American soldiers could not, or at least were not supposed to, get passes to London without a room reservation. I had one at the American Red Cross in Marble Arch.
The trains in England ran pretty much on time. The London train pulled into Leicester on the dot. I milled around in the crowd and had no difficulty spotting Mavis. She waved and called out to me, "Hello, Bill!" I waved back, sidestepped a few people, and joined her. She was in uniform, with a jaunty overseas cap, large leather gloves, and shoulder bag. "
In a matter of moments the train moved quietly and smoothly from the brick station and we were off for London. We looked out both sides of our compartment where we could see the countryside and occasional small villages slip past us. "Have you a place to stay?" I asked. "No," Mavis casually answered, as if it didn't matter that we were going to the world's largest city in the most crowded country in the hemisphere. "Well, don't worry," I said. "Your big coat and mine up there will make a fine bed on a park bench." She laughed and agreed but added, "Don't you worry about it. I'll find a place." I said, "Mavis, for a farm girl from Tipperary, who's never been to London, you're doing fine."
The weather was lovely, a bright sun and only a slight spring chill. Good fortune blessed us, for every day was sunny. We spent the first evening at the theatre, having missed dinner to see the sights. The
performance of Arsenic and Old Lace was early, as were most performances in London in the blackout. At the first intermission we had delivered to our seats tea and cakes, a marvelous surprise and delight. After the show we found a restaurant in the blackout and had supper. I was delighted to discover that the Irish eat. As a matter of fact, Mavis and I never had the slightest trouble agreeing on
tea, lunch, and dinner. After supper we walked around, arm in arm, for fear of being separated, if for no other reason, hoping for an air raid-just a little one for excitement. None came ...
We saw the usual sights. We walked. Mavis with a long, firm, graceful stride kept pace, and we stopped a hundred times to ask questions of the bobbies and rode the tube, taxis, and the bus. We walked all over central London from Buckingham Palace to Marble Arch, from Big Ben to Waterloo Bridge, along the Victoria Embankment to Bloody Tower and beautiful London Bridge. We climbed to the top of St. Paul's, later saw the changing of the guards, Scottish to English. We walked around Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, and Charing Cross. We visited the Old Curiosity Shop, the Wax Museum, some lovely parks, Kensington Gardens, Westminster Abbey and Bridge, the exterior of the House of Lords, and Drury Lane. Names, names as old as my reading, as rich as my inheritance. London of Elizabeth, of James, of Anne, of Victoria, Dickens, Wilde, Irving, and Disraeli.
Naturally, this was a wartime London-a united nations city. Girls in uniform from Ireland, Wales, Scotland, Norway, Poland, and Czechoslovakia and WACS from America. Soldiers from New
Zealand, South Africa, Belgium, Greece, France, from the forty eight states, from Australia, the Netherlands, from all over Britain. Uniforms of every description-royal blue, pale blue, and a dozen shades of khaki. As many different hats as there were services, everyone's favorite being the Aussies' and the Wrens' style!
All of this was London, but it was not until I looked over the city from the top of St. Paul's that I knew for certain just where I was, felt sure that I was in London. A good sun was shining, although it was somewhat hazy. The haze softened the lovely spires and towers of London. All about St. Paul's there was the ugly hand of the barbarians. The area on three sides of it was flattened for several blocks. I looked at London Bridge from where on one such hazy morning Wordsworth had written: "Earth hath not anything to show more fair." It was still an inspiring and gracious sight-the winding slow-moving Thames and the laden barges, a great city, horribly scarred, but like a great people only just that, scarred but never beaten, holding firm to this challenge to civilization. It was common, of course, to draw the obvious remarks about St. Paul, something intact, permanent, and spiritual amid ruin. That was true, yes, but there was something else also significant inside the church.
Bombs had landed upon part of this beautiful building, this Wren masterpiece. It was horribly mutilated in spots, made a little ugly even-ignoble. But repairs were in process even amid the bombings. Block and tackle were hoisting new stones where others crumbled. Some things could never be replaced, but others took their place. The essential beauty remained. Something like this was happening to our civilization, our culture, our lives. We were being scarred, were being subjected to brutality, we were losing much, moving backward in some ways, and some things would never be seen again by anyone. But we were not entirely lost-we had not given in to the Germans; we were holding on to some measure of our culture; we still had something to build upon. We could use block and tackle; we could plug the hold that we in our neglect allowed to weaken and be pushed down. This seemed to me the meaning of St. Paul's and of London.
Of the nearly forty shows from which to choose Mavis and I saw three. We saw the Lunts in There Shall Be No Night. Our arrangements were to share expenses, but I had to see one show from the stalls. I pulled my rank-I had one stripe; Mavis had no stripes and we sat fifth row center. I have ever forgotten the night. As I was in much-bombed London in the very center of tragedy, sadness, and death and daily examples of conquering this death, this poignant and beautiful performance brought tears and memories that would live forever afterward. My personal involvement in World War II seemed, as it was meant to be reflected for us all, in the life of the play. Dr. Vlachos's situation, a very much heightened version of my own, was one I could not help identifying with. I was thankful for the understanding and sympathy given me, in silence or otherwise, by the strong, sensitive woman who shared the evening with me.
We also watched John Gielgud lead a superb company in Congreve's Love for Love. In the beautiful Haymarket Theatre, Gielgud both entertained me and taught me. We saw The Lisbon Story-a play with music, another side of the theatrical coin. During supper after Love for Love I remarked to Mavis that Mr. Gielgud, in program notes, called our time the "barren present." In contrast to the carefree world of the seventeenth century, yes. But barren? And a world in revolution? We knew what he meant-barren of artistic creation. Yet the adjective bothered us. Much was being born, much was getting started, in the fiery crucible of 1943-44. It was true that no great novel, play, song, or movie had as yet come from the United States. Perhaps none of these forms could contain the war. It was more like an epic. The scale of the war was so great that no play, no movie, nor even a novel could encompass it. The breaking and smashing of ancient sanctuaries, the frenzy of hatred, the incipient revolution that was sweeping the world surged beyond the confines of any form of art save the epic. It would probably be written by someone of another generation.
We ultimately had an air raid.
***
The next morning, Mavis and I said good-bye to the Markendales and returned to Derby. On the station platform I kissed Mavis good-bye. She went north to Scotland and across the Irish Sea to Belfast. I returned south to Leicester. Under the severity and long silence of the fall, winter, and spring of 1944-45 we grew more fond of each other.
-0-
