Wednesday
Raw, foggy morning. Called in at midday, she lay with her eyes
open, and spoke in a whisper. Asked me
again if I had enough to eat, ran her hand over my head and said “You’ve had
your haircut” which I had.
When I went up town, I thought of
all the streets and shops where Mother loved to go, the cafes where she drank
tea and coffee, where she will never go again.
Papers full of gloom today over
Churchill’s speech at the Guildhall yesterday.
This evening went to see the
May’s about a housekeeper, but nothing doing, then called on Molly Blomfield at Trinity St,
where my distress overcame me and we had a highly emotional scene, as I wept
unrestrained, tormented by vain regrets. She was very kind although she has obviously suffered terribly over the
death of her brother.
Later on phoned Dr Rowland, and he
advised Mother being sent to the Infirmary.
Tonight, in bed, I told Father, and he took
it well, but said “Oh, it’ll kill her” and that he wished he was dead.
Brilliant moon tonight, yet no
raids.
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