The story of a house, Beech Hill, built in the year of Waterloo and soon to endure the rigours of the Second World War.
back to London. I cannot say that we were sorry.
For, let us be candid. I could be classed as a selfish, and unpatriotic old curmudgeon, but when we have cut the sentimental cackle, one has to confess that you cannot mix classes that are as different as chalk and cheese. These women from the East End were much less clean than animals, and far less likeable. They were lazy lumps of flesh, coarse, vulgar, noisy, ignorant. You could hear their hideous voices and their obscene laughter all over the house. And you could smell them. Blame our social scheme, if it pleases you, but the fact was incontestable, they were no better than unclean savages in our lovely house.
I think it must have been in August that I received my first warning. I had gone shopping in Melford, and I met Gibson in the ironmongers. He was looking worried and cross.
"Been requisitioned yet?"
"They are taking my place over next week. I expect you will be."
I think I gaped at him.
Delightful story about a man and his house and their transformation due to WWII.
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