12th November 1944 - Shurlock Row

Sunday
Very sharp frost.  The garden all white, and grey fog over the fields.  Stayed in all day.  Wrote to Daphne.  Wrote notes.  Reading.  Margery went to the Armistace Day Service at Waltham.  She always goes.  Margery of course has the strongest remembrances of her brothers.

Delicious tea, and then writing, and reading Massingham’s latest book, ‘A Country Garden’.  Excellent, like all his stuff.

Margery told me that a young married woman in the parish is in the family way, and it is suspected that the father is not her husband but a Czech.  Another woman in the village said quite seriously to Margery: “Well, of course, we shall know when the baby begins to talk.”

11th November 1944 - Shurlock Row

Saturday
Wet again.  Spent the day reading and writing up notes. 

Since the alarm at Maidenhead on Thursday have taken to listening just like I do at home.


Armistace Day still celebrated.  Press and radio making much of a visit of Churchill to Paris and the ceremony at the Arc de Triomphe.  Meanwhile the French and Belgian Governments are now preparing to take action against the gallant “resistance movements” who refuse to give up their arms.  Can this be the reason why the Home Guard has just been disarmed?

10th November 1944 - Oxford

Friday
Fine and cold.  Set off 9.30 for Twyford, past Stanlake Park – Col Barker refuses to plough – a Yankee camp.

Left cycle at Golden Lion.  50 bombers went over, flying very high.  Plump well-fed women, very obvious WVS, waiting for Reading bu.  Delighted to see 6 or 7 of Simonds' magnificent pairs of horses standing around the station.

Train very crowded, had to stand in corridor, but the journey was short, only 40 mins.  Oxford looked lovely in the sun shine, crowded streets, Americans, Londoners everywhere, the traffic roaring continuously, RAF lorries, American lorries.  Looked quite strange to see a few undergraduates walking down the Broad, wearing tattered gowns.

Went to All Souls [to the National Buildings Record] and saw the man whose name I can never remember (Farthing) with that vague distant manner which is so irritating.  Looked through Yorkshire files to see what there was of Whitby and Knaresborough.  Whitby stuff was quite good, although none of the Abbey Manor House.  The Abbey itself was done well, and the church, and quite a lot of yards, wynds etc taken about 40 years ago.  None of Carr’s Yard nor Bagdale.

Knaresborough very poor.  Only one, of the church.  None at all of the excellent shops and houses.

Delighted to find that Colchester has now spread into two files, one ecclesiastical, one secular.  Nice to see so many which I had sent, especially the Castle series which Gall took in 1928.  While I was there Mrs Arundel Esdaice, the mediaevalist, came in.  Had never met her before, though I have often seen her at Burlington House.  Was now introduced, and mentioned the matter of the Layer Marney monuments.  She was very upset, and promised to write to Lord Esher and to the Dean of Norwich.  But when I pressed her to explain who was ultimately responsible for the preservation of monuments in churches she could tell me no more than anyone else I have questioned.  What a delightful country we live in, where the greatest treasures may be allowed to decay by popular desire.

Walked back past the Clarendon, soon no doubt to be destroyed by Woolworth’s, as soon as they can begin building their wretched store there.

Had quick lunch in a cinema café.  Saw a very worn prostitute pick up two undergrads quite openly.  Terrible racket in a café – radio full on, and 4 Americans singing “L’Amour, L’Amour”, banging on table with knife handles.

Walked round corner to Ashmolean.  Saw the Egyptian room, with the wonderful shrine of TIRHAKAH, very lovely.  Also 2 very rare prehistoric statues, larger than life size, and several fine coffins, mummy cases, and figures.  Outside in the gallery a wonderful grey granite ram, a superb piece of work.  I have never lost my fascination for Egyptian antiquities, which began with Wallis Budge’s “Egyptian Religion” before I could read.  The scenes presented are so delightful, so bizarre, yet so lifelike, yet while one sees how real are the cows, the oxen and the horses it is difficult to imagine these lovely delicate creatures in a stable, deep in straw and muck.

Galleries full of art students, and suddenly came face to face with Janet Rushbury, in red slacks and a grey jacket, running down the stairs.  Very surprised to see me.  Chatted for 10 mins.  Said that Jack Penton had gone to live with Roses at Boxted.

The Ashmolean seems to be waking from the long sleep of the last 5 years, and cases are being cleaned and re-arranged again.

To station to catch 3.40.  Saw May’s book “Britain’s Good Earth” for sale on the bookstall.  Reading 4.30, and went round to Stuart, Moore and Saunders in Vachel Road.  The yard full of traps, tubs, rallis etc. and they have an unfinished lander which was begun some years ago. 

Sorry to find old Mr Moore, who helped me with the Windsor Show, is dead, but his brother is carrying on.  Tried to tell me trade in traps is dead again, but prices at last Reading sale were good.

Had tea at the café where I used to go 5 years ago.  Went round to the Palace Theatre where the Anglo-Polish Ballet are performing.  Left it to the last minute to see whether I could get a ticket, as a sop to my conscience, but managed to get the last 3/6.  Nice theatre.  Sat next to a very charming woman of about 40, reading biography of Dorothy Wordsworth.  Told her I had seen the hotel at Lanark where the Wordsworths stayed.  She was a ballet enthusiast, and took a great delight in the performance, which was indeed delightful.

The orchestra announced the national anthems with usual roll of drums, and then played the Polish N.A. first with the result that half the people who had stood up sat down again, only to rise sheepishly when they saw the balletomanes remained standing.  Curious tune.

First “Les Sylphides”, then divertissements, which had a tremendous reception, then “The Cracow Wedding” danced with tremendous vigour and skill.  The best in it was the dances by the Mountaineers, and I shall always remember Jan Jawski dancing the “Polish Hussar”.  Of the girls, Onone Talbot was the best.

Enjoyed myself, this being the first time I have seen a full ballet and orchestra.

Saw “Evening News” there, and found that Winston Churchill has now at last admitted that rockets have been falling on England in “widely scattered areas” during the last 4 weeks.  As a point of interest, we began having rumours of rockets about Sept. 10, three months ago.  Can any member of the Government tell the truth?  Yet the “Standard” bought at Oxford, says nothing.

Out into brilliantly lighted streets, to the station.  No train to Twyford until 10 to 10, and the last bus gone 5 mins before.  Took a bus to Woodley got off at the railway bridge and set off walking.  Still ,starry night.  A few planes about, with navigation lights.  To the south there were flashes, and two searchlights.


Began to feel very exhausted, but got to Twyford just as the train arrived from Reading.  Got cycle and reached Shurlock Row by 10.15.  Felt quite worn out and exhausted, went to bed with no supper and a hot bottle.  But at any rate I have seen Jan Jawski dance the “Polish Hussar”.

9th November 1944 - Maidenhead

Thursday
Dull and grey this morning but fine later.  The WLA girl brought in a rabbit which she had wrested from a stoat.

Great excitement in the press because Hitler did not speak at Munich last night and because the Germans are now claiming to be bombarding London with rockets.  We all know that something has been coming over intermittently since the first week in September, but whether rockets proper or shells from the French coast I am not yet convinced.  Have heard nothing of London lately, and they know nothing here, although only 30 miles off.

This afternoon went over to Maidenhead.  The old familiar road, the “Star”, where Father and my Uncles used to go, “Wethered’s ‘Marlow Ales’” written up, the lovely spire of Shottesbrooke, White Waltham and the stocks.  (I remember the drawing I did in 1918 or was it 1917? – and old Miss Harris told me I was a little liar and had not done it myself).

The aerodrome at White Waltham is enormous, hundreds of ‘craft of all types parked along the road.  Among others saw a small sea-plane, (bi-plane), and several Dakotas.  The rest were quite unknown to me.  Things I have never seen before.  Planes taking off and landing all the time, the noise frightful.  Sorry for the people who live along here, where it was once so quiet.

Cox-Green, the railway bridge, with the familiar expresses rushing down to the west, the houses with bright red roofs and Boyne Hill Church beyond.  Past the wood-yard, across King’s Grove, through the passage under the little railway bridge, feet echoing as they did 25 years ago when Maitland and I used to ride scooters down here.

Went to “Loxley”, rang the bell.  Aunt came to the door – “Well! Boy!  Come on in do,” just as she always did and I knew she would.  She has not changed and does not look a day older.  She spoke of Mother – “poor dear old Dot, I do miss her”.  

Jocelyn came in, quite unchanged, with that curious little girl’s voice, sounding so immature, yet she is now about 28.  She is now really quite good looking, but never pretty and still talks and acts as she did 10 years ago.

We had tea in the old warm kitchen, the big clock from Colchester still ticking on the wall.

About 7 o’clock, as we were talking family chatter in front of the fire, the sirens sounded.  All my old sensations came back, and I could do nothing but say, as steadily as I could, “Well, I’ll just take a look round outside, and let you know if there’s anything about.”

Surprised to find that the street lamps were alight and remained alight during the alarm.  Stars glittered.  It was cold.  Walked down Kings Grove, to the house where they used to live, where I played in the garden as a little child.  A fighter flew over, green and red lights.  What could be more strange than to stand shivering on this hill, where I used to play a quarter of a century ago, waiting to see if some extraordinary projectile should come whizzing out of the east.  No nightmare that I had 25 years ago ever showed me this. Suddenly noticed a light travelling high towards the west, a long way south.  The searchlights waved vaguely towards it, but could not hear any motor, because of the noise of 2 trains on the mainline.  It disappeared and I could not tell whether it was a bomb or a ‘plane.  There were two or three big yellow flashes towards London, but no sound.  All-Clear did not come for at least 25 mins, and I waited in the road until it did.

Aunt said that a diver had fallen in Norfolk Road, not much serious damage, only windows, slates, etc.  During June and July, Aunt and Jocelyn slept downstairs, as so many divers fell in the district, but the all missed the town.  A lot of damage was done at Windsor and Staines.  Lately, since the divers have come in over Essex, there have been hardly any alarms, though one or two have reached the Aylesbury district.

Saw Uncle, who was in bed, and looked very queer, so pale and wizened.  Left at 10.30, Aunt urging me to come again.


Back to Shurlock Row soon after 11.  Saw several “Specials”, and had to creep past them quietly as no rear light.  Can't think why these men don't go to bed.  The sound of singing and shouting in the camp in the Manor Drive.

8th November 1944 - Shurlock Row

Wednesday
Woke to hear the little church clock striking 8, on a dark wet morning.  Margery brought me a cup of tea.  Lay and looked at the ceiling.  How strange to be here again, yet 48 hours ago I had never thought of it.  Photos of Bert and Claude [Margery's brothers] on every wall, on the dressing table, mantelpiece.  Remembrances of summer days long ago, Bert, long faced, Claude very like him but with a moustache, in cricket flannels.

Claude’s beautiful “still lifes” downstairs.  Uncle Jim so hale, and hearty so incredibly spry, quite unbelievable that he is nearly 84.

Rain all day.  The Essex County Standard arrived from Chelmsford relatives – the first real news of Colchester since last September.  How long I have been away, yet it seems only yesterday.  The chief news is “post-war planning”, this time by some extraordinary “Youth Organisation” (Colchester Area Local Youth Committee).  Among the proposals is one that Colchester shall become a ‘tourist centre’, and in order to aid this, special care should be taken to preserve ancient monuments, Georgian houses, etc.

This manifesto is signed by Cr. H.H. Fisher, a man who has not been very conspicuous in the past for his efforts to preserve anything.  I remember some 10 years ago when he attacked Dr Penrose and the Civic Society over the attempts to save the great brick house in Northgate Street.

This evening talking about agriculture with Margery and the WLA girl.  There does not seem to be much ploughing in the neighbourhood – hundreds of acres of grass in all directions.  Margery says the blacksmith shut down not long ago and took a job at the local waterworks pumping station.

The War Agricultural Executive Committee does not seem to carry any weight here – nobody appears to know who the local members or officials are.

Margery was talking about the old Billingbear Estate.  The ruins of the ancient house remain as I saw them 25 years ago but the Park is now occupied by the Army.  She said that when Braybrooke of Audley End sold the place, Uncle Jim bought this house and the village bought the schoolroom to use as a parish hall.

7th November 1944 - Rowton - Shurlock Row

Tuesday
Not a very good night, but got up briskly at 7, as soon as I heard Walker moving about.  Mary hustled off at quarter to 8, to go up to the Castle gardens, and we made quite affectionate farewells.  Left at 8, bitterly cold, the wind still howling out of Wales, and still more moonlight than daylight.  Determined to set foot in Wales, so fought my way against the gales, past dumps of ammo and poison gas to Alberbury, through Loton Park, now full of American army vehicles, through a cutting in red stone, and across a brook into Wales.  Just beyond the Park wall, on the corner of a lane leading towards Wollaston, stands a mighty oak apparently the boundary mark.

I looked over towards the hills, on the left, the Breiddaw, Mocl y Crolfa, and beyond, the highlands of Sir Trefaldwyn, Cirggian village in foreground.  Welshpool was only 9 miles on, and Llanfair Caeremium less than 20 miles away.  Took my pencil and wrote on the concrete below the tree DYMA CYMRU.  CYMRU AM BYTH, [Wales forever!] then turned back into England.  With the wind behind me, sailed along and got to Shrewsbury at 9.15.  Calves lowing in the market, but hardly any stock because of foot and mouth near Wolverhampton.

Went to the Library for an hour.  Still not made up my mind whether to go to Colchester or Shurlock Row.  Found out about trains, one to Reading at 2.15, so on the spur of the moment brought a ticket.  Suddenly realised with a shock that Reading was 4 and a half hours journey away.

Heard a band, and down the hill came the Shrewsbury School OTC behind their band, the officers very obvious schoolmasters.  Much shouting of commands, and they all marched into the station.  Some of the little boys were only as big as their rifles, strutting in their little uniforms.  What a delightful picture for German propaganda!

Went to Post Office, sent a telegram to Margery, and a letter to Captain Folkard, offering either part time work or my resignation.  Felt much better.  Went to Food Office, got ration card and bought sugar, marmalade, etc.  Had lunch.

Train pulled out on time.  Along the familiar line past Wolverhampton, Birmingham, Oxford – as we drew in I heard the great clock strike 6 o’clock.  First feeling of insecurity – blinds on the train windows.  Then down the Thames Valley to Reading, where there were lights. Set out through the cold streets. Much traffic on the road until I got to Twyford.  Far away 2 searchlights waving, and suddenly realised that I am really back in the ‘war zone’.

Turned up the old familiar road, over the Railway, and along the dark lanes where I used to drive on the back of Jerome’s trap at Christmas time 30 years ago.  Fumbled at the signposts and had to take my lamp off to read them.

At last the village street, and the old school house, white in the star light.  Margery gave me a wonderful welcome, and I felt really happy for the first time since I left Scotland. 

The household is now Margery [Eric Rudsdale's cousin], old uncle, tall and hearty and nearly 84, a Women's Land Army girl and a little black cat called Toby.  All the old furniture is there, the coloured lantern in the hall, the photos, the drawings which poor Claude did 35 years ago.  Had supper, and went to bed in the little back room, dead tired.  


The WLA girl works for a vet called Munless, the son of old Charles Munless, the famous hunting man and coachman, who has a little farm down the straight mile.  The old man recently died, and left the son £83,000, so he doesn’t have to worry about much.

6th November 1944 - Alderley-Crewe-Shrewsbury

Monday
Up early, and left at 9.  Lovely sunny morning.  The country looked beautiful, the best time of the autumn.

The road was good and soon made the 8 miles to Holmes Chapel.  Through Brereton Green then turned right towards Sandbach, passed a posse of USA police.

In Sandbach noticed a road sign indicating “To the Ancient Crosses”, and wondering what these could be, followed the direction to the Market Square.  On the far side, are two beautiful Saxon crosses, set side by side on an ancient stone pedestal, their bases made of huge blocks, both of them carved with figure, scrolls, leaf designs etc.

I don't think I have ever been so surprised before.  I have never heard of the crosses, and had no idea that Saxon crosses of such quality existed in situ anywhere in this country.  Both shafts have been repaired, and the actual cross heads are missing, but the remains are certainly one of the most astonishing monuments in this country.  There is no name plate or label of any kind on them.

At the other end of the market place is the War Memorial, in the form of a medieval cross, and the square is surrounded by ancient buildings, timbered and brick, mostly inns, one of which, The Bear, is dated 1634.  This is a fine old black timbered house in the Cheshire style.

I visited the church and an elderly gentlemen walked in so I asked about the crosses.
“Those crosses, sir,” he said “were put up in King Penda’s time, one when he became a Christian and the other when he married.”

He told me to collect a guidebook from the Council Office – “Tell ‘em G. Roscoe sent you”.  Told me he was over 80 and his wife wanted to leave him.  Felt dreadfully sorry for the poor old man.  What on earth could he have done, at more than 80, to make his wife want to leave him.

Called at Council’s Office collected guide, and went on in the direction of Crewe.  Stopped for a glass of cider at the Nags Head at Wheelock, and then on to Crewe, the most incredibly ugly town.  Cycled to the station and got a few sandwiches and coffee.  The usual big crowds, soldiers, civilians, etc.  Bought 2 Penguin “New Writings” paperbacks which I have never seen.

On the line, near Nantwich, saw a magnificent engine, newly painted and polished, called “Duchess of Buccleuch”.  Down to Whitchurch and then at last Shrewsbury and away over the Welsh Bridge through Frankwell, and up onto the Welshpool Road.  Rain coming on hard.  Cycled on longingly, thinking of the Lodge, but with a fear at the back of my mind.  Past Ford, past Crossgates, under the railway, and then onto the Rowton Road.  Dark now, and myself wet through.

Then the cottage, low, redbrick, rain streaming off the roof, and gleams of light coming through cracks in the blinds.  Knocked at the door.  Mary opened it.  I said “Hello,” she said “Hello, it’s you, is it?  Come in.”  Miss Walker was sitting beside the fire, and tea on the table.  They said, “Hullo, where have you come from?”  [Mary Hulbert had been Rudsdale's girlfriend in the early 1930s]

The fire was bright, and I had tea and mutton.  Yet somehow something was lacking.  They bustled about chattering rather peevishly about work and their little private affairs.  Somehow I had hoped they would stop work for an hour or so, but no, an unexpected visitor from far away meant nothing to them.

We had a little talk about farming, but Mary is so irritatingly optimistic and knows nothing about what is going on anyway.


They set up a camp bed in the little room, in a rather grudging manner, and gave me a few blankets and a pillow, so I did not undress.  The rain stopped, and the moon rose far off on the other side of England.