’ll need more than allotments to make us self-sufficient in food, if that is their thinking.
Graham and Holly arrived at the airfield soon after us and we exchanged news of home and families. Graham made us laugh by describing his sudden enthusiasm for long country walks with Holly. “Usually as far as the nearest barn and maybe not quite the sort of exercise any of our parents were imagining. Though we always had a good appetite for dinner!” But soon we fell quiet, wondering what the next two months and more might bring.
The plane came into view, bringing the next cohort of medical staff preparing to – hopefully- enjoy a week’s leave. I knew Matron Pym was amongst them, looking forward to seeing her comfortable flat again, as well as spending time with her sister and brother-in-law. I wondered whether it would be even more difficult for her and the others to return to the Château just two days before Christmas.
Lydia did her best to cheer us up, telling us our tour of duty was already more than halfway through, “it will be January before you know it and once that’s over you’ll be just four weeks away from coming home.” I held her tightly and prayed she was right.
The flight was uneventful, especially compared to our long train journey in September. Whatever dreadful damage the Bear was now causing further south, its retreat from France seemed final. I took the opportunity to share some news with Graham and Holly.
“Lydia told me she may be coming over to France – nowhere near us, though. It’s a War Artists Advisory Committee commission and she’d be painting scenes from towns laid waste by the Bear. The only woman, I gather, that they’ve asked to go overseas. Hard to imagine her as a war artist. But at least it should be safe enough …”
Though I hope it comes to nothing.
Vanessa's War 