‘If Hugo is killed, why should not all be killed? . . . it is
silly to stop the fighting now . . .’
I took the children home and put them to rest. Then I took John,
who was tiny, with me, and went out into the street. I walked
to the Tube station, and got into a train. I got out at Charing
Cross and walked across St. James’s Park, towards Victoria. It
seemed to me that the world had gone mad. People were shouting,
and yelling, and waving their hats; the bells were ringing still,
there was a hubbub of noise; lorries crowded with munition workers
whirled past me, one after the other, with shouting and singing
and the raucous whirr of rattles. The king had been addressing
the crowd at Buckingham Palace, and I found myself caught in
the rush of people coming away. Taxi-cabs dashed past me, crammed
to overflowing; officers hung out of the windows or sprawled
across the roofs, blowing whistles and cheering. The crowd seethed
and pressed along Victoria Street; people on the tops of omnibuses
stood up and waved their arms.
And I thought:
‘Why do they do it? What do they understand?’