The next day, Walter had influenza. He was in bed for a week,
and after that the cook got it, and then the housemaid. They
were a long time getting better.
News came of a Republic in Ireland; fighting in the Dublin streets,
repression, retaliation; then the fall of Kut. Then the Conscription
Bill was passed.
In June, Claude Pincent was killed in Mesopotamia. A week after
he was killed, they gave him a V.C. We had not seen him for a
long time; people said that he had taken to drink or drugs or
something, but I don’t suppose it was true.
Then Anthony Cowper was killed. He was a dear, merry fellow and
enjoyed his life.
‘Guy will miss him very much,’ I thought.
Freddy Furze came home on leave in July. We saw him several times.
I felt since George’s death, the precariousness of life and was
grateful for people still alive.
In August, Rachel was born. I had hoped again for a son, but
I minded less this time; perhaps because I had expected less,
and had felt less about it altogether. I had been afraid that
the baby must be affected by the War, and by my own state of
mind all through the winter, but she was a fine child, even larger
and stronger than the first.
Mrs. Sebright came to stay and look after Eleanor while I was
in bed. She was very competent and managed Eleanor very well.
She looked after the house too, and ordered the meals, and I
had nothing to do; and I thought:
‘If only I could lie here for ever, and never get up and never
have to go out into the world again.’
I did not want to read or even talk very much, only lie still
and do nothing; and sometimes for nothing at all, I would lie
and cry.
And then Hugo came home on leave, and I did not see him.