ST ANNE’S HOSPITAL FIRST AID POST
Darling, darling, darling, darling,
I say, Florence’s bird is house-trained, I saw her letting it out of the window like a dog last thing at night. I only saw this because I happened to be in that loo which isn’t blacked out, with the light off, of course, and I heard a great flapping and Florence’s window opening, so I was guided to look out. As there is a moon, I saw it quite clearly streaking off to do its business with a most determined look on its face. I waited for ages, but it didn’t come back. What d’you suppose it does, peck on the window, or coo or what? Well, I should love to have a terribly nice, pretty faithful house-trained pigeon, what with missing Milly and so on, and I said so this morning to Florence, but she gave me a simply horrid look, so perhaps she thought I was laughing at her or something which indeed I wasn’t. Really I am getting quite attached to Florence, and it’s nice for Luke having her around, with me here such a lot, gives him something else to think about besides the Income Tax. Poor old thing, he looks fearfully tucked up about that, and of course it must be hell paying all those seven and sixes for a war you don’t believe in much. Besides, he feels quite torn in two between his heroes, Our Premier and Herr Hitler, now they don’t tread the same path any longer.
Darling, how is camp life, and do you miss me? Florence quite misses you, you know, perhaps she is in love with you. She keeps on coming into my room to ask what your address is, and what battalion you have joined, and how long you will be training, and who your commanding officer is and all sorts of things. I expect you’ll get a balaclava for Christmas; she is knitting one for some lucky fellow, but I think he must be one of those African pigmies with a top knot by the shape of it.
Oh dear, I do love you, love from your darling
Sophia.
PS. Olga is really putting on a most peculiar act. She lunched alone at the Ritz yesterday in a black wig, a battle bowler and her sables, and pretended not to know any of her friends. Half-way through lunch a page-boy (she had bribed him no doubt) brought her a note, and she gave a sort of shriek, put a veil over the whole thing, battle bowler and all, and scrammed. So now of course everyone knows for certain she is a beautiful female spy. Poor old Serge has been dismissed his Blossom because he passed out and so did it; I hear they looked too indecent lying side by side in the Park.
As Sophia finished her letter Sister Wordsworth came in.
‘Oh, Lady Sophia,’ she said, ‘I forgot to tell you that a friend of yours came to see me yesterday morning. She is joining the Post tomorrow for the night shift, full time. It is lucky as we are so very short-handed on that shift.’
‘A friend of mine – what’s she called?’
‘Miss – I have it written down here, wait a minute – oh, yes, Miss Turnbull.’
‘Gracious,’ said Sophia, ‘you surprise me. I never would have thought it of Florence. She hasn’t said a word about it to me. Can I go now?’
‘Yes, do. I shall be here the whole evening.’
Sophia found herself, for the first time since the beginning of the war, dining alone with Luke. It struck her that he wanted to have an intimate conversation with her, but did not quite know how to begin. Sophia would have been willing to help him; she was feeling quite soft towards Luke these days, he looked so ill and unhappy, but intimate conversations, except very occasionally with Rudolph, were not much in her line.
Luke began by saying that he was going back to the Foreign Office.
‘How about your business?’
‘There isn’t any,’ he said shortly, ‘and I must tell you, my dear Sophia, that you and I are going to be very much poorer.’
‘So I supposed. Well, you must decide what we ought to do. We could move into the garage at the back of the house very easily, and I could manage with a daily maid, or none at all. I should probably have to work shorter hours at the Post in that case.’
Luke, who was always put out by Sophia’s apparent indifference to the advantages his money had brought her, shook his head impatiently. ‘We shall be forced to make various radical economies by the very fact of there being a war. I shall not travel as I used to, we shall not entertain, there will be no question of any shooting or fishing, and you I presume will not be wanting much in the way of new clothes. There is absolutely no need to reduce our standard of living any further for the present. Besides, I should think it very wrong to send away any servants.’
‘Except Greta,’ said Sophia. ‘I wish to goodness we could get rid of her. I simply hate having a German about the place, and so do the others. Mrs Round keeps on saying to me, “Not to be able to talk world politics in one’s own servants’ hall is very upsetting for all of us.” I’m sure it must be. And yet I haven’t the heart to put her in the street, poor thing. It’s all my own
