5th January 1945

Friday

Another tremendous racket in the early hours, when a commercial who had been to a fireman’s dance came in a bit tight about 4am.  Much chatter at breakfast about this, speculation among the other inhabitants of this place as to what anybody can find to do in Wisbech until 4am.  

Brilliant sunny morning, but freezing.  Horse-drawn lorries coming along the South Brink loaded with potatoes, the horses unshod.  Noticed that they did not slip on the ice going up over the bridge.  Must enquire as to what proportion of the Fen horses go without shoes.

Spent the whole morning in the Library, repairing Roman pottery, then after lunch moved a few books about and became thoroughly tired out.  Had to go out on cycle, looking for a sweep to come and see to the boiler.  Found him at last in a tiny alley called Russell Street, all early 19^th century cottages of yellowy brick, with pantile roofs.

Miss Thompson brought word that old Edwards is in bed with phlebitis, so I went round at tea-time to see him.  He seemed very cheerful and resigned to stay in bed for several weeks.  Felt very sorry for him.

Back to the Museum at 7, and went through every drawer and cupboard in the office, not having had time to do this before.  Found all sorts of extraordinary things, - magnificent “scrap book” of Nene River, compiled by a man named Oldham, profusely illustrated.  Excellent piece of work, containing most valuable records – MS of “The Monk”, by Lewis, - Third Canto of “Don Juan”, dedicated “with the Author’s Compliments” – series of plans of all the defensive earthworks in Cambridgeshire, by a Revd. Dorling.  Felt overwhelmed and quite depressed at such a mass of material.

Meant to write letters tonight, but this job took until 10 o’clock.  Then back to hotel, beneath brilliant stars, and the noise of high flying ‘planes.  The moon will rise soon, so I don’t suppose there will be any divers tonight.  Street lamps gleaming on the snow, and light glowing in the windows in the Crescent and Ely Place.

Just at the corner of Castle Square, three French sailors came running and sliding on the icy road, whooping and shouting.  They had no hats, and seemed a little drunk.  One of them, a petty-officer, fair-haired with a cheerful, pleasant face, came up to me and asked in tolerable English if I could tell him the way to the “Toc H” Canteen.  I replied it was round to the left, and seeing him rather puzzled added “au gauche, Monsieur,” to which he laughed and said “Ah, c’est bon!  Il parle français, ce garçon! Tres bon!”

I said “Mais non, seulement un peu, et mon accent est très mauvais, je sais.”  They all laughed and ran away, shouting something in French which I could not understand.  Strange to talk French in a little Fenland town on a cold still winter night.  Wonder where their homes are.

Went in, wishing that I had somebody to talk to.

Been thinking about the divers the other night.  There seems no doubt that the one which I saw fell about 4 miles the other side of Peterborough, and it certainly seemed to me to pass 2 or 3 miles south of Wisbech, coming more or less from the N.E.  Lining this up on the map, it would appear that it might almost have come in near Hunstanton or even Cromer, and may have been wrongly directed.  Hope such mistakes don't often occur, or I shall regret that I ever came here.

Have noticed that divers often come in pairs.  Wonder if they are carried two at a time, slung under the wings of a ‘plane, rather than one under the fuselage, as we are told in the Press.  Mrs Saltmarsh said today that she saw a bomber this morning which appeared to be carrying something very like a flying bomb, and that she had “heard” it was intended to use these things against Germany very soon.  Yet we know, and never cease to repeat that they are “cowardly”, “useless”, and “of no military value whatever!”  Mrs Saltmarsh also said she had heard in a letter that a rocket had fallen near Reading.

Mr Girling came in today to get me to sign an agreement of my appointment here, which I did.  One clause specifies that I am bound by 3 months notice on either side.

Listening to the talk among commercials in the lounge tonight, I learnt that potato clamps are known as “graves” in the Fens, and as “pies” in Yorkshire.

Bed at 11.30.

4th January 1945

Thursday

Tremendous upheaval during the night.  About 1am awakened by kicking of doors, shouting, and continual ringing of the back-door bell.  Jumped up, thinking that at least the place was on fire.  Then heard American voices, followed by a terrific assault on the back door, just below my window.  Apparently these two had been out with girls, and had only just arrived back.  The noise became worse, and I heard people stirring in other rooms all along the corridor, but nobody went downstairs.  At last their footsteps went away down the yard, and I thought they had given up, but no, they had only gone round to the front to begin another assault there. 

All this must have gone on for at least half an hour, but silence came at last.  Tried to doze off, but could not, so lay and read Cobbett, (a lovely copy from the Museum's Townsend Library), and ate some cheese.  Just as I was falling into a doze, about 2, damn me if they didn't come back and start all over again.  I was contemplating some really drastic action when I heard Boots go down and let them in.  Peace.

This morning clear blue sky, bitterly cold N.W. wind, freezing hard.  Great committee meeting in the Coffee Room at breakfast about the disturbance in the night. Learing speculations on the part of commercials as to how one occupies oneself in Wisbech until one o’clock in the morning.  Mrs Smith reported back door cracked, front door covered with boot marks.

So much excitement about this that nobody mentioned flying-bombs, but heard two little girls skipping along to school shouting “Doodle-bugs!  Doodle-bugs!”  That the New England name for a lady-bird should be given to a flying bomb is a typical English inanity.

Received membership from the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings today, as I am now joining at Sisson’s suggestion.  Have to sign an impressive manifesto to the effect that I disapprove of all restoration work done on ancient buildings.  Do I?

This afternoon in the Library, sorting prints and drawings.  There seem to be thousands of them, all tied up in different parcels.  About 5 it began to snow.

New “commercial” in at dinner tonight, talking about the flying bombs in the north.  Mentioned the one which fell at Didsbury, which apparently killed nobody, and said there was another not far from Nottingham as well as Sheffield, and that there were “rare-to-dos” as the warnings were all very late and that practically all the Civil Defence people have gone from those districts.  This man who was speaking lives near Stockport.  He did not seem to be very impressed with the diver raid, and had a good deal more to say about the earthquake which followed a few days later.  At Sheffield the whole city shook, and there was a great roaring sound.  Many people though that a new bomb had fallen.

A lot of people are very amused at the idea of flying bombs in the Midlands, as they think it only right that the people up there shall get a taste.  To me it is most depressing to think that these wretched things must have fallen within 40 miles of the Welsh border, not much more than 50 miles from Llangollen.  If I go to stay at Ty’n-y-Wenn again I shall be looking up the valley and listening for the thump of a diver, instead of relaxing into deep sleep.  To think too that never again a blissful weekend at Alderley Edge, when nothing but the wind out of Wales would come to rattle the windows.

Obviously this business was merely an experiment, and God knows what may be expected before the year is out.  What can possibly be the end of it all?  Where must we go?  Lleyn?  Wester Ross?  Hebrides?  Man?

Heard people saying that the diver which was seen last night fell some four miles beyond Peterborough, on the Oundle Road.  Wonder if it was intended for Peterborough or whether it was an accident.  What frightful surprises there are in store for people in these Midland towns.  After all, Northampton is only 40 miles beyond Peterborough.  

Back to the Museum at 6.30, snow falling heavily, the flakes glittering in the light of the lamp at the corner of the square.  Wrote letters, and wondered if there would be an attack in the snow, but nothing happened.  Called at Mrs Shepherd’s, 3 The Crescent, almost opposite the Museum, to see if I could get permanent rooms there, and succeeded.  She is to charge £2-2-0 a week, with meals, as against £3-17-0 at the White Lion.  Got a nice little room, 3 floors up.  Felt a little nervous about raids, but can always make the excuse to go down to see to the Museum.  It is a charming little house from the outside, Regency, about 1810.

As I went back to the hotel at 9.30 the snow was still falling, nearly 2” deep.  Moon rises at half past eleven, so I think we are safe for tonight.

3rd January 1945

Wednesday

‘Planes going out before light, very slowly, low over the town, due east.  War news is bad.  Up early, fine and warmer, wind moved to N.W.  No hot water in the hotel, as the boiler has gone wrong.

Spent busy morning in the Library, trying to find out what is really there, looked through several recent volumes of the “Cohoisem”, and noticed portrait of Collingwood Roddam, an officer of the East India Company, wondered if he is any relation to the Roddam of Colchester?

Old Edwards came in again, and we discussed the possibility of having a special map show in the Spring.

Rain began about 5, and I decided to do a cinema tonight.  The suddenly, just before 7, - sirens.  Felt too dulled with misery to be really surprised. Waited until the wailing died away, and then got up slowly and deliberately and went out, just in time to hear the familiar roar and banging to the south, and then saw the wretched flickering light of the thing, dashing through the rain, heading S.W. it seemed.  In about 5 minutes there was a distant heavy explosion, and then the sound of another diver, or maybe more, much further off and quite invisible.  After a time there was yet another explosion.  Turned to walk slowly back, and the ‘all-clear’ came in about 20 minutes.

Last year at the height of the diver attacks, somebody wrote quite an amusing article on them called “So They Follow You Around, Too?” and that is how I feel now.  To think that in the summer I used to long to get to Sudbury, to get clear of the diver zone, and then, after that night in September, turned my thoughts to Bury, only to learn they sometimes went over there as well.  That left Cambridge, which I thought must be clear, and as for Wisbech, had I given it a thought then, I should have regarded it almost as safe as Scotland.  Now, no more peaceful nights, but everything as at Boxted, or Dedham, or Lawford, or Colchester.  Always listening, always waiting for that first upward wail.  Am convinced that this will be the worst year as we have had so far, and that the population will suffer as never before, even in 1940.  These attempts on Manchester are only experimental, and I am sure that by February there will be regular attacks on all the big Midland centres, Birmingham, Manchester, Sheffield, perhaps Liverpool even, and that divers will harass the whole of the country between those cities and the East Coast.  One can only hope that Edinburgh will be spared, but there will be little chance of this if Glasgow is attacked.

Children’s Party at the Town Hall tonight, and as I got back saw cars and taxis drawing up to the lighted doorway.  No effort was made to “black-out” while the alarm was on.  Wondered what the Wisbech people will think of this development.

Suddenly decided to go to the cinema after all, as it would be unlikely that there would be another attack before the moon rose.  Went, and saw Charles Laughton in “The Canterville Ghost”, as silly a show as I have ever seen.  He should be ashamed to appear in such a thing.

Bed at 11, bombers going out again, stars shining and the moon rising.

2nd January 1945

Tuesday

Wakened by Bella’s voice saying “It’s five-and-twenty to 7” so turned over and went to sleep again.  Bombers going out in the dark.  Breakfast 8.30, a cold, damp morning.  To the Museum at half past 9.

Wrote a few letters, then poor old Edwards came doddering in again.  Managed to get the safe keys away from him, and he insisted on showing me how to open it, only to find that he then could not get it shut, having left a drawer open inside.  It took him several minutes of anxious fumbling to discover this.  Poor old man, his presence is like that of an indefinite ghost, an anxious, worried, ghost that cannot leave its earthly scene, and makes me feel as if I can do nothing while he is there for fear of giving him offence.  He seems to want to tell me things, but is somehow unwilling that I should wholly take charge of the collections.

After lunch Mr Girling came in for a few moments about my agreement, but could not stay long.  I mentioned how ill old Edwards seems, and he agreed.  Asked him whether there was a complete catalogue of the collections here, and he said “No,” so it is up to me.

Then sat writing in the office, the sun shining, and the church bell tolling solemnly for a funeral.  Not a sound of wheeled traffic, nothing but the footsteps of a few people hurrying across the square into the churchyard, I suppose going to the service.

Heard the “commercials” chattering at dinner tonight, and discovered that the diver attack on the North was at Manchester at 5.15 on the Sunday morning before Christmas.  They said there was no warning until 10 or 15 minutes after the first one fell.  One was at Didsbury, which “did tremendous damage – awful”.  Most depressing, as this means, I suppose, that there were warnings at Alderley and Gt. Warford.  Only to think that when I heard Daphne’s voice in the starlight that night, I envied here and thought how wonderful it would be to spend the winter out there in Cheshire, far from dangers and alarms.  Who can tell what will happen now?  Perhaps they will send them as far as Chester, or even Liverpool.

Had a letter from Miss Flood, the London teacher who as here last time, suggesting a possible billet for me.  Very kind of her.  

Went back to the museum tonight.  Opened my journal boxes, as the books smell of mould.  Looked in the 1925 volume, to see what I was doing 20 years ago – working with Captain Laver on the Tumulus material, finding part of a grey-ware cover in Ryegate Road.  I can see the thing now.

Miss Thompson [the Museum Caretaker] obviously very shocked at my working at night, such a thing never done before.  Fear she must get used to it.

Bed at 11.30.  Very cold.

1st January 1945 - New Year's Day - Wisbech Museum

Monday

Slept badly for three or four hours.  Up at 5.30, cold and raw morning, the moon riding high over the wood, behind thin drifting clouds.  Breakfast in the kitchen, felt sorry for Miss Bentley having to get up so early, when I know she was up writing letters until after 11 last night.

Got away just after 6, cycle crunching through the thick lime on the road.  Miss Bentley seems to be really sorry to lose me, and I am certainly very sorry indeed to leave the comfort of this place.  

Usual confusion at the station, where, although lights burn brightly all over the town, there is practically nothing but feebly glowing gas jets, of course quite incognito.  However, after much exhaustive enquiries found that this was in fact the right train.  Lot of noisy sailors got in, going to Manningtree for Harwich, a man and woman with a baby in pram.  Great to-do to get the pram into the guard’s room.

So we pulled out and the fog was so thick across the valley that I saw nothing of Colchester but the derelict sheds of the old brick-yard.  At Manningtree a few young girls got out, I suppose to go to the Brantham factory.  Long wait at Ipswich, enlivened by a conversation between a porter and the guard, just outside my window.  Delighted to hear, when the train at last moved off, the porter say, “Well, you’re off now, as the monkey said to the cat.”

At Bury a very pretty, dark little girl got in, nicely dressed, going back to Doncaster after a week’s holiday at Elmswell.  Asked her if she like the country in the winter, and she said yes.  Spoke with a delightful Yorkshire accent.  Stopped at Higham to pick up a little family, father, mother, and a boy of about 8, going to Rugby.

Just getting light at Ely, and the towers of the cathedral reared up out of the blue-grey mists, their tops tinged pink by the rising sun.  In the Fens now, and my own country.  Thick white lime lying everywhere so thick as to be almost like snow.  Boys skating on the wash by the Bedford Levels.  Here and there cattle wandering over the frozen fields, picking at hay strewn about.  A few trees, as fantastic shapes, and the drains lead-coloured.

At March 30 minutes late (why?) and had to run hard to get the Wisbech train, yet when I got in the thing it sat there for another 15 minutes.  The sun up now, bright red, long bars of light over the misty fields, and the brick farm houses glowing.

At Wisbech went straight to the Museum.  Poor old Edwards looking like a lost sheep, seeming surprised that I was there at all and equally surprised that I hadn’t got there earlier.  My journal boxes and kitbag arrived at the same moment that I did, which was a great relief.  Put them in the Library for the time being.

Found it difficult to realise that I am now the Curator and Librarian of this place.  Edwards said there would be a Committee meeting at 12, so rushed to hotel, washed, shaved, and changed into blue suit.  Saw Mr. Girling in the street, and Mr. Briggs, the clothier who lives at the hotel, saying “Good-morning” to them as if I had lived here all my life.

Meeting was held in the office. Mr Girling was in the chair, and five others came.  Mr Levers, Second-Master of the Grammar School, Mr Hastings, an elderly man with a real fen-land accent, old Mr Wotton, a lawyer, Mr Southwell, another lawyer, and Mrs Woodgate.  Had a bit of chat about the Fens, skating, etc, and then Mr Girling very quickly ran through what little business there was.  I read the minutes of the last two meetings, which was mostly about myself, and was then welcomed by the Committee.  Thanked them, and was instructed to make enquiries about a cocoa-nut mat for outside the door.  Made my brief notes for the Minutes, and the meeting ended.

Rather staggered to find that my salary is paid quarterly instead of monthly, so must really be more careful about money.

Old Edwards came in again after lunch, wandering sadly about.  Poor old man, it must be terrible to see one’s life-work handed over to another.  He is very ill, and has the greatest difficulty in concentrating for more than a few minutes, and it is agonising to see the intense efforts which he makes.  He insisted that I went back to tea with him, which I did, and was most kindly welcomed by Mrs. Edwards.  She said rather pathetically that she hoped I would not mind his coming into the Museum whenever he could, as it was the only interest that would keep him going.

She showed me a letter from her nephew, serving in the RAF regiment in Greece, regarding the situation there, which was most interesting, as he says that there is complete misapprehension on the whole matter, that ELAS are on the British side, and that the “rebels” consist only of a few gangs of brigands, Germans, Bulgars, and Italians!  I handed it back and said how difficult it was to know the truth from what one reads in the papers.

About half past 2 this afternoon a telegram came to say “Happy New Year.  Love – Father.”  What a dear old man.  Sat down and wrote to him at once.

Dance at the Corn Exchange tonight, Miss – and her “all girls band”.  Lights shining on the water, bright stars, the sound of music and voices as I went to bed.

I am a citizen of Wisbech, and Colchester is another world.

31st December 1944 - New Year's Eve

Sunday

Last day.  Up late.  Bright, clear, cold morning.  ‘Planes going out very early.  Glass still high.  Wondered whether or not to take the 6 train tonight or to go first thing tomorrow.  Decided on tomorrow, as not yet packed.  Rushed around all morning, and then cycled in to say goodbye to father.  He was alone, Miss Payne having gone to church.  Had tea with him, and lots of pleasant chat.  He did not seem very depressed at my going, in fact if anything rather pleased at my “success”.  Had a shock to receive another form of enquiry from the Ministry of Labour, delivered second post yesterday – when did I leave my job? and what am I doing now?  Should there be trouble, am wondering whether Spivy [of the Labour Exchange] would back me up – I have nothing from him in writing.

Miss Payne came back, talking nineteen to the dozen.  Went over to Rallings’, ‘phoned to Lawford, to Penry Rowland, to Watts about the stable, to Lyons at Ardleigh about Bob, and so forth.  Suggested to Mary Ralling that if Miss Payne went on holiday, perhaps Father could go to Winnock Lodge for a week, and she, dear good woman, willingly agreed.

Had a look at the Sunday papers, full of gloom.  The Germans, long ago “beaten” and “routed”, are striding into Belgium and probably France, while the British Government concerns itself entirely with the destruction of the Greek Socialists.  Gloom and depression everywhere, a quarter of a million more men to go into the army and the enemy preparing devastating attacks on all parts of this country.  Then, as a final bit of nonsense, it is reported that part of the famous Wren ceiling at Windsor Market Hall has collapsed, and “experts” (“experts”!  Great God!) are to see “whether the building should be demolished as it is unsafe.!

Said a final goodbye at home, and cycled slowly up the town.  Every now and again there were quick showers of sleet and snow, and the streets were full of ghosts.  Holly Trees and the Castle in deep darkness.

Decided to go out to Little Rivers, to say goodbye to the Roses, but found deep depression there too, as the baby is again desperately ill.  Dodo said that early this evening she collapsed completely, and she thought it was all over.  The doctor does not seem to know what the matter is, but it seems like severe gastro-enteritis.  Had the same sort of thing in the last war when I was 5.

Dodo is terribly worried but seemed disposed to chat, so stayed until nearly 10.  They both kept going up every few minutes to see the child, but she was now sleeping gently and seemed a good deal better.  We talked of everything and everybody.  Poor Mrs. Penton, dreadfully ill with cancer, is still alive, but there is no hope for her at all, yet no doubt every effort will be made to keep her alive as long as possible.

During the evening, rockets fell occasionally.  Dodo hates them, and was visibly affected.  Got back to Woodside at 10.30, in brilliant moonlight.  Very cold.  Settled up with Miss Bentley for everything.  She has been very kind to me, and seems as sorry that I am leaving as I am to go.  Am very grateful indeed for all she has done for me.

She went off to bed, and I went outside a minute or 2 before 12.  Faintly and far off came the sound of singing and cheering in the town, and the noise of a train going towards Ipswich, then a lot of shouting and a fusillade of shots at the aerodrome, where the Yankees were “making whoopee”.  Then all was silent, and 1944 ended, and with it the “Colchester Journal”.  How strange never again to begin a clean book with those familiar words.  Now must begin the “Wisbech Journal”.

And so closes another year of war and sorrow, with the prospect of yet another (and God knows how many more) before us.  The war, far from being over, seems to have begun again from the beginning.

30th December 1944

Saturday

Very sharp frost.  

Had a taxi come from Dedham this afternoon, bringing books and papers which have been stored at Shermans for safety.  Still a lot of stuff left there.  Home for a “Saturday dinner”, the last for God knows how long.