I had to change my handwriting because the bank wouldn’t accept my signature
‘PUNCH’
10 Bouverie Street
London, EC4
5 October [1939]
Dear Ham,
I spiritually drank your health the other day by ringing the bell (this is a very well-appointed office) and sending for all the books on ballet from the Art Room and a lettuce sandwich – I read them all through and could now maintain a conversation on the subject with almost anyone – but perhaps as a result of this indulgence I caught ‘flu, and had to take a sinister lightning cold cure which has made me very hazy, and rather the colour of a cream cheese. On the other hand I feel even more sympathetic about your toothache, and about Yorkshire too, I am told the wildernesses literally howl there.
I am waiting in agonies for the reports of Hitler’s speech, as any reference to unknown weapons will hypnotize me with fear. The sub-editor from Lowestoft, who is sitting opposite me, has a permanent flush this morning, and is even glowering.
Putting aside the idea that he has been drinking, I think he has heard something to my discredit, or perhaps suspects me of making advances to him. I have discovered that he is a gadget fiend, and has made a penknife and magnifying glass combined, out of old razor-blades. A magneto would be nothing to him. He is now with angry gestures filling his pipe with tobacco, and I can’t make up my mind whether to warn him that this will make me feel sick – owing to the lightning cold cure – or whether to collapse suddenly on the floor later on, which should teach him a sharp lesson, and prevent his smoking Craven Mixture for some time to come.
In spite of the somewhat ominous news I am in one of my optimistic moods, in which I feel that it will be a short war. Please concentrate on agreeing with this,
love,
Mops.
16 Avenue Close*
Avenue Road, NW8
13 October [1939]
Dear Ham,
This is another letter which you needn’t read if you don’t care to as it only expresses the fact that I am melancholy and terrified of the celebrated Blitzkrieg. I start at noises in the street, sleep with my head under the bedclothes, and listen to the owls hooting – they really do hoot around this block of flats – with gloomy relish. When I get as depressed as this though, I must get better soon, it’s a law of nature – but the really annoying thing is my fondness for doughnuts. An organisation called the British Doughnut Association has sent us a pamphlet announcing that a representative will call at the office with some samples of the new type of doughnut to get our opinion – now this was 3 days ago, and I suspect that the doughnuts have been intercepted either by the Advertising Department or by the publishers, or by the sub-editor from Lowestoft, who is something of a gross feeder – at all events I have seen nothing of them, and I have an unfortunate tendency to pin my hopes to small things.
I haven’t seen Oliver,** for he has departed to Cambridge, I think on a bicycle. I admire, and always have admired, the way he quarters the countryside. He ought to be a Transport Officer really,
love,
Mops.
16 Avenue Close, NW8
[1939]
My dear Ham,
I hear you are being visited by Mrs Breakwell, which I suppose is a refresher course in itself. She went flying down to Devon on full sail with the bomb bags trailing after her. I should very much like a list of the objects these bags contain.
Here is a photo of Oliver, Mrs B., Kate and me entertaining the famous French soldiers at an al fresco meal in Hyde Park. They ate cakes and drank lemonade which one of them declared, with a forced smile, was the champagne of England.
Oliver has become very wild and spends his time disappearing in a cloud of dust on his motor-bicycle and reappearing with a headache next day after an evening at The Nuthouse. The Nuthouse is a night-club, and I should say what the Daily Mirror calls a haunt. You frequent haunts, and Oliver accordingly frequents the Nuthouse.
The mulberry tree at the back of the flats has suddenly produced a large crop of fruits which, though you live in the country and don’t realise it, is a very pleasant surprise in London, so we have made quantities of jam and jelly.
On second thoughts this seems a remarkably dull bit of news, so perhaps if I have sunk to this level I had better stop.
There seem to be rather too many bombers over your part of the island, so you might learn to dodge,
love,
Mops.
‘PUNCH’
10 Bouverie Street
London, EC4
30 October [1939]
My dear Ham,
I don’t know if you are still in Yorkshire. I can’t believe that you are, everybody seems to be so mobile nowadays, and to flash to and fro past or through the metropolis leaving me glued to my desk. There is something to be said for remaining static, however, for it gives one an illusion of being nailed to the mast, or steadfast at the post. A message has just come through from the censor forbidding us to mention the state of the weather in any part of the country – the proprietor apparently takes this seriously and has qualms about the only too familiar snow scene which is appearing on the cover of the Christmas number. – The sub-editor from Lowestoft has lost a good deal of his timidity since he came into the office during a thunderstorm (did you have one in Yorkshire, presuming that you are in Yorkshire?) and found me crouching under the desk among the back numbers. Further, he actually came to dinner and made several independent, though not original remarks, until he was silenced by a large cigar which my father gave him. Though he draws a considerable salary he only has bread and cheese for lunch, and lives in Fleet Street to save tube fares – what can he be saving up for? I believe he is a Gauguin at heart and yearns for the South Seas, but isn’t quite abandoned enough to go there until he has got enough for a return ticket.
I have no news at all, for I haven’t seen Oliver and I missed Janet* on her last leave, though I believe she is going to abandon the Air Force if she can. I have a practicable idea however, which is to exchange the Magna Carta for all these aeroplanes instead of paying cash. It’s at New York anyway, and the Americans seem to be fonder of it than we are,
love,
Mops.
Punch Office
10 Bouverie Street
27 November 1939
My dear Ham,
I can’t bear to think of you being so uncomfortable. You ought to curl up on silk cushions like a cat and exist against a luxurious background. The only thing I can say from my brother’s experience in camp, is that it gets better – that is, the discomfort – not worse, but I suppose this is due to a gradual dulling of the faculties, known as merciful oblivion. As everything is so horrid, I can think of nothing consoling to say, except that I am glad you are not in the Navy, and being sunk every day. Sean and Oliver and I were at the ballet the other night and very much regretted your absence, especially when the Lac des Cygnes was danced in a highly kitchy manner with clouds of dust and reverberating thuds.
Lowestoft sits opposite, basking in the warmth and sucking his pipe. I am getting very fond of him as we have