This morning Aunt Het and Uncle Frank came. Aunt looked dreadfully cut up. As she walked in, dressed very smartly, I thought of all the times she had walked in to come to stay with us. Mother knew them both but was very weak. I wanted them to stay overnight, but they would not because of the raids on
Went up town at 6, and found café shut. A grey evening, a light mist beginning to fall. Went out to Rose’s cafe, through the ghostly churchyard, but she was shut too. The streets full of wandering crowds, soldiers and girls, heading for cinemas. Went into the milk bar in
John St. Very full, wireless blaring out news “… heavy
casualties when a London
dance hall and milk bar was struck last night.”
2 WLA girls next to me, with a Canadian. 4 women behind the counter, one quite young
and good looking, who served me, and an elderly dishwasher with feathers like a
Red Indian Squaw. Had beans on toast, v. good and coffee.
Culver St. to collect items for Mother from
Ambulance. The lady in charge was little
old Miss Johnson, who used to teach me drawing in 1919. These medical requisites are lent out at
extraordinary small charges. I must make
a reasonable contribution. Misty now,
and quite wet, grey, dream like landscape. Went home and found Aunt and Uncle both gone – I was sorry. Mother seemed to be much
improved, and talked rationally about the visit.
Rain quite heavy tonight. At 11, to my surprise, a siren. One plane came over, but I think RAF. Are they coming every night, no matter what the weather?