Saturday
High clouds, and cleared rapidly
towards afternoon. Had to go back after
lunch to do special memorandum to Writtle. Had
tea up town and called at home. Mother told
me old Mr. Rose, next door, was dying. About
half past 5 the doctor called, stayed a few minutes, and left. Just as I went out at 6 the blinds next door
came down one by one. Mother said “Oh
look, the poor old man’s gone. Only
yesterday I went in and he spoke to me.”
I cycled away leaving my old folks on one side of a brick wall and a
corpse and an old sorrowing woman on the other.
When they go to bed tonight they will not be more than 10 feet from
the dead man.
Glorious red sunset, sheets of
cold crimson flame, and thick fog coming up from the sea, so thick by 8 that
the moon was invisible. Great hopes of a
quiet night. At tea, heard a girl who
came in say she was down from London for the day and that there were bombs at
Brockley on Thursday and at St Pancras last night. Cannot make up my mind whether to do duty
this weekend or not. I must see Dr Rowland, but have not yet had
nerve to go.
Did three stupid things today –
left kitchen light on, burnt wireless cabinet, burnt saucepan and wasted
paraffin. Quite hot tonight.
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