The Penguin Complete Novels of Nancy Mitford

the posthumous Duchess King. At last Papist feeling became so strong on the subject that the Pope, bowing before the breeze, removed the body of the posthumous Duchess from its distinguished resting-place in the Vatican gardens, and had it re-interred in the Via della Propaganda. When a German note was presented to him on the subject, he gave it as an excuse that the younger cardinals were obliged to learn bicycling on account of the petrol shortage, and were continually falling over her grave. Equally furious and disillusioned were music lovers and fans of the ‘King’ in the whole civilized world. His gramophone records and his effigy were burnt in market towns all over England, his wigs were burnt on Kew Green, whilst in London his songs were burnt by the public hangman.

But the person who really caught the full blast of the storm was poor Fred. He hurried round to No. 10, and did not spend anything like half an hour there, but only just so long as it took him to write a letter beginning ‘My dear Prime Minister’ and to hand over his Cabinet key. He was succeeded at the Ministry by Ned, to Ned’s delight hardly veiled. The Daily Runner unkindly printed extracts from the ‘Oh! Death! where is thy sting’ speech, and crowed over Fred’s resignation, but was not the least bit pleased over Ned’s appointment, and suggested that it was a case of out of the frying-pan into the fire.

Fred and Sophia dined together very sadly at the Hyde Park Hotel. Ned would not risk being seen in such discredited company and kept away, and probably he was wise because, as they went into dinner, they were ambushed and subjected to withering fire by about ten press photographers. Fred could no longer afford oysters or pink champagne, so they had smoked salmon and claret instead.

He was intensely gloomy altogether. ‘My career is over,’ he said.

Sophia told him, ‘Nonsense, think of Lord Palmerston,’ but there was not much conviction in her voice.

The next day she heard that he had taken over Serge’s Blossom.

ST ANNE’S HOSPITAL FIRST AID POST

Oh, darling Rudolph, who ever would have thought it of the old horror?

I must say there is one comfort to be got out of the whole business and that is the broadcasts. Aren’t they heaven? I can’t keep away from them, and Sister Wordsworth has had to alter all the shifts here so that nobody shall be on the road during them. I can’t ever go out in the evening because of the 10.45 one – the 6.30 I get here before I leave.

Poor Fred sometimes sneaks round, when he can get away from his Blossom, and we listen together after dinner. His wife simply can’t stand it, and I don’t blame her when you think of the thousands a year it is costing them. Certainly it comes hardest on Fred, but I look a pretty good fool too what with the Requiem Mass, Shrine of Song, and so on.

It was fortunate about Olga being a plucky Fr. widow you must say, and being photographed with Fred, otherwise how she would have crowed. I hear she was just about to proceed to John o’ Groats when she guessed it was me and now she’s furious so I must think up some more things to do to her. Perhaps you could think as you’re in love with her – do.

What else can I tell you? Oh yes, Greta has left, isn’t it lucky? She came round here to lend a hand with a practice and hasn’t been back since and apparently her luggage has all gone so I suppose she just walked out on me. I’m very pleased, I really hated having a German in the house especially as she used to be so keen on all the Nazi leaders, she gave me the creeps you know. So now Mrs Round can talk world-politics in her own servants’ hall again.

Here everything is just the same. Florence, Heatherley and Winthrop hardly ever leave the Maternity ward at all nowadays. I can’t imagine how they squash into that tiny room. They seem to be for ever fetching food from the Canteen. I believe Brothers eat twice what ordinary people do. Anyhow they don’t hurt anyone by being there, and Miss Edwards is back on the top of her form again telling the most heavenly fortunes, and isn’t it funny she says she can see the same thing in all our hands, like before a railway accident, and it is SOMETHING QUEER UNDER YOUR FEET. Thank goodness not over your head because then I should have known it was parachutists and died of fright. She thinks perhaps this place is built over a plague spot, but Mr Stone says it must be the Main Drain and I suppose there are some pretty queer things in that all right.

I must fly home now because the old wretch is going to sing Camp Songs (concentration camp, I suppose) at 8 for an extra treat.

Love and xxx from

Sophia.

PS. There is a water pipe here which makes a noise exactly like those crickets on the islands at Cannes. Much as I hate abroad, you can hardly count Cannes and it was a heavenly summer, do you remember, when Robin lent the Clever Girl for the Sea Funeral of a Fr. solicitor from Nice and the coffin bobbed away and came up on the bathing beach at Monte Carlo. I wish it was now. Darling.

Henceforward the doings of the Lieder König were a kind of serial story, which appeared day by day on the front pages of the newspapers, quite elbowing out the suave U-boat commanders, the joy of French poilus at seeing once more the kilt, and the alternate rumours that there would, or would not, be bacon rationing, which had so far provided such a feast of boredom at the beginning of each day. He soon became the only topic of conversation whenever two or more