大象传媒

The following extracts are reproduced, with the permission of the publisher, from 鈥淢y Darling Diary: A Wartime Journal 鈥� Vienna 1937-39, Falmouth 1939-44鈥� by Ingrid Jacoby, published by United Writers, Penzance, Cornwall, 1998.

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8th January 1944
I have seen them! And spoken to them! Listen: When Pam heard that Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh were at Helford she said: "Let's cycle there and see if we're luckier this time than you were on Thursday." We went in the morning and arrived at the Ferry Boat Inn at about 11am. I asked the receptionist if it was possible to see Mr Olivier and Miss Leigh - and as I spoke they came into the foyer, looking exactly as they do in their films. We gazed at them, and were transfixed. "These two young ladies would like to see you," the receptionist said. Both Olivier and Leigh turned to us. "And where have you come from?" Olivier asked, with a wonderful smile. As Pam didn't speak I had to, though I didn't think I could, my heart was beating so fast.
"We cycled here from Falmouth and we'd like your autographs, please," I said. My voice sounded very strange to me. "You cycled all the way from Falmouth? Don't call me to rescue you if you collapse on your way back, will you?" he said. We laughed, and handed them our autograph books, which they signed. We thanked them very much but were too overcome to say anything else. They said goodbye and walked out of the hotel. We followed in a minute or two and watched them go onto the beach and get into a rowing boat. They saw us and waved. "Want to join us?" Laurence Olivier called to us. We knew he was only joking so we just waved back and shook our heads. How I would love to have gone rowing with Laurence Olivier and Vivien Leigh, but my legs wouldn't have made it as far as the boat, as I felt quite weak in the knees with excitement. For the rest of the day I could think of nothing else, and I had to describe every detail of what had taken place between me and two of the most famous film stars in the world to everyone I met.

To make a perfect day even more perfect, Audrey came to tea in the afternoon, and as Miss Kitty was out we were alone together the whole time. Tomorrow I will tell you what we talked about.

27th May 1944
In the evening I talked to some of the Yankees at the bottom of our garden. Miss Kitty gets on well with the lavatory orderly. There used to be railings outside the house the Americans have requisitioned but, like all the other railings, they've gone to be melted down for armaments. Similarly, also to help the war effort, people have been asked to hand in their old saucepans; these are needed to make into aeroplanes. It must be ghastly to be a fighter pilot - I'm glad I'm not a boy, as I was meant to be. Maybe, when things are at their worst, if a pilot of a spitfire says to himself: "I'm sitting in an ex-saucepan," it will make him feel better.

3am, Tuesday, 30th May 1944
What excitement! I haven't slept a wink tonight. First of all it was terribly, unbelievably hot all day and I couldn't get to sleep in the evening. I lay awake from 11-12.30, when all at once the siren went. There was terrific barrage and we all sheltered under the stairs - no time to go to the trench. At first I wasn't frightened at
all, but when I heard the whistle of a bomb I thought: "Oh God, let us be killed outright, but not injured please!" They say if you hear the whistle the bomb won't fall on you, but that was no comfort then. The last night raid I could remember was when I was living at Tamblyns', and they invited me to sit it out in their bedroom, so the three of us sat on their bed for two or more hours, and the sight of Mr and Mrs Tamblyn in their night attire was so funny it took my mind off the bombs. However, tonight's raid was much worse. The bloody Germans got our oil tanks and the sky is simply ablaze with fire. I'm much too hot and restless to go to sleep and am not a bit tired, but I suppose I better stop writing now and try and get some sleep. School tomorrow. I had a lovely Whitsun weekend - more about that some other time.

I wish I could help put that fire out, but girls and women have to sit at home, waiting for the news the menfolk bring.

Goodnight. I mean, good morning.

6th June 1944
The INVASION HAS STARTED! And I am its first casualty. Not in Normandy, but here in Falmouth! This is what happened 鈥� I played tennis after school, had my music lesson, and was cycling home near the Recreation Ground when a huge American lorry struck me from behind and knocked me off my bicycle. It stopped at once, and several Yankees jumped out, helped me up, put me and my injured bicycle into the lorry and drove us to their own American Clinic. Here my grazed knee was attended to and I was then driven home. Later they returned my bicycle, also repaired. What an adventure! The Yanks may not be very popular here but they certainly behaved well over this accident. I could have been killed.

The King spoke on the wireless today. The war is really coming to a head now. Surely it can't be much longer to the end.

10th June 1944
The 'Flying Bombs' have started over London! On Thursday some ATS girls gave a lecture to us at school. In the evening I heard Liszt's 2nd Hungarian Rhapsody played on the wireless. I love that piece of music. It inspired me so much that I composed a waltz today - my first musical composition ...

Yesterday I saw Jim again. He had his coat on. Last time he said he was only waiting for his coat to come till he could go to the 'movies' with me.

But there's a difficulty. When I told Miss Davis an American soldier had asked me to go to the pictures with him she put her foot down and flatly refused to let me go. I argued, but she remained obstinate. I lost my temper and we had a terrific row. She said I should invite him to tea or supper or a game of ping pong first, so as to get to know him, but I was too angry by then to agree to this, even though that idea quite appealed to me. "What will people say if they see you at the pictures with an American soldier we don't know?" Miss Davis cried. Of course there would be endless gossip, I know that. I would probably be called a prostitute. My name would be mud. This then is the situation. So, when I saw Jim again yesterday my first thought was: "Oh my God, he's got his coat!" I had no idea what I would say if he suggested the flicks again - but he didn't; and I said nothing about his coming to tea or supper at St. Joseph's. Stalemate. Nothing ever runs smoothly with me. But somehow, because of having met Jimmy, I'm almost convinced again that there is a God. All these little difficulties will soon pass - in fact they make it all the more exciting and romantic. (That these difficulties may get bigger and insurmountable I forbid myself to consider.)

People are always saying they wished the Americans would leave. But I don't.

13th June 1944
Sunday was a special Prayer Day for the Invasion, and Sheila and I went to Church. Miss McCreight came for lunch as usual, and the Horsefords (from Budock) and some friends of the Davis' called Bradley, were here for tea. Mr Bradley is the manager of
Barclays Bank.

Today is my mother's birthday. Where is she, and how is she spending it? My poor mother. She was not born under a lucky star, any more than I was.

I haven't seen Jimmy since Friday. Charlie loves Connie but Jimmy can't love me or he would have come. I look for him every day, every evening. But he is nowhere. Yank after Yank passes by our gate but none of them is him. I watch endless convoys of lorries and jeeps go by, all ready to go to France taking men to face death in the Invasion, and I hope against hope that Jimmy is not among them. I stare at every soldier until the convoy has passed. I accompany them in my thoughts for they are going to fight my bitterest enemies, and I wonder if Jimmy is perhaps already lying dead on a battlefield in France. With every convoy leaving my hope of ever seeing him again is reduced. But I bet if he was in one of those lorries going to France he would be laughing all the way! He wouldn't sit there sour-faced and afraid like those others I saw passing by - no, he would laugh, as he always did.

20th July 1944
Today an attempt has been made to murder Hitler, with dynamite, but it failed! Oh, why did it fail? Just think - if it had succeeded the war might be over today! There would be no more fighting, no more air-raids, no more rationing or blackout, we could get news of my mother, and then, and then ... But what's the use of dreaming, Hitler is alive and the war goes on.

Sometimes, during my piano lessons, Miss Rogers plays a piece of music to me and then she asks me: "Did you like that?" She obviously does, and I always dutifully reply: "Yes," although usually it's some boring little-known piece by someone like Kuhlau or Diabelli or Field and I don't much care for it. The next question is: "Would you like to learn to play it?" Having said I liked it I now have to produce another lie, and again I say: "Yes." Last time this happened, as I sat listening to her, I thought the
concerto or whatever she was playing was particularly uninteresting and I decided to be honest for once and admit I did not like it. She finished, turned to me with a smile and a hopeful look and asked me: "Did you like that?" "Yes," I replied, "it was very nice." Who sent me a guardian angel at just the right moment? "I'm glad," said Miss Rogers, "because I composed it."

There was an air-raid during the history examination and the whole school trooped to the trench bordering the hockey field. We were on our honour not to discuss the examination while in the trench, but we couldn't have done anyway because a mistress
stood guard. The air-raid lasted nearly two hours and played havoc with the timetable, but as far as I was concerned it was a welcome interruption. Tomorrow is the last exam and on Saturday I'm going to Tenby.

30th August 1944
There have been urgent appeals for people to give blood. You have to be 18, but I thought it was time I did something for the country, so on Monday I went along to the clinic on top of Killigrew Street. I was welcomed with open arms and ushered in. There were rows of people lying on sort of makeshift beds, looking white and lifeless to me. I got cold feet. "What age do you have to be to give blood?" I asked the nurse. "18," she said. "Oh, I'm only 17," I said. "I better not then," and I turned to go. "It doesn't matter, you can stay," said the nurse. "I better ask my father first," I said, and hurriedly left. I felt very ashamed of myself afterwards. Did you know I was such a coward?

8th September 1944
I've had a most wonderful and exciting day - thanks to my good friend Audrey. Listen: as you know (although why should you?) petrol is almost unobtainable and hardly anyone drives a car. However, the B. family have a friend called Mr Holloway who does have one, which he uses on business and can therefore obtain petrol for. He often travels quite long distances in connection with his work, and today he had to go to Fowey. Do you know who lives in Fowey? The authoress of Rebecca 鈥� Daphne du Maurier! Audrey said to me a few days ago: "How would you like to come to Fowey in Mr Holloway's car, Nanks?" "I'd love to," I cried. The car ride alone would be exciting enough, but Fowey! "Daphne du Maurier lives near Fowey," I said. "I know, and I suppose you'd like to see her?" I didn't deny it and Audrey was quite keen, too. So, today we set off early in Mr Holloway's car. Connie came too. She and I sat in the back, which is where we like to sit best because we don't have to make conversation. We just sat back and gazed out of the window, our dreams and thoughts the only companions we needed. It was quite a long journey. We went by car ferry across Polruan, saw Sir A.T. Quiller-Couch's house, had lunch and then walked around the town while Mr Holloway was busy. We went to a bookshop and I bought a book called Austria on 拢10, by S.A. Clark. Last of all we went to see Daphne du Maurier. Mr Holloway knew where the house was. As we approached, I got more and more excited. My eyes were glued to the road. Any minute now I expected to see the iron gate leading to the drive that twists and turns until it reaches the house called Manderley. Perhaps Laurence Olivier and Joan Fontaine would be there to welcome us ... And here we were at last. The real name of the house is Menabilly, and the drive, up which Audrey, Connie and I were now walking while our 'chauffeur' waited outside, was not nearly as long as I thought it would be. We reached the front door. Before ringing the bell, we looked at the large lovely garden surrounding the house.
Some small children were playing on the lawn. Then we rang, and waited. I was appointed spokesman. A woman who I was quite sure was not Daphne du Maurier eventually opened the door. "We'd very much like to see Miss Daphne du Maurier," I said. "Have you an appointment?" "No, we haven't. We'd just like to meet her and get her autograph." "Just a moment." She went back into the house. We waited, without speaking, tense and thrilled. The woman returned. "I'm sorry. Miss du Maurier is busy, but if you give me your notebooks she will sign them." What could we do? We handed over our notebooks, and presently they were returned to us, duly signed. She had written in mine: 'Yours sincerely, Daphne du Maurier.' That's all. We thanked the woman and turned to go. She seemed to feel a bit sorry for us and accompanied us through the garden. "Is Miss du Maurier writing another novel?" I asked. "Oh yes. She never stops," the woman replied. "These are her children," she told us, pointing to the little group we'd seen before. "They're all called after characters in Margaret Kennedy's The Constant Nymph. Do you know it?" We said we did. "That's Tessa there," said the woman, pointing to the blonde girl nearest to us. I thought it a lovely idea to name your children after fictional characters. When we were part way down the drive the woman said goodbye to us, we thanked her for obtaining the autographs and rejoined Mr Holloway in his car. "Well, did you see her?" he asked us, but I suppose he could tell by our faces - or at least by mine - that we didn't. I was very disappointed but it was a nice day all the same.

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