Warmer. Thawing fast. Rushed all morning. Went to the Repertory Co. this afternoon for the first time for months to see “Saloon Bar”. Not so well done as the film, which I saw recently.
Tea at Jacklin’s, where I was lucky enough to be able to pinch six lumps of sugar. There was a very lovely woman next to me at the Repertory Company, and I half thought of asking her to tea, but she hurried out of the Hall so quickly it was obvious she had other ideas. She was tall and dark, with short curly hair, and grey eyes, and wore a suit (coat and trousers) of green corduroy. I should think about 37, but very nice. She told me she was in the WAAFs at Harwich.
This evening to supper with Mrs. Stewart at the Marquis of Granby. Her husband is now in the King’s Own Regiment, training as an officer in the Field Security Police. How very sad, to hear of a well educated schoolmaster under army discipline in Lancashire, more afraid of the MPs than his pupils ever were of him, forbidden to move more than 5 miles away from his camp, hounded everywhere. The last meal they have is at 4.15pm, and consists of tea and bread and treacle. In actual cash he has only 8/- per week, which is not very much to buy extra food with.
One curious thing she told me was that he had a man in his hut who was a deserter from the Irish Free State Army, and who spoke very little English. The camp is near Morecambe, in Lancashire, and air-raids are unknown there. The sirens have only sounded once, and that was by accident.
Fine moonlight night, but no alarm.