Another quiet night, but a most dreadful nightmare in the early hours, in which I was being buried alive in a deep, narrow trench.
Damp, grey morning, with a little drizzle drifting from the S.W., but the glass rising. Not likely that they can cart today, though.
Called at home and saw Father, who was very well. Told me about a great-to-do last night when the people on the other side of Mrs Rose, where the Jarreds’ used to live, had a terrible fight at 10pm last night, and old Mrs Rose thought the man would murder his wife before morning. She came running in to Father to send for the police, but he talked her out of it.
We heard today that the great farm demonstration at Frank Warren’s has been cancelled by Writtle, without any reference to us, obviously done in sheer spite against Frank Warren.
Back to Boxted at 9.30. Miss Bentley was just having a ‘phone call from
, where a raid was
beginning. Said she could hear the
sirens over the wires. At about 10.30
there was a long very distant rumble, like a very big explosion. Bed at 11, very hopefully. Clear moonlight. London