Had I, I agitatedly ask Felicity, got it on when I arrived at Cadwallader House?
Felicity is nearly certain I had. But she couldn't swear. In fact, she thinks she is really thinking of someone else. Can I remember if I had it on when I left home?
I am nearly certain I hadn't. But I couldn't swear either. Indeed, now I come to think of it, I am, after all, nearly certain I last saw it lying on my bed, with my National Registration Card.
Then is my National Registration Card lost too?
If it's on the bed in my flat, it isn't, and if it's not, then it is. Agitated interval follows.
Felicity telephones to Cadwallader House—negative result—then to Buckingham Street caretaker, who goes up to look in bedroom but finds nothing, and I return to green sofa in black-and-white hall where places so recently occupied by Felicity and self are now taken up by three exquisite young creatures with lovely faces and no hats, smoking cigarettes and muttering to one another. They look at me witheringly when I enquire whether a gas-mask has been left there, and assure me that it hasn't, and as it is obviously inconceivable that they should be sitting on it unaware, can only apologise and retreat to enquire my way to Lost Property Office.
Am very kindly received, asked for all particulars and to give my name and address, and assured that I shall be notified if and when my gas-mask appears.
Felicity points out that loss of National Registration Card is much more serious and will necessitate a personal application to Caxton Hall, and even then I shall only get a temporary one issued. Can I remember when I saw mine last?
On my bed, with my gas-mask.
It couldn't have been, says Felicity, because caretaker says there's nothing there except a handkerchief and the laundry.
Then it must have got underneath the laundry.
Neither of us really believes this consoling theory, but it serves to buoy me up till I get home and find—exactly as I really expected—that nothing is underneath the laundry except the bed.
Extensive search follows and I find myself hunting madly in quite impossible spots, such as small enamelled box on mantelpiece, and biscuit-tin which to my certain knowledge has never contained anything except biscuits.
Serena walks in whilst this is going on and expresses great dismay and commiseration, and offers to go at once to the underworld where she feels certain I must have left both gas-mask and National Registration Card.
Tell her that I never took either of them there in my life. It is well known that gas-mask is not obligatory within seven minutes' walk of home, and National Registration Card has lived in my bag.
Then have I, asks Serena with air of one inspired, have I looked in my bag?
Beg Serena, if she has nothing more helpful than this to suggest, to leave me to my search.
November 14th.—Visit Caxton Hall, and am by no means sure that I ought not to do so in sackcloth with rope round my neck and ashes on my head.
Am not, however, the only delinquent. Elderly man stands beside me at counter where exhausted-looking official receives me, and tells a long story about having left card in pocket of his overcoat at his Club. He then turned his back for the space of five minutes and overcoat was instantly stolen.
Official begs him to fill in a form and warns him that he must pay a shilling for new Registration Card.
Elderly gentleman appalls me by replying that he cannot possibly do that. He hasn't got a shilling.
Official, unmoved, says he needn't pay it yet. It will do when he actually receives the new card. It will perhaps then, he adds kindly, be more convenient.
The only reply of elderly gentleman is to tell the story of his loss all over again—overcoat, card in pocket, Club, and theft during the five minutes in which his back was turned. Official listens with patience, although no enthusiasm, and I am assailed by ardent desire to enquire (a) name of Club, (b) how he can afford to pay his subscription to it if he hasn't got a shilling.
Endeavour to make my own story as brief as possible by way of contrast—can this be example of psychological phenomenon frequently referred to by dear Rose as compensating?—but find it difficult to make a good showing when I am obliged to admit that I have no idea either when or where National Registration Card was lost.
Nothing for it, says official, but to fill up a form and pay the sum of one shilling.
I do so; at the same time listen to quavering of very old person in bonnet and veil who succeeds me.
She relates, in very aggrieved tones, that she was paying a visit in Scotland when National Registration took place and her host and hostess registered her without her knowledge or permission. This resulted in her being issued with a ration book. She does not wish for a ration book. She didn't ask for one, and won't have one.
Should like to hear much more of this, but official removes completed form, issues me with receipt for my shilling and informs me that I shall be communicated with in due course.
Can see no possible excuse for lingering and am obliged to leave Caxton Hall without learning what can be done for aged complainant. Reflect as I go upon extraordinary tolerance of British bureaucrats in general and recall everything I have heard or read as to their counterparts in Germany. This very nearly results in my being run over by bus in Victoria Street, and I am retrieved into safety by passer-by on the pavement, who reveals himself as Humphrey Holloway looking entirely unfamiliar in London clothes.
Look at him in idiotic astonishment, but eventually pull myself together and say that I'm delighted to meet him, and is he up here for long?
No, he doesn't think so. He has come up in order to find Something to Do as his services as Billeting Officer are now at an end.
Do not like to tell him how extremely slender I consider his chances of succeeding in this quest. Instead, I ask for news of Devonshire.
H. H. tells me that he saw Robert at church on Sunday and that he seemed all right.
Was Aunt Blanche there as well?
Yes, she was all right too.
And Marigold and Margery?
Both seemed to be quite all right.
Am rather discouraged by these laconic announcements and try to lure H. H. into details Did Robert say anything about his A.R.P. work?
He said that the woman who is helping him—H. H. can't remember her name—is a damned nuisance. Also that there's a village that hasn't got its gas-masks yet, but Robert thinks it will really have them before Christmas, with luck.
Not Mandeville Fitzwarren? I say, appalled.
H. H. thinks that was the name.
Can only reply that I hope the enemy won't find out about this before Christmas comes.
And what about Our Vicar and his wife and their evacuees?
They are, replies H. H., settling down very nicely. At least the evacuees are. Our Vicar's Wife thought to be over-working, and looks very pale. She always seems, adds H. H., to be here, there and everywhere. Parents of the evacuees all came down to see them the other day, and this necessitated fresh exertions from Our Vicar's Wife, but was said to have been successful on the whole.
Lady B. still has no patients to justify either Red Cross uniform or permanently-installed ambulance, and Miss Pankerton has organised a Keep Fit class in village every other evening, which is, says H. H. in tone of surprise, being well attended. He thinks that Aunt Blanche is one of the most regular members, together with Marigold and Margery. Do not inform him in return that Aunt Blanche has already told me by letter that Marigold, Margery and Doreen Fitzgerald attend classes but has made no mention of her own activities.
H. H. then enquires very