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Title:      Mrs. Miniver
Author:     Jan Struther (Joyce Maxtone Graham) 1901-1953
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eBook No.:  0600141.txt
Edition:    1
Language:   English
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Date first posted:          January 2006
Date most recently updated: January 2006

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Title:      Mrs. Miniver
Author:     Jan Struther (Joyce Maxtone Graham) 1901-1953




IT was lovely, thought Mrs. Miniver, nodding good-bye to the flower-woman
and carrying her big sheaf of chrysanthemums down the street with a kind
of ceremonious joy, as though it were a cornucopia; it was lovely, this
settling down again, this tidying away of the summer into its box, this
taking up of the thread of one's life where the holidays (irrelevant
interlude) had made one drop it. Not that she didn't enjoy the holidays:
but she always felt--and it was, perhaps, the measure of her peculiar
happiness--a little relieved when they were over. Her normal life
pleased her so well that she was half afraid to step out of its frame in
case one day she should find herself unable to get back. The spell might
break, the atmosphere be impossible to recapture.

But this time, at any rate, she was safe. There was the house, as neat
and friendly as ever, facing her as she turned the corner of the square;
its small stucco face as indistinguishable from the others, to a
stranger, as a single sheep in a flock, but to her apart, individual, a
shade lighter than the house on the left, a shade darker than the house
on the right, with one plaster rosette missing from the lintel of the
front door and the first-floor balcony almost imperceptibly crooked. And
there was the square itself, with the leaves still as thick on the trees
as they had been when she left in August; but in August they had hung
heavily, a uniform dull green, whereas now, crisped and brindled by the
first few nights of frost, they had taken on a new, various beauty.
Stepping lightly and quickly down the square, Mrs. Miniver suddenly
understood why she was enjoying the forties so much better than she had
enjoyed the thirties: it was the difference between August and October,
between the heaviness of late summer and the sparkle of early autumn,
between the ending of an old phase and the beginning of a fresh one.

She reached her doorstep. The key turned sweetly in the lock. That was
the kind of thing one remembered about a house: not the size of the rooms
or the colour of the walls, but the feel of door-handles and
light-switches, the shape and texture of the banister-rail under one's
palm; minute tactual intimates, whose resumption was the essence of
coming home.

Upstairs in the drawing-room there was a small bright fire of logs, yet
the sunshine that flooded in through the open windows had real warmth in
it. It was perfect: she felt suspended between summer and winter,
savouring the best of them both. She unwrapped the chrysanthemums and
arranged them in a square glass jar, between herself and the light, so
that the sun shone through them. They were the big mop-headed kind,
burgundy-coloured, with curled petals; their beauty was noble,
architectural; and as for their scent, she thought as she buried her nose
in the nearest of them, it was a pure distillation of her mood, a
quintessence of all that she found gay and intoxicating and astringent
about the weather, the circumstances, her own age and the season of the
year. Oh, yes, October certainly suited her best. For the ancients, as
she had inescapably learnt at school, it had been the eighth month;
nowadays, officially, it was the tenth: but for her it was always the
first, the real New Year. That laborious affair in January was nothing
but a name.

She turned away from the window at last. On her writing-table lay the
letters which had come for her that morning. A card for a dress-show; a
shooting invitation for Clem; two dinner-parties; three sherry-parties; a
highly aperitive notice of some chamber-music concerts; and a letter from
Vin at school--would she please send on his umbrella, his camera, and
his fountain-pen, which leaked rather? (But even that could not daunt her

She rearranged the fire a little, mostly for the pleasure of handling the
fluted steel poker, and then sat down by it. Tea was already laid: there
were honey sandwiches, brandy-snaps, and small ratafia biscuits; and
there would, she knew, be crumpets. Three new library books lay
virginally on the fender-stool, their bright paper wrappers unsullied by
subscriber's hand. The clock on the mantelpiece chimed, very softly and
precisely, five times. A tug hooted from the river. A sudden breeze
brought the sharp tang of a bonfire in at the window. The jig-saw was
almost complete, but there was still one piece missing. And then, from
the other end of the square, came the familiar sound of the Wednesday
barrel-organ, playing, with a hundred apocryphal trills and arpeggios,
the "Blue Danube" waltz. And Mrs. Miniver, with a little sigh of
contentment, rang for tea.


MRS. Miniver woke up one morning with a sense of doom, a knowledge that
the day contained something to be dreaded. It was not a crushing weight,
such as an operation, or seeing one's best friend off to live in
Tasmania; nor was it anything so light as a committee meeting, or a deaf
uncle to tea: it was a kind of welter-weight doom.

At first it puzzled her. So far as she knew, she had no appointments that
day, either pleasant or unpleasant, and that in itself was good. To be
entirely at leisure for one day is to be for one day an immortal:
according to the Chinese proverb she ought to have been feeling god-like.
But the small, dull weight continued to drag and nag.

Clem put his head in, dishevelled from a bath. Not for the first time,
she felt thankful that she had married a man whose face in the ensuing
sixteen years had tended to become sardonic rather than sleek. It was
difficult to tell, when people were young and their cheek-lines were
still pencilled and delible. Those beautiful long lean young men so often
filled out into stage churchwardens at forty-five. But she had been
lucky, or had a flair; Clem's good looks were wearing well. The great
thing, perhaps, was not to be too successful too young.

At the moment his expression was anything but sardonic.

"She ought to be here by nine," he said eagerly, and vanished.

Mrs. Miniver remembered with a bump, felt dismayed, knew that her dismay
was unreasonable, and tried to argue it out of existence. A new car was a
thing to be pleased over; it was high time they had one. The old
Leadbetter had got to the stage when nothing less than an expensive
overhaul would do any good; it had developed sinister fumes, elusive
noises, incurable draughts; it was tiring for Clem on his long drives.
And a week ago, when Clem, straight from the Motor Show, had spent the
whole evening musing happily over catalogues, she had realized that the
game was up. Her usual attitude--that they didn't really need a new car
--was plainly untenable, and this time she could not even fall back upon
a plea for economy. They could perfectly well afford it now. Clem's plans
for the new building estate had gone through; and there was the
Vanderhoops' country house as well--a plum. Besides, this scene had
been replayed, with variations, many times, and they both knew that the
basis of her invariable reluctance about new cars was not thrift but
sentiment. She simply could not endure the moment when the old one was
driven away.

Mrs. Miniver was a fool about inanimate objects. She had once bid
furiously at an auction for a lot described as "Twelve kitchen chairs;
also a small wicker knife-basket." Clem, knowing the size of their
kitchen, made urgent signals to her across the room. She stopped bidding,
and the lot was knocked down to someone else for more than its value by a
grateful but mystified auctioneer.

"You got mixed up in the lot numbers, didn't you?" Clem said afterwards.

"No," she said, guiltily. "I'm awfully sorry. It was that knife-basket. I
suddenly thought--so wretched not to be grand enough to be in a lot by
itself. Just tagged on to kitchen chairs like that. Clem--a small
wicker knife-basket..."

As for cars, they were in a class apart, somewhere between furniture and
dogs. It wasn't, with her, a question of the pathetic fallacy. She did
not pretend to herself that cars had souls or even minds (though anybody,
seeing the difference that can exist between one mass-produced car and
another, might be excused for believing that they have at least some
embryonic form of temperament). No, it was simply a matter of mise en
scene. A car, nowadays, was such an integral part of one's life, provided
the aural and visual accompaniment to so many of one's thoughts,
feelings, conversations, decisions, that it had acquired at least the
status of a room in one's house. To part from it, whatever its faults,
was to lose a familiar piece of background.

She got up and turned on her bath. Even through the rushing of the water
she could hear the old Leadbetter coming down the square: a garage-hand
brought it round every morning just before nine. She listened for the
gear-change as it picked up speed after the corner, then for the squeal
of the brake, the stopping of the engine, the slamming of the door, the
man's footsteps receding up the square. It was really ridiculous, she
thought, to mind so much; and gave herself an extra handful of bath-salts
as a futile antidote to woe. Almost at once there was the sound of
another car drawing up, a smooth virile purring, the discreet opening and
closing of a solid well-fitting door. Then Clem's voice in the square and
Judy's feet jigging on the pavement. It was intolerable. Old horses one
pensioned off in a paddock, where one could go and see them occasionally.
Or one even allowed them to pull the mowing-machine in round leather
boots. But this part-exchange business--

Judy came racing upstairs and hammered on the door, shrill with

"Mummy! The new car's come!"

"Lovely," called Mrs. Miniver.

"And I've been helping Daddy clear the maps and things out of the old one
before they drive it away."

Heavens, how relentlessly children dotted the i's!

"Run along," called Mrs. Miniver. "I'll be down quite soon."

She turned both the taps full on again, put thick lather of soap over her
ears, and began to sing, noisily.


THEY didn't take the children down to Starlings much in the winter, until
the Christmas holidays. When the days were short a week-end was scarcely
worth while. They made an exception, however, for Guy Fawkes' Day, that
kindly and prescient spirit having planned his crime to coincide--or as
nearly as makes no difference--with the autumn half-term.

The Miniver family had a passion for fireworks; and a fireworks display
in a small London garden is an emasculate thing, hampered at every turn
by such considerations as the neighbours, the police, and the fragility
of glass and slate. So on Saturday morning they picked up Vin at Eton and
drove across country to Starlings. Mrs. Miniver was relieved to find that
public school had not made him too grand to enjoy playing road
competitions with the two younger children. He was, like his father, a
timeless person, uninfluenced by his own age and unconscious of other
people's. Judy was quite different. She was as typically nine now as she
had been typically six, and three. Age, to her, was an important and
exciting quality: she was never quite at ease with other children until
she had asked them how old they were. As for Toby, he remained, in this
as in most other matters, unfathomable.

In childhood the daylight always fails too soon--except when there are
going to be fireworks; and then the sun dawdles intolerably on the
threshold like a tedious guest. There were no clouds that day, and even
after sunset the western sky remained obstinately full of pearl-grey
light. It was not so bad for Vin, who was helping his father to pin
Catherine-wheels on to the fence and to prop up rocket-sticks in bottles
on the lawn; but Judy and Toby, their noses pressed against the inside of
the window-panes, were rampant with impatience long before Clem decided
that darkness had officially fallen and the show could begin.

Swathed in coats and scarves, they went out and sat in a row on the
little flagged terrace. The evening might have been ordered with the
fireworks; it was cold, still, and starry, with a commendable absence of
moon. And when the first rocket went up Mrs. Miniver felt the customary
pricking in her throat and knew that once again the enchantment was going
to work. Some things--conjurers, ventriloquists, pantomimes--she
enjoyed vicariously, by watching the children's enjoyment; but fireworks
had for her a direct and magical appeal. Their attraction was more
complex than that of any other form of art. They had pattern and
sequence, colour and sound, brilliance and mobility; they had suspense,
surprise, and a faint hint of danger; above all, they had the supreme
quality of transience, which puts the keenest edge on beauty and makes it
touch some spring in the heart which more enduring excellences cannot

It was certainly the best display they had ever had. Mrs. Miniver
herself, when buying fireworks, was apt to be led away by fantastic
titles; she would order Humming Spiders, Witches' Cauldrons, Mines with
Serpents, Bouquets of Gerbes, and Devils among the Tailors, largely in
order to see what they were like. But Clem knew that with fireworks, as
with cocktails, the sober, familiar names usually produced the most
interesting results. He laid out a certain amount on Roman Candles,
Catherine-wheels, and Tourbillions, but for the most part he rightly
concentrated on rockets.

There was one bursting now, a delicate constellation of many-coloured
stars which drifted down and lingered in the still air. Watching it, she
thought that of all the arts this was the one which showed the greatest
contrast between the raw materials and the finished work. Words,
pigments, notes of music--all of these, unmarshalled, possessed a
certain beauty of their own; a block of marble had at least an imaginable
relationship with the statue which it was to become; stone, brick, and
concrete, Clem's materials, did not seem impossibly remote from the
houses which he would make of them. But this fiery architecture, these
fragments of luminous music, these bright, dreamlike, and impermanent
pictures in the sky--what had they to do with nitre, sulphur and
charcoal, with gummed paper, cotton-wick, and a handful of mineral salts?

The show was nearly over. Vin and his father were letting off the last
few rockets. Their faces, occasionally lit up, were absorbed, triumphant,
serene. Judy was shivering with cold and excitement. Toby, his feet
sticking out over the edge of the seat, was completely immobile, but
whether from profound emotion or too many coats it was impossible to
tell. As for Mrs. Miniver, she was having a race with time. Some
half-remembered words had been haunting her all the evening, a line of
poetry, perhaps, or an old saying, something about brightness, something
exquisitely appropriate. "Brightness..." What was it? The rest of the
phrase eluded her, though she felt the rhythm of it; and she knew that
she must remember it before the fireworks were finished, or it would be
no use.

The final rocket went up, a really large one, a piece of reckless
extravagance. Its sibilant uprush was impressive, dragonlike; it soared
twice as high as any they had had before; and the moment it had burst,
Mrs. Miniver remembered. "Brightness falls from the air"--that was it!
The sparks from the rocket came pouring down the sky in a slow golden
cascade, vanishing one by one into a lake of darkness.

    Beauty is but a flower
    Which wrinkles will devour;
    Brightness falls from the air;
    Queens have died young and fair;
    Dust hath closed Helen's eye--

It was quite irrelevant, really, a lament by Nashe in time of pestilence,
nothing to do with fireworks at all. But she knew that it was just what
she had needed to round off the scene for her and to make its memory
enduring. Words were the only net to catch a mood, the only sure weapon
against oblivion.


EVERY year without fail Mrs. Miniver received an invitation written in a
sloping Victorian hand on lavishly stout cream-laid. The right-hand top
corner was embossed in heavy black Gothic with the address "Chervil
Court, Crampton." On the left were three tiny formalized sketches--a
telegraph-pole, an upright telephone, and a railway engine of the
Stephenson period, stocky and high-funnelled--followed respectively by
the words, "Great Yettingford," "Buntisley 3," and "Slape Junction." The
letter began with old Lady Chervil's unvarying formula:

    My dear Mrs. Miniver,

    Chervil and I shall be delighted if you and your Husband will stay
with us from Friday 19th to Monday 22nd November.

(She would have gone to the guillotine sooner than use the expression

Mrs. Miniver tossed the letter over to Clem. There must, he remarked, be
an air-port near there by now, and sketched in under the other pictures a
little pre-War biplane, single-engined and very short in the wing,
followed by the words, "Market Bumbleton." There was no need for them to
discuss whether they were going to accept the invitation. They always
went to Chervil. The shooting was excellent, the food beyond praise; and
it was soothing, for a short time, to slow oneself down to the pace of
its old-fashioned ritual, and to spend three days in inverted commas.

"And what," said the Colonel, turning to Mrs. Miniver at dinner on the
night of their arrival, "is your opinion...?"

She had been afraid of this ever since, over the vol-au-vent, that woman
in the wrong shade of green, on being asked whether she was coming out
with the guns to-morrow, had shut her eyes and ever so delicately
shuddered: thus plunging everybody around her into what was bound in that
company to be a tedious and unprofitable discussion. Tedious because
neither side possessed any currency but cliches, and unprofitable because
it was clear from the outset that neither side was going to budge an
inch. Besides, what a hare to start at a shooting party! You might with
as much sense and propriety get up at a Lord Mayor's banquet and give a
harangue on vegetarianism. If you felt as strongly as that, the only
thing to do was to have 'flu and stay away.

It raged, if such a stale controversy could be said to rage, all through
the quail, the ice-pudding, and the mushrooms on toast. Well-worn coins
rang in Mrs. Miniver's ears. "After all, the birds get a sportin'
chance. ..." "Animals may not have souls, but still..." "Now take
huntin' ..." "Oh, bull-fightin'--that's quite a different kettle of
fish..." Italics bred italics. Dropped g's fell as thick as confetti.
Sooner or later the tide of argument was almost certain to reach her end
of the table, but she made up her mind that she would not be drawn in. She
had been through it all too many times before, and even in circles where
one could speak freely the subject had become too hackneyed to be borne.
Her own attitude, she knew, was unethical but honest. She did not happen
to be personally squeamish, which was merely a matter of chance. She
enjoyed any display of skill; she enjoyed bare trees, rimy pastures,
breath made visible by frost, the smell of dead leaves, and the intricate
detail of winter hedgerows; above all, she enjoyed that element of
woodcraft, that sense of "playing Indians," which games fail to supply and
which the detractors of hunting, shooting, and fishing so often mistake
for bloodlust. And although she admitted that all shooting was cruel and
that all cruelty was wrong, it seemed to her that to abolish shooting
before you had abolished war was like flicking a speck of mud off the top
of a midden.

For the moment the conversation on either side of her had flowed away,
leaving her on a blessed little island of peace and silence. She had time
to study the heraldic beauty of the pineapple (for they had now reached
dessert), to speculate on the second footman's private life (he had a
studious, enigmatic face and probably read philosophy), and to reflect
how unpleasing, musically, is the sound of a pack of upper-class English
voices in full cry.

Lady Chervil, however, was a watchful and tidy-minded hostess of the old
school, who regarded a dinner-party as a quadrille and disapproved of
islands. With a masterly verbal tweak she readjusted the guests who had
got out of step. "And what," said the Colonel, turning to Mrs. Miniver,
"is your opinion of all these blood sports?"

"I think they are indefensible, but irresistible," she answered. She had
found through long experience that this remark usually closed the subject
pretty quickly. It left very little to be said. Besides, she meant it.

"Ha!" said the Colonel. She noted with delight that he really did say
"Ha!" This made a valuable addition to her collection. She had lately
acquired a "Humph!" and two "Whews!" but she was still waiting in vain
for a "Pshaw!"

"Tell me," she said, "weren't you with an uncle of mine in Singapore--
Torquil Piggott?"

"Piggy!" exclaimed the Colonel, beaming gratefully, and plunged into
reminiscence. Thank God for colonels, thought Mrs. Miniver; sweet
creatures, so easily entertained, so biddably diverted from senseless
controversy into comfortable monologue: there was nothing in the world so
restful as a really good English colonel. She nailed her smile to the
mast and reverted to the pineapple and the second footman. Clem caught
her eye across the table. It seemed to her sometimes that the most
important thing about marriage was not a home or children or a remedy
against sin, but simply there being always an eye to catch.


ONE of the minor arts of life, thought Mrs. Miniver at the end of a long
day's Christmas shopping, was the conservation of energy in the matter of
swing doors. With patience and skilful timing it was very seldom
necessary to use your strength on them. You could nearly always follow
close behind some masterful person who had already done the pushing; and
if you were too late for that and the door had begun to swing towards
you, then it was well worth pausing for a second until it swung away
again and needed only a gentle encouragement. This seemed obvious enough;
but there was an astounding number of people who seemed to glory in
taking the line of most resistance, hurling themselves against an
approaching door and reversing its direction by brute force, as though
there were virtue in the act. They must lead, she reflected, very
uncomfortable lives.

Placing herself neatly in the wake of a bull-necked woman in tweeds, she
slipped out of the shop. There was a raw wind; sleety rain was beginning
to fall, blurring the lamplight; the pavements were seal-sleek; it was
settling down into one of those nasty wet evenings which the exiled
Londoner longs for with a quite unbearable nostalgia.

She tumbled all her parcels into the back of the car, slid, happy but
exhausted, into the driving-seat, and set off for home. The double
screen-wiper wagged companionably, uttering over and over again the same
faint wheedling word, which she could never quite make out. It was a
dissyllable, something like "receive" or "bequeath." She was glad, at any
rate, that they now had a screen-wiper which moved at a constant speed.
Their last had been one of those which work off the induction: lively and
loquacious when you are at a standstill, sulky and slow as soon as you
get going and really need its help--like the very worst type of human

She felt a little guilty: it was the first time she had caught herself
comparing the beloved old car unfavourably in any way with the usurping
new one.

Getting home was evidently going to be a long job. The usual six o'clock
home-going stream was in spate with Christmas crowds, and Oxford Street
was a solid jam. It was her own fault, she had to admit, as she sat back
and waited for the lights to change. Every year the same thing happened.
At the beginning of November she made up her mind that this time, for
once, she would get her Christmas shopping done early. She went as far as
writing out a list--and there, for several weeks, the matter rested. At
intervals she tried to pretend that Christmas Day fell on the 5th of
December, or, alternatively, that all her friends and relations lived in
South Africa and that she had to catch an early mail; but it was no use.
The feeling of temporal urgency cannot be artificially produced, any more
than the feeling of financial distress. The rich young man who determines
to work his way round the world may gain many things, but the experience
of poverty is not one of them. He knows that in the ultimate emergency he
can always cable home for funds; and Mrs. Miniver knew perfectly well
that Christmas was not until the 25th of December, and that all the
people on her list lived in England.

(The screen-wiper wagged steadily. "Sea-green...sea-green..."
Perhaps that was nearer the mark?)

Besides, successful present-choosing depends very largely upon the right
atmosphere, upon the contagious zest of crowds, upon sudden inspirations
and perceptions, heightened rather than otherwise by a certain sense of
pressure in space and time. To do it cold-bloodedly, in a half-empty
shop, without any difficulty or competition, is as joyless as a marriage
de convenance. So perhaps it was just as well, she told herself
consolingly, that she had, as usual, left it till the middle of December.

("Wee Free...Wee Free..." Warmer. She'd get it yet.)

The lights changed. She put the car into bottom gear, paused, then let in
the clutch. It occurred to her as she did so that it was not only
people's physical reactions to those three colours that had become
automatic but their mental ones as well. Red, yellow, green--
frustration, hope, joy: a brand-new conditioned reflex. Give it a few
more years to get established, and psychiatrists would be using coloured
rays, projected in that sequence, for the treatment of melancholia; and
to future generations green would no longer suggest envy, but freedom. In
such haphazard ways are symbolisms born and reborn.

At the next crossing, red again. Frustration--but somehow one accepted
it without resentment, simply because it was not imposed by a human hand.
One could be annoyed with a policeman, but not with a tin hollyhock. The
same was true of automatic telephones: ever since the dialling system had
come in the world's output of irritation must have been halved. It was an
argument for the mechanization of life which had not previously struck

She got home at last. Clem was already in, with his legs stretched out in
front of the fire.

"Successful?" he asked, seeing her festooned with parcels.

"Look here," she said, "that screen-wiper--I think what it says is 'Beef

"My goodness," said Clem. "I believe you're right."


HOWEVER much one groaned about it beforehand, however much one hated
making arrangements and doing up parcels and ordering several days' meals
in advance--when it actually happened Christmas Day was always fun.

It began in the same way every year: the handle of her bedroom door being
turned just loudly enough to wake her up, but softly enough not to count
as waking her up on purpose; Toby glimmering like a moth in the dark
doorway, clutching a nobbly Christmas stocking in one hand and holding up
his pyjama trousers with the other. (He insisted upon pyjamas, but he had
not yet outgrown his sleeping-suit figure.)

"Toby! It's only just after six. I did say not till seven."

"But, Mummy, I can't tell the time." He was barefoot and shivering, and
his eyes were like stars.

"Come here and get warm, you little goat." He was into her bed in a
flash, stocking and all. The tail of a clockwork dog scratched her
shoulder. A few moments later another head appeared round the door, a
little higher up.

"Judy, darling, it's too early, honestly."

"I know, but I heard Toby come in, so I knew you must be awake."

"All right, you can come into bed, but you've got to keep quiet for a
bit. Daddy's still asleep."

And then a third head, higher up still, and Vin's voice, even deeper than
it had been at Long Leave.

"I say, are the others in here? I thought I heard them."

He curled himself up on the foot of his father's bed. And by that time,
of course, Clem was awake too. The old transparent stratagem had worked
to perfection once more: there was nothing for it but to switch on the
lights, shut the windows, and admit that Christmas Day had insidiously
but definitely begun.

The three right hands--Vin's strong and broad, Judy's thin and
flexible, Toby's still a star-fish--plunged in and out of the three
distorted stockings, until there was nothing left but the time-hallowed
tangerine in the toe. (It was curious how that tradition lingered, even
nowadays when children had a good supply of fruit all the year round.)
Their methods were as different as their hands. Vin, with little grunts
of approval, examined each object carefully as he drew it out, exploring
all its possibilities before he went on to the next. Judy, talking the
whole time, pulled all her treasures out in a heap, took a quick glance
at them and went straight for the one she liked best--a minikin nigger
baby in a wicker cradle. Toby pulled all his out, too, but he arranged
them in a neat pattern on the eiderdown and looked at them for a long
time in complete silence. Then he picked up one of them--a big glass
marble with coloured squirls inside--and put it by itself a little way
off. After that he played with the other toys, appreciatively enough; but
from time to time his eyes would stray towards the glass marble, as
though to make sure it was still waiting for him.

Mrs. Miniver watched him with a mixture of delight and misgiving. It was
her own favourite approach to life: but the trouble was that sometimes
the marble rolled away. Judy's was safer; Vin's, on the whole, the wisest
of the three.

To the banquet of real presents which was waiting downstairs, covered
with a red and white dust-sheet, the stocking-toys, of course, were only
an aperitif; but they had a special and exciting quality of their own.
Perhaps it was the atmosphere in which they were opened--the chill, the
black window-panes, the unfamiliar hour; perhaps it was the powerful
charm of the miniature, of toy toys, of smallness squared; perhaps it was
the sense of limitation within a strict form, which gives to both the
filler and the emptier of a Christmas stocking something of the same
enjoyment which is experienced by the writer and the reader of a sonnet;
or perhaps it was merely that the spell of the old legend still
persisted, even though for everybody in the room except Toby the legend
itself was outworn.

There were cross-currents of pleasure, too: smiling glances exchanged by
her and Vin about the two younger children (she remembered suddenly,
having been an eldest child, the unsurpassable sense of grandeur that
such glances gave one); and by her and Clem, because they were both
grown-ups; and by her and Judy, because they were both women; and by her
and Toby, because they were both the kind that leaves the glass marble
till the end. The room was laced with an invisible network of
affectionate understanding.

This was one of the moments, thought Mrs. Miniver, which paid off at a
single stroke all the accumulations on the debit side of parenthood: the
morning sickness and the quite astonishing pain; the pram in the passage,
the cold mulish glint in the cook's eye; the holiday nurse who had been
in the best families; the pungent white mice, the shrivelled
caterpillars; the plasticine on the door-handles, the face-flannels in
the bathroom, the nameless horrors down the crevices of armchairs; the
alarms and emergencies, the swallowed button, the inexplicable earache,
the ominous rash appearing on the eve of a journey; the school bills and
the dentists' bills; the shortened step, the tempered pace, the emotional
compromises, the divided loyalties, the adventures continually forsworn.

And now Vin was eating his tangerine, pig by pig; Judy had undressed the
nigger baby and was putting on its frock again back to front; Toby was
turning the glass marble round and round against the light, trying to
count the squirls. There were sounds of movement in the house; they were
within measurable distance of the blessed chink of early morning tea.
Mrs. Miniver looked towards the window. The dark sky had already paled a
little in its frame of cherry-pink chintz. Eternity framed in
domesticity. Never mind. One had to frame it in something, to see it at


TWELFTH Night was over; the decorations were down; Christmas (which, like
all extremes, dates easily) seemed as demode as a hat in a passport
photograph: and still Mrs. Miniver had not bought herself a new
engagement book, but was scribbling untidy notes on the fly-leaf of the
old one.

As usual, she had meant to buy one before leaving London for Starlings;
but as usual, there hadn't been time. It is a thing, she knew, which must
never be done in a hurry. An engagement book is the most important of all
those small adjuncts to life, that tribe of humble familiars which jog
along beside one from year's end to year's end, apparently trivial, but
momentous by reason of their terrible intimacy. A sponge, a comb, a
tooth-brush, a spectacle-case, a fountain-pen--these are the things
which need to be chosen with care. They become, in time, so much a part
of one that they can scarcely be classed as inanimate. Insensitive,
certainly--but so are one's nails and hair. And although some of them
can be given away if one takes a dislike to them, with others the only
remedy is destruction; and there is no case on record of anybody, however
rich, being strong-minded enough to throw an almost new sponge into the
fire. Meekly, one puts up with its inconvenient shape, its repulsive
texture, and the cretinous face which is discernible among its contours
when it is lightly squeezed. Eventually, thank goodness, it will wear
out; or with any luck one may leave it behind in an hotel.

But an engagement book, once used, is a far worse problem. To give it
away is impossible, to lose it is disastrous, and to scrap it and start a
new one entails a laborious copying out of all the entries that have
already been made. Unless, of course, one is prepared to leave the first
part of the new book blank and risk giving one's biographers--if any--
the impression that one has suffered from a prolonged attack of leprosy.
Or worse.

So it wasn't until well into January that Mrs. Miniver, up for the day
from Starlings to go to the dentist, found herself in a stationer's shop
with enough leisure to give the matter the attention it deserved. She
stopped in front of the rack marked "Diaries" and prepared to enjoy

The first book she picked up was bound in scarlet morocco. Rather nice;
but it turned out to be one of those unnatural affairs which show two
weeks at an opening. A fortnight, she always felt, was an impossible
division of time, relevant neither to God's arrangements nor to man's.
Days were the units which mattered most, being divided from each other by
the astounding phenomenon of losing and regaining consciousness. (How
brave, how trustful people are, to dare to go to sleep!) But a day at an
opening was no good--too much for an engagement book, not enough for a
real diary. A week was what she wanted: a nice manageable chunk of time
with a beginning, a middle, and an end, containing, if desired, a space
for each of the wonders of the world, the champions of Christendom, the
deadly sins, or the colours of the rainbow. (Monday was definitely
yellow, Thursday a dull indigo, Friday violet. About the others she
didn't feel so strongly.)

Of the week-at-an-opening kind, there were only three left. That was the
worst of leaving it so late. One was bound in crimson leatherette, one in
brown calf, and one in green lizardskin. She rejected the leatherette at
once. In a spasm of post-Christmas economy, she had once bought a very
cheap engagement book, and it had annoyed her for twelve months;
everything she put down in it looked squalid. The green lizard, on the
other hand, was marked seven-and-sixpence, which seemed a fabulous price
to pay. She decided on the brown calf, at three-and-nine: a smooth,
pleasant little volume, an honest and sturdy companion for a year's
march. It would wear well; she could not possibly, she knew, take a
dislike to it. She paid, put it into her bag, left the shop and stepped
on to a No. II bus. She would catch the train back to Starlings with
twenty minutes to spare.

Half-way down the Pimlico Road she suddenly pressed the button and jumped
off the bus.

"Forgotten something," she said, smiling apologetically at the conductor.
There was no other bus in sight, so she walked back to Sloane Square as
fast as she could. At this very moment, perhaps, the green lizard-skin
diary was being bought by somebody else--some wholly unsuitable person
who merely wanted to get one in a hurry; a rich, earnest woman who would
fill it with committee meetings, or a business man who would not even
glance at the binding when he opened it to jot down the words "Dine
George." While she herself with all her dearest activities soberly
confined in brown calf, would be thinking about it in an agony of regret.

But it was still there. She produced another three-and-ninepence and bore
it away delighted. After all, the difference was very little more than
the price of a taxi. (But she had to take a taxi to Charing Cross as

In the train she pulled out the little green shining book and entered in
it, from memory, the few and simple appointments which the year had so
far contained. "Meet Clem, 2.27." "Pike-fishing with Vin." "Lunch
Bucklands." "Bridget for week-end." Bare and laconic; yet those first
days had been crammed, like all other days, with feelings, ideas and
discoveries. And so it would go on until the book was complete--a
skeleton map of her year, which to anybody else's eye would convey no
picture whatever of her mental landscape. But she, glancing through it
twelve months hence, would be able to fill in many, though not all, of
the details; how, on the way out from the station, Clem had told her
about the new Gloucestershire job; how she and Vin had seen a heron; how
the Bucklands had given them home-cured gammon with pickled peaches; and
Bridget's fascinating story about her cousin, the threepenny-bit, and the
deaf chimney-sweep.


THE last day of the holidays dawned relentlessly wet. The last day down
at Starlings, that is, which for Vin was what counted. Judy liked London
equally well, and Toby lived in a landscape of his own; but for Vin the
twenty-four hours in London on his way back to school were only a kind of
twilight, with one foot already in the grave. There was always some treat
to mitigate it--the circus, a theatre, or a music-hall; but even this,
enjoyable as it was, had a tinge of the macabre in its glory, like the
pomps and splendours of a funeral feast.

Not that he disliked school; but it had to be regarded, he found, as
another life, to be approached only by way of the Styx. You died on the
station platform, were reborn, not without pangs, in the train, and
emerged at the other end a different person, with a different language, a
different outlook, and a different scale of values. That was what the
stray grown-ups you met in the holidays did not seem to understand when
they asked you the fatuous and invariable question, "How do you like
school?" It was impossible to answer this properly, because the person of
whom they asked it never, strictly speaking, arrived at school at all.

The reverse process--getting back into his home skin--though not in
the least painful, was almost as difficult. For one thing, he had always
outgrown it a little, and, like his home clothes, it had to be adjusted.
Sometimes, before it was a comfortable fit, nearly a week had gone by; he
was almost half-way to the half-way mark--that significant water-shed
beyond which the days raced downhill in a heartless torrent.

However full the children packed them, however early they got up, however
late, by various ruses, they contrived to go to bed, the holidays were
always far too short. There was never time to carry out more than
three-quarters of the plans they made. Some of these--such as building
a tree-hut or exploring the mill-stream to its source--never got
started at all; others they had to leave half done, such as the cardboard
castle which had been lurking for two years in a corner of the boxroom,
roofless, but with a practicable portcullis. Somehow it never seemed
possible to finish things like that during the next holidays. There was
always some newer craze.

This time their main occupation had been fitting up one of the outhouses
like the cabin of a ship, with built-in bunks, straw palliasses, and a
locker full of imaginary charts. (Vin drew the charts, Judy painted them,
and Toby put in the casual dolphins.) But they had also made a brick-kiln
in the kitchen garden and baked in it at least a dozen quite satisfactory
bricks. Not enough to build anything with, it is true, but enough to give
them a reassuring feeling that if they were ever wrecked on a desert
island they would soon be able to run up a house or two: always provided,
of course, that the island had a clay soil. And they had dammed the
stream, and undammed it again; and watched the woodmen cutting and
splitting young chestnuts for palings; and watched the blacksmith, and
the wheelwright, and the man who came to mend the roof; and walked over
to Loddenden to have tea with Old Jane; and had a bonfire, the day Vin
caught a bream, so that they could cook it in the embers, wrapped in wet

For the last day they had made at least six different plans, but they
were all out-of-door ones and it was obvious that they would all have to
be abandoned. The sky was black and sagging, like an old tarpaulin. A big
cross-channel plane was labouring unsteadily southward against the gale,
flying so low that it looked as though it would barely clear the
chimneys. Below the high wooded ridge on which their house stood the
green and silver network of the Marsh lay blurred with rain, its dikes
swollen and many of its pastures already merged in flood.

It had evidently got to be an indoor day. And because it was the last one
they took turns, in order of age, at choosing what to do. Clem, who came
first, chose darts; they played Round the Clock, and Nannie, as usual,
won. Mrs. Miniver chose Letter Bags (a game which is to all other
letter-games as dry-fly fishing is to a string and a bent pin). Nannie,
most popularly, chose toffee-making on the nursery fire; and by the time
that was set aside in biscuit-tin lids to cool, lunch was ready.

Afterwards they took another look at the weather. It was quite hopeless.
The wind, no longer squally, had risen to a steady roar. The trees were
straining, the lawn sodden, the Marsh completely blotted out. Vin chose
charades, and Judy said she had been going to choose dressing up, so they
combined the two; and that, of course, lasted them easily till tea-time.

Next it was Toby's turn. But all he wanted, apparently, and he wanted it
with a consuming urgency, was to be left alone in a corner with eight
elastic bands and an old photograph frame: he said he had had a good idea
at tea. So the rest of them had a concert, with Clem at the piano. They
sang "Camptown Races" and "The Ash Grove" and "Rolling Down to Rio" and
"Alfonso Spagoni" and "Cockles and Mussels" and "A Bicycle Made for Two."
They were going to sing "Home, Sweet Home," but Vin suggested that it
ought to be pronounced "Hume, Sweet Hume," like the surname; and after
that, because they were just in the right mood for silly jokes, they
laughed too much to be able to sing it at all, so the concert came to an

So far as they knew, Toby had been paying no attention. But when the
noise of their own laughter had died away they became aware of a small
reedy voice singing in the far corner, accompanied by a confused
twangling sound. It was Toby, blissfully sweeping the strings of his good

"'Carry me hume'" (he sang) "'to Old Virginny...' Tck! That end
band's come loose again."

When the two younger ones had been taken off to bed, Vin went to the
window and peered out at the dripping garden. The rain had stopped at
last; a few torn clouds were racing past in a clear moonlit sky. But it
was too late now. The holidays were over.


ABOUT once a year Clem rather ruefully suggested, and Mrs. Miniver
reluctantly agreed, that it was about time they asked the Lane-Pontifexes
to dinner.

There was nothing really the matter with the Lane-Pontifexes. They were
quite nice, intelligent, decent people; she was personable, and he was
well-informed: yet for some mysterious reason one's heart sank. Their
company, as Clem said, was a continual shutting of windows. They asked
the Minivers to dinner about every two months; it was impossible, without
being churlish, to get out of it more than three times running; and
eventually, of course, they had to be asked in return. This
acquaintanceship had lasted, neither waxing nor waning, for nearly ten
years, and there seemed to be no particular reason why it should ever
come to an end. Clem said it was part of the white man's burden.

Undiluted Lane-Pontifex was not to be thought of, so they generally made
it an excuse for asking as many people as their dining-room table would
hold, and that meant getting Mrs. Jackman in to help with the washing-up.
On the morning of the dinner-party Mrs. Jackman sent a message to say
that she couldn't come after all, as her mother was queer. So Mrs.
Miniver, fervently wishing that the queerness of Mrs. Jackman's mother
had not happened to coincide with the imminence of the Lane-Pontifexes,
set off in search of a substitute.

She crossed the King's Road, turned up Skelton Street (which is not one
of the streets that Chelsea shows to American visitors), and approached
the towering red-brick jungle which is known as "the Buildings." Among
the branches of this forest, theoretically at any rate, desirable and
efficient charwomen hang in ripe clusters for the plucking; but the
plucking is not so simple. The architectural style of the Buildings is
Late Victorian Philanthropic. Each clump is named after a different
benefactor, and each block in each clump is distinguished by a large
capital letter. Mrs. Miniver entered the maze by the nearest gateway and
then hesitated. She had heard of Mrs. Burchett through a friend, and she
thought her address was No. 23 Platt's Dwellings; but she had reckoned
without the alphabetical factor. She tried No. 23 in D Block, which
happened to be near at hand, and after that she tried No. 23 in Blocks E,
F, and G. But either the inhabitants genuinely did not know Mrs.
Burchett's address, or else some esoteric code forbade them to reveal it.
No. 23 was in every case on the fourth floor; and as she climbed up the
steep stone stairs of Block H Mrs. Miniver felt inclined, quite unfairly,
to blame the whole business on to the Lane-Pontifexes.

This time, however, she was more successful. A large, neat, cheerful
woman came to the door, with her hair piled up on the top of her head
like a whipped cream walnut. Obviously a pearl among charwomen--a
capable pearl. Yes, she was Mrs. Burchett. Yes, she had often worked for
Miss Ducane, and was glad that Miss Ducane had recommended her. Yes, she
would certainly come along this evening and give a hand.

"To tell you the truth," she added with gusto, "I was just wishing
summing like this would turn up. Not that I need to do cleaning at
present, really, Burchett and the boys all being in work. In fact, my son
Len, 'e says I've no business to go out to work at all, when there's
others wanting it more. But there--I don't know whatever I should do if
I didn't. Every now and then I just feel I've got to 'ave a bit of a
fling." She tossed the whipped cream walnut so that it quivered. "Of
course, charing...I suppose it's on'y like clearing up somebody
else's mess instead of your own, but it does make a change, and you do
get a bit of company. Burchett, 'e says, 'You let 'er go, Len, and never
mind the rights and wrongs. Coop 'er up too long, she gets 'ipped. And
goodness knows,' 'e says, 'when your mother gets 'ipped there's no peace
for any of us till she's worked it off summow.'"

She gave a large, good-humoured laugh. Mrs. Miniver liked her more and
more, recognizing in her that most endearing of qualities, an abundant
zest for life. It was rare, that zest, and it bore no relation to age,
class, creed, moral worth, or intellectual ability. It was an accidental
gift, like blue eyes or a double-jointed thumb: impossible to acquire,
and almost impossible, thank heaven, to lose. To be completely without it
was the worst lack of all--and it dawned on her in a flash that that
was what was the matter with the Lane-Pontifexes.

"You'll come at seven, then?"

"I shan't be late," said Mrs. Burchett, beaming reliably. It was evident
that in spirit her sleeves were already rolled up.

Threading her way back between the serried barrows of Skelton Street,
Mrs. Miniver asked herself which of them was right--Burchett or Len.
Economically, Len, of course. But psychologically, Burchett: for pent-up
volcanoes can do almost as much harm in the world as empty purses.

On the hall table there was a telephone message. Mr. and Mrs.
Lane-Pontifex were extremely sorry, but they had both gone down with
'flu. Mrs. Miniver's heart gave a leap, and she immediately felt ashamed
of herself. As an act of penitence she went out to the flower shop and
sent the Lane-Pontifexes a big bunch of jonquils and a note. But nothing
could undo the leap; and as she walked home for the second time, she
reflected what possibilities the evening now held; how many lovely people
there were from among whom they could fill the two empty places--people
whom they really wanted to see, who were merry or wise or comforting or
revealing, whose presence either heartened the spirit or kindled the
mind; people who opened windows instead of shutting them. And she
reflected, also, how many of the most enjoyable parties were achieved by
taking away the number you first thought of.


IT was a Wedgwood day, with white clouds delicately modelled in relief
against a sky of pale pure blue. The best of England, thought Mrs.
Miniver, as opposed to countries with reasonable climates, is that it is
not only once a year that you can say, "This is the first day of spring."
She had already said it twice since Christmas--once in January, when
they had driven across the Marsh to the sea and it had been warm enough
to lie on the sand without a coat; and once in February, when she had
taken the children for a lunch picnic in Kensington Gardens. The grass
had been scattered with twigs from the previous night's gale, and by the
next afternoon it was snowing: but while it lasted that day had been part
of the authentic currency of spring--a stray coin tossed down
carelessly on account.

But this time, she thought (though she knew quite well that one said that
every time), it really was spring. On her way downstairs she paused in
the drawing-room to look at the plane branches which she had picked up on
the Embankment when the men were lopping the trees. She did this every
year, but she could never quite believe her eyes when they actually burst
into bud. It seemed impossible that those neat emerald bobbles, those
velvety, milky-green leaves, should have been implicit in the soot-black
sticks--so much deader-looking than the polished brown twigs of the
countryside--which she had brought in a month ago. She bent closer to
look at one of the newest leaves (it was soft and half-spread, like a
little pointed paw), got a cloud of yellow pollen from the flowers on to
her nose, and went downstairs sneezing.

Outside the air was delicious. She could feel it stroking her face as she
moved through it, but there was no sensation of either warmth or chill.
Walking towards Westminster (she was going to meet Clem for lunch near
his office), she wondered why she found this particular temperature so
charming; and decided that it was because, on a day like this, she came
nearer than usual to losing her sense of separate identity. Extremes of
heat and cold she enjoyed too, but it was with a tense, belligerent
enjoyment. When they beat against the irregular frontiers of the skin,
with all its weak angles and vulnerable salients, they made her acutely
conscious of her own boundaries in space. Here, she would find herself
thinking, is where I end and the outside world begins. It was exciting,
but divisive: it made for loneliness. But on certain days, and this was
one of them, the barriers were down. She felt as though she and the
outside world could mingle and interpenetrate; as though she was not
entirely contained in her own body but was part also of every other
person in the street; and, for that matter, of the thrush singing on a
tree in Eaton Square, the roan dray-horse straining to take up the load
at Grosvenor Place, the cat stepping delicately across Buckingham Palace
Road. This was the real meaning of peace--not mere absence of division,
but an active consciousness of unity, of being one of the mountain-peak
islands on a submerged continent.

Just beyond the entrance to the royal stables she became aware that she
was walking behind, and gradually overtaking, a small, ragged boy. He was
about Toby's size, but probably older. His shorts, even though they had
been hauled well up under his armpits, were still far too long for him,
and they had a big cobbled patch on the seat; his grey jersey was dirty,
skimpy, and threadbare; his legs were spindly, his hair mouse-coloured
and closely cropped. He was not an attractive urchin: but what caught her
eye were his accoutrements. He wore a sword made out of two pieces of
broken lath, hung round his middle with string; his helmet was a brown
paper bag with a pigeon's feather stuck through it and "Brooks's Stores"
printed on it upside-down; and on his left arm he carried a home-made
cardboard shield. His step was jaunty yet purposeful, as though he was
setting off on some secret campaign in which he was confident of victory.
(There were dragons in St. James's Park, she knew, for those who needed
them: she had lived near it herself as a child.)

By the time he reached the front gates of the Palace she had drawn almost
level with him: she could see that the shield was roughly coloured with
red chalk and tied to his arm with a boot-lace. She was about to pass him
when he caught sight of another urchin, similarly equipped, on the
opposite pavement. It was evidently going to be a combined expedition. He
gave a shrill yell of greeting and stepped off the kerb.

"Look out!" cried Mrs. Miniver, grabbing him by the shoulder. A taxi
swerved with screaming brakes and avoided him by perhaps an inch. But the
boy was unimpressed.

"I'm awright," he protested impatiently; shook himself free, and dashed
out again into the road. Mrs. Miniver watched him till he got safely over
to the other side. Then she discovered that her knees were trembling and
that she felt extremely sick. Behind her the sentries stamped and strode,
met, turned, and parted, carrying out with beautiful precision their
antique ritual. Sentries and cardboard shields: parallel gestures, it
seemed, in a world of bombing planes and motor traffic. But perhaps the
making of the gesture was what mattered.

She pulled herself together and walked on. The water, a bright
translucent curve, flowed steadily into the marble basin; the tritons,
nereids, and dolphins gambolled along the frieze; the symbolic bronze
statues held, a trifle sententiously, their heroic poses; and high above
them all the gilt Queen sat calmly in the sun.


THEY went away nearly every week-end, either to Starlings or to other
people's houses, but about once a month they made a point of staying in
London. On Saturday afternoon they would drive down to see Vin at school,
and on Sunday the two younger children would take it in turns to choose a
treat. This time it was Toby's turn, and he chose Hampstead Heath because
he wanted to sail his boat on the pond. Judy wasn't particularly keen on
boats, but her favourite doll Christabel had a new spring coat and she
was quite glad of a chance to take her out in it.

It was a clear, clean, nonchalant kind of day, with a billowy south wind.
The scene round the pond, as they burst upon it suddenly up the hill,
would have made an admirable opening for a ballet--a kind of English
Petrouchka or Beau Danube. The blue pond, the white sails, the children
in their Sunday clothes, the strolling grown-ups, the gambolling dogs,
the ice-cream men (hatched out prematurely by the unseasonable heat)
tinkling slowly round on their box-tricycles--it all had an air of
having been rehearsed up to a perfection of spontaneity. The choreography
was excellent, the decor charming: it remained to be seen whether any
theme would develop.

When they got out of the car Toby discovered that he had left the key of
his motor-boat at home. It was much too late to go back, of course: there
was nothing to be done except wait and see how he would take it. One
never knew, when setting out to comfort Toby, whether to prepare first
aid for a pinprick or a broken heart. He was not yet old enough to be
able to grade his own misfortunes: it is one of the maturer
accomplishments. Fortunately he was in a philosophical mood. He just
said: "oh, well, we can watch the others," and trotted off to the pond
with Clem, his feet beating crotchets against his father's minims.

Mrs. Miniver found a deck-chair and sat down in the sun. Judy walked
about, carrying Christabel rather ostentatiously so that people could see
her new coat. It was really magnificent--pale yellow tweed with a brown
velvet collar and brown buttons. Watching her, Mrs. Miniver wondered
whether the modern unbreakable dolls, which lasted for years, were more,
or less, precious to their owners than the old china ones, whose
expectation of life had been a matter of months. The old ones had had the
agonizing charm of transience: the modern ones held the promise of a
reliable and enduring companionship--you could make plans for their
future, think out their next winter's wardrobe. But it was a silly
problem, after all. For love is no actuary: and a new-born baby was
probably neither more, nor less, treasured three hundred years ago than
it is now, in spite of all our statistics about infant mortality.

The sun was getting quite hot. From where she sat Mrs. Miniver could see
two street orators setting up their flimsy platforms and angling for an
audience. Judging by their clothes and general demeanour she guessed that
the one on the right was Left-wing and the one on the left Right-wing:
but she was too far away to read the wording on their notice boards, and
when they began to speak nothing reached her except a confused gabble,
like a mix-up of stations on the wireless. Seeing Clem and Toby leave the
pond and walk over towards the speakers, she collected Judy and joined
them. As soon as she got near she found that her guess had been wrong:
the right-hand speaker was extreme Right and the left extreme Left. But
how many of their audience, she wondered, would have noticed if they had
got up behind the wrong placards by mistake?

It was hard to take in the sense of what the speakers were saying, so
confusing was the double clamour. But one thing was certain, that the
fabric of both speeches was shot through and through with the steely
tinsel of war. "To combat the forces of tyranny..." one of them
ranted. "To crush down the menace of revolution..." mouthed the other
just as glibly. "Is any sacrifice too great...?" "Which of us would
not willingly lay down...?"

And now, from somewhere behind them, came the sound of a third voice, so
shrill, reedy and raucous that it made itself heard even through the
babel nearer at hand. It seemed only half human, and for a moment Mrs.
Miniver had a sense of nightmare; but as soon as she realized what it was
she grabbed Clem by the arm. "Come on!" she said. "There's a Punch and
Judy!" Clem's face lit up. He hoisted Toby on to his shoulder and they
all four edged their way out of the crowd.

The rest of the morning was pure bliss. For over an hour they stood,
absorbed, while the immortal melodrama unfolded itself before their eyes.
The proscenium was shabby, the properties crude, the puppets battered
almost featureless by the years of savage slapstick they had undergone:
but the performance was superb. The baby yelled and was flung out of the
window; Judy scolded and was bludgeoned to death; the beadle, the doctor,
and the hangman tried in turn to perform their professional duties and
were outrageously thwarted; Punch, cunning, violent and unscrupulous,
with no virtues whatever except humour and vitality, came out triumphant
in the end. And all the children, their faces upturned in the sun like a
bed of pink daisies, laughed and clapped and shouted with delight.

"So what?" said Mrs. Miniver at the end, to Clem.

"So nothing," said Clem, shrugging his shoulders. "It's great art, that's
all. Come on, I'm hungry."


THEY went to Cornwall for Easter, to stay with the Edward Havelocks.

People who didn't know Mrs. Miniver very well, and even some of those who
did, would have found it difficult to believe what a feeling of leaden
oppression always came over her during the last few miles of the approach
to a strange country house visit. If they were arriving in their own car
she could comment on it half-jokingly to Clem, which helped to dispel it:
but if, as now, they had come by train and been met at the station, she
could only watch the back of the chauffeur's neck in dumb dismay, or at
the most make some cryptic reference to her state of mind.

"These modern tumbrils are so fast," she said in an agonized murmur to
Clem as the car swept them all too rapidly towards Penzarron.

"Look!" said Clem. "More standing stones. This place must have been stiff
with Druids." He was not unfeeling, but he thought, quite rightly, that
she ought to have grown out of this by now. Also he knew that her panic
would disappear the moment she set foot in the house, and that she would
most likely end by enjoying herself. Mrs. Miniver knew all this, too, in
her mind, but she could never quite succeed in transferring the knowledge
to the pit of her stomach.

It wasn't shyness: she had never experienced that. She got on easily with
strangers, and there were few things she enjoyed more than that first
tentative groping among wave-lengths, followed--if you were unlucky--
by a Talk on Accountancy, but far more often, thank heaven, by a burst of
music. No, it wasn't shyness. It was more like a form of claustrophobia
--a dread of exchanging the freedom of her own self-imposed routine for
the inescapable burden of somebody else's. She must be prepared to adjust
herself all day to an alien tempo: to go out, to come in, to go to bed,
to sit, to stride, to potter (oh! worst of all, to potter), whenever her
hostess gave the hint. There was always a chance, of course, that the
Havelocks' tempo might turn out to be the same as her own: that they
might hate sitting long over meals; walk quickly or not at all; enjoy
arguments, jokes, and silences, but detest making conversation; and
realize that a day without a chunk or two of solitude in it is like a
cocktail without ice.

There was certainly a chance: but at moments like this it seemed a very
remote one. They had come out on to the coast road now, and Cornwall was
out-postering itself, as usual, with rocky headlands and sandy coves and
fishing villages that spilled themselves down the cliff face like
cascades of mesembryanthemum. The year was older here: the oak-woods were
rounded, cushiony and mustard-gold, the grass under the fruit trees was
already scattered with petals, the cottage gardens were little glowing
squares of rich embroidery. It was being a lavishly lovely spring, almost
frightening in its perfection, as though for some reason it was meant to
be a final performance. "Positively the last appearance on any stage..."
She suggested this to Clem, wondering whether by any chance it had
struck him, too.

"But that's what I feel every spring," said Clem unexpectedly. And I've
known him through seventeen of them, thought Mrs. Miniver, without
knowing that. But it was quite natural really: she had long ago
discovered that whereas words, for her, clarified feelings, for Clem, on
the whole, they obscured them. This was perhaps just as well. For if they
had both been equally explicit they might have been in danger of
understanding each other completely; and a certain degree of
un-understanding (not mis-, but un-) is the only possible sanctuary which
one human being can offer to another in the midst of the devastating
intimacy of a happy marriage.

She saw every relationship as a pair of intersecting circles. The more
they intersected, it would seem at first glance, the better the
relationship; but this is not so. Beyond a certain point the law of
diminishing returns sets in, and there aren't enough private resources
left on either side to enrich the life that is shared. Probably
perfection is reached when the area of the two outer crescents, added
together, is exactly equal to that of the leaf-shaped piece in the
middle. On paper there must be some neat mathematical formula for
arriving at this: in life, none. She breathed surreptitiously on the
window of the car and drew two circles with her finger; but they hardly
intersected at all--a mere moonlight infatuation which would soon peter
out--so she added ears and whiskers and turned them into Siamese-twin
cats. (But would that count, she wondered, as being Siamese cats?) Then
she met the chauffeur's eye in the driving-mirror and hurriedly rubbed
the whole thing out, pretending to peer at the view.

"But it's all right," said Clem, pursuing his own train of thought. "She
always decides to stage another come-back."

"Who? Oh--spring. Yes." But she could not respond with much gaiety, for
they were actually turning in at the gates of Penzarron. This was the
worst moment of all. There was no escape now. In four days' time, she
told herself, they would be on their way back to London, having probably
made several new friends: but somehow this was no comfort to her at all.
At any rate, she thought, clinging to a straw, she had just bought
herself a really grand dressing-gown, the kind one always caught glimpses
of, exquisitely laid out, through other women's bedroom doors. The vision
of it sustained her all the way up the drive between the mountainous
rhododendron combers which never quite broke on top of the car.

And all of a sudden the ordeal was over, and they had arrived, and Leila
Havelock was introducing them to their fellow-guests; and the
tuning-knobs were turning, turning, in broad preliminary arcs, ready for
more delicate adjustment as soon as the first faint throbbing of music
should beat upon the ear.


THE first week-end after the school holidays were over, the Minivers kept
away from Starlings, so as to let Mrs. Downce give the house a thorough
turning out. By the time they went down again it was well into May. A
noticeable change had come over the countryside: it had lost the coltish
uncertain grace of spring and taken on a more poised, though still
virginal, loveliness.

As soon as Mrs. Downce appeared at the door Mrs. Miniver knew, with that
morbid sensitiveness to emotional atmosphere which is common to lovers
and housewives, that something was amiss. She was not sure which of the
two possible types of bad weather the omens portended--the subjective
(or dudgeonly) or the objective (or catastrophic). On the whole, knowing
that it couldn't be anything to do with the children, she hoped that it
would turn out to be the latter. Burst water-mains were so much easier to
deal with than injured feelings. But mightn't it, after all, be something
to do with the children? There might have been a telephone message while
they were on their way down--

"Is everything all right?" she asked in a casual voice, pulling off her

"Well, no, madam, I'm afraid I couldn't hardly say that." Mrs. Downce
paused ominously.

("Oh, come on, you old fool, don't keep me on tenterhooks like this--
which of them is it? Toby? Judy? Vin?) I'm sorry to hear that. What's

"Well, madam, there's nothing what you could call happened, it's just
there's a norrible smell."

Mrs. Miniver nearly laughed out loud with relief.

"Smell? Where?"

"Everywhere, madam. All over the back part of the house, that is. A
norrible smell."

Mrs. Miniver crossed the hall, opened the door which led to the kitchen
premises, and shut it again very quickly.

"Good heavens!" she said. "It's unspeakable."

Mrs. Downce's face bore the triumphant look peculiar to those who,
suspected of hyperbole, are found to have been employing meiosis.

"Downce thinks it's the drains. His mother died of typhoid."

Clem came in from putting away the car.

"Look here, Clem, you ought to know--is this drains, or isn't it?"

"I'm an architect," said Clem, "not a sanitary inspector. Still, I'll
have a sniff--oh, Lord!" He, too, shut the passage door, appalled.

"Me and Downce have been sitting in the library, sir, and cooking on a
spirit lamp. We thought you wouldn't mind."

"Of course not," said Clem. "But why on earth didn't you get in a

"We thought at first it might go off," Mrs. Downce explained. "But when
it got too bad we did ring up Mr. Bateman. But that's three days ago now
--he's putting in a new bathroom up at the Hall, and you know what the
tradesmen are like down here when they're busy. Independent. They don't
care who gets typhoid." She was a Cockney, but had married into Kent; and
the last twenty-five years had only strengthened her conviction that
anywhere outside London was virtually Central Africa.

"Nobody's going to get typhoid," said Clem impatiently, striding over to
the telephone.

"It's Saturday afternoon, sir," Mrs. Downce reminded him with melancholy
relish. "You won't get nobody now till Monday."

"Come on," said Mrs. Miniver, in whom curiosity had at last overcome
squeamishness. "Let's try and find out what it is. It may not be drains
at all. It may be a dead rat under the floor."

"Bore like a dead sheep," said Clem, as, holding their noses, they
proceeded down the kitchen passage.

"Bore like a dead babboth," said Mrs. Miniver. They tracked the smell
past the kitchen, scullery, and larder, until they came to the small
wash-place and cloakroom just inside the garden door, where it seemed to
be at its worst.

"I suppose that beads it bust be draids," said Mrs. Miniver. But Clem,
after looking round suspiciously among the litter of waterproofs,
walking-sticks, nets, rods, and golf-clubs, took down Vin's fishing
haversack from a hook on the wall.

"Bait," he said briefly. "Dab the boy." They carried the haversack out
into the garden and emptied it. Among the floats, leads, and other
paraphernalia there were two tins. The first contained earthworms, the
second lugworms, both in an indescribable state.

"Really," said Mrs. Miniver, "this is a bit much. Such waste, too," she
added. "I helped him dig those lugworms the day we went over to
Dungeness. They took us nearly two hours to get."

Clem's face was grim. He got a spade from the tool-shed and buried the
bait very deep in the kitchen garden. Then he went indoors and wrote a
letter to Vin. From the time it took, and the look of his
shoulder-blades, Mrs. Miniver was afraid that for once in a way he was
being over-stern; but when he leant back in his chair to re-read the
letter she saw that it was profusely illustrated down the margin with his
own particular brand of pin-man picture: so she knew it was all right.
And Mrs. Downce, as she brought in the tea, remarked amiably and with an
air of discovery that boys would be boys. Mrs. Miniver breathed more
freely. The trough of low pressure was already over: it was going to be a
fine week-end.


"WE might get the Danbys," said Mrs. Miniver, looking through her
address-book over early morning tea. Clem's father had just sent them a
salmon, and it seemed a good opportunity to ask a few people to dinner.

"We-ell," said Clem, "I'd love to have Nigel, but I don't feel like
coping with Helen. She yatters."

"What about the Pritchards?"

"There again," said Clem. "Only the other way round. It would be grand to
see Sara again, but Clive'll talk nothing but shop. It's too hot for
Clive. Look--I must go and shave. Call out if you get any other ideas."

Mrs. Miniver put down the address-book and poured out some more tea. As
she did so her eye fell on an article in the newspaper which Clem had
just thrown aside. "Problems of Marriage," ran the title. She glanced
through the first paragraph.

"I am not setting out to decry marriage. Nobody pretends that it is a
perfect institution, but nobody has yet suggested a better one. At the
worst it is seldom quite beyond repair: at the best it can be delightful.
Most married people are neither more nor less happy than they would have
been if they had remained single. They may not be able to go round the
world on a tramp steamer: but there is not that start in the evening when
the coal falls out of the grate."

Good of its kind, she thought; written, at any rate, with more restraint
and a lighter touch than most articles on that well-worn subject: though,
like all the rest of them, it bristled with three-quarter truths. She
would finish reading it later, when she had settled the dinner question.

She applied herself again to the address-book. The Frants? The Palmers?
Really, it was lamentable, the unevenness of most married couples. Like
those gramophone records with a superb tune on one side and a negligible
fill-up on the other which you had to take whether you wanted it or not.
Only in this case you could not simply ignore the vapid backing, but were
forced to play it through to the bitter end exactly the same number of
times as the side which you treasured. How silly it was, this convention
--relaxed a little nowadays but still surprisingly obstinate--that you
must not invite one half of a married couple to dinner without the other.
Even when both were equally charming, she often wished she could ask them
on different days. For in order that the game of dinner-table
conversation may be played to its best advantage, it is essential that
every player should have a free hand. He must be at liberty to assume
disguises, to balance precariously in untenable positions, to sacrifice
the letter of the truth to the spirit of it. And somehow the partner's
presence makes this difficult. She does not, if she is civilized, chip in
with "No, darling, it was Tuesday"; but she is apt to crumble the bread,
and to have a look in her eye. The pronouns, of course, can be reversed,
thought Mrs. Miniver hastily, remembering Clive and Sara.

"Any luck?" said Clem, reappearing.

"No, none whatever. All the couples we owe dinners to are hopelessly

"I wish to goodness," said Clem, "we were as brave as old Lady J. She
simply asks all the nice halves to one party and all the boaks to

"I know. And as often as not she has a cold and cancels the boak party at
the last minute. But anyway, old Lady J.'s a Character. You can't do that
sort of thing unless you're a Character."

"Oh, well, better ask both lots, and then you can talk to Nigel, and I
can talk to Sara, and Helen and Clive can go into a boakish huddle."

"All right," said Mrs. Miniver, shutting up the address-book with relief.
But why, oh why, she wondered, do writers of articles on marriage always
confine themselves to the difficulties which it presents to those who are
actually involved in it, and never mention the problems which it raises
for their friends? To everybody except the protagonists, she thought for
the thousandth time, marriage is nothing but a nuisance. A single person
is a manageable entity, whom you can either make friends with or leave
alone. But half of a married couple is not exactly a whole human being:
if the marriage is successful it is something a little more than that; if
unsuccessful, a little less. In either case, a fresh complication is
added to the already intricate 'business of friendship: as Clem had once
remarked, you might as well try to dance a tarantella with a Siamese

That had been years ago, before they were married; but the phrase had
stuck, and to avoid, so far as their friendships were concerned, turning
into Siamese twins had been one of their private marriage vows. How well,
she wondered, had they kept it? Only their friends could judge: but even
to have been aware of the danger was something.


ALTHOUGH they had driven up to Scotland every summer for fifteen years,
they still felt a little stab of excitement when they came to the
signpost at the top of Finchley Road which pointed to the left and simply
said "The North." It made a kind of chapter-heading to their holiday.

They always started at seven after an early breakfast and shared the
driving between them, changing over every fifty miles or so. This year it
had been Clem's turn to take the wheel first, of which Mrs. Miniver was
rather glad. It meant that during the dreary flat expanse between
Biggleswade and Stamford she would be pleasantly preoccupied with
driving, whereas she would be free, as passenger, to look about her at
the beauty of the next stretch, which lay along the eastern fringe of the
Dukeries. It was an ample, rolling, opulent beauty; Georgian, somehow,
with a suggestion of full-bottomed wigs and old port. A trifle oppressive
to live with, perhaps: but, as a rich dark-green tapestry drawn smoothly
and swiftly past one, very satisfying. At Retford they changed places
again. This landed Mrs. Miniver with Doncaster, the only big town on the
whole route; but after that she had an easy drive across the Plain of
York to Boroughbridge, where they stopped for lunch. The great point was
that Clem now came in for Leeming Lane, a fast fifteen-mile stretch, as
straight as an arrow, which he loved and could do justice to: while she
herself could sit back, enjoying the speed but thankful that she wasn't
at the wheel.

At Scotch Corner they swung off to the left towards Bowes; and this, they
always felt, was where "The North" really began, spiritually if not
geographically. For they were out of the plain at last and climbing up
into a completely different country, a country of small steep tumbled
fields, rough stone walls, crying sheep, skirling plover, and lonely
farm-houses sheltered by clumps of sycamore.

"This," said Clem as they topped a rise, "is where we passed those
gipsies two years ago."

"I know," said Mrs. Miniver. "I was just thinking that. With the skewbald
horse." It was amazing, the number of little memory-flags with which, on
their minds' map, the road was studded. There were dozens of them now,
and every year added a few more. There was one, for instance, near
Colsterworth, where their first car (a two-cylinder roller-skate with
overhead valves and partially exposed viscera, very sweet and willing but
extremely second-hand) had dropped a push-rod; which, after a long
search, they had recovered from the gutter a quarter of a mile behind.
And there was another flag at the point where their third car (a
meretricious black beast of an obscure continental make, the only really
disloyal one they had ever owned) had venomously run a big end, stranding
them for fourteen hours at a tin garage by the roadside. It had rained
nearly the whole day; they had played countless games of piquet on the
top of a packing-case, and Clem had scored repique and capot twice
running. There were flags, too, at all the places where they had ever
stopped to picnic; and one at the place where they had seen a
particularly fine double rainbow; and one at the place where, after
rounding a sharp bend, they had come upon a man in a stationary car
hurriedly removing his false black beard. An enigmatic flag, that, five
years old. They had, of course, lurked in the next side-turning to let
him pass, and then trailed him for miles; but he took the Rotherham fork
at Barnby Moor, so they never discovered whether what they had seen was
the aftermath of a practical joke or part of a real-life Buchan.

They were climbing steadily now; and presently the bones of the earth
began breaking through the grass in rocky scars and outcrops; and higher
still there were no fields at all, but only bare moors. At the summit of
the road, half-way between Bowes and Brough, they stopped, according to
their invariable custom, and got out to stretch, smoke, and enjoy the
view. They were standing on the spine of England, nearly fifteen hundred
feet above the sea. Yorkshire lay behind, Westmorland in front;
Hunderthwaite Moor and Teesdale to the north of them, Stainmore Forest
and Arkengarthdale to the south. The silence, after the monotonous hum of
the car, was almost startling. The air was knife-keen and as fresh as
lettuce. It seemed a far cry from the lush, matronly, full-blown
landscape of the south through which they had set out that morning.
Moving northward in space, thought Mrs. Miniver, they had moved backward
in time; reversed the irreversible, recaptured in late summer the feeling
of spring. By what analogous mental journey, she wondered, what
deliberate pilgrimage of the heart, could one--but she did not pursue
that metaphor: it would give her the slip, she felt, like the man with
the false beard.

Clem finished his cigarette and ground it out carefully with his heel:
the grass was tinder-dry. They got into the car again, conscious that one
of their most cherished flags was now stuck in more deeply than ever.
Mrs. Miniver let the clutch in and set off on the long descent to
Appleby. In the convex driving-mirror she could see, dwindling rapidly,
the patch of road where they had stood; and she wondered why it had never
occurred to her before that you cannot successfully navigate the future
unless you keep always framed beside it a small clear image of the past.


"WELL," said Archie McQuern, knocking out his pipe on the lowest stone of
the dyke and brushing a crumb of pastry off his kilt. "I suppose we'd
better be moving on."

He hoisted himself out of the heather and blew his whistle. Bess, the
young black pointer, leapt to her feet; Duke and Reiver, the two
liver-and-white ones, got to theirs more circumspectly, as befitted their
age and experience. They all three stood looking up at him with their
queer angular faces. It just shows, thought Mrs. Miniver, leaning back
against the dyke and watching her brother-in-law, how careful one ought
to be about what animals one gets mixed up with. Archie, tall, bony, and
chestnut-headed, had been breeding pointers for twenty years and was now
almost indistinguishable from Duke; while Alison, his eldest daughter,
who was black-haired and who helped him to train them, was beginning to
have a distinct look of Bess, especially about the eyes. Oh, well, there
were worse things to look like: at any rate pointers had interesting
faces, more intellectual and less sentimental than those of other
gun-dogs. And she wondered, in passing, whether the narrow jaws and
protruding teeth which are so distressingly prevalent among the English
might not be due less to heredity than to their being encouraged to keep
rabbits in their impressionable youth. Change a nation's pets and you
might change its physiognomy: but she could not think, off-hand, of a
nice prognathous substitute.

"No, thank you," she said, in answer to a question from her
brother-in-law. "I don't think I'll walk the Laosgainn beats--I'll stay
here with Susan and join you again when you're doing the Low Moor."

The morning had been enjoyable but strenuous. Archie never dreamed of
driving until he had had at least a fortnight of the subtler sport of
shooting over dogs, so that the Twelfth at Quern, for onlookers, was not
a ladylike affair of lolling in a grouse-butt with a well-powdered nose.
It entailed a long and stiffish walk, some of it through very deep old
heather. Mrs. Miniver loved it, especially now that she had Vin's
shooting to watch as well as Clem's; but she was always glad enough to
drop out while they did the two steepest beats of all, above the hill

The guns trudged off up the lee side of the dyke. The van, loaded with
empty luncheon-baskets and the morning's bag, blundered away down the
cart-track like a drunken bee. The two women moved over to a little
grassy knoll shaded by rowan trees. The wind had dropped entirely; it was
as hot as one always forgets the Highlands can be. Ben Cailleach and the
other high tops were shimmering. Below, they could see the grey roof of
Quern House jutting out of its fir plantation, with a column of smoke
going up from the kitchen chimney as straight as a wand. Beyond lay the
little strath dotted with haycocks, and beyond that again Judy and Toby
and their two youngest cousins were busily damming the burn. It was good
for them, thought Mrs. Miniver, to be for a time part of a large family,
with the greater complexity, but lower intensity, of its relationships.

She brought her eyes back again from the hazy middle distance to the
near, clear presence of Clem's sister, who had planted her back firmly
against one of the rowans and begun to knit.

"Susan," said Mrs. Miniver, "where did that knitting come from? I swear
you didn't have any on you a minute ago. I believe you materialize bits
of knitting out of thin air, the way conjurers do with lighted

"No," said Susan, "they grow out of my finger-tips, like a thread out of
a spider. As a matter of fact my whole inside is made of wool. One gets
like that, you know, living in the Highlands all the year round."

"The great thing about you," said her sister-in-law, "is that you've
never let it spread from the neck up."

"Oh, well," said Mrs. McQuern elliptically, "there's always Douglas and

Mrs. Miniver lay down on her side to make the colours of the hills
clearer. Across the foreground of her picture was a spray of whin in full
bloom, upon which two chaffinches were swinging. Above them a pair of
white butterflies were weaving quick flirtatious patterns in the air. It
was idyllic--a Chinese painting on silk; an exquisite, peaceful oasis
in a day of organized death.

"It's all very well to talk like that," she said. "But you know you
wouldn't live anywhere else for the world. I believe you're completely
and utterly contented."

Susan chuckled. "Not always. Not when the cook breaks her leg on the
eleventh of August."

"Oh, everybody has catastrophes. The only thing that matters is to be
properly cast, so that you get the kind of catastrophes you can deal
with. I think that's what I meant, more than contented. You're quite
perfectly cast, Susan."

"Bah-hah," said Susan. "So are you, for that matter. I'd hate your sort
of life just as much as you'd hate mine."

"Except for a holiday--yes."

"In fact," said Susan, "it's just as important to marry the right life as
the right person."

Well, no, thought Mrs. Miniver, not quite. But near enough for a hot day,
after lunch. She shut her eyes, taking the Chinese picture with her
inside the lids.

"Listen!" said Susan, presently. "I heard a shot."

Mrs. Miniver opened her eyes again for a moment. Eight white wings lay
scattered on the grass under the gorsebush. The chaffinches were looking
as though butterflies wouldn't melt in their mouths. It was too hot to
work out the moral. She shut her eyes again and went to sleep.


THEY all went over to the Crurie Games, though not all for the same
reason. Archie McQuern went because he thought he ought to, and Susan
went because Archie thought she ought to. The three Miniver children and
the four younger McQuerns went because of the Fun Fair in the next field.
Alison, the eldest, went because the Ardbennie party were sure to be
there, and she knew that Jock Murray was home on leave. Miss Bates, the
English holiday governess, who had never been in Scotland before, went
because her great-grandmother's name had been Gillespie, and the sound of
pipe-music always made her feel pleasantly queer. Clem went because he
would generally rather do things than not, and Mrs. Miniver went because
for some obscure reason she liked watching Highland Games.

"I can't understand it," said her sister-in-law. "I shouldn't have
thought it was your line at all. Just look how you go on about cricket."

But the whole point was, Mrs. Miniver tried to explain, that the Games
weren't cricket. In fact, they weren't games at all, but athletics. There
was no team spirit about, and no holiness and winning of Waterloo, but
only a lot of ordinary men, each one out for himself, trying to run
faster or vault higher or throw a weight farther than any of the others
for the sake of thirty or forty shillings in prize-money and a mention in
the Crurie Herald. It might not be very heroic, but it was agreeably

And beautiful, too, she thought with a lift of pleasure as one of the
vaulters soared smoothly upwards at the end of his banded pole, cleared
an improbable height, and dropped to the ground as lightly as though he
were falling through water. (For some reason, pole-vaulting always gave
the impression that it was being performed in slow-motion.) He was a
lean, lantern-jawed man in a darned sweater and faded blue shorts. He
straightened himself up, strolled back to the starting-point, and pulled
on his trousers. The next-but-one competitor was just taking his off.
They were all completely unconcerned. Miss Bates looked as though she
wasn't quite sure of her ground.

"It must be dreadfully cold for them, poor things," she said at last,
taking the broader view.

It certainly was cold for the middle of August. The occasional gleams of
sun were as unconvincing as a forced smile, and most of the time a bitter
little wind enfiladed the grandstand, sending coat-collars up and hands
into pockets. There was a burst of applause. An announcement boomed out
from the four loud-speakers which clustered back to back like the florets
of moschatel. Mrs. Miniver turned to her brother-in-law.

"What was that? I missed it."

"Heavy hammer," said Archie. "Willie Muir is going to try and break the
ground record. He's the local blacksmith."

Mrs. Miniver touched Miss Bates on the arm and pointed to the farther
side of the field. Muir was a huge man. His chest muscles stood out
through his thin singlet and his kilt was the size of a barrel. He
stepped forward, rubbed his hands, stamped his toes into the ground to
get a firm stance, and gripped the haft of the hammer.

"Good gracious!" said Miss Bates, appalled, as he began to whirl the
hammer round his head and shoulders, slowly at first but with increasing
speed. "Look, there are some people sitting quite close to him--
supposing he let go at the wrong moment?"

Mrs. Miniver had often supposed this, with horrified fascination; but it
never seemed to happen. The hammer was whirling now at a great speed, and
at last Muir swung right round with a kind of grunting groan, and
twenty-two pounds of brute metal flew through the air, landing with a
thump a few feet from the judges. Mrs. Miniver relaxed. There was a storm
of applause. Two men measured the distance with a tape. It was announced
as ninety-four feet--three inches longer than the ground record. The
applause redoubled.

"Well," said Miss Bates, "I suppose that's what they call tossing the
caber. Or is it cabber?"

"Caber," said Mrs. Miniver. "No, that wasn't it, but you'll see it in a
minute, I expect."

Meanwhile several other things were going on in the picture which was
framed by the heather-trimmed pillars of the grand-stand (stuck here and
there, incongruously enough, with dahlias). The competitors were just
assembling for the 600 yards handicap, looking, as runners so often do
before a race, like the criminal line-up in a gangster film--to be
transformed by the starter's pistol into Greek gods. In another corner of
the field a pair of wrestlers were interlocked in one of the more
intimate holds of the catch-as-catch-can style. Miss Bates looked away
rather quickly. The quadruple loud-speaker was announcing that the
lantern-jawed man had won the pole-vaulting with a height of ten feet
nine inches. In the far distance the steam organ of the roundabout was
playing, sweetly and puffily, "My Lily of Laguna." And on the wooden
platform in front of the grand-stand two men in full Highland dress were
poised for a sword-dance. One of them was small and spare, with light
eyes, like Alan Breck. He wore the striking black-and-yellow of the
MacLeods; there was a sprig of juniper in his bonnet. The second was
younger and taller. He was wearing a dark greenish tartan, and his lips
were parted all the time in an almost imperceptible smile.

The pipes struck up their sharp thrusting rhythm, drowning the faint
noises of the fair-ground. The two men danced neatly and vigorously, with
a passionate precision. Their pointed soft-shod feet twinkled unerringly
between the crossed blades and scabbards, in and out and over and round,
going through the old intricate ritual with which their forebears had
woven themselves a cloak of security on the eve of battle. But now, if
toe touched steel, it would mean only the forfeiting of prize-money, not
a chill in the heart at the certainty of impending death.

The younger man, as nimble as a cat for all his height, was still smiling
a little as he danced. The Alan Breck one was flashing like a wasp in his
black-and-yellow. The music began to quicken intolerably for the final
steps: and Mrs. Miniver saw the rest of it through a mist. For I defy
anyone, she thought in self-defence, to watch a sword-dance through to
the end without developing a great-grandmother called Gillespie.


"WHERE on earth is Vin?" asked Mrs. Miniver. The car was standing at the
door of Starlings, ready to take them all back to London. The
luggage-boot was filled to overflowing with the well-known paraphernalia
of a nursery flit: even Clem's genius for stacking had been unable to
make it look like anything but a cubist cornucopia. Clem was in the
driving seat; Nannie was at the back, with Toby on her knee and Judy
sitting close up beside her to make room for Vin. But Vin himself was
nowhere to be seen.

"Wretched boy," said Clem amiably. "I told him what time we were

"He went off on his bike directly after breakfast," said Judy, "to fetch
his knife. He left it over at Pound Mill yesterday when he was fishing."

"He may have come in through the garden door," said his mother. "Mrs.
Downce, you might go and see if he's in the kitchen, and I'll try the

She went back into the house. It had already begun to acquire that
out-at-grass, off-duty look which houses get as soon as their owners go
away; it was quite obviously preparing to take off its stays and slip
into something loose.

The day nursery was empty, but around it, like a line of salt wrack, lay
unmistakable traces of the children. As they grew older the flotsam of
the holidays, without diminishing in quantity, changed a little in
character. There were fewer stones and pieces of wood, though Toby still
collected flints with holes through them and sticks which had been
spirally grooved by honeysuckle. On the other hand there were now things
like empty cartridge-cases (spent by Vin on rabbits and retrieved by Toby
for use in a vast chess-like game which he played, by himself, on the
squares of the nursery linoleum); and on the edge of the windowsill lay
some bright shreds of wool, silk, and tinsel, some broken feathers, and
the clamp-marks of a small vice. Vin, the evening before, had been tying
flies; having run out of proper materials, he had had to fall back on the
contents of the toy-cupboard, and with great ingenuity he had produced
something which looked at first sight like an Alexandra, but which was
really, he admitted, a Red-Indian-and-Gollywog.

Of Judy the traces were less conspicuous: her activities were mostly
personal and required little gear. But just occasionally she too was
bitten with the boys' mania for making things, and when that happened she
got it badly. A few days ago, someone had described in the "Children's
Hour" how to make a reed-pipe out of a jointed wheat-stalk, or, failing
that, out of a drinking straw with a blob of sealing wax at one end. The
farms immediately round Starlings were all pasture and hops: so she
begged a packet of straws from Mrs. Downce and used up every one of them.
To make the vibrating tongue was fairly easy, but to space the six
finger-holes so as to get a sol-fa scale proved to be a matter of trial
and error, exasperating to herself and excruciating to her hearers. She
cut her left hand and burnt her right one. The floor became littered with
small square chips of straw: there was one now, lurking under the table.
Every half-hour or so there would be heard a tentative tweedling cadence,
full of quarter-tones and other exotic intervals; then a sigh as she
snipped off the unsuccessful part of the pipe and threw it away. (The top
half she thoughtfully preserved as a squeaker for Toby.) Just before
bed-time the next day she managed to produce a pipe on which, by
overblowing a little on the la, she could give a recognizable rendering
of "Drink to Me Only."

As it happened, that day had been for the grown-ups one of great tension
and anxiety, with the threat of war hanging like a leaden nimbus in the
air. And Mrs. Miniver had drawn a curious comfort from watching Judy's
small intent face, bent hour after hour over her delicate and absorbing
task. International tempers might flame or cool; the turning kaleidoscope
of time might throw mankind's little coloured scraps of belief into new
patterns, new ideologies; but the length of the vibrating column of air
which, in a tube of a given calibre, would produce C natural--that was
one of the fixed things. And it wasn't the fault of the scientists, was
it, if the people for whom they made the pipes chose to play dangerous

She went back to the car, and at the same moment Vin appeared from the
direction of the bicycle-shed, very much out of breath.

"Sorry," he said shortly, and scrambled into place beside Judy. Mrs.
Miniver got in too. The car moved off through winding lanes towards the
arterial road. It was certainly a heart-breaking day on which to leave
the country. It was warm and yet fresh; blindfold, one could have
mistaken it for a morning in early May: but this kind of day, she
reflected, had a more poignant loveliness in autumn than in spring,
because it was a receding footfall, a waning moon. The woods were just
beginning to turn, the different trees springing into individuality
again, demobilized from the uniform green of summer. There had been a
heavy dew. From the row of fires in front of the hop-pickers' huts the
smoke rose blue and pungent. The hops were nearly all in, the stripped
bines lay tumbled and tangled on the ground. One campaign at least was
over without bloodshed.


CLEM had to go and get his gas mask early, on his way to the office, but
the rest of them went at half-past one, hoping that the lunch hour would
be less crowded. It may have been: but even so there was a longish queue.
They were quite a large party--Mrs. Miniver and Nannie; Judy and Toby;
Mrs. Adie, the Scots cook, lean as a winter aspen, and Gladys, the new
house-parlourmaid: a pretty girl, with complicated hair. Six of them--
or seven if you counted Toby's Teddy bear, which seldom left his side,
and certainly not if there were any treats about. For to children, even
more than to grown-ups (and this is at once a consolation and a danger),
any excitement really counts as a treat, even if it is a painful
excitement like breaking your arm, or a horrible excitement like seeing a
car smash, or a terrifying excitement like playing hide-and-seek in the
shrubbery at dusk. Mrs. Miniver herself had been nearly grown-up in
August 1914, but she remembered vividly how her younger sister had
exclaimed with shining eyes, "I say! I'm in a war!"

But she clung to the belief that this time, at any rate, children of
Vin's and Judy's age had been told beforehand what it was all about, had
heard both sides, and had discussed it themselves with a touching and
astonishing maturity. If the worst came to the worst (it was funny how
one still shied away from saying, "If there's a war," and fell back on
euphemisms)--if the worst came to the worst, these children would at
least know that we were fighting against an idea, and not against a
nation. Whereas the last generation had been told to run and play in the
garden, had been shut out from the grown-ups' worried conclaves: and then
quite suddenly had all been plunged into an orgy of licensed lunacy, of
boycotting Grimm and Struwwelpeter, of looking askance at their cousins'
old Frulein, and of feeling towards Dachshund puppies the uneasy
tenderness of a devout churchwoman dandling her daughter's love-child.
But this time those lunacies--or rather, the outlook which bred them--
must not be allowed to come into being. To guard against that was the
most important of all the forms of war work which she and other women
would have to do: there are no tangible gas masks to defend us in
war-time against its slow, yellow, drifting corruption of the mind.

The queue wormed itself on a little. They moved out of the bright, noisy
street into the sunless corridors of the Town Hall. But at least there
were benches to sit on. Judy produced pencils and paper (she was a
far-sighted child) and began playing Consequences with Toby. By the time
they edged up to the end of the corridor Mr. Chamberlain had met Shirley
Temple in a Tube lift and Herr Hitler was closeted with Minnie Mouse in
an even smaller rendezvous.

When they got into the Town Hall itself they stopped playing. Less than
half an hour later they came out again into the sunlit street: but Mrs.
Miniver felt afterwards that during that half-hour she had said good-bye
to something. To the last shreds which lingered in her, perhaps, of the
old, false, traditional conception of glory. She carried away with her,
as well as a litter of black rubber pigs, a series of detached
impressions, like shots in a quick-cut film. Her own right hand with a
pen in it, filling up six yellow cards in pleasurable block capitals;
Mrs. Adie sitting up as straight as a ramrod under the fitter's hands,
betraying no signs of the apprehension which Mrs. Miniver knew she must
be feeling about her false fringe; Gladys's rueful giggle as her
elaborate coiffure came out partially wrecked from the ordeal; the look
of sudden realization in Judy's eyes just before her face was covered up;
the back of Toby's neck, the valley deeper than usual because his muscles
were taut with distaste (he had a horror of rubber in any form); a very
small child bursting into a wail of dismay on catching sight of its
mother disguised in a black snout; the mother's muffled reassurances--
"It's on'y Mum, duck. Look--it's just a mask, like at Guy Fawkes, see?"
(Mea mater mala sus est. Absurdly, she remembered the Latin catch Vin had
told her, which can mean either "My mother is a bad pig" or "Run, mother,
the pig is eating the apples.")

Finally, in another room, there were the masks themselves, stacked close,
covering the floor like a growth of black fungus. They took what had been
ordered for them--four medium size, two small--and filed out into the

It was for this, thought Mrs. Miniver as they walked towards the car,
that one had boiled the milk for their bottles, and washed their hands
before lunch, and not let them eat with a spoon which had been dropped on
the floor.

Toby said suddenly, with a chuckle, "We ought to have got one for Teddy."
It would have been almost more bearable if he had said it seriously. But
just as they were getting into the car a fat woman went past, with a
fatter husband.

"You did look a fright," she said. "I 'ad to laugh."

One had to laugh.


"--AND a Welsh rabbit," said Mrs. Miniver. "Vin'll be spending the night
here, and he likes that. Why, Mrs. Adie, what's the matter?"

"It's nothing, madam," said Mrs. Adie, fumbling in vain for a
handkerchief and finally wiping her eyes on her apron. "It's only, it's
so nice to be back to normal again." A wintry smile re-established itself
on her thin lips; she went out of the room, sniffing. It was the first
sign of emotion she had shown since the Crisis began.

Back to normal. No, thought Mrs. Miniver, standing by the window and
looking out into the square, they weren't quite back to normal, and never
would be; none of them, except perhaps Toby. He was at an age when
shapes, colours, and textures still meant more to him (as they do to some
people throughout life) than human relationships. Therefore, his treasure
was safe: there would always be warm moss and pink shells and smooth
chestnuts. But the rest of them--even, to a slight degree, Judy--
would never be exactly the same again. Richer and poorer, but not the
same. Poorer by a few layers of security, by the sense of material
permanence, by the conviction, when planting a bulb, that one would
pretty certainly be there to see the daffodil in flower. But richer by
several things, of which the most noticeable was a quickened eyesight. On
the drive up from Starlings, a casual glimpse through the window had
reminded her of De La Mare's "Fare Well":--

    May the rusting harvest hedgerow
    Still the Traveller's Joy entwine
    And as happy children gather
        Posies once mine.

And when things grew really serious--when Clem had gone off with his
Anti-Aircraft Battery, and Vin had been sent up to Quern, and the
children's day school had been evacuated to the west country, and the
maids had gone down to Starlings to prepare it for refugees, and she
herself, staying at her sister's flat, had signed on as an ambulance
driver--during all the rather grim little bouts of staff-work which
these arrangements entailed, she had been haunted day and night by the
next two lines of the same poem:--

    Look the last on all things lovely
    Every hour...

For even if none of them was killed or injured, and even if their house
did not, after all, attract one of the high-explosive bombs intended for
the near-by power station, yet these possibilities had been abruptly and
urgently mooted: and they had found themselves looking at each other, and
at their cherished possessions, with new eyes. Small objects one could
send to the country--a picture or two, the second edition of Donne, and
the little antelope made of burnt jade; others, like the furniture, one
could more or less replace: but one couldn't send away, or replace, the
old panelling on the stairs, or the one crooked pane in the dining-room
window which made the area railings look bent, or the notches on the
nursery door-post where they had measured the children every year. And
these, among their material belongings, were the ones that had suddenly
seemed to matter most.

Another thing they had gained was an appreciation of the value of
dullness. As a rule, one tended to long for more drama, to feel that the
level stretches of life between its high peaks were a waste of time.
Well, there had been enough drama lately. They had lived through seven
years in as many days; and Mrs. Miniver, at any rate, felt as though she
had been wrung out and put through a mangle. She was tired to the marrow
of her mind and heart, let alone her bones and ear-drums: and nothing in
the world seemed more desirable than a long wet afternoon at a country
vicarage with a rather boring aunt. A mountain range without valleys was
merely a vast plateau, like the central part of Spain: and just about as
exhausting to the nerves.

The third and most important gain was a sudden clarifying of intentions.
On one of the blackest evenings of all several of their friends had
dropped in to listen to the news and exchange plans. Among them were
Badgecumbe, the old bio-chemist, and a young man called Flint, who wrote
poetry and rather neat essays. When Mrs. Miniver switched off the set on
a note of gloom they sat for a few moments too stunned to speak. Then
Johnny Flint said:--

"I suppose that play of mine won't get written now. I've been talking
about it for years. Oh, God. Nothing but a slim vol. and a bunch of light

And old Badger said in a tired growl from the depths of his armchair:--

"At least you'll still be young, Johnny, if you come through it at all.
But I wish I'd left all the small stuff and concentrated on the I.P.

"I know," said Mrs. Miniver. "I haven't got a pen like you, Johnny, or a
laboratory like Badger. But there were a lot of things I wanted to do,
too, that seemed fairly important. Only one never got around to them,

"'Time's winged chariot,'" said Johnny bitterly. "It's caught us up this
time all right."

"Looks like it," said Mrs. Miniver. "But if by any miraculous chance it

Well, it hadn't, after all. As she turned away from the window the date
on her writing-table calendar caught her eye. Just a year ago, she
remembered, she had stood at that same window putting the summer away and
preparing to enjoy the autumn. And here she was again: only this time it
wasn't chrysanthemums she was rearranging, but values.


MRS. Miniver left the committee meeting about four o'clock in a mood
half-way between exasperation and despair. The subject (a privately run,
rather Utopian scheme connected with slum clearance) had fired her
imagination when she had first heard of it: but why, she wondered,
leaving the Comfreys' ample portico behind her and crossing over into
Regent's Park, why must Pegasus always be harnessed to a dray, with a
ham-handed cretin at the reins? By what mismanagement, what mistaking of
bulk for importance, of bonhomie for goodwill, had a project like this
been saddled with Lord Comfrey as chairman? And how could it succeed, if
the meetings were always to be held in that moss-carpeted mausoleum of a
house, at that smug post-prandial hour? If I had my way, she thought,
walking very quickly so as to create a wind past her temples, I'd arrange
the scene of every conference to suit its subject: and this particular
committee ought to meet in a damp basement bedroom in Shoreditch, sitting
on upturned soap-boxes. Rats, blackbeetles, and all.

She decided to go to the Zoo. It would be a relief to her feelings. As
she passed the still open trenches she caught sight of old Badgecumbe
standing among a little knot of sightseers, his vast head bent, his eyes
hidden as usual beneath jutting, grizzled brows.

"Badger! You, rubber-necking?"

"I've been working with pyridine all day, and I need a breath of air."

"So do I. Not pyridine--people. I was just going to do a Whitman. Why
not come too?"

Badger nodded towards the trenches. "Woolley and the rest of 'em dig to
uncover past civilizations. We dig to bury our own."

"I hear they're going to roof them in and put flower-beds on top."

"Very suitable," said Badger drily. "To remind us, I suppose, that 'this
flower, safety,' is still growing in pretty shallow soil."

"Come mee-yer, Alf-ay!" A woman standing at the foot of a gravel
mountain beckoned with peevish urgency to her child. "You'll fall in and
break your neck, and serve you right. And besides," she added, "you'll
get them new boots in a muck."

"'I'm the King of the Castle,'" chanted the urchin from the topmost

"I'll give you Castle..." She breasted the foot-hills briskly. But her
son had already slithered to the ground on the other side, and was
bearing down upon some new sightseers with outstretched palm.

"This wye to the trenches, lidy. Penny to show you round..."

"I think perhaps you're right," said Badger, taking Mrs. Miniver's arm.
"It'll be a relief to go and look at creatures who only behave
grotesquely because they can't help it."

"Let's choose the funniest," said Mrs. Miniver. "The mandrills. And the

They made their way towards the main entrance of the Zoo.

"On second thoughts," said Badger, "we'll go straight to the echidna. You
know the echidna?"

"I've seen its cage, but it's never been actually on view."

"It wouldn't be. It's nocturnal; but we'll get them to rout it out. It's
worth seeing, as a horrible warning. Zaglossus bruijnii. My unfavourite
of God's creatures. If indeed it is one, which I sometimes doubt."

There was no gainsaying Badger. Mrs. Miniver relinquished her hopes of
the brilliant, sneering mandrills, the gentle, bowing, improbable
giraffes. But she liked the Small Rodent House, anyway. It contained
three of the most engaging animals in the Zoo--the Indian Fruit Bat,
which was like a doll's umbrella; the Golden Hamster; and, best of all,
the Fat Sand Rat.

But Badger marched her straight past these to the low cages at the end.
The keeper opened the door of the sleeping-hutch; and there, huddled in
one corner, was what looked like a sack-shaped lump of clay about two
feet long. On closer investigation, however, it proved to be covered with
short, sparse, dirty-white spines; and between the spines there was some
coarse greyish-brown hair. The keeper reached over and lifted it out of
the hutch by one hind leg. ("It's the only way," Badger explained.
"There's no other approach to an echidna.") The under-side of the
creature was even less attractive than its top view. It had tiny pig's
eyes, squeezed tightly shut. Its face, almost non-existent, was extended
into a pipe-shaped snout, so long and thin that it looked far more like a
tail than did the short spatulate appendage at the other end of its body.
Through this snout, which it kept pressed down against its belly in a
vain attempt to curl up, it emitted a prolonged, petulant hissing. As
soon as the keeper put it down it hunched itself back into its corner
again, squirming with distaste for light and activity.

"Of course," said Mrs. Miniver, trying to be fair, "I suppose it's more
lively at night."

"Not much," said the keeper. "Waddles out just far enough to get its
food, then back it goes."

("Habitat: West End," murmured Badger.)

"Sucks it in through that snout. No teeth."

"Tell me," said Mrs. Miniver, "I see it's been here for a good many
years: have you ever managed to get up any affection for it?"

"Not much," said the keeper, apologetically. "It's just about alive, and
that's all you can say for it."

"Let's get out of here," said Badger abruptly. "It's as bad as pyridine.
Besides, that animal gives me the horrors."

"It's certainly not pretty," said Mrs. Miniver.

"Pretty? It's criminal. It's what's been peopling half the world. Lowest
sub-class of mammal. Barely alive. The incarnation of accidie."

"Accidie? oh, yes--one of the seven deadly sins."

"The only deadly one," said Badger. "Well, here we've all been. Some of
us less than others, but all of us to a certain extent. No vision. No
energy. No discrimination. Spiritual monotremata."

Mrs. Miniver had often noticed that when Badger got worked up his
sentences grew shorter and his words longer. They stepped out into the
fresh autumn sunshine.


LOOKING up casually in the middle of writing a letter, Mrs. Miniver saw,
through the back window of the drawing-room, something that she had never
consciously seen before: the last leaf being blown from a tree. One
moment it was there, on the highest bough of all, wagging wildly in the
wind and the rain. The next moment it was whirling away across the roof
tops, a forlorn ragged speck. The line of its flight was the arabesque at
the end of a chapter, the final scroll under the death-warrant of summer.
Once more the lime-tree stood bone-naked.

So that was that: and a good thing, too. At first, like most people, Mrs.
Miniver had enjoyed the amazing spell of warm weather which had lasted
throughout October and most of November. It had been pleasant and
comforting; it had helped to heal the scars which the last fortnight of
September had left behind. But later, as day after day broke close and
windless, and night after night failed to bring any refreshing chill, she
began to feel oddly uneasy. The year, now, seemed like an ageing woman
whose smooth cheeks were the result, not of a heart perennially young,
but of an assured income, a sound digestion, and a protective callousness
of spirit. Out of those too-bright eyes there looked, now, not
youthfulness, but infantilism; and the smile which accompanied the look
was growing a little vacant.

Therefore, it had been a great relief when, a few days before, the
weather had broken with a spectacular gale. The old beautiful painted
aristocracy of the leaves, already tottering, had fallen in a night,
overthrown by outward pressure and inward decadence. What remained were
the essential masses of the tree, bare and sober, with a workaday beauty
of their own. Through them, after a while, the sap would rise into a new
aristocracy, which would flourish until it, too, had lost its freshness;
and then fall. There is no other way, it seems, in a deciduous world.
True evergreenness does not exist: the word is only another term for the
ability to overlap the old with the new.

By the time she had finished her letter (which was a long one to Vin) the
rain had nearly stopped, though the gale was as strong as ever. She put
on a mackintosh and struggled up the square to the pillar-box. Outside
the little newsagent's the evening paper placards were flapping under
their wire grids like netted geese. The lower half of one of them had
been folded upwards by the wind, hiding everything except the word
"JEWS." Mrs. Miniver was conscious of an instantaneous mental wincing,
and an almost instantaneous remorse for it. However long the horror
continued, one must not get to the stage of refusing to think about it.
To shrink from direct pain was bad enough, but to shrink from vicarious
pain was the ultimate cowardice. And whereas to conceal direct pain was a
virtue, to conceal vicarious pain was a sin. Only by feeling it to the
utmost, and by expressing it, could the rest of the world help to heal
the injury which had caused it. Money, food, clothing, shelter--people
could give all these and still it would not be enough: it would not
absolve them from the duty of paying in full, also, the imponderable
tribute of grief.

She turned down the next street towards the river. It was Nannie's day
out and she was going to fetch the children from school. The Royal
Hospital, with bare straining trees in front of it and black flying
clouds behind, stood sombrely magnificent, a fitting backcloth for the
latest tragedy of the world. And here, perhaps, she thought as she
battled along St. Leonard's Terrace under the lee of the wall, was a clue
to the uneasiness which she had felt at the lingering on of summer. All
the associations of November, the traditional flotsam left upon its shore
by the successive tides of history, went ill with halcyon weather. It was
the wind-month, the blood-month, Brumaire, the month of darkness: its
sign was the evil scorpion, who, when surrounded by a ring of fire, was
said to sting itself and die of its own poison. It was ushered in by the
Vigil of Saman, Lord of Death, by the witches and warlocks of Hallowe'en.
A later tide had left a later mark--the ritual bonfires of Guy Fawkes'
Day, round which children still stood in primitive excitement, their
innocent eyes reflecting unconsciously the twin flames of sadism and
fire-worship. This year, down at Starlings, the farmer's children next
door had made an extra large bonfire, and for the Guy's face they had
used a mask representing the wicked Queen out of Disney's "Seven Dwarfs,"
which Joey Iggulsden had bought at the village shop. This blend of two
nursery ideologies, three hundred years apart, had particularly appealed
to Clem. It showed, he said, that children had an inborn knowledge that
evil was evil, irrespective of time or place: but Vin said it only showed
that Joey Iggulsden had a sense of humour. Anyway, it had been a grand
bonfire, of a terrifying heat and redness. Mrs. Miniver had tried for a
few moments to treat the scene as a reality, and had found herself
wondering whether there was any cause or conviction in the world for
which she would have the courage to go to the stake. She could think of
several for which she would make the attempt: but, as the effigy lurched
forward suddenly from the waist, with forked flames writhing out of its
sleeves like burning fingers, and its painted leer crumpling up in the
heat, she shuddered, and admitted humbly enough that she herself would
probably recant at the crackling of the first twig.

However, nobody nowadays was burnt at the stake. The unfortunate ones of
the world were subjected to a more lingering torment, and the fortunate
ones were merely condemned to watch it from a front seat, unwilling
tricoteuses at an execution they were powerless to prevent. The least
they could do was not to turn away their eyes; for with such a picture
stamped upon the retina of their memory they would not be able to lie
easy until they had done their best to ensure that it could never happen
again. But it was going to leave yet another ineffaceable watermark on
the bleak shores of November.

When she reached the Embankment she met the full force of the gale, and
exulted in it. Yes, this was the kind of weather that the events of the
world called for: a wild, dark day, suitable for a wild, dark mood. From
the two tall chimneys of the power station the smoke streamed out
horizontally, a black banner and a white one. The river was at the
three-quarter flood. It looked like a battlefield, water and wind meeting
angrily in a thousand small hand-to-hand contests. But in an hour or so
the tide would turn.


NEW Year's Eve was the only day of the year on which Mrs. Adie really
unbent. Christmas she held to be of little account, though she cooked the
turkey and the mince-pies faithfully enough and took a benign interest in
the children's presents. Boxing Day made her, if anything, more
tight-lipped than usual, for on that day the Minivers were in the habit
of eating a "June dinner" as a respite from Christmas food: a practice
which Mrs. Adie looked upon as unnatural and faintly sacrilegious. There
was a no-good-can-come-of-this expression on her face as she served up
the clear soup, the fish mayonnaise, and the summer pudding (made of
bottled currants and raspberries); but up till now nobody had so much as
choked on a fish-bone.

On New Year's Eve, however, Mrs. Adie always invited the whole family
into the kitchen for a Hogmanay tea. There were scones and oatcakes and
shortbread and rowan jelly; and a Melrose sponge-cake sent down by her
brother, and a Selkirk bannock sent down by her sister; and in addition
to all these she managed to provide a constant supply of fresh
drop-scones all through the meal. She let the children take turns in
pouring spoonfuls of batter on to the hot girdle, and in watching each
little sizzling yellow pool go beautifully brown round the edges. She
even let Gladys make a few, on condition that she gave up her regrettable
Sassenach habit of calling them "flapjacks."

After tea came an even greater treat--the fortune-telling. Clem and Vin
pushed the table back, and they all settled down round the kitchen fire,
while Mrs. Adie produced a large iron saucepan, seven bowls of cold
water, and a box full of pieces of lead which she had somehow collected
during the past twelve months from various sources, such as plumbers and
roof-menders. (At this time of year Vin always took care to lock up the
cupboard in which his sea-fishing tackle was kept: he was afraid that
Mrs. Adie might have her eye on the weights.)

While the lead was still melting in the saucepan the children were
allowed to peer over it and watch. But when all the dull grey lumps had
dissolved into a pool of liquid silver Mrs. Adie made everybody move back
to a safe distance. Then she arranged the seven bowls of water in a row
on the hearth, pulled on a pair of old leather gauntlets, lifted the pan
off the fire, and poured a generous dollop of lead into each bowl. The
noise it made as it entered the water was peculiar, and rather
frightening--something between the crack of a pistol-shot and the hiss
of an angry swan. Toby always blocked his cars and stood very close to
Clem; and Gladys, who was new to this ceremony, gave a shrill "Oo!" and
retreated into the scullery.

"C'm mout o' there," said Mrs. Adie contemptuously. "It'll not hurt you.
If you run from your lead you'll run from your luck."

Obedient to the power of rhythm and alliteration, Gladys came back.
Marvellous, thought Mrs. Miniver, the way almost any Scot, in almost any
situation, can coin a phrase which has the authentic ring and cogency of
an ancient proverb.

And now Mrs. Adie knelt down on the hearth, took off her gloves, fished
the bright silvery "fortunes" out of the water, and began to interpret
them. The lead had hardened into the most fantastic shapes: shapes like
groups of statuary, like fern-fronds, like intricate machinery, like
outstretched wings, like gnarled olive-trees. To the uninitiated, they
might have meant anything or nothing; but Mrs. Adie--helped, it is
true, by a pretty close knowledge of her hearers--contrived to give
each of them a detailed and appropriate meaning.

"My word now!" she would say, speaking to Judy but at Clem, because it
was easier that way, "look at all these fine new houses your daddy's
going to be architecting. And one of them's got a terrible tall tower to
it--aye, it'll be a kirk he's to build next, sure enough." And then, to
Vin: "Here's you with a fishing-rod in your hand and a great big fish on
the other end of it and a wheen more o' them lying round about your feet.
Oh, it's going to be a grand year for the fishing, and no mistake." And
to Toby: "Now there's two wee wheels in this one, as plain as plain.
That'll be that bicycle you're wanting for your birthday, my lamb...
And whatever's this I can see in yours, Nannie? My lands! I believe it's
a wedding-cake!"

"It's no such thing," said Nannie primly. "It's a nice big new
work-basket, that's what it is. Just the thing I need, with the amount of
stockings they all manage to wear out down here."

"Well, well, we'll see," said Mrs. Adie darkly. "Wedding-cake or
work-basket, what will be will be, and one thing leads to another."

There she goes again, thought Mrs. Miniver with an inward chuckle. Rhythm
and alliteration: the phrase-makers always get the last word. She herself
was sitting in a big wicker armchair at one side of the range. She had
drawn back a little because of the heat, and from where she sat, half in
shadow, the scene looked wonderfully theatrical. Mrs. Adie, with a flush
on her high cheek-bones and her usually neat hair quite dishevelled, was
reaching forward to fish out Judy's "fortune"; and, opposite, the six
fire-fit faces were awaiting, with varying degrees of credulity, her next
pronouncement. It didn't much matter, after all, whether the fortunes
came true, or whether anybody believed in them; what mattered was that
here at least was one small roomful of warmth and happiness, shut in by
frail window-panes from a freezing, harsh, and inexplicable world. All
one could do was to be thankful for moments like these. During the next
twelve months, perhaps, the remaining odds and ends of their civilization
would have been tipped into the melting-pot; and not even Mrs. Adie--

But she became aware that her own fortune had just been told out of the
seventh bowl and that she had not heard a word of it.

"Thank you so much, Mrs. Adie," she said with a smile, taking the cold,
queer-shaped lump of metal on to her palm. So far as she could remember,
it was almost exactly the same shape as the one she had had last year. So
that was all right: for herself, she could think of nothing better.


IT was Judy's birthday. For some reason, her presents this year included
an unusually large proportion of money. There were several postal orders,
a half-crown or two, a ten-shilling note from Clem's father, and
fourpence-halfpenny from Toby, who had bought her a purse as a present
and thoughtfully put into it everything that he happened to have got
left. Altogether it came to nearly thirty shillings, which was an
unprecedented amount.

Judy had long ago discovered that the chief problem about spending
present-money was to choose between quality and quantity; between the
satisfaction of buying something really worth while, far beyond the scope
of her weekly allowance, and the excitement of returning home with an
armful of smaller parcels: so she had worked out a form of compromise
which she called Crust and Crumb. This time she decided to lay out about
fifteen shillings on Crust, in the shape of a new doll, and to spend the
rest later on Crumb. So the day after her birthday she persuaded her
mother to come on a shopping expedition.

The choice of a doll, Judy found, was unexpectedly difficult. They were
things you didn't usually get a chance to choose for yourself: they
arrived as presents, chosen for you by other people, and you had to get
to know them and love them as they were. But when you saw rows and rows
of them together it was almost impossible to be sure which you liked
best. She explained this to her mother.

"You see, it would be so awful to pick the wrong one. I mean, suppose you
could have gone and bought me in a shop instead of just having me; you
might have made a mistake and chosen Marigold Thompson instead."

Mrs. Miniver's mouth twitched. She couldn't somehow imagine herself
choosing Marigold Thompson. A nice child, but pudding-faced.

"Well," she said, "I like Marigold."

"Oh, so do I. But what I mean is, she wouldn't have done for you. And
what's more," pursued Judy, "Marigold's mother wouldn't have done for
me. At all." she added with conviction.

"Why don't you like Marigold's mother?" asked Mrs. Miniver. "She's always
very kind to you. And she's frightfully fond of children."

"Oh, I know. She told me so. But you see, when people are frightfully
fond of children you never know whether they really like you or not, do

Mrs. Miniver felt a quick glow of sympathy. It was exactly what she had
so often thought about the boringness of the sort of man who "likes

"And besides," Judy went on, "she makes such a Thing about everything, if
you know what I mean."

Mrs. Miniver knew only too well. She had been at school with Marigold's

"And do you happen to know," she asked, "what Marigold thinks of me?"

"Oh, she likes you," said Judy. "She says you leave people alone."

Mrs. Miniver cast her mind back, trying to remember whether she and her
contemporaries had discussed one another's parents so freely and with
such perception. Not till much later, she felt sure--fourteen or
fifteen, perhaps; at Judy's age one had more or less taken them for
granted, comparing them only in degree of strictness. And to discuss them
with one's own parents would have been quite impossible: horizontal
divisions were far stronger in those days than vertical ones. Perhaps the
psychologists were right, and the "child mind"--that convenient
abstraction--matured earlier nowadays. On the other hand, she herself
had outgrown dolls by the age of nine, and here was Judy, at eleven,
buying a new one.

One thing was certain: the ultra-modern dolls, with felt features
realistically modelled, had no appeal for Judy at all. Mrs. Miniver,
quite early in the expedition, had pointed one of them out. "Look, it's
exactly like a real child--isn't it lovely?"

"Oh, no!" said Judy with unexpected vehemence. "I don't like it at all.
You see, it's not in the least like a real doll." And she turned away
again to the ringlets, the huge eyes, and the tiny rose-bud mouths. It
was odd, thought her mother: dolls, which had begun by being crude
imitations of men and women, had ended by developing a racial type of
their own; and now apparently they could not stray from this without
becoming less lovable.

Judy eventually managed to narrow her field of choice down to two--a
blonde in blue silk and a brunette in pink organdie; but between these
she was quite unable to decide. "Better toss up," said her mother at
last. They tossed with Toby's halfpenny, and the blonde doll won. Judy
stood staring at the two open boxes, her eyes round with surprise.

"Mummy, how extraordinary! I thought I liked them both exactly the same,
but now I know for certain it's the dark one I want. Have you ever
noticed that about tossing up?"

"Often," said Mrs. Miniver, smiling. She remembered with what
astonishment, in her own childhood, she had stumbled upon that particular
piece of knowledge; and reflected once more how much of the fun of
parenthood lay in watching the children remake, with delighted wonder,
one's own discoveries.


"QUITE comfortable?" asked Mr. Hinchley when he had played his usual
little overture upon the various pedals and handles of his adjustable

"Quite, thank you," said Mrs. Miniver. Horribly, she felt inclined to
add. For really it was the refinement of civilized cruelty, this spick,
span, and ingenious affair of shining leather and gleaming steel, which
hoisted you and tilted you and fitted reassuringly into the small of your
back and cupped your head tenderly between padded cushions. It ensured
for you a more complete muscular relaxation than any armchair that you
could buy for your own home: but it left your tormented nerves without
even the solace of a counter-irritant. In the old days the victim's
attention had at least been distracted by an ache in the back, a crick in
the neck, pins and needles in the legs, and the uneasy tickling of plush
under the palm. But now, too efficiently suspended between heaven and
earth, you were at liberty to concentrate on hell.

"A lit-tle wi-der," said Mr. Hinchley indulgently, dividing the words
into separate syllables as though he were teaching a very small child to
read. He was a kind, brisk, blond young man who smelt (thank heaven) of
nothing except rather good shaving-soap. Mrs. Miniver obeyed meekly and
resigned herself to the exquisite discomfort of the electric drill. It
was a pity, she felt, that this instrument had been invented during a
period when scientific images in poetry were out of favour. To the
moderns, who had been brought up with it, it was presumably vieux jeu.
They took it for granted; it did not fire their imagination like the
pylons and the power-houses which were now the fashionable emotive
symbols. But oh, what Donne could have made of it, if it had been
invented in his time! With what delight he would have seized upon it,
with what harsh jostling and grinding of consonants he would have worked
out metaphor after metaphor, comparing its action to that of all the
worst tormentors of the heart: to jealousy, to remorse, to the sharp
gnawing of a bad conscience and the squalid nagging of debt.

"Are you quite all right?" Mr. Hinchley inquired solicitously.

"Eye aw eye," said Mrs. Miniver. Oh, quite all right. Grand. I love it.
This is just my idea of the way to spend a fine afternoon in early
spring. For early spring it undoubtedly was, even though there might be a
chunk of late winter still to come. Although they were not yet in bud.
the bare trees outside Mr. Hinchley's window had a quickened, bloomy look
like the expression on the face of somebody who has just had a good idea
but has not yet put it into words; and the sky behind them was as
clearly, flatly blue as the sky in an aunt's water-colour. Mrs. Miniver
kept her eyes focused as long as possible upon the far distance, hoping
that they would take her other senses with them. But they didn't. The
drill was too insistent. So presently she brought them back and cast a
reproachful spaniel-glance upwards at Mr. Hinchley, which he was too much
absorbed to see. She devoted the next few minutes to making a slow,
dispassionate study of his left eyebrow, which was a good enough shape as
eyebrows go; and then decided that nothing but a deep romantic love could
make the human face tolerable at such close quarters.

The far and the near having both failed her, she explored the middle
distance: the embossed plaster patterns on the ceiling; the round, white
lamp--an albino moon--which hung between her and the window; the
X-ray machine; the sterilizer; the glass bowl on her left with the
tumbler of pink mouth-wash beside it; and on her right the large
composite fitment, so absurdly like a porcelain snowman, out of which
burgeoned, among other things, this insufferable, this inescapable, this
altogether abominable drill.

"Don't forget," said Mr. Hinchley brightly, "you can always switch it off
yourself if it gets unpleasant."

"Ank," said Mrs. Miniver. Gets unpleasant...Understatement could be
carried too far. She felt with her forefinger for the small cold knob on
the right arm of the chair, which would, if she pressed it, silence the
monster at once. This, at any rate, was a humane provision which did not
exist in the case of jealousy and the other tormentors. But so far as
Mrs. Miniver was concerned it might just as well not have been there, for
she had never yet been able to bring herself to use it. Something always
held her back--some vague blend of noble and ignoble motives, of pride
and masochism and noblesse oblige and the Spartan Boy and Kate Barlass
and a quite unreasonable feeling of hostility towards the white-veiled,
white-coated young woman who hovered all the time behind Mr. Hinchley
waiting for him to say "Double-ended spatula" or "Pink wax." There was
nothing whatever wrong with Miss Bligh, who was civil, decorative, and
efficient: but somehow her presence made the use of the merciful switch a
psychological impossibility.

And now, at last, Mr. Hinchley turned off the drill of his own accord.

"Finished?" asked Mrs. Miniver with a hopeful, lopsided smile.

"Afraid not. But I thought you'd had about as much as you could do with.
I'd better give you a local."

Miss Bligh, as though by prestidigitation, suddenly held a syringe
between her scarlet finger-tips. She could just as easily, Mrs. Miniver
felt, have produced a billiard ball, a white rabbit, or an ace-high
straight flush. The prick of the injection was sharp, but its effect was
magical. In an instant the left-hand side of her face ceased to belong to
her. She put up one finger and stroked her cheek curiously. It was like
stroking somebody else's; and therefore it was, tactually, like seeing
herself clearly for the first time. Not in a mirror, where the eyes must
always bear the double burden of looking and being looked into; but from
outside, through a window, catching herself in profile and unawares.

Oh! page John Donne, she thought again impatiently. Run, buttoned
cherubim, through the palm lounges and gilt corridors of heaven, turning
his name (as is your habit) into a falling, drawling dissyllable.
"Meess-tah Dah-ahnne...Meess-tah Dah-ahnne..." And tell him that
there are at least two poems waiting to be written in Mr. Hinchley's
surgery. Miss Bligh will hand him a pen.


AS she walked past a cab rank in Pont Street, Mrs. Miniver heard a very
fat taxi-driver with a bottle nose saying to a very old taxi-driver with
a rheumy eye: "They say it's all a question of your subconscious mind."

Enchanted, she put the incident into her pocket for Clem. It jostled, a
bright pebble, against several others: she had had a rewarding day. And
Clem, who had driven down to the country to lunch with a client, would be
pretty certain to come back with some good stuff, too. This was the cream
of marriage, this nightly turning out of the day's pocketful of memories,
this deft habitual sharing of two pairs of eyes, two pairs of ears. It
gave you, in a sense, almost a double life: though never, on the other
hand, quite a single one.

She found herself involuntarily rehearsing her pebble as she walked. "It
was pure New Yorker. Just as I went past, the fat one said to the old
one..." And then it would be Clem's turn: "There was a superb horsy man
there, like a prawn with a regimental tie. He said: 'What I always say
is, there's gone in the wind and--er--gone in the wind.'" And then
she could bring out Mary's engagement, heard of by telephone after Clem
had left the house; and the joke which Toby had made on the way to
school; and, best of all, a beautiful saga about the woman who had sat
next to her at lunch. Mrs. Miniver had not heard her name at all, but if
she had invented her she would have called her Burfish. Lady Constance
Burfish, probably: or perhaps Mrs. Charles Burfish would be subtler.
Anyway, it appeared that she lived in Gloucestershire: where did Mrs.
Miniver live? In London, but they had a small house in Kent.

"In Kent? How nice," said Mrs. Burfish. Her tone conveyed that Kent was
not quite out of the top drawer.

The talk turned, inevitably, on to the evacuation and billeting of
children. Mrs. Miniver said they had offered to take six at Starlings, or
more if the Government would provide enough beds to turn the oast-house
playroom into a dormitory.

"Wonderful of you," said Mrs. Burfish. "But, you know, a small house is
rather different. I mean, one doesn't expect--does one?--to keep up
quite the same standards..."

Mrs. Miniver, whose standards of comfort, like Clem's, were almost
reprehensibly high, mentally compared the compact warmth of Starlings
with some of the bedrooms she had occupied in large country houses. But
she said nothing: she did not want to interrupt what promised to be an
enjoyable turn.

"Of course," went on Mrs. Burfish (no, she would have to be Lady
Constance after all), "I was perfectly civil to the little woman they
sent round. In fact, I felt quite sorry for her. I said: 'What an
unpleasant job it must be for you, having to worm your way into people's
houses like this.' But you know, she didn't seem to mind. I suppose some
people aren't very sensitive."

"No," said Mrs. Miniver, "I suppose not."

"And I said to her quite plainly, 'If there's a war you find me only too
willing to do my duty. But I cannot see the point,' I said, 'of tying
oneself down publicly beforehand and upsetting the servants.'"

What luck I do have, thought Mrs. Miniver gratefully. She had, of course,
read about this kind of thing in the papers, but a friend of hers who had
helped with the billeting survey had assured her that it was mercifully
rare. So that now, face to face--or rather, elbow to elbow--with an
authentic example of it, she was filled with the same sense of privileged
awe which had overcome her when, emerging suddenly from a painful
encounter with a juniper thicket in Teesdale, she had once seen a
startled woodcock unmistakably carrying off its young between its feet.
Looking, fascinated, at Lady Constance, she almost felt that she ought to
write a letter to The Field. Moreover, Lady Constance seemed bent upon
giving good measure. For she went on:--

"And, of course, I said to her before she left: 'Even if the worst does
come to the worst, you must make it quite clear to the authorities that I
can only accept Really Nice Children.'"

"And where," Mrs. Miniver could not restrain herself from asking, "are
the other ones to go?"

"There are sure to be camps," said Lady Constance firmly.

The talk swung in the opposite direction. A few minutes later Mrs.
Miniver heard Lady Constance's other neighbour, who bore one of the
famous Norfolk surnames, saying politely: "In Gloucestershire? How nice."

Kent was avenged.


"THE worst of gardening," said Mrs. Miniver, lying along one of the upper
boughs of an apple-tree and reaching out to snip with a satisfying crunch
through a half-inch-thick bramble, "is that it's so full of metaphors one
hardly knows where to begin."

"I know," said Clem from the ground below. He severed the root of the
bramble with a billhook and began to haul it down hand over hand like a
rope. "This is a prize one. It must have been about thirty feet long when
it was whole."

They had just bought the tiny white weather-boarded cottage on the far
side of Starlings Wood, which had been standing empty ever since old
Parsloe, the hurdle-maker, had died there a year ago. For at least two
years before that he had been almost bedridden, so that the little garden
and orchard had become a wilderness. The Minivers had bought it partly
because they were afraid that Bateman, the local builder, might get hold
of it first and spoil it, and partly because, having made Starlings as
nearly perfect as they could, they were both filled with a restless
longing for new material: a state of mind which is as natural in the
sphere of house-property as it is in that of human relationships, but
which those who do not share it are apt to mistake for inconstancy. Of
this there was no question, for they both adored Starlings and would not
have exchanged it for any other house in England: but just at the moment
they were frankly enjoying a pretty shameless flirtation with old
Parsloe's cottage. When it was finished, as Clem said, they would
probably marry it off to one of their friends; in the meanwhile it was
the making of the Easter holidays. They came over with the children
nearly every day, working indoors when the weather was bad, and out of
doors when it was fine: painting and whitewashing and carpentering and
digging and weeding and planting, without too deeply inquiring why, and
for whom, they were doing it.

Beyond the potato-patch, close under the high-banked hedge which
separated the garden from Carter's Lane, there stood three apple-trees.
These, during the last few years, had been stealthily but steadily
invaded by an army of brambles. Some had pressed downwards from the bank
in a solid phalanx, smothering the hinder branches almost to death;
others had thrust upwards from the ground, looping themselves over the
topmost boughs and falling to take root again on the other side, so that
the trees were bound to the earth with criss-cross cords, like haystacks
on a windy headland. The job of rescuing them--combining as it did all
the most attractive features of a crusade and a demolition contract--
was one which the Minivers particularly enjoyed. Constructive destruction
is one of the most delightful employments in the world, and in civilized
life the opportunities for it are only too rare. Also, a bonfire is
always fun; and here was an excellent excuse for the children to keep one
going all day and every day, piling it high with Clem's big
bramble-faggots and roasting potatoes (very unevenly) in the intervals.
As for Mrs. Miniver herself, she only regretted that circumstances had
never before led her to discover that the way to spend the spring was up
an apple-tree, in daily intimacy with its bark, leaves, and buds. In
early spring, as in the early years of children, there are times when the
clock races, the film runs in swift motion, and the passionate watcher
does not dare to glance away for fear he should miss some lovely and
fleeting phase. The present week was one of those times. She looked, and
the buds were as tightly, rosily clenched as a baby's fist; she looked
again, and they were half uncurled. To-morrow they would be nearly open;
the next day, perhaps, in full bloom, like those of the pear-tree on the
other side of the garden, which towered up in the sunlight as tall,
rounded and dazzling as a cumulus cloud.

"Time for beer," said Clem, and went into the cottage to get it.

Mrs. Miniver stuck her secateurs into her belt and disposed herself more
comfortably among the branches. She was determined not to come down to
earth before she need; if possible, never. Peering downwards through the
young leaves, she could see Toby making an elaborate entanglement with
twigs and cotton over some newly sown grass. He trod on the seeds a good
deal, because his soul was bent on getting the pattern of the network
symmetrical. Vin and Judy were eating potatoes and racing snails up the
gate-posts. In the field beyond, two lambs--the only living creatures
which never fail to come up to expectation--were authentically
gambolling. Their whiteness rivalled the pear-blossom's. The smoke of the
bonfire drifted, blue and sweet, across the potato-patch. An invisible,
indefatigable blackbird went on saying "Doh-mi!" from somewhere on the
other side of Carter's Lane; he had made this remark so many hundreds of
times every day that they were all beginning to ignore it.

Clem, coming out of the cottage, paused for a moment to take a critical
look at what they had done.

"We've made a lot of difference to-day," he said, as he handed her glass
up to her through the branches. "One is really beginning to see the shape
of the trees."

"I suppose," said Mrs. Miniver between gulps, "the brambles would try to
make out that the apple-trees had been practising encirclement."

"That reminds me," said Clem. "We ought to be getting home pretty soon
if we don't want to be late for the news."


"PROFESSOR Badgecumbe has just telephoned to say that he is very sorry
indeed, but he can't get back for another twenty minutes." Behind his
secretary's air of apology crouched a protecting tigress, ready to spring
if Mrs. Miniver showed the least sign of vexation. To Miss Perrin Badger
was a god, and luncheon guests whom he kept waiting had no right whatever
to complain. The privilege of knowing him ought to be enough for them.

"It doesn't matter in the least," said Mrs. Miniver, who rather agreed
with her. "I'm sure he must have been unavoidably detained."

"I'm sure he must." The tigress relaxed, mollified.

Unavoidably detained my foot, thought Mrs. Miniver. He had probably been
messing about in his laboratory and had simply forgotten the time; or
else he had been struck by a brilliant new idea in the Tube and had been
carried on to the terminus. She knew this perfectly well, and so did Miss
Perrin, and each knew that the other knew it. But they both loved Badger:
so the Professor was unavoidably detained, and Mrs. Miniver sat down to
wait in his study.

As a matter of fact she was glad. She had been living for several weeks
through one of those arid stretches of life which lie here and there
between its more rewarding moments; where there is neither nobility nor
gaiety, neither civic splendour nor country peace, but only allotments
and rubbish-tips, the gasworks on one side and a row of dilapidated
hoardings on the other. As a rule she managed to keep household matters
in what she considered their proper place. They should be no more, she
felt, than a low unobtrusive humming in the background of consciousness:
the mechanics of life should never be allowed to interfere with living.
But every now and then some impish poltergeist seemed to throw a spanner
into the works. Everything went wrong at once: chimneys smoked, pipes
burst, vacuum-cleaners fused, china and glass fell to pieces, net
curtains disintegrated in the wash. Nannie sprained her ankle, the cook
got tonsilitis, the house-parlourmaid left to be married, and the
butterfly nut off the mincing-machine was nowhere to be found.

At such times, she knew, you must just put on spiritual dungarees and
remain in them until things are running smoothly again. Every morning you
awake to the kind of list which begins:--Sink-plug. Ruffle-tape.
X-hooks. Glue...and ends:--Ring plumber. Get sweep. Curse laundry.
Your horizon contracts, your mind's eye is focused upon a small circle of
exasperating detail. Sterility sets in; the hatches of your mind are
battened down. Your thoughts, once darling companions, turn into club
bores, from which only sleep can bring release. When you are in this
state, to be kept waiting for half an hour in somebody else's house is
nothing but the purest joy. At home the footstool limps, legless,
thirsting for its glue; the curtain material lies virginally unruffled;
the laundry, unconscious of your displeasure, dozes peacefully at Acton:
while you yourself are free. Yet you have not played truant: truancy has
been thrust upon you, thanks to the fact that elderly professors so
obligingly live up to their reputation for absent-mindedness.

She leant back in Badger's armchair and prepared to let her mind stray
wherever it liked. But it had got into spiritless habits, like a dog
which has been kept on a lead, and for several minutes it would do
nothing but potter about sniffing at the kind of object it had grown
accustomed to. There was a handle, it informed her, missing from Badger's
desk; the bookcase had a cracked pane, and the glass finger-plate on the
door was hanging by a single screw. Look here, said Mrs. Miniver, haven't
I had enough of this sort of thing lately? Run away and bring me
something interesting. That's what any decent mind ought to do for its
owner when she lets it off the leash--just go bounding away into the
long grass and bring back a really profound thought, laying it at her
feet all furry and palpitating. C'mon, now. Hey los'!

Her gaze wandered to the floor. The hearth-rug was an old Khelim strip,
threadbare but still glowing. Its border was made up of a row of small
lozenges, joined by their acute angles. Beginning on the extreme left,
she let her eye run idly along this row, naming the colours to herself as
she came to them. Blue, purple, red. Blue, purple, re--but here she was
checked, for the second red was different from the first. So she had to
begin again. Blue, purple, scarlet. Blue, purple, crimson. Blue, purple,
sc--, but here was yet a third red, which made the first one look almost
orange. Blue, purple, flame, then. Blue, purple, crimson. Blue, purple,

And this, it occurred to her, is one of the things that make life so
difficult. The linked experiences of which it is composed appear to you
one at a time; it is therefore impossible to gauge their relative
significance. In how much detail ought you to notice each one before it
slips into the past? Will "red" do, or must you cudgel your brains for a
more exact description, hesitating between claret and magenta, vermilion
and cardinal? This grief, that joy, this interview, that relationship,
this motor-smash, that picnic--can you weigh it up once for all and
assign to it a fixed position in your scale of memories, or will you
sooner or later be forced to take it out again and reclassify it? This
dusty and tedious little patch of time--could she safely label it
"drab" and have done with it, or would she find herself one day living
through a period so relentlessly subfusc that this present lozenge would
seem, by contrast, gay?

The door opened and Badger came in. His beard arrived first, his eyebrows
next, then the rest of his vast yet twinkling bulk.

"I'm afraid I'm a little late," he said. It was five minutes past two.


"WATER-RAT," said Vin, jerking his head in the direction of the bank. His
mother looked round just in time to see the bright eyes and sleek furry
body before it disappeared behind a clump of reeds.

"Oof!" said Clem. "Let's take it a bit easier. You're in training and I'm
not. I'd forgotten how far it was to Aunt Hetty's by river."

"It's only about a mile now," said Vin, slacking off a little. Mrs.
Miniver, lying back and trailing one hand in the water, wondered what Vin
thought of, consciously or subconsciously, when he said the word "mile."
Probably the stretch of road between the house and the village at his
grandfather's; that was where they had spent most of their summer
holidays when he was small, before they bought Starlings. "It's just a
mile to the post office," somebody was certain to have said in his
hearing: so that from then onwards, for the rest of his life, all his
miles would be measured against that one. Judy's private mile, most
likely, was the cart-track through the fields from Starlings to Brickwall
Farm--her favourite walk. Toby's might be this, too, eventually, but
Toby was not yet mile-conscious. He still measured his distances by true
and not by artificial reckoning: he knew quite well that Brickwall Farm
was a long way off when you were tired and no distance at all when you
weren't. It was the same with time. "Ten minutes," for Mrs. Miniver
herself, would always mean the length of the mid-morning break in her
lessons with her first governess; and "an hour" was the formal time after
tea in her grandmother's drawing-room, in a clean frock and sash.

Aunt Hetty was sitting in her summer-house at the water's edge, knitting
a sock and keeping a look-out for them. They moored the boat at her
little landing-stage and stepped ashore.

"My dears! Lovely to see you," said Aunt Hetty, rolling up her wool and
impaling the ball on her needles as though she was skewering a piece of
mutton to make a shashlik. "Come along--we're having tea in the

"In the strawberry-bed?"

"Yes. It's a new idea that occurred to me last time Vin was here. You
know how much better they always taste when you eat them straight off the
plants? Only the drawback is, there's never any cream and sugar. So I
thought, why not take the cream and sugar under the nets with us? We
tried it, and it's a capital plan. I can't imagine why I never thought of
it before." She took Vin's arm and led the way across the lawn. The
others followed, exchanging telegraphically, with a smile, their amused
affection for Aunt Hetty. Glorious woman: nobody else would have had an
idea like that--or rather, nobody else would have put it seriously and
efficiently into practice, complete with table, chairs, silver tea-pot,
and cucumber sandwiches. She had even had the nets heightened on poles to
give more head-room.

When tea was over, Vin took Clem off to show him the place where he had
hooked (but lost) a monster trout the week before. With any luck, he
said, it might still be there.

"Sure to be," said Clem. "I don't mind betting it's the same one I used
to see. They're immortal, these Thames trout."

Mrs. Miniver and Aunt Hetty strolled down to the summer-house again.

"My supply of great-nephews is running low," said Aunt Hetty, unskewering
the shashlik. "Margaret's youngest boy leaves at the end of this half,
and then I shall only have Vin. And when he leaves, I suppose there'll be
a two years' gap before Toby comes."

"I'm afraid so. Although from a financial point of view that's rather a

Aunt Hetty snorted.

"From an aunt's point of view it's unpardonable. Between the lot of you,
you ought to have arranged things better. What on earth d'you think I'm
here for, I should like to know?"

To be a pattern and example to all aunts, thought Mrs. Miniver; to be a
delight to boys and a comfort to their parents; and to show that at least
one daughter in every generation ought to remain unmarried, raise the
profession of auntship to a fine art, and make a point of having a house
within the five-mile limit, preferably between Boveney and Queen's Eyot.

Aunt Hetty threw a piece of cake to a swan. She always brought some down
for them after tea.

"Not that I like swans," she admitted. "But they're one's neighbours, and
I think it's best to keep in with them."

"I know. Conceited brutes. They always look as though they'd just been
reading their own fan-mail."

It was not long before the others came back. They had seen the trout, and
Clem swore that it had looked up and given him a leer of recognition.

"We'll have to be going," said Vin regretfully. "There isn't a Queen's
Eyot Absence to-day, worse luck."

Looking back as they rounded the next bend of the river, they could see
Aunt Hetty still waving good-bye to them, sock in hand, the sun glinting
on her needles.

It had been a lovely afternoon, thought Mrs. Miniver as they moved
smoothly downstream between the low green banks. In most parts of England
this was the season of the year that she liked the least--this ripe,
sultry time when the trees were no longer jade but malachite, and the
hedges looked almost black against the pale parched fields. In the
country round Starlings, especially, spring was the real apex of the
year. Summer was bathos, degringolade: one waited longingly for autumn,
which would bring back colour and magic. But in this sort of landscape,
high summer was the perfect time. Here, the grass of the water-meadows
was fresh, cool, and green; the steady onward sweep of the river, the
quivering reflections in its depths and the play of light on its surface,
gave movement and variety, so that one felt none of that brooding
stillness which mars July in unwatered countrysides. Even the rank and
ramping vegetation of summer (such a come-down, in most places, after the
delicate miraculous experiments of spring) seemed here to be superbly
appropriate, like large jewellery on a fine, bold, handsome woman. Down
by the water's edge there were coarse clumps of comfrey and fig-wort,
hemp agrimony and giant dock; on the banks, a tangle of vetch and
convolvulus, moon-daisies, yarrow, and bedstraw; while from higher up
still came the heavy, heady sweetness of elder flowers.

"Gosh!" said Vin suddenly, after a long spell of silence. "Long Leave's
the end of next week. This half seems to have gone most frightfully

"Summer halves do," said Clem.


THE conversation at dinner had been so heated that by the end of it Mrs.
Miniver had developed mental, moral, and physical indigestion. Teresa
Frant, usually a brilliant mixer of unlikely human ingredients, had
experimented for once a little too boldly. Or perhaps (for one never knew
with Teresa) she had done it out of mischief. She had never had any use
for her rich diehard sister-in-law Agnes Lingfield; but if she really
wanted to bait her she could have chosen a more effective, because less
far-fetched, opponent than little Neish. For in addition to the personal
antipathy which had struck almost visible sparks from their finger-tips
at the moment of introduction, these two people were so irrevocably
separated by race, class, age, sex, religion, politics, and cast of mind
that it seemed absurd to classify them both as human beings. The Zoo
authorities had clearly put one or the other of them into the wrong cage.
Therefore the argument which had sprung up between them during dinner had
ended by being not so much a duel as a brawl: and while duels with food
are both entertaining and eupeptic, brawls are neither.

It began by Lady Lingfield turning to Neish and saying through impalpable
lorgnettes, "I hear you're one of these Layba people: I've always
wondered what it feels like to be a Socialist." To which Neish replied
with savage dryness: "Mebbe ye'd better j'st try it some time and see?"
Oh dear, oh dear, thought Mrs. Miniver; from that moment on she resigned
herself to a headache, and got it. Silly of Teresa. She herself, if
Teresa had asked her to, could have battled with Agnes far more
effectively, because from a closer range. But between a woman who thought
that for her kitchenmaid to use face-powder was the beginning of
Bolshevism, and a man who believed that the 30-mile speed limit was the
thin end of the Totalitarian wedge, there could be no useful interchange
of ideas.

Besides, Mrs. Miniver was beginning to feel more than a little weary of
exchanging ideas (especially political ones) and of hearing other people
exchange theirs. It's all very well, she reflected, when the ideas have
had time to flower, or at least to bud, so that we can pick them
judiciously, present them with a bow, and watch them unfold in the warmth
of each other's understanding: but there is far too much nowadays of
pulling up the wretched little things just to see how they are growing.
Half the verbal sprigs we hand each other are nothing but up-ended
rootlets, earthy and immature: left longer in the ground they might have
come to something, but once they are exposed we seldom manage to replant
them. It is largely the fault, no doubt, of the times we live in. Things
happen too quickly, crisis follows crisis, the soil of our minds is
perpetually disturbed. Each of us, to relieve his feelings, broadcasts
his own running commentary on the preposterous and bewildering events of
the hour: and this, nowadays, is what passes for conversation. For once
in a way Mrs. Miniver felt glad when her hostess, with a scythe-like
sweep of the eye, mowed down the women and carried them off (unprotesting
Sabines) to the drawing-room. Agnes Lingfield, her very shoulder-blades
expressing a sense of outrage, preceded the others up the stairs and
retired at once, in rather marked silence, to powder her nose.

"Teresa, you are very naughty. How could you?"

"Put Neish next to Agnes? My dear, she's a joke woman; cross between a
Wallis Mills and a Helen Hokinson. She's got fatty degeneration of the
soul. Do her a lot of good to be shaken up."

"Up to a point, yes. But not quite so violently as that. It's probably
made her think that everybody who is even faintly progressive is like
Neish. And it's certainly made him think that everybody who doesn't
belong to the extreme Left is like Agnes. I shall have to spend the rest
of the evening trying to convince him that they aren't."

"Do, darling," said Teresa impenitently. "That'll be just your line. As a
matter of fact," she added, "I very much doubt whether people like Neish
and Agnes ever think at all. They just feel."

"Oh, no," said Mrs. Miniver. "They do both, I'm certain. But the trouble
is, they keep the two processes entirely separate. They've never learnt
to think with their hearts or feel with their minds."

"That sounds grand," said Teresa ironically (they were old friends).
"Does it mean anything, or were you just trying it out to see what it
sounded like?"

"It either means nothing at all," said Mrs. Miniver, "or else it's the
discovery of the century. I'll think it over and let you know."

Agnes Lingfield came back into the room, her face more nearly matt but
her eyes still gleaming.

"Well, Teresa. I must say, your Left-wing friends..."

Oh, Lord, thought Mrs. Miniver, we're off again; and, anyway, I'm sick
and tired of being offered nothing but that same old choice. Left
wing...Right's so limited; why doesn't it ever occur to any of
them that what one is really longing for is the wishbone?


MRS. Miniver, having dropped the younger children at the seaside bungalow
where they were going to stay with a school friend of Judy's, decided to
spend an hour in the neighbouring town before driving back to London. It
was to this town that she had been sent for a fortnight every year as a
small child, and she felt a sudden desire to do a Mole. ("Doing a Mole"
was Vin's phrase--coined after reading The Wind in the Willows--for a
revisitation of old haunts.)

Having parked the car, she walked along the front in the fresh dancing
sunlight. This part of the town was almost unrecognizable--a street of
angular lettering and neon strips, with ice-cream tricycles instead of
the old painted hokey-pokey barrows. As for the children's clothes--she
tried to imagine what her old nurse would have said if she had wanted to
walk from their lodgings to the beach in a wisp of a cotton sun-suit. She
herself had worn no fewer than ten separate garments, including woollen
combinations (folded thickly above the knee because they were too long)
and baggy blue serge knickers into which all the rest of her clothes were
tucked when she paddled, so that her shadow on the sand was always that
of a gnome. Even in the sea she had worn blue serge, and on cold days a
white Shetland spencer on top of her bathing-dress. She could still
remember what it felt like when her nurse pulled it off over her wrists,

At the pier she stopped and leant over the railings, hardly daring to
draw a breath for fear of not finding what she was hoping for. She gave a
cautious sniff, and then a luxurious one. It was all right. Evidently the
most progressive of Town Councils could not do away with the peculiar,
complex, deliciously nasty smell which is to be found under piers around
high-water mark; a mixture of salt, rust, and slime, of rotting seaweed,
dead limpets, and dried orange-peel. For a few moments, breathing it in,
Mrs. Miniver could almost hear the creaking of her nurse's stays as she
settled her broad back against the breakwater for the afternoon.

But presently the sight of a concert-party announcement brought her back
again to the present day: for the name she read there was that of a
sophisticated ensemble which she had often heard on the wireless. This
was a far cry from the seaside entertainments of her childhood--the
slightly shop-soiled-looking pierrots, and the sham nigger minstrels with
straw hats, banjos, and bones.

It was one of these, curiously enough, who had first introduced her to
death. He sang a song which began:--

    What's (plonk!) the use (plonk!) of saving up your money,
    If you can't take it with you when you die? (plink-plonk!)

and ended:--

    But if (plonk!) you've got (plonk!) a wart upon your nose,
    Well, you must take it with you when you die (plink-plonk!)

This, for some reason, pierced her to the heart with a shaft of
realization. She burst into tears and flung herself across her nurse's
grey tweed lap. "I don't want to die!" she sobbed. "Oh, Nannie, I don't
ever want to die!" The nurse, horrified, picked her up and carried her
out of the pavilion. "There, there," she kept saying helplessly; "there,
there." And that night she gave her a dose of magnesia.

Just beyond the pier Mrs. Miniver turned up a steep, curved street with a
church in it. This was where their lodgings had been. She had no idea of
the number, but she felt certain she would know the house when she came
to it. Here again her nose had a good memory, for a breath of
sickly-sweet scent brought her to a sudden standstill. Of course: she had
quite forgotten about the privet hedge. And with that memory came
another: there had been four panes of coloured glass in the middle of the
front door--green, red, yellow, and blue. Looking through them in turn
from the hall, you could make it be whatever season you liked in the
front garden--spring, summer, autumn, or winter: but when you opened
the door there was never anything but the hard white glare of July. She
pushed the gate open and walked quietly up the path, to make sure whether
those coloured panes were still there. They were: but as she bent down
(she had once stood on tiptoe) to look at them, the door was opened by a
woman with a shopping basket on her arm.

"Oh!" Mrs. Miniver tried to look self-possessed. "I was just going to
ring. I--I'm looking for rooms. But if you're going out, it doesn't
matter a bit."

"No trouble," said the landlady. So Mrs. Miniver had to go through with
it, peering into room after room. In the second floor front she paused
and looked round very carefully.

"This is a nice one," she said. "So big and airy." But she was thinking,
How low, how small; how time contracts the rooms of one's childhood,
drawing the walls inwards and the ceilings down. What with the shrinkage
and the redecoration (for now, of course, it had a porridgy modern
wallpaper with an orange frieze) she would not have known it was the same
room, if it hadn't been for the fireplace. This, she was relieved to see,
was untouched. There was the same ornate ironwork, the same rather bad
imitation Dutch tiles; and the lowest tile on the left was still loose.
By wiggling it gently, she had discovered, you could slip this tile right
out and put it back again; and once, on their last day, she had dug a
hole in the plaster behind it with her nurse's nail-scissors and hidden a
new farthing, in order to have some buried treasure to look for the next
time they came. But there had been no next time.

"I wonder," she thought, eyeing the loose tile--but no, it was
ridiculous, things didn't happen like that. Besides, one really

"There now!" said the landlady. "That's the bell. Excuse me a moment."

Mrs. Miniver made a bee-line for the fireplace, knelt down and wiggled
gently. Her heart was thumping: she knew now what burglars must go
through. The tile came out quite easily: the hole was still there, but
the farthing was gone. She slipped the tile back, stood up, and managed
to get her knees dusted just before the landlady reached the top of the

Afterwards, walking down the steep street towards the beach, she thought
about that farthing with an absurd and unreasonable pang. It would have
made such a wonderful ending to her Mole. But she was comforted when she
imagined with what incredulous delight some later child, exploring, must
have found it.


IT may or may not be true that conscience makes people cowardly: but it
was certainly sea-sickness that made Mrs. Miniver brave, so far as air
travel was concerned. Though you can hardly claim to be brave, she told
herself ashamedly as she fastened the safety-strap across her knees, if
your inside feels like curds and whey and your mouth is as dry as pumice.
Resigned was a more suitable word for her state of mind. She had always
had an exaggerated dread of the air: the reassuring statistics in the
newspapers made no difference to her whatever. She was ready to admit
that flying was safer than driving a car or crossing a crowded street;
but she was irrationally convinced that if she herself went up in an
aeroplane it was perfectly certain to crash. If it be not safe for me,
she said in effect, what care I how safe it be? And so far neither the
enthusiasm of her air-minded contemporaries, nor the calm assumption by
the younger generation that it was the only possible way to travel, had
ever been able to tempt her into the sky.

But, as every human being knows (for that term automatically excludes
anybody who is "a perfect sailor"), there are some sea journeys which can
revolutionize all your feelings about death: and one of these is a
crossing in bad weather from Kyle of Lochalsh to the Outer Isles. Mrs.
Miniver had had the misfortune, ten days before, to coincide with a
summer gale: and, crawling weakly ashore at Lochmaddy, she had sworn that
nothing would induce her to cross the Little Minch again, unless the
weather changed.

The weather did change, of course. The wind dropped suddenly. For more
than a week the days were hot and still, the water lapped gently, the
narrow sickles of sand between the headlands shone white in the sunlight
and whiter under the moon. The smaller islands looked like water-lily
leaves floating on a pool. The sea, all day, was blue; but at sunset it
was stained and streaked with rose, crimson, and purple, as though some
long-foundered ship with a cargo of wine had suddenly broken open in its
depths. But the evening before she was due to leave, the wind rose as
suddenly as it had fallen. It blew and rained hard all night, and
although by next morning the sun was out again the sea was still heaving
unattractively. Mrs. Miniver took one look at it and wired to Sollas
Airport. It seemed to be the only thing to do; unless indeed she was
prepared to spend the rest of her life in the Hebrides, nostalgically
beholding in dreams the King's Road, Chelsea.

Peering out of the small rhomboidal window of the plane, she wished,
first, that some other passengers would come, to give her confidence;
and, second, that no other passengers would come, so that her poltroonery
might be unobserved. For her face, she felt certain, must by now be
noticeably green.

It seemed as though her second wish at any rate was going to be granted,
for there were only two minutes to go and she was still alone. But at the
last moment a ramshackle pony-cart came down the road at full canter, and
an enormous farmer, followed by a young sheep-dog, clambered into the
plane. He turned at the door, shouted something in Gaelic to the woman
who drove the cart, and lowered himself gingerly into a seat which seemed
far too frail to hold him. The dog, with vast unconcern, curled up on the
floor and went to sleep.

"I thought I would be loossing the plane," observed the farmer
pleasantly. "It wass my watch that wass fall-ty." He tugged out an old
silver turnip and adjusted it with care.

"Do you often fly?" asked Mrs. Miniver. He looked so marvellously

"Oh--yess." He seemed mildly surprised at the question. "I have a
brother in Barra. It iss very convenient." His matter-of-factness was
reassuring; and she needed reassurance badly, for the plane was now
lumbering forward over the rough grass of the landing-field.

"This is my first flight," she yelled above the noise of the engines. She
felt rather desperately that she had to tell somebody. "As a matter of
fact, I'm scared stiff." She smiled, to pretend she was exaggerating; but
she knew that she wasn't. "I suppose," she added, "I shan't mind so much
when it's actually up."

"But it iss up," said the farmer. And sure enough, looking out of the
window, she saw that the incredible had happened. They were in the air.
She could see the rocky headlands edged with a white frill of foam; the
deserted crofts, the drystone dykes, the green ridge-and-furrow of the
lazy-beds whose only harvest nowadays was the wild iris; and, as they
gained height, the whole extraordinary pattern of North Uist, so netted
and fretted with lochs that it looked like a piece of lace.

Some hours later, in the train between Glasgow and Stirling, she tried to
sort out her impressions. How hopelessly people fail, she thought, when
they try to describe flying to someone who has never done it. They leave
out all the really important things. They tell you that it saves time and
(taking everything into account) money; they tell you that it makes the
earth look like a map, cows like ants, and cars like beetles. But they
don't tell you that it is staggering, tremendous; that it is not merely
an experience but a re-birth; that it gives you for the first time in
your life the freedom of a new dimension (for although we know that there
are three of them, we are forced to move mainly in two: so that our sense
of up-and-downness is necessarily dim and undeveloped compared with our
acute perception of the to-and-fro). They don't tell you that when you
are up there it is the aeroplane that seems to be the safe solid core of
things, while the earth is a distant planet upon which unfamiliar beings
move among unthinkable dangers. They don't tell you, either, that you
will be torn all the time between an immense arrogance and an immense
humility, so that you are at one moment God and at the next a nameless
sparrow. Nor do they tell you what it feels like to thread your way among
the noble and exciting architecture of the clouds; nor how--best of all
--you may suddenly find a rainbow arched across the tip of your wing, as
though you had caught it in passing and carried it along with you.

If only they had told her these things, she would have flown long ago:
for the promise of so much enchantment would have overcome fear.


THE woman at the far end of the Park seat kept on nervously twisting and
untwisting her handkerchief as though in acute mental distress. She was
muttering to herself, too, under her breath. Mrs. Miniver glanced at her
sideways once or twice, wondering what was wrong and wishing there was
something she could do about it; but all of a sudden the woman, noticing
her glances, looked up and smiled quite cheerfully.

"It's me First Aid," she explained. "I do get so muddled up with them
knots. The lecturer, she says, 'Right over left, left over right,' see?
But it never seems to come out the same, not when I do it meself."

"I wonder," suggested Mrs. Miniver tentatively, "whether you'd find it
any easier if you thought about it as 'back and front'?"

The woman experimented with this idea for a few moments, and then her
brow cleared as if by magic.

"Well, that's funny! So it is! It all depends on how you look at things,
doesn't it?"

She laid the knotted handkerchief on the palm of her hand and beamed at
it as proudly as though she had just made a successful cake. Oh, well,
thought Mrs. Miniver; even if no other good comes out of the present
condition of the world, at least there soon won't be a person left in
England who doesn't know how to tie a reef-knot. And that's always

"I must say," the other woman confided, "I do enjoy me First Aid classes.
It's like being back at school again--makes you feel quite young."

"I know," said Mrs. Miniver. Yes, she thought, that's the whole point.
That is the one great compensation for the fantastic way in which the
events of our time are forcing us to live. The structure of our life--
based as it is on the ever-present contingency of war--is lamentably
wrong: but its texture, oddly enough, is pleasant. There is a freshness
about, a kind of rejuvenation: and this is largely because almost
everybody you meet is busy learning something. Whereas in ordinary times
the majority of grown-up people never try to acquire any new skill at
all, either mental or physical: which is why they are apt to seem, and
feel, so old.

She looked at her watch, got up, and walked on towards Kensington
Gardens, where Clem had said he would meet her for tea if he could. His
latest job was a big new school on Campden Hill which had to be finished
early in September: this gave him a reason, and Mrs. Miniver an excellent
excuse, for spending a good deal of August in London. The children were
away, and so were the maids; Mrs. Burchett came in every morning to do
their breakfast, and they had the rest of their meals out.

London in August, Mrs. Miniver had long ago discovered, is bleak in
theory but enjoyable in practice. For one thing, your circle of
acquaintances, without any of the pangs of bereavement or estrangement,
is arbitrarily reduced to half its normal size, with some interesting
results. You find yourself knowing better, quite suddenly, people with
whom you have been at a standstill for years; understudies blossom into
stars; even boaks occasionally reveal an unsuspected jewel in the head.
And the town itself too, has a strange charm, in spite of the shuttered
houses, the empty window-boxes, the dusty plane-trees, and the smell of
hot asphalt. Or perhaps, in a way, because of these. For young Johnny
Flint (whose poems, she noticed, had lately been getting more personal
and less political) had said yesterday that anybody who had a genuine
passion for London got a particular pleasure out of being there at this
time of year, "as you do out of being with somebody you're really in love
with when they're looking very tired and rather plain." So that was it.
Thank goodness, Mrs. Miniver had thought, as she always did when any of
her friends came into love or money. She wondered idly who it could be,
but knew that with poets this didn't really matter. Beatrice, Fanny
Brawne, Ann More, the Dark Lady of the Sonnets--they are all one and
the same person: or perhaps no person at all. Happy or unhappy, kind or
unkind, they are nothing but bundles of firewood.

    And it will matter little, in after days,
    Whether this twig, or that, kindled the blaze.

It was four o'clock. This was the hour when at any other time of year the
great tide of perambulators, which is drawn up into the Park twice a day
by some invisible and unvarying moon, would have been on the ebb. They
would have been streaming steadily out through every gateway, back to the
nursery tea-tables of Bayswater, Kensington, Brompton, Belgravia and
Mayfair: sleek, shining, graceful, expensive perambulators, well-built,
well-sprung, well-upholstered, pushed by well-trained nurses and occupied
by well-bred, well-fed children. What that woman at the luncheon-party
had called Really Nice Children: the sort of children who had
rocking-horses, and special furniture with rabbits on it, and hats and
coats that matched, and grandmothers with houses in the country. But in
August the shores of the Park were forsaken by this tide, and another one
took its place. They straggled over the worn, slippery grass in little
processions--whey-faced, thin, ragged, merry and shrewd. The boys
carried nets and jam-jars. The eldest girl, almost always, was lugging a
dilapidated push-chair with an indeterminate baby in it; and sometimes an
ex-baby as well, jammy-mouthed and lolling over the edge.

These were the other children. With any luck, if there was a war before
they grew up, they would one day see cows, and running streams, and
growing corn. But not otherwise. Unless, of course, a miracle happened;
unless the structure could be changed without altering the texture, and
the people of England, even after the necessity for it had been averted,
remembered how to tie a reef-knot.


"PARTIR, c'est mourir un peu..." How shrewdly the French language can
drive home a nail, thought Mrs. Miniver, seeing again in her mind's eye
the row of smiling faces to which she had waved a regretful good-bye, the
evening before, from the window of the little Alpine train. At her
sister-in-law's request she had travelled out with her niece Alison, who
was going to spend six months living with a Swiss family; and she had
stayed on for a week at a pension in the same village, just to see that
Alison was happily established. The whole family had come to see her off
at the station. The solitary porter, standing beside his yellow toy
barrow, had had a grass stalk between his teeth; and the moon, just
topping the Mittelhorn, had looked for the space of a breath or two like
a vast snow-ball which was about to roll down the glacier.

But why, she wondered, as the serene but unjoyful landscape of northern
France slid past the dining-car windows--the white horses, the dun
cattle, the red farms, the grey shutters, the beaded cemeteries, the
hedgeless fields like foreheads without eyebrows--why has nobody ever
made the parallel observation: "Revenir, c'est savoir ce que c'est que
d'tre un revenant"? That would be no less shrewd: for when you first
come home from a strange place you are always something of a ghost. They
were sorry when you went away, and they welcome you back with affection:
but in the meanwhile they have adjusted their lives a little to your
absence. For the first meal or two, there is not quite enough room for
your chair. They ask, "Where did you go? What was it like?"; but for the
life of you you cannot tell them. You can say, "It was like a large, neat
Scotland"; or "They use nonante instead of quatre-vingt-dix"; or, "They
trim all their buildings with wooden lace"; or, "There was a nice little
German boy staying at the pension"; or "I made friends with a charming
farmer at the village fte." But however eagerly they listen they do not
really take in what you are saying. For you cannot make them understand
the essential point, which is that when you went away you took the centre
of the universe with you, so that the whole thing went on revolving, just
as usual, round your own head. How could they, indeed, be expected to
believe this, when they know quite well that all the time the centre of
everything stayed at home with them? It is a day or two, as a rule,
before your universe and theirs (like the two images in a photographic
range-finder) merge and become concentric: and when that happens, you
know you are really home.

But that moment, for Mrs. Miniver, was still far ahead. She had not even
quite detached herself yet from the place she had just left. Like the
earth-bound spirit of one who has recently died, she still thought in
terms of the life she had been leading. Glancing up at the clock of the
dining-car, she reflected: "Hansi's mother will just be tying the napkin
round his neck; and he will be saying 'Bit-te, Mama, keinen Blumenkohl.'"
The first time she had heard him say this she had caught his mother's eye
and smiled: for the tone and the sentiment were so exactly Toby's. She
had smiled, too, when she overheard at breakfast the so familiar
question: "Aber du, Hansi, hast du dir die Zhne gut geputzt?" But she
had done more than smile when Hansi, after a day or two's distant
politeness, had taken her by the hand and led her to a row of
curiously-shaped pebbles in a secret hiding-place between the

"Meine Sammlung," he said briefly. "My c'lection," echoed Toby's voice in
her memory. Her heart turned over: how could there be this ridiculous
talk of war, when little boys in all countries collected stones, dodged
cleaning their teeth, and hated cauliflower?

Indeed, what always struck her when she went abroad was how much stronger
the links are between people of the same calling than between people of
the same race: especially if it is a calling which has more truck with
the laws of nature than with the laws of man. The children of the world
are one nation; the very old, another; the blind, a third: (for
childhood, age and blindness are all callings, and hard ones at that). A
man who works with wood, a man who works with iron, a man who works with
test-tubes, is more akin to a joiner, a smith, a research chemist from
the other end of the earth than to a clerk or a shopkeeper in his own
town. A fisherman from Ushant and a fisherman from Stornoway are both
citizens of the same relentless country; and Nicollier, the farmer with
whom Mrs. Miniver had made friends at the village fte, had expressed in
a different tongue precisely the same feelings and opinion as Tom
(Brickwall) Iggulsden.

If only, she thought, sipping her black coffee, one could somehow get
them together--not the statesmen and the diplomats, but Toby and Hansi,
Iggulsden and Nicollier. If only all governments would spend the price of
a few bombers on exchanging for the holidays, free of charge, a certain
number of families from each district...

The attendant brought her bill. She paid it, burying her last thought as
a dog buries a bone, to be returned to later. They had passed Boulogne
now and were on the last lap of the journey to Calais. As one does when
there are only a few minutes to go and it is not worth while embarking on
anything new, she let her gaze wander round the carriage, idly seeking
the titillation of the printed word. On the window sill she read:--

    Ne pas se pencher en dehors.
    Nicht hinauslehnen.
    E pericoloso sporgersi.

Exactly, she thought. "What I tell you three times is true." But the
trouble was, it still had to be said in three different languages...


BRICKWALL Farm consisted mostly of fruit and pasture: so few acres were
under hops that Tom Iggulsden did not engage any professional pickers
from London. He did the picking himself with the aid of his wife, his
mother, his five children, and any of the neighbours who cared to lend a
hand: which generally included the whole Miniver family.

This time the Minivers were enjoying it even more than usual. Before,
they had always been mere casual helpers, doing it for fun and leaving
off whenever they felt inclined. But this year they knew that Tom
Iggulsden was really counting on them, for he was short of his three best
workers. Both his sons had been called up, and his eldest daughter Ivy
had gone off to try and get a job in a munition factory.

Old Mrs. Iggulsden, who was picking into the same bin as Mrs. Miniver,
disapproved of Ivy's behaviour and was saying so with some force.

"She never 'ad naow sanse, diddn' Ive. Gooin' arf jus' 'fore de 'aapin',
'an leavin' 'er Dad short'anded...Reckon I'd 've prin'nigh flawed
'er alive, if I'd 'a' bin Taam."

"Now den, Ma," said Tom Iggulsden with a grin, stretching up his
long-poled knife to cut down a bine. He laid the thick twisted swag of
greenery across the canvas bin and winked at Mrs. Miniver behind his
mother's back.

"You git aan wid y'r owan jaab, Ma, an' leave Ivy be. If she rackoned she
ought to goo, she 'ad to goo, diddn' she?"

"I don' see naow sort o' sanse in it," mumbled the old woman, quite
unconvinced. "She'd be doin' more good a-pickin' o' dese 'ere 'aaps fer
to goo into folk's bellies, dan a'makin' o' dem old bullets fer to goo
into deir 'eads."

Tom Iggulsden's wife, overhearing this from the next bin, shot an
apologetic glance at Mrs. Miniver. She had a light hand with pastry but
was a little inclined to be genteel; and her mother-in-law's robustness
of speech often made her uncomfortable, especially in front of

"Of course," put in Mrs. Miniver diplomatically, "some people would try
to make out that hops were nearly as bad as bullets. Teetotallers, I

"Oh--dem!" said old Mrs. Iggulsden with royal scorn. She stripped off
her next handful of cones almost vindictively: they fell into the
half-full bin without a sound, light, soft and ghostly, a dozen little
severed heads of teetotallers.

Presently there came the familiar cry of the bin-man, who walked round
every so often to ladle the hops out into ten-bushel pokes.

"Git your 'aaps ready, please!"

Warned of his approach, they left off picking and set to work to clear
out all the odd leaves and pieces of stalk which had dropped in by
mistake. This was the part that the children enjoyed most, because it
meant leaning right over the edge and plunging one's arms elbow-deep into
the feathery goldy-green mass.

The role of bin-man, this year, was played by Tom Iggulsden himself, in
the intervals of cutting down bines; and his assistant, who held the
mouth of the poke open, was Vin. When the two of them arrived everybody
stopped working and tried to guess how many measures there would be in
the bin.

"Twalve, I rackon," said old Mrs. Iggulsden.

"Fifteen," said Judy hopefully. But Tom, taking the first scoop with his
wicker basket, said "Thirteen." And thirteen it turned out to be.

It was certainly a relief to knock off for a bit, to straighten one's
back and stretch out one's fingers. They had been going hard at it ever
since lunch-time, with the effortless industry which is born of working
with good company, in pleasant surroundings, at a perceptibly progressing
task. It was like knitting: you couldn't bear to stop until you had done
one more row, one more bine. But it was also like watching the sea come
in on a calm day, as the soft green tide crept steadily up the brown
cliffs of the bin.

Old Mrs. Iggulsden reached under her stool for a bottle and took a
generous swig.

"Ma...!" said her daughter-in-law, going through hell.

"'Aaps outside needs 'aaps inside," said the old woman cheerfully. "Ain't
that right, Mrs. Miniver?" She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.
Her briar-root fingers, which could still strip a bine more quickly than
most people's, were stained black with juice and covered with scratches
from the rough clinging stems. So indeed were everybody's, except for
those who were not too proud to wear gloves. But though gloves could
protect one from stains and scratches, nothing could protect one from the
drowsiness, the nearly irresistible drowsiness, which comes over all but
the most hardened towards the end of a long day's picking. It seems to be
more than a scent that emanates from the hops: it is almost a visible
miasma, sweet yet agreeably acrid, soothing yet tonic, which blurs the
edges of one's thoughts with a greenish-gold glow.

"Where's Toby?" said Mrs. Miniver suddenly. Nobody knew.

"I 'a'n't seen nothin' of 'im since dinner-time," said Mrs. Iggulsden.
"Ver' like 'e'll be down at the fur bin along o' Molly."

But he was not at the far bin, nor at any of the others. Mrs. Miniver,
always a little uneasy about the main road, went off to look for him. It
was extraordinary how soon, wandering through the narrow leafy aisles,
one got out of sight of the others. For a short time their voices
followed her: the broad vowels, the clipped consonants, the unvarying
parabolas of the Kentish speech. But from a few rows further on she could
neither see nor hear them. She was alone in the heart of a silent,
orderly jungle; a jungle which was like one of the most advanced patterns
in a gigantic game of cat's cradle. Wherever she stopped to call or
listen for Toby, she found herself at the converging point of eight green
alleys; and from the root of every plant four strings stretched upwards
and outwards to the wire trellis overhead, each with two bines climbing
round it the way of the sun. (And why, in the name of an inscrutable
providence, should hops always twine with the sun, while scarlet runners
invariably went a-widdershin?)

Getting no answer to her cries, she walked back towards the pickers. And
there, just out of sight of the last bin, lay Toby, fast asleep on a pile
of pokes, with a leafy bine trailing right across him: a small rosy
Bacchus with juice-stained hands. She smiled, and covered him up with an
empty sack. There was no need to wake him until it was time to go home.


STARLINGS, 25th September 1939.


Thank you for your long letter. I began one to you the day before war
broke out, but until this evening I haven't had time to sit down and
finish it. And when I re-read it just now it was like reading a letter by
a different person, so much has one's mood changed in the last few weeks.
So I tore it up.

You say, tell you facts and feelings. Well, facts first, they're easier.
Clem's A.A. Battery is quartered in a girls' school, from which he writes
superbly funny letters. The girls are absent, of course, but their
school-stories are there, and he is finding these a fascinating study.
His favourite chapter-heading, so far, is "Monica Turns Out a Decent
Sort"; but at present he is absorbed in a last-war one about a games
mistress who was a spy in disguise and used to write code messages on
tennis-balls and throw them into the North Sea. He says he can hardly
wait to get to the end. He is also making a collection of graffiti, which
are all quite touchingly mild. Things like "Gwenny T. is a Big Pig" and
"Molly B. is a Brat." There is a very dignified one, which simply says:
"I think Gwenny T. is the most hateful person I have ever met." And
another, arranged like an equation: "Violet W.+ Gwenny T. = Lovey-dovey.
Ha! ha!" Clem says he was so relieved to find that somebody liked poor
Gwenny T. after all.

The children are down here, having the time of their lives with our seven
tough and charming evacuees--but I'll tell you more about that next
time I write. Mrs. Downce has played up admirably. I was rather afraid
she might be pot-faced, but not a bit of it. To tell you the truth I
think she is delighted to have some Cockney voices in the house. It makes
her feel at home after her twenty-five years in Darkest Kent. She had
quite a Dr.-Livingstone-I-presume expression on her face when she
welcomed them in.

Ellen (our present incarnation of the cosmic principle of
house-parlourmaid, successor to Gladys, who got married) is down here,
too, helping Nannie and Mrs. D. Mrs. Adie is in London, sleeping in the
kitchen so as not to have to traipse downstairs when the raid-warning
goes. "Well, Madam," she said with a wry smile, "I never thought I'd live
to be glad that I couldna persuade ye to shift into one o' yon new
non-basements. The Lord," she added solemnly, "doesna seem to care how
much trouble He gies Himself in order to bring us to our senses." I was
amused at the time, and sent Clem an elaborate picture in coloured chalk
of guns, tanks, and aeroplanes charging across Europe, with a jovial
bearded face directing operations from a cloud in the left-hand top
corner, and a repentant Mrs. Adie in the right-hand bottom one. But
during the last fortnight I've begun to feel--N.B., we are now on to
feelings--that she may be right, after all. As you know, she has a real
Scots genius for coining phrases, and it is extraordinary how often they
ring true.

The thing is, we're all so buoyed up just now with the crusading spirit,
and so burningly convinced of the infamy of the Government we're fighting
against (this time, thank goodness, one doesn't say "the nation we're
fighting against")--that we're a little inclined to forget about our
own past idiocies. The fact that we are now crusaders needn't blind us to
the fact that for a very long time we have been, as Badger would say,
echidnas. I can think of a hundred ways already in which the war has
"brought us to our senses." But it oughtn't to need a war to make a
nation paint its kerbstones white, carry rear-lamps on its bicycles, and
give all its slum children a holiday in the country. And it oughtn't to
need a war to make us talk to each other in buses, and invent our own
amusements in the evenings, and live simply, and eat sparingly, and
recover the use of our legs, and get up early enough to see the sun rise.
However, it has needed one: which is about the severest criticism our
civilization could have.

I wonder whether it's too much to hope that afterwards, when all the
horrors are over, we shall be able to conjure up again the feelings of
these first few weeks, and somehow rebuild our peace-time world so as to
preserve everything of war which is worth preserving? What we need is a
kind of non-material war museum, where, instead of gaping at an obsolete
uniform in a glass case, we can press a magic button and see a vision of
ourselves as we were while this revealing mood was freshly upon us. I
know that this sounds silly and that there are no such magic buttons. The
nearest approach to them, I think, are the poems and articles--and even
the letters and chance phrases--which are struck out of people like
sparks at such moments as this. So write all the letters you can, Susan,
please (to me, if you feel like it, but at any rate to somebody), and
keep all the ones you get, and put down somewhere, too, everything you
see or hear which will help later on to recapture the spirit of this
tragic, marvellous, and eye-opening time: so that, having recaptured it,
we can use it for better ends. We may not, of course, ever get the
chance: but if we do, and once more fail to act upon it, I feel pretty
sure we shan't be given another one.

As usual in all moments of stress, I've been falling back on Donne. It's
a pity preachers never seem to take their texts from anything but the
Bible: otherwise they could base a perfectly terrific sermon for the
present day on verse 16 of his Litany--the one which begins "From
needing danger..." Do look it up--I know there's a copy in the
library at Quern, in the little bookshelf just on the left of the

Yours ever, with much love,



"WILL ye be wanting anything more tonight, mem?" asked Mrs. Adie, putting
the coffee down by the fire and picking up Mrs. Miniver's supper-tray.

"No, thank you, nothing at all. As soon as I've made out my list of
Christmas presents, I'm going straight to bed."

Mrs. Adie paused at the door, tray in hand.

"Ay," she said. "This is going to be a queer kind of Christmas for the
bairns, with their Daddy away."

"I dare say he'll get leave," said Mrs. Miniver hopefully.

"Mebbe ay, mebbe no." Mrs. Adie was not one to encourage wishful
thinking. "To say nothing," she added, "of having ten bairns in the
house, instead of three. My! it'll take me back to when I was a wean

"Why, there weren't ten of you, were there?"

"Thirteen," said Mrs. Adie, wearing the particular expression that Clem
always called "Scotland Wins."

Mrs. Miniver was surprised, not so much by the information itself as by
the fact that Mrs. Adie had vouchsafed it. She was not in the habit of
talking about her own childhood. Indeed, she rather gave the impression
that she had never had one, but had simply risen from the foam, probably
somewhere just off the East Neuk of Fife.

"Well, I'll say good night, mem."

"Good night, Mrs. Adie. That was a lovely Welsh rabbit."

Left alone, Mrs. Miniver poured out a cup of coffee and sat on the
fender-stool to drink it, roasting her back. Yes, it was going to be a
queer Christmas for everybody this year. To the parents left behind in
the big cities it would seem only half a Christmas; to the hard-pressed
foster-parents in the country, a double one. Out of her own seven
evacuees at Starlings, only two, she knew, had ever had a tree of their
own. And Reen, the eldest--a shrill, wizened, masterful little creature
of twelve, who in the last two months had become so touchingly less
shrill and wizened (though no less masterful)--had never even hung up
her stocking. She was inclined to scoff at the idea of taking to this
custom so late in life.

"Ony kids do that," she said. "It's sissy."

"Vin still does it," said Mrs. Miniver. "He's nearly sixteen, and he's
not in the least sissy."

"Are you sure?" asked Reen suspiciously.

"Quite sure," said Mrs. Miniver, without a twitch. (She must tell Vin
this, next time she wrote.)

But it was too early yet to make plans about stockings. First of all, she
must get on with that list of presents. She put down her coffee-cup and
went resolutely over to the writing-table.

One of Mrs. Miniver's bad habits--which, like many bad habits, was only
an exaggeration of a good one--was that she was apt to begin by being
methodical and to end by being a magpie. It was, for instance, quite a
sound idea to keep one's Christmas present list until the following year,
so as to make sure that one didn't leave people out or give them the same
thing twice running. But the worst of it was, she never could bring
herself to throw away the old lists when they were done with; and as she
had started the habit when she first married, she had now accumulated no
less than seventeen of them. Not only did they take up an unnecessary
amount of space in an already overcrowded drawer, but they caused her to
waste time at a season of the Year when time was most valuable: for
whenever she opened the drawer to consult last year's list, she found
herself quite unable to resist browsing through the earlier ones.

For the last eight years the opening names had not varied at all: Clem,
Vin, Judy, Toby, Nannie, Mrs. Adie, Mrs. Downce, Downce. The ninth name
had changed, at intervals of about two years, from Norah to Jessie, from
Jessie to Gladys, and from Gladys to Ellen: for there seemed to be
something fatally marriageable, as well as incurably trochaic, about the
Minivers' house-parlourmaids. Even Ellen, as unglamorous a girl as you
could wish to meet, who had come to them a few months ago completely
heart-whole, had already acquired a young man. Clem, to whom Mrs. Miniver
had broken this news in a letter, had written back saying, "For heaven's
sake, next time, go for a dactyl or a monosyllable. They may have less

As the lists went farther back, however, important gaps appeared. Nine
years ago there had been no Toby; twelve years ago, no Judy. Yet at each
of these Christmases, she remembered, her universe (which would now be
unthinkable without them) had seemed complete. As for Vin, he figured in
all the lists except the first two; and as she traced his presents
backwards from last year's spinning-rod through conjuring sets and Red
Indian outfits to the woolly rabbit of fifteen years ago, she felt that
she was seeing the whole story of his childhood in reverse, like one of
those trick films where the spilt milk pours itself back into the jug.

She laid down the sheets on top of each other, one by one. Vin grew up
again before her mind's eye: became three, four, in a sun-suit and a
floppy linen hat; became seven, eight, in grey flannel shorts (so like,
and yet so unlike, Toby); became twelve, thirteen, in long trousers; shot
upwards past her elbow, her shoulder, her head; and finally grinned down
at her from six inches above it (so like, and yet so unlike, Clem).

Parallel with this memory-film ran another, whose only visible track was
the column of prices on the right-hand side of the page. Amplified by her
recollection, these scribbled figures made a pretty accurate record of
the Miniver family's material ups and downs. There was the lavishness of
the first two years, based on youthful ignorance, a fixed salary, and a
regular parental allowance; there were the soberer standards which became
necessary when Clem started out on his own; there were the deceptive
early successes, the too optimistic move to a larger house. Then the
slump, the difficult years; the years when an acute appendicitis seemed
to take a malevolent pleasure in coinciding with an ultimatum from the
bank; when they tossed on the horns of the professional classes' eternal
dilemma whether to retrench openly, or to bluff things out for the sake
of keeping up appearances in front of potential clients. The years when,
after dining out, they said No, thanks, they'd rather walk and pick up a
taxi, it would be so nice to get a breath of air; and when their
Christmas presents to each other (since they couldn't cut down too
drastically on anybody else's) dwindled by mutual consent into mere
tokens, which they exchanged in front of the children with elaborate
ceremony, delighted exclamations, and a great deal of coloured
wrapping-paper. Not that they needed tokens; but it would have shocked
the children if they had exchanged nothing at all.

Things had looked up again, eventually. Clem built an unusual country
house for Sandro Baltman, and Sandro talked, and that set the ball
rolling fast. By the time Toby was born they had been able to buy
Starlings and to get the Downces to look after it. The tokens had
expanded into proper presents again and ever since then the total at the
bottom of the right-hand column had been getting a little larger every
year. But both of them, fortunately, had good memories: and when young
married couples came to dine with them, they always said, "Yes, of
course; you're sure to find one on the rank just round the corner."

Mrs. Miniver put the last sheet back on top of the others and clipped
them all together again. No, she could not possibly throw them away: they
contained too much of her life. Besides, however clear one's memories
seemed to be, it did one no harm to polish them up from time to time. One
is what one remembers: no more, no less.

She took a clean sheet of paper and wrote across the top in neat block


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