Saturday
Woke about 7, to the sound of
people in wooden soled shoes walking along the river brink. Had a very good night. Knocked up at 8 by a maid called Bella, with
a terrific uproar. Quite a good
breakfast.
Sat opposite the fat
schoolteacher, and another middle-aged woman who looked as if she might be a
school-mistress as well. The manageress
of the “White Lion”. Mrs Smith, came in
and said to them:
“Did you hear about Mr Hoyles?”
“Which Mr Hoyles?”
The one you know.”
“What, West
Hoyles? of Queen’s Road? What about him?”
“Well, I don't want to give you a
shock, but he’s dead. He died suddenly
last night.”
“Dead?” said the fat woman.
“My God, how awful. Are you
sure?”
“Well, my husband told me, and he
got it from the Club last night. Died
right suddenly, after he’d drunk a cup of tea.”
“But how awful! His wife and daughter
were going off to Hunstanton for the weekend, and she asked me to go over
tonight to see him as usual. Of course
he’d been ill, but how awfully sudden.”
“Yes, well there is its, I’m sure
it’s right, because I heard they were all talking about it at the Club.”
She went out, and the two women
settled down to eat, because whoever might have died after drinking a cup of
tea, tea must be drunk and sausages (however doubtful) must be eaten. After a time the fat woman said thoughtfully:
“Well, my God, what a thing to happen. I
must go over there right away. The only
thing is I must go over to school
first, and I don't want to wear my fur coat there, so I suppose I shall have to
come back and change before I go to Queen’s Road.”
The sallow one replied “Yes, that
would be best … Sad about poor old Hoyles.
I always think it must be terrible for old men when they see people they
know dying off.” The other said, “Yes, I
know, two girls I went to school with have died during the last year. It makes you think doesn’t it?” And she sat staring out of the window at the
grey sky and the grey river, and that grand sweep of houses, banks and inns,
wondering when the time would come for her to face eternity and join old Mr
Hoyles and the two school-friends. All
the time bombers droned over, one by one.
Cold morning, but the sun came through the haze
later. Walked about the town, and
admired the houses and the buildings, pushing my way through dense crowds of people.
Began looking for places where I
might live, but only “in secret”, as chickens must not be counted before they
are hatched. The ideal would be to get a
couple of rooms in the Crescent or in Museum
Square, or better still, on North or South Brink.
Walked into the Church (a most
extraordinary building with a double nave) and saw Canon Stallard again, who
was just gong to take a children’s service.
He was very affable, and said he hoped I had liked the Museum. Seemed quite anxious for me to take the
job. Looked round the church for a few
minutes. The double nave makes the place
appear almost square. There is a very
long chancel to the N. nave, which contains 2 good wall-monuments, one to Parke,
which is very fine, and a brass to Sir Thomas Bramstone, Constable of the Castle
in 1401. Must discover whether he is any
connection with the Bramstons of Skreens.
Unfortunately the chancel is too dark to see the monuments properly. Several good 18th century
monuments, and a very fine and large coat of arms.
Caught train for Cambridge at 11.10, and trundled slowly down
to March, and so by changing to Ely. The
Fens looked very different in the cold bright
sunshine to what they did yesterday. One
gets an impression of a remoteness unfelt even in Wales
or Scotland. Another change at Ely, into a Norwich-London
train, packed to the very doors. 20 or
30 people had to get into the brake-van, where I got a seat on a pile of
kitbags. Everybody seemed fairly good
natured except a stout, red-faced man who shouted to the young guard (he didn’t
look a day more than 19) “What about putting another coach on? We’ve paid our fares you know! Bloody scandal, I call it!” Nobody, not even the guard took the slightest
bit of notice.
Tremendous amount of sugar beet
to be seen all along the line at every station – literally hundreds of trucks
at Ely. In some places beet was being
carted straight off the fields to railway trucks in bright pink carts! usually
hauled by two Percherons. Once a gang of
Italians in bright green uniforms swept by, walking slowly along the top of a
dyke. Everywhere one sees the glittering
drains running straight as railway tracks.
The marshes between the Bedford
Rivers was a huge shining lake.
At last pulled into Cambridge at one p.m. Registered at the Gt. Northern Hotel, and
went off to find some lunch. Tried the
“Victory Café”, hung with British and Greek flags, Greek waiters
dashing about, and a radio playing very loudly.
Very expensive – soup and fish, and nothing else came to 3/11. A young fair haired soldier came in, and
moved to sit an empty table near the window.
At once, a dark waiter dashed forward, crying loudly “No sir, not
there sir … I keep that table for a party of four.” “Oh what the hell!” shouted the soldier. “I’ll bloody well go somewhere else,” slamming the door so hard that the crockery rattled and the card
saying “Café Open” fell down, showing the word “Closed” on the other side. Everybody looked very uncomfortable.
Walked along to Downing
Street, but the archaeology museum was shut – is apparently always
shut on Saturday afternoons.
Crowds of pretty girls cycling
off to hockey, with brilliantly coloured scarves and stockings, pleated skirts,
and their hair blowing in the winds. Plenty of black students about.
Noticed two black students in gowns, walking with a white
woman.
Walked down Trumpington Street, to the
Fitzwilliam. Love to see the clear streams
of water trickling down the concrete gutters.
Went into the Museum – lovely, gracious, quiet. Walked around for an hour or so, vaguely
admiring the glorious treasures.
Then to the Folk Museum,
to go carefully over the collections there.
Lambeth has done a splendid job.
The stuff is shown as well as can be under the circumstances. Should have thought that there was some
considerable risk in having so many small objects not in cases, but Lambeth
told me that the only precaution he has found necessary is to compel all
Americans to enter their names and serial numbers in the Visitors’ Book. Lambert says that the Museum finances are almost
non-existent, and that he and his wife keep the place going more as a labour of
love than anything else. (He of course has
a salary as Rural Industries Organiser).
He was rather depressed altogether, and told me of the endless troubles
he has with the Ministry of Labour, when trying to get blacksmiths released from
industry to take up rural work. The Ministry of Labour refuse to admit any necessity for rural farriers.
Stayed to tea, and talked until
half past 8. Told me that a few ‘divers’
had passed S. of Cambridge, and got as far as Sandy and Potton in
Bedfordshire. A rocket fell at Fulbourn,
about 6 miles away, but no serious damage.
Leaving Castle Street, felt rather sick, and a
bad headache. Decided not to have
anything to eat but to go to a cinema instead.
Saw “The Eve of St Mark”, a very poor thing indeed. But felt better.
Crowds in the Market Place and
the streets, bright lights everywhere, undergraduates in gowns, bareheaded,
wandering about. Poor devils, they are
almost all on army or air-force courses – hardly any other forms of study
allowed. On walls people had chalked:
“Down with Churchill”, “Up with Churchill”, “Amery must Go”, “Save Greece”, “Britain is
Fascist”, and so on. Lots of posters
about political meetings.
Walked back to the Gt. Northern
Hotel at 10.30. Seems decent and clean,
but no hot water in bedroom. Just was I was falling asleep,
about 11.30, somebody in the street began shooting, single shots, then two
together, about a dozen shots in all.
Sounded like a rifle. Looked out,
but could see nothing. Very curious.
