Wednesday
Up early. Brilliant morning, but cold. Very little breakfast, only a small bowl of
porridge. Got to the office in good time
for once, ‘planes going over as I went in.
Chairman in this morning about
M. of Tiptree and the “black market” case.
Has been decided he must no longer be the Committee’s representative in
that area. Poor devil, everybody is
against him. Our organisation at Tiptree
is in a terrible muddle, as we don't seem to know whether we are dealing with
the new civil parish or with the old parishes of Layer Marney and Messing. Capt. Folkard seems disinclined to take the matter
seriously but I think it should be cleared up, as we shall never get our records
straight until it is.
Home to tea, and then called at
Holly Trees, where Poulter told me that Hull was now F.S.A. and had been appointed
to a panel which is to deal with post-war Romano-British archaeology. This should be a great boost to his morale.
A fog coming up in the town, and I had some hopes of a quiet night, but
in the country it was quite clear.
Looked at the “Gazette”, and saw
that Ivor Carter had been drowned at sea.
I was at school with him, and hated him as a vicious cruel bully. He was a very dull scholar, and was always
much the senior in any form in which he happened to be. All the little boys went in fear of him.
To Lawford this evening and
returned a map I had borrowed, leaving my old police saddle at Clayton’s on the
way. Bob has now gone over to the Lyons family at Collier’s
Wood, and I am sure he will be happier there.
Left Lawford at 9, just in time
to hear three all-clears over in Suffolk, one after another. Heard no alarm. The sky was hazy, the stars twinkling
dimly. Walked back to Talbooth,
listening to all the little night sounds, birds twittering, cattle in the
distant byres, things creeping in the hedges.
About half-past ten, as I sat
writing in this ridiculous fake-antique room, I heard many planes, very low,
and looked out to see dozens of yellow flares floating over Ardleigh, mingling
with the stars so that one could scarcely see which was which, and the noise of
planes receding towards the west. I
suppose they were coming back from across the sea.
Sent two drawings to the Museum and Art Gallery at Bangor today, one a little 18th century
water-colour, “Snowdon from Capel Curig,” perhaps by Daniel, and the other a
view of Beddgelert by a Florence Spiers, 1866.
Wished most heartily that I was going with them.
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