9 September 1940 – 15 September 1940

Back from half a day in London—perhaps our strangest visit. When we got to Gower Street a barrier with diversion on it. No sign of damage. But coming to Doughty Street a crowd. Then Miss Perkins at the window. Meck. S.* roped off. Wardens there. Not allowed in. The house about 30 yards from ours struck at one in the morning by a bomb. Completely ruined. Another bomb in the square still unexploded. We walked round the back. Stood by Jane Harrison’s house. The house was still smouldering. That is a great pile of bricks. Underneath all the people who had gone down to their shelter. Scraps of cloth hanging to the bare walls at the side still standing. A looking glass I think swinging. Like a tooth knocked out—a clean cut. Our house undamaged. No windows yet broken —perhaps the bomb has now broken them. We saw Bernal with an arm band jumping on top of the bricks. Who lived there? I suppose the casual young men and women I used to see from my window; the flat dwellers who used to have flower pots and sit in the balcony. All now blown to bits. The garage man at the back—blear eyed and jerky—told us he had been blown out of his bed by the explosion: made to take shelter in a church. “A hard cold seat,” he said, “and a small boy lying in my arms. I cheered when the all clear sounded. I’m aching all over.” He said the Jerries had been over for three nights trying to bomb Kings Cross. They had destroyed half Argyll Street, also shops in Grays Inn Road. Then Mr. Pritchard ambled up. Took the news as calm as a grig. “They actually have the impertinence to say this will make us accept peace . . . !” he said: he watches raids from his flat roof and sleeps like a hog. So, after talking to Miss Perkins, Mrs. Jackson—but both serene—Miss P. had slept on a camp bed in her shelter—we went on to Grays Inn. Left the car and saw Holborn. A vast gap at the top of Chancery Lane. Smoking still. Some great shop entirely destroyed: the hotel opposite like a shell. In a wine shop there were no windows left. People standing at the tables—I think drink being served. Heaps of blue green glass in the road at Chancery Lane. Men breaking off fragments left in the frames. Glass falling. Then into Lincoln’s Inn. To the N.S. office: windows broken, but house untouched. We went over it. Deserted. Wet passages. Glass on stairs. Doors locked. So back to the car. A great block of traffic. The Cinema behind Madame Tussaud’s torn open: the stage visible; some decoration swinging. All the R. Park houses with broken windows, but undamaged. And then miles and miles of orderly ordinary streets—all Bayswater, and Sussex Square as usual—streets empty—faces set and eyes bleared. In Chancery Lane I saw a man with a barrow of music books. My typist’s office destroyed. Then at Wimbledon a siren: people began running. We drove, through almost empty streets, as fast as possible. Horses taken out of the shafts. Cars pulled up. Then the all clear. The people I think of now are the very grimy lodging house keepers, say in Heathcote Street: with another night to face: old wretched women standing at their doors; dirty, miserable. Well—as Nessa said on the phone, it’s coming very near. I had thought myself a coward for suggesting that we should not sleep two nights at 37. I was greatly relieved when Miss P. telephoned advising us not to stay, and L. agreed.

A gale has risen. Weather broken. Armada weather. No sound of planes today, only wind. Terrific air traffic last night. But the raid beaten off by new London barrage. This is cheering. If we can hold out this week—next week—week after —if the weather’s turned—if the force of the raids on London is broken—we go up tomorrow to see John about moving Press; to patch the windows, rescue valuables and get letters—if, that is, we’re allowed in the Square. Oh, blackberrying I conceived, or re-moulded, an idea for a Common History book —to read from one end of literature including biography; and range at will, consecutively.

A strong feeling of invasion in the air. Roads crowded with army wagons, soldiers. Just back from hard day in London. Raid, unheard by us, started outside Wimbledon. A sudden stagnation. People vanished. Yet some cars went on. We decided to visit lavatory on the hill: shut. So L. made use of tree. Pouring. Guns in the distance. Saw a pink brick shelter. That was the only interest of our journey—our talk with the man, woman and child who were living there. They had been bombed at Clapham. Their house unsafe; so they hiked to Wimbledon. Preferred this unfinished gun emplacement to a refugee overcrowded house. They had a roadman’s lamp; a saucepan and could boil tea. The nightwatchman wouldn’t accept their tea; had his own; someone gave them a bath. In one of the Wimbledon houses there was only a caretaker. Of course they couldn’t house us. But she was very nice—gave them a sit down. We all talked. Middleclass smartish lady on her way to Epsom regretted she couldn’t have the child. But we wouldn’t part with her, they said—the man a voluble emotional Kelt, the woman placid Saxon. As long as she’s all right we don’t mind. They sleep on some shavings. Bombs had dropped on the Common. He a housepainter. Very friendly and hospitable. They liked having people in to talk. What will they do? The man thought Hitler would soon be over. The lady in the cocks hat said Never. Twice we left: more guns: came back. At last started, keeping an eye on shelters and people’s behaviour. Reached Russell Hotel. No John. Loud gunfire. We sheltered. Started for Mecklenburgh Square; met John, who said the Square still closed; so lunched in the hotel: decided the Press emergency—to employ Garden City Press—in 20 minutes. Raid still on. Walked to Mecklenburgh Square. He laid rather a thin rug on the step for me to sit on. An officer looked in. “Making ready for the invasion,” said the man, as if it were going off in about ten minutes.

A sense of invasion—that is lorries of soldiers and machines—like cranes— walloping along to Newhaven. An air raid is on. A little pop rattle which I take to be machine gun, just gone off. Planes roaring and roaring. Percy and L. say some are English. Mabel comes out and looks: asks if we want fish fried or boiled. The great advantage of this page is that it gives me a fidget ground. Fidgets: caused by losing at bawls and invasion: caused by another howling banshee, by having no book I must read: and so on. I am reading Sévigné: how recuperative last week; gone stale a little with that mannered and sterile Burney now: even through the centuries his acid dandified somehow supercilious well what?— can’t find the word—this manner of his, this character penetrates; and moreover reminds me of someone I dislike. Is it Logan? There’s a ceremony in him that reminds me of Tom. There’s a parched artificial cruelty and—oh the word! the word! Am I oversensitive to character in writing? I think we moderns lack love. Our torture makes us writhe. But I can’t go into that—a phrase that brings in Old Rose, to whom I mean to write. One always thinks there’s a landing place coming. But there aint. A stage, a branch, an end. I dislike writing letters of thanks about Roger. I’ve said it so many times. I think I will begin my new book by reading Ifor Evans, 6d. Penguin. I suggest supercilious.