Civilians at War
by George Beardmore
£20
These journals came to light when moving house in 1977, that is, over thirty years after they had been compiled. They were written on scrap paper, discontinued office circulars, and the like, and they were bound in twice-used folders whose clips had rusted to become immovable, evidence of the scarcity of paper in those days.
An attempt was first made to remove the more personal notes and present the journals simply as an account of people met, rumours heard, opinions held, and incidents witnessed in the changing scenes and fortunes of war. It then occurred to me that mine had been pretty average circumstances and were representative in themselves of a large body of the middle-class without claim to celebrity. War is a great disturber and, as in almost every other household, jobs came to be changed, a home given up, babies born, and parents widowed. So my fortunes, too, now appear to have been a reflection of the times and have not been omitted. The journals are reproduced largely as they were written although some changes have been made, a great deal of outdated family gossip has been left out, and material added from recollection (in brackets) if only because the entries were often made under stress.
Where I was not average lay in the fact that I was a writer ~ had indeed two novels to my credit ‐ with an instinct to note down what I saw and heard. Could I overlook, in the interests of fiction, that this was the first time in over eight hundred years that the people of England, particularly of southern England, had found themselves in the front line and under bombardment? Of course I couldn’t. So as opportunity presented itself, I made notes.
GEORGE BEARDMORE, Dorset, 1979
Civilians at War
4 September 1938
About time I started a Journal again as events crowd upon us. Today we spent 25/- on sugar, rice, flour, corned beef, and Marmite which we have stored in the sideboard against the day when these things will be difficult or even impossible to obtain by reason of War. This morning the Prime Minister returned from his Godesburg conversations with Hitler and although the outcome has yet to be discussed in the Cabinet before being made public, I am far from unique in thus preparing for the worst. The issue is that if Herr Hitler marches into Czecho Slovakia to aid his so-called subjects, France declares war on him, we join France, Russia joins us, and together we overwhelm Germany. That’s the theory. My chief concern follows a recollection of the 1917 bread queues, but for myself, I can’t worry about events over which I have no control.
After a brief talk with Corky (the family doctor), it appears that Jean has filled a true bill and may safely be called aprospective mother. At last! The event should take place about 20 May next.
I should be happier if 1 knew that I had a job to go to after 31 October next, which is my last day in Regent Street. Four prospects present themselves: the BBC, Odham’s, sale of a book, and the possibility of my successor proving a failure.
24 September
We were all waiting for Hitler’s speech at the Berlin Sports Palace last night to show some conciliatory spirit but instead it demanded evacuation of the Sudeten region, intact, by 1 October. Otherwise he threatened to march. Today therefore has seen Jean collecting our gas-masks, and loudspeaker vans patrolling the London streets recommending Westminster residents to be fitted with masks, but after working-hours asWhitehall was already packed with some 14,000 applicants. Harrow is placarded with red bills asking for nurses and ordering John Citizen to call at the nearest school for his mask. Outside Westminster City Hall this lunch-hour I saw eight big cleaning vans being loaded with big square tins, presumably holding masks. One always assumes that Whitehall knows best but all its efforts seem to be devoted to making and distributing gas-masks. Poison-gas? But surely it was proved to be a two-edged sword in 1917 by blowing back into the Huns’ faces. Perhaps hereafter we shall have our south-west gales to bless as well as the Channel.
Also saw a load of sand outside a Pall Mall club and sandbags lining the walls of another. Holland says that Clapham Common is being dug into trenches by the light of flares. Five central Underground stations are to close down, those centering on Charing Cross. This is said to be so that fire-proof and flood-proof doors can be installed. The Thames isn’t far off, after all. Yet apart from the tension inside oneself and the inevitable turn of conversation London runs along as usual, the streams of traffic, the old lady selling chrysanths on an Oxford Circus corner, the fountains blowing in Trafalgar Square.
Jean has made up her mind to go to Horsham (i.e. Love’s Farm, where we spent part of our honeymoon) but only if the threat is carried out so drastically that life cannot be borne. After all, she says, Harrow is fifteen miles from Marble Arch. I didn’t care to remind her that a plane would do it in under five minutes. Her face is very sad and I play patience with her and make tea, much as I dislike both these diversions in the evening. As Corky tells her, she is now responsible for another life.
My next-door neighbour, Amos, has agreed with me to begin work tomorrow on an air-raid trench in his garden to take eight sitting, with an adit at right-angles: his idea. He’s more farsighted than me. He says: ‘No need to make it a home because we shan’t need to be in it more than half an hour at a time’, which is the opposite of what the official bills, posters etc. tell us.
‘Tonight the PM has given a long and moving broadcast. He sounded tired to death and despondent, but with a wonderful naturalness touched with anger when he spoke of the ‘fantastic’ notion of our going to war for a people (the Sudetens) of whom we. know nothing, and bitterness when he mentioned Hitler’s unreasonableness. The sincerity of his inflection moved me very much. At this moment it’s pouring – I hear the gutters bubbling houses away – so work on the trench tomorrow seems improbable.