Vox Meditantis

14th October 1940

Spent the afternoon in St Pancras churchyard, sketch-book in hand. Queer thing – I felt almost lighthearted amongst the stones. Perhaps it’s the relief of having come through last night’s raid unscathed, or simply that after weeks of this business, one grows accustomed to finding joy in unexpected corners. The old graves stand as they have for centuries, whilst the city around them burns and rebuilds and burns again.

The ironwork railings that once enclosed the Coutts memorial have been taken for munitions – there’s something fitting about swords into ploughshares reversed, though I doubt Isaiah anticipated Jerry bombers. The empty sockets where the posts stood remind me of missing teeth. I sat on the church steps, where a piece of shrapnel the size of my thumb had embedded itself in the stone. The verger tried to pry it out with a chisel yesterday but gave up. It’ll stay there, I expect, a memorial of its own sort.

My pencils want sharpening – another bit of metal, the blade of my penknife, worn smooth from years of service. Strange how one becomes conscious of such things now. Every scrap of metal feels significant, whether it’s the nose-cone of an incendiary or the ferrule on a paintbrush. Tools of destruction, tools of creation, all forged from the same substance.

The church bells haven’t rung since June, silenced by order – they’re to sound only for invasion. I miss them. Time moves differently without their marking. The hours blend into one another, measured only by the wail of sirens and the All Clear. Yesterday feels like last month; last month feels like yesterday. We’re all of us living in a sort of eternal present, where the only certainties are the blackout at dusk and the sound of engines overhead after dark.

What strikes me most is how quickly the extraordinary becomes ordinary. Six weeks ago, the notion of sketching in a graveyard whilst bombs fell on London would have seemed mad. Now it seems the most natural thing in the world. Young Corporal Matthews, buried three days ago – barely twenty-two, killed in Balham when the shelter took a direct hit – his grave still shows fresh earth. The flowers his mother left are wilting. I drew them anyway. Someone ought to remember these small, terrible details.

I’ve been wondering lately whether I ought to try something altogether different with my work. The Ministry’s after poster artists – “Keep Calm” and all that – but I wonder if there’s not something more honest to be done. Not propaganda exactly, but witness. Recording what’s actually happening, not what we’re meant to feel about it. The wreckage and the courage both, without sentiment. I’ve never attempted that sort of draughtsmanship before, the kind that simply observes and reports. It frightens me a bit, if I’m honest – the responsibility of it. But then everything frightens me a bit these days, and we carry on regardless.

What could I try for the first time? Not just a new technique or subject, but a new purpose entirely. I’ve spent twenty years painting what’s beautiful, what’s pleasing, what sells. Perhaps it’s time to paint what’s true instead, however ugly. The tools are the same – brush, canvas, pigment – but the intent would be different. A sort of duty, I suppose. Though whether I’ve the fortitude for it remains to be seen.

Arthur Morris from the ARP passed by whilst I was working and thought me touched in the head, sitting amongst the dead with my sketch-book. But he stopped to look at what I’d drawn – the broken railings, the shrapnel-struck stone, the fresh grave – and went quiet for a moment. “That’s right,” he said finally. “That’s how it is.” Which struck me as rather the point.

The light’s going now. Time to pack up my things and head home before the blackout. Another night ahead, and who knows what it’ll bring. But I find I’m not despondent. If anything, I’m curious – about what I might see, what I might capture, what I might understand about this strange time we’re living through. The old stones have witnessed plague and fire and reformation; now they’re witnessing this. And somehow, absurdly, there’s comfort in that continuity. We endure. Life insists upon itself, even here among the dead.

The sirens will sound again tonight. The bombers will come. And tomorrow, if we’re spared, I’ll return with my pencils and my penknife and my determination to see clearly. That’s all one can do, really.

The diary entry is set during the London Blitz, a pivotal period in the Second World War from September 1940 to May 1941, when German air raids targeted major British cities. Lasting for eight months, the Blitz resulted in tens of thousands of civilian casualties and widespread destruction of homes, landmarks, and public spaces. Despite nightly bombings, British morale and daily life endured, exemplified by scenes like those described in this entry. The steadfastness shown during the Blitz strengthened national resolve, and, in the months that followed, Britain’s resilience proved crucial in withstanding further attacks and ultimately contributing to the Allied victory in 1945.

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