Sunday
Had a splendid night [in Rudsdale's new lodgings at Woodside, Boxted, the home of his new landlady, Miss Bentley]. No alarm, and heard no planes. Up at 9, had a hot bath, then breakfast,
reading, and writing. Went into Sprott’s
Marsh, lovely spring day, warm, and birds singing, but oh how we want
rain. Walked right through the wood, and
found that the little cottage which used to stand in the wood has long since been
destroyed, nothing remaining but the outline of the garden and an old apple
tree. Did a few sketches and then went
to Dedham by way of the aerodrome. What
dirt, confusion and noise, huge bombs scattered about everywhere. And what a contrast to see Dedham in the
sunlight, the church bells peeling for afternoon service, jackdaws and rooks
wheeling, fat white clouds floating across the sky, people walking out, a
football match on the playing field, children skipping. The Colchester bus came in and several people
got out of it and wandered down towards the river.
At 4 I had tea at the café, full
of soldiers and girls and family parties.
Then went to Lawford for some eggs for Annie Ralling who is coming home
from hospital on Tuesday. Mrs Nichols was
there, with her little girl. She seems
to want to sell the phaeton.
The sun sank in a mass of crimson
flame, and I went along the Long Road to Langham and then to Boxted, feeling
more and more nervous as night fell.
Called at Lt. Rivers, more to fill an hour than for anything else, and then
walked from there to Woodside by back lanes.
A lot of lights were on, some signalling as marks for night fighters,
and there seemed to be a fire of some sort towards Polstead, rising and
falling. Brilliant stars. As I reached the “Queen” heard an all-clear
from Suffolk, but heard no alarm.
Bed 11.30, full of wild thoughts,
and feeling increasingly nervous.
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