including letters written to his wife Marion and some other correspondence
Letters to Marion
6 June, 1941
My dear Mog,
Thank you so much for both your letters. I got the one with the handkerchief – the other things can wait until next Thursday. Send the photo soon and don’t forget the cycle clips. I feel better and am longing to see you. Here is some money for your fare and something for P.J. or something else.
I did a nice oil last Monday and I am starting a larger one next week. Things are pretty quiet although we had two raids this morning – nothing serious though.
Lots of love to you and Julian. I am glad he still remembers me. I will have the stuff from the chemists for you when you come.
Clifford
14 June, 1941
Dearest Mog,
Come and see me again the week after next. I was very happy with you yesterday and I love you very very much.
It is wonderful to feel one is having a love affair with one’s wife. It’s exciting and you are perfect.
Write soon,
Clifford
Journal Entry
June 16, 1941
Last night before going to bed I went out into the grounds of St Marks thinking of Paris and those days before the War. The mass of trees were perfect against the night sky and above them shone the sickle moon. A few yards from me a group of men stood debating whether they should sleep out of doors that night, for it was very warm. One of them struck a match to light his cigarette and for a moment the circle of faces was illuminated with a warm glowing light as the group became a significant part of the scene. The warm light on their faces was a compliment to the cold light of the moon, with the mysterious clump of trees in between.
Letters to Marion
17 June, 1941
Dearest Mog,
Thank you so much for your letter, and I was very happy that you enjoyed yourself because I did too – wonderfully. I got the photograph of the rocks.
Last Thursday evening was quite amazing. Bill and I were in the kitchen. The tough woman you saw was in and out serving plates of cold veal and salad, fruit and cream, drinks and coffee. We were both presented with excellent meals and several huge shots of whiskey.
Now and again one of the players wandered out from the front room. I remember a rather stupid officer in khaki and a pale thin middle-aged woman who had several glasses of champagne. She assured us vaguely that life was so utterly boring and that she could not gamble until she was slightly drunk. The champagne and gin and tonic she took seemed to have no effect. She remained pale, languid and terribly bored.
Connie, that was the fat woman in black who brought the veal, was in charge of the refreshments and worked very hard. “If you make the drinks too weak, they say you are mean, and if you make ’em too strong they say they are doped. It’s a difficult life.” She continually referred to Lady Schwabe, the organizer, as a “mean old bitch” but when the share took place the following morning and Connie received five pounds the old bitch was kissed and hugged and became “my darling.”
Once or twice I had a peep through the serving hatch but I could barely see across the room for tobacco smoke. Once Connie rushed out with the wastepaper basket, used as an ashtray, in flames. I put it under the tap.
I went to bed at 11.30. At 8.15 the next morning I left for the Depot. Play was still going on; the shutters closed and the electric light burning. Outside the sun was shining, the sky very blue and the trees very green. An unshaven ghastly looking taxi driver was creeping slowly round his cab, rubbing up the brass work as if he did not care much whether it looked bright or not. He had been waiting outside all night.
Later in the day I saw Bill. He was present at the reckoning up about 9.30, after the last player had left. Bill got some extra, the croupier’s share was £17, and M’lady cleared £130! Seems lazy. There were no suicides but there was an amusing sequel, and typical of the things that happen to Bill. The man, when cleaning up after the party, found one of the bone counters that someone had dropped on the floor. He handed it to Bill. Bill mentioned to his raid warden lodger. This is the bloke who had put him in touch with Lady Schwabe. The warden immediately asked for the counter because he could sell it. He presented Bill with a pound next evening. He had sold it for two, so he said. So, someone is going to get part of their own back. The counter was marked £5!
That’s about all there was to the party* as far as I was concerned. It is certainly the way to make money.
I hope you will be able to see me next week. I saw Stanley and Harry last night.
Lots of love to you and Julian.
Clifford
* It can be deduced from this letter, that on the evening of June 16, 1941, Bill and Clifford somehow managed to gain access to premises where an illegal gambling party, organized by a certain Lady Violet Schwabe, a “well-known society woman”, was being held. Lady Schwabe was subsequently arrested for holding a similar event in April 1943. See: London Society Woman Fined £100 For Organising Expensive Gambling Game. Editor
21 June, 1941
Dearest Mog,
Very glad to get your letter. I expect you have had mine by now. I do hope you will be able to come on Thursday. I wanted to send you the fare but I have not got any more money in yet, although I have £5 owing still from Leger and more from other people. But I will make it up to you as soon as I can.
There is no chance of getting any leave yet, although I am getting more and more tired and exasperated with this wretched job.
Thursday I was shovelling some debris out of the lorry into a barge. This morning helping to shore up a house. All very stupid and ruins my touch when I come to paint the next day. My touch has been utterly lifeless this week. Horrible and feeble. However, once again, one is worse off in the army. How I approve of Cezanne‘s attitude during 1870. He said he was a painter and the war was no affair of his and he managed to keep on working in the South, although they nearly caught him once or twice. No one thinks any the worse of him now. Unfortunately, it’s quite impossible to do that this time. The thing is far too vast to grab us all, more or less.
Let me know about Thursday and I will come and meet you. I suppose you will come by the same train. Gets in about twelve, doesn’t it?
Looking forward very very much to seeing you again.
Love to you and Julian
Clifford
Journal Entries
July 22, 1941
She was standing in front of the glass, brushing her hair. ‘You should have a maid to brush your hair,’ I said. ‘And who would brush the maid’s hair?’ she replied.
July 26, 1941
Tonight I realized that understanding was only possible when one had succeeded in getting rid of all prejudices. And I saw then that a Utopia on earth, even a Heaven, could exist. Things I had once scoffed at as utterly impossible.
Stay still, and all you need, all you wish for will come to you.