including letters written to his wife Marion and some other correspondence
5 July, 1940
Dearest Mog,
Glad to get your letter this morning and to hear that everything had reached you. I saw Stanley last night and he told me that he is going ahead with the arrangement for America so that if you decide to go everything will be ready. It still seems an extraordinary thing to contemplate, yet, I suppose it would be best. I would love you to come here when Pearl comes up but there again it is so impossible to know what is best. London is certainly safe enough but God knows for how long; and when things start here it would be safer where you are in spite of being near the coast. Milton Abbas is really isolated.
I have been trying to get a stretcher bearer’s job and have an appointment this afternoon. I saw the head of the Chelsea section on Wednesday and he was very serious about the possibility of big raids on London in the near future. It is an amazing thing that is spite of wireless and newspaper appeals for men for everything in actual practice one has to almost beg for a job. There is something damned funny about the whole business. Anyway, recent news, apart from its tragic aspect, which one cannot ignore, is from a practical point of view much more encouraging the last few days.
I did a good painting yesterday, the French girl at the restaurant I told you of, and there was a large audience of her husband, three French soldiers and the cook; meanwhile the wireless blared without stop. I painted for five hours with hardly a break. When she was not sitting I got in much of the background. At half past six I had done and had the worst headache I have ever had – but you will like the sketch.
Did you hear from Bill? Let me know if you want me to send “Seven Red Sundays”*. I should have put it in the parcel with the towels but somehow I forgot all about it. How are you getting on with the Screenful of Tits?**
* Written circa 1932, Seven Red Sundays (Siete domingos rojos), is a novel by the Spanish author, Ramón José Sender Garcés (1901 -1982). The English language version was first published in 1938. Editor
** A reference to a book with this extraordinary title has not been found. It may possibly be Clifford’s nickname for a book rather than its true title or perhaps for something other than a book. Editor
I have had a bill from Peter Jones for £2 but they will have to wait a bit. They had two last month and there has been the gas and electric light bill to pay.
I thought our Julian was really adorable and I love you both very much.
Clifford
Later. I have just come back from the Town Hall and find I have to start on Monday. Apparently I got one of the few vacancies left. I will let you know how I get on. I will prefer it to the Fire Brigade. I would have been certain to fall off a ladder! This is not a reserved occupation at present but may be later. Anyway I would sooner take a chance and it will give me an opportunity to get some painting done whereas the Fire Brigade hardly gives anytime. The money is the same.
10 July, 1940
Wednesday evening
Dearest Mog,
I am writing this at the depot although I will not be able to get out to post it until tomorrow morning. I had your letter telling me you had had a wire from Stanley saying you were not to come back yet. I suppose it would be best for you to wait until he has got the arrangements sufficiently advanced for you to see the consul, or whatever it is, about the visa. I hope you have now got the two pounds I sent you and that it will be enough for the journey when you make it, but I can send you more if you need it.
This is quite a decent sort of job, reeking of blood like religion. I fear it will play hell with my work although I will try to keep on painting in my off days. The question is not so much of time as of the mental somersault it will be necessary to make from one day to another. Do you understand what I mean? I think you do. However, it is too soon to worry yet and maybe it will work out not so badly. Anyway, I suppose the break was bound to come with the war going on and the army would be a damned sight worse, giving me no time off at all. It is a pity that it should have come when I am on the threshold of maturity, in a painting sense, for I can feel strange and better things starting in me than I have ever done before and it will be sad for me if I cannot do them. But it is a personal problem, no one else can be expected to care much about it, and it is a problem many better painters than me are having to tackle at the present time. Somehow I think I will find a way of solving it – I will do my best. Worrying is certainly not the way.
I shall have to work pretty hard learning practical first aid and I have found so far that it is difficult to really concentrate. I have for so many years thought and felt in a particular way and now I must, so to speak, start all over again at something quite different.
I think the possibility of an invasion yet awhile is fairly remote but no doubt raids will get worse. It stands to reason that you are better off in the open country than in a town. We must, all three, be very happy when this is over to make up for it all.
Write soon.
All my love to you and Julian,
Clifford
12 July, 1940
Friday
Dearest,
Here is your money. I have to send it now in a hurry as I will have no time tomorrow to get out and register it. I will write then. I sent the shoes for Julian this morning.
Love,
Clifford
12 July, 1940
Saturday
Dearest Mog,
Thanks for your letter. I understand about you not coming last Thursday and it would certainly be better to come with Pearl to help you when you do leave. I was on the phone to Stanley the day before yesterday and he told me that he had not got things fixed up yet. Now I see in this morning’s paper that the Government have postponed for the time being all sailings of boats taking children to America – on account of the boat containing aliens that was sunk a few days ago*. I will be seeing Stanley next week and will have a talk with him about things.
* This is almost certainly a reference to the sinking of the SS Arandora Star on July 2nd 1940. Editor
Here is the £1 for this week. It will save my going to the bank if you make up the ten shillings out of the extra pound I sent last week, but whenever you need the ten shillings, or more, let me know and I will send it right away.
I have been adjusting myself this week and have only done two drawings on my days off, but on Monday I have someone to sit and hope to start an oil and have several days at it. It’s not going to be easy to keep my real work going but I am determined to do it. If I only produce one decent drawing a week, I suppose I should think myself lucky. It was announced yesterday that full-time ARP is to be made a reserved occupation so it looks as if I will not have to be in the army. I am not sorry, although this is going to be a pretty ghastly job when serious raids on London really start – and the people in charge of the depot seem very certain that they will, sooner or later.
We get one free meal a day. Hot meat, two veg stables, sweet and a cup of tea; and the food to buy for other meals at the canteen is at least twenty-five per cent cheaper than one could get outside. So far it has been extremely good. Very plain, of course. Rather like Mrs Paulo’s cooking.
Father is still about the same and I am going over there this afternoon.
I do not think we will have much trouble in getting a taxi when you do come. There are always ones available at big stations.
Love to you and Julian,
I am looking forward to hearing from you again soon.
Clifford
16 July, 1940 (posted)
Monday evening
Dearest Mog,
I am sorry I could not write properly when I sent off the money the other day. I have not caught up with myself yet and probably won’t as long my present life lasts. I get back to the studio on my days off about 9.15 in the morning; by the time I have shaved and changed, answered letters, done necessary shopping and sometimes sewing it is 11 or so. Then I paint and before I know where I am the light has gone and the post office is shut and I have forgotten to buy milk for the morning. I must go to Putney once a week, so you can imagine that I live in one long rush. I did a good panel yesterday but I had a real fight with it and I nearly chucked it up in despair, but something made me keep on and I did it.
It would be very easy to just relax on my off days, particularly when I have only had a few hours sleep the night before if we happen to be on night guard. On these nights we must sleep downstairs and only for four hours and then on a stretcher on the floor. These, as you probably know, are made of steel and covered with a steel wire mesh like wire netting. The allowance of blankets is three; you put two underneath and one over you. Even then one awakes with a beautiful pattern from the steel mesh. You could have played a game of draughts on my behind the other morning. Tonight we have to sleep in the cars in the yard, however, I have done this many times with the circus and I don’t mind it.
I hope Julian’s shoes arrived safely and that he is still getting on well and talking a bit, although you can’t expect him to say much and he seems to have been very quick as it is.
You have not told me yet if you have got your passport back – Stanley wants to know, and I promised to tell him as soon as I had heard from you.
I will go on with this when I get home tomorrow morning as I expect there will be a letter from you waiting for me.
Tuesday:
You said something in one of your letters about milk being rationed. I was listening to a broadcast by which you could get all you wanted for children at 2 pence a pint. Try to find out about it because it is very important to give him all he needs.
You will be surprised to hear that I have now got a savings book and I am saving three bob a week in it. If this war goes on for long and I am in the ARP all the time I will have a few pounds for us, because if I can I will save more than three bob a week. That is to be the minimum.
I have fortunately discovered a man in our squad who was an organist. He takes me and the corporal across to St Mark’s College*, where there is a piano, some evenings and plays Chopin, very well. The corporal is a tubby little cockney old soldier. He has a butterfly tattooed on the back of each hand and drinks pints of beer. Nonetheless he would not miss the music. “It’s sort of peaceful” he says, yet he tells one the most hair-raising stories of the last war and the sort of wounds it is possible to get. He usually holds forth on the subject at supper time.
* By this time, this university was actually called the College of St Mark & St John, due to two colleges having merged into one in 1923. The building where there was a piano was probably the Chapel of the College of St Mark and St John at 459a Fulham Road, Chelsea, London, which is now a private residence and a grade 2 listed building. In 1973, the university moved to Plymouth, Devon, and subsequently its name was changed to Plymouth Marjon University. Editor
Another thing I had to tell you. I had a letter from the Artist’s Benevolent people last week. They said they had now voted £40 towards paying up any debts I had. And they have paid Green & Stone (£24), Weavers, Castello, Sunlight and National Society sub. It was most unexpected, particularly as I had told them I had paid something on account out to all of them out of their original £20, which indeed I had. It certainly has straightened things out and we won’t have a lot of debts to worry about when the war is over and we are able to get going again.
I had intended to work today but I am really too tired. Sunday rather took it out of me and last night was broken. Only about three hours sleep. Two warnings and hanging around expecting to be called out, but once again, apparently, they did not reach London. However, I know I will somehow get something done each week because the will to do so is there.
I expect I will hear from you in the morning but I am sending this off now because I know you will like to have it. All my love to you and Julian,
Clifford.
17 July, 1940
Wednesday
Dearest,
Many thanks for your letter. Stanley wants to know if you have got your passport back yet. Will you tell me when next you write?
I have not seen the war artists show and I do not think I will have time now. I have read a few notices, however, and they have all been good. I started a painting today and after three hours I was absolutely tired out. I suppose it is just the change over to something different. The last week has simply flown away. It has seemed one long rush. I hardly know whether I am at the depot or here in the studio, but I’ll get used to it.
I saw Bill on Saturday. He seems very shaken up and the doctor tells him he must do no work of any sort for at least three weeks. He certainly had an awful crash and still cannot remember how it happened.
I saw father as well on Saturday. He seemed very bad and scarcely spoke a word of sense whilst I was with him.
You must decide if you would like to leave Milton Abbas and go somewhere more inland. I can now manage on the money I am earning and could also send you a bit extra and you would of course have all your allowance. I do not like to take the risk of suggesting that you both come back although I wish you were here. Everyone seems to think that raids may start on London any time.
The whole thing is a simply impossible position. And as for America, when it is possible to go, perhaps that would be best. I still feel you are as safe as possible in Milton Abbas but I am very worried that you should hear the German planes and I wish I was there to look after you. But what can one do? If I had not got into this A.R.P I would have been in the army pretty soon, so I would be cut off from you anyway. My poor darling, I am so sorry. We can only hang on and look forward to when it is over.
I am happy Julian is getting on so well and I am regretting that I am missing the fun of seeing him each day. It serves me right I suppose, but you see I did not realize until the last time I was with you how interested I would be in him and that I could love him. Well there it is – the break has been made by something bigger than ourselves and as you said we neither of us wanted it to happen. Still it will all come right. I am sure.
I sent “Seven Red Sundays” to you yesterday. Hang on to it carefully as it is now impossible to buy. I suppose it has been quietly allowed to disappear for political reasons. Also I gave the 1890s to Peter to take to you when I saw him last Saturday.
Do write soon.
Love to you and Julian,
Clifford
19 July, 1940
Thursday evening
Dearest Mog,
I got your letter with the cheque this morning. I did not think the photo of Julian was so bad. There was something about it. But I am the only one who can do something good enough for you and I have not yet done as much as I want. Yesterday I suddenly had a terrific urge to paint you again. I knew that I could make something infinitely finer than anything I have done before. I saw everything complete and it was very lovely. Well, don’t worry we will do it yet.
I did paint yesterday, although my arms felt funny. It must be all the lifting about I have been doing this last week but I expect I will get used to it.
I hope Peter gave you the “Eighteen Nineties”, I think you will enjoy it. Have you finished “Away From It All”? Tell me what you think of it.
Since you ask me here is a typical day “on”. Parade, 8.45; you can smoke on parade. 9am some job like sweeping out a huge room, dusting it and putting Lysol on the floor. 10 am Physical Drill for 30 minutes – then half an hour break. At 11 lecture and demonstration in first aid or we carry people around on stretchers and practice loading ambulances. Lunch hour 12 till 2. At 2 more first aid until 4. After that, hanging around. I play ping pong, write letters, read, go over the notes I made at the lecture and compare them with the Red Cross Book. 10.30 bed. Up at 7. I can have a hot bath, and I do. Breakfast and hang around until 8.45 when we are dismissed and I am free until that time the following morning. 24 hours, by my standards, more or less completely wasted.
I rush back to the studio after the dismissal, have a change and a shave and I try to become myself again for the rest of the day. Rum isn’t it? And so on I suppose, until the war is over. I find I never know which day is which. I just work them out as on and off days. Both, so far, rush past me.
All my love to you both,
Clifford
PS Friday morning. Just got back and found your letter. Thanks for the other photo. I know it will please mother. I will try to send off the shoes today. We had planes over early this morning but nothing happened.
Journal Entry
July 20, 1940
Joined the Stretcher Party.*
* This very brief statement is the first entry Clifford had made in his journal for many months. Clearly, he did not, in fact, join the Stretcher Party on this date, as his letters to Marion reveal, he had actually joined fifteen days earlier and commenced training on Monday, July 8, 1940. Editor
Letter to Marion
An example of a ARP Stretcher Party recruitment poster. This particular section of the Air Raid Precautions service placed great emphasis on stretcher bearing being a job for real men, while about one in six of the Air Raid Wardens recruited were women. Editor
The Lots Road Stretcher Party on Parade circa 1940. It is easy to spot Clifford Hall, as he is the only man present with a beard.
Clifford Hall, strolling through Chelsea, in his ARP uniform circa 1940.
24 July, 1940
Wednesday evening
My dearest Mog,
I was glad to hear this morning that the things had arrived. I will phone Stanley tomorrow and find out how far he has got about you going to America. I honestly think the chances of an invasion are remote. I will also write to Uncle Ernest* and ask him about Reading. He would probably be glad for you to stay with him as long was necessary; not that I will suggest that but I have an idea that he will.
* Uncle Ernest is Clifford’s uncle, Ernest Charles Hall (1868 – 1959), who lived in Reading with his family. Editor
You must not worry about me. I have settled down here pretty well and have been accepted, so to speak. Largely, I think, because they found I could climb ropes in the gym and also could run a mile after physical drill as fast as any of them and faster than some. They are just like schoolboys in their standard of judging a man and I have been made to feel perfectly at home. It’s comic, but then the whole business is a comic tragedy. I was very grateful that I have not found myself in the army which together with teaching in a secondary school represents a worse hell to me than Dante ever dreamed of. After all I can spend every other day in the studio and even if sometimes I am too tired to paint as I would wish I am extremely lucky to be able to spend some of my time there. Poor horseface is going off to the army next week, although I must admit he does not seem to mind particularly.
I saw Bill last night. He is still pretty shaky and has to have another month’s rest. Of course that suits him very well. The trouble is he is too weak to enjoy it.
Father is still the same. I only manage to see him once a week now.
I am glad you like the two books and the 1890s was certainly my period, it would have been fine to have lived then, however, the thing is to make something out of the epoch in which one finds oneself. Je suis de mon temps – as Daumier said. Every artist must be that. Sometimes I feel I miss it. Perhaps it is too soon to judge yet.
I am glad that what I told you about Julian has made you happy for I certainly meant all of it. And if it so turns out that I do not see him for a long time I know you will let him think the same about me as you do yourself. I probably don’t entirely deserve it but I want it all the same. I would not have been worth much if I could not take him into my scheme of life as well as you who have always helped me so greatly. Anyway, I think he is sweet in himself – and that’s enough. I hope and feel that won’t work out like that and we will be together again before so very long. I wish I could see you now but we have just got to get finished with this wretched business and you must go on looking after him and know that I am wanting you. I only hope it won’t be too long; but whenever it is we will have a fine time when it does happen.
I sleep in billets tonight so tomorrow I will be able to go on with a head I started last week. Bill is going to take some more photos next week so when they are done I will send you some so you can see what I have been doing since our glorious week together.
I wish I could do that picture of you but I expect there will be time to do it, someday.
I have got another good book of biographies that I will send you as soon as I have finished it.
Love to you both,
Clifford
Journal Entry
July 25, 1940
After I had come back from walking with her to the station, I crossed the studio to the bed and buried my face in the cushions on which she had rested. I was acutely conscious of the scent of her hair. And when I drew back and looked down at the place where she had lain, I thought I saw her still. There was the depression made by her head, and there the outline of her shoulders. Those perfect, polished, golden shoulders I love to kiss…And I quickly took the cushions off the bed. But I had only destroyed the imprint of her body.
Letters to Marion
27 July, 1940
Chelsea, Saturday morning
Dearest,
I have just had your letter. I knew you will be pleased about the £40. We have been lucky. I am glad you have had a fairly quiet week. We certainly have not, but of course only warnings. I am sending the 30 shillings and I will send some extra next week but let me know if you need it before. I will write again in a day or so.
Stanley told me had heard from you about your passport. I am seeing mother this evening and I will ask her then if the flowers arrived. I don’t think it worries father much now whether he sees people or not. He has lost all count of time and hardly eats at all. And I have never felt better in my life although I get very tired and my arms and shoulders ache but it is all gone by the morning. It is strange and I can only think that one must make the most of everything when one can. You never know what the end may be like.
I am glad that you have got the pictures up and that our son actually looks at them. I am looking forward to the time when he is old enough to love better ones and all the beautiful things in the world.
I will let you know as soon as I get a reply from Uncle Ernest.
Love to you both. I will write again soon.
Clifford
31 July, 1940
Chelsea, Wednesday
Dearest Mog,
Thanks for your letter, and I am so glad that I have helped a little to make you less depressed. I suppose I am lucky now that I can find no time, or hardly any, in which to be miserable. I am told I am getting on very well; my old knowledge of anatomy has been useful and I already know how to do eight different sorts of bandages. I practise them each day I am on duty and learn another one as well. I am slowly finishing a head and I hope to start another painting this afternoon.
Sometimes when I am at the depot I seem to step outside myself, and I consider the person I am whilst I am there.And I see that all that really matters in me is just sleeping until the time when I can really be myself again every day of my life.
I heard from Uncle Ernest this morning. He says that there has, so far, been no bombing within fifteen miles of Reading. I also hear that he is trying to give up his house; no doubt if you wanted to go to Reading he could find somewhere available. In the mean time I suppose it is best to hang on at Milton Abbas for you certainly must not go to America in a boat that is not convoyed.
I do still think that it is as safe as can reasonably be expected where you are, for even if this talked of invasion is attempted, which we are all beginning to doubt, I think it will fail.
It seems to me that our real difficulties will begin when we have actually won, for the complete lack of constructive aims for peace is getting more disturbing each day. All this talk about this being a people’s war does not move me, at least not in the way it’s intended to. It’s the people who will suffer and are being used to win it and no doubt a few concessions will be made to them at the end, if they look like getting dangerous. How funny it is now to hear conservatives refer to the heroic defenders of Madrid, those same conservatives who beat up English people here when they peacefully wanted arms sent to those heroes! It’s a dirty business and a stupid one and I will have none of it, but stick to painting, when I get the chance again. And I will get that chance because it is my fate.
I wish I could see you both. When I have done three months in my job I will ask for some leave and come and see you.
Love to you both,
Clifford
PS Will write on Friday.
Journal Entry
July (?), 1940
Portrait of Francine. She seemed to me like a painted idol, yet intensely alive. She was made up like a clown, but she was not ridiculous.
‘She seemed to me like a painted idol, yet intensely alive.’ – Portrait of Francine, 1940, by Clifford Hall.