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TO MARION GREENE

Graham learned by telegraph that The Power and the Glory had been awarded the Hawthornden Prize.

C/O Bank of B.W.A. | Freetown. | June 11 [1942]

Dearest Mumma,

I’m afraid it’s a long time since I’ve written, but I’ve been pretty busy this last month. It’s funny how things always seem to go well when I’m away; I’ve just heard about winning the Hawthornden prize and the film of A Gun for Sale. Vivien tells me it’s an extremely good film. I wonder whether you would be able to get up to London and have a look at it. But I expect it’s off again by this time: maybe it will come to Crowborough. Rather sad that one can’t have the presentation and speeches and so on of the Hawthornden, though the prizewinner always looks a little silly. And it’s odd that one feels pleased – apart from the hundred pounds which is always useful. There’s no real distinction in the prize: a few good books have won it, and a great many very bad ones – like Charles Morgan’s.7I suppose at the bottom of every human mind is the rather degraded love of success – any kind of success. One feels ashamed of one’s own pleasure.

I had a very nice week away from this loathly town in the Protectorate, visiting old haunts and seeing a few ghosts of the past. I went up to Kailahun and found the D. C. there was the man who had been headmaster of Bo School with whom I had had a good party when I was here before. Of course the result of being away a week was an awful accumulation of stuff here, which it took me a long time to clear. And travel now is appallingly tiring.

The house is looking reasonably human now and as the rains are beginning there’s plenty of water, thank God. But none of my stuff has yet arrived from Lagos. It’s been waiting shipment twelve weeks. I feel that it could have been managed if anybody at the other end had taken trouble. Half my clothes are mouldering in a wooden case there, all my china and cutlery, and of course my car.

Some friends of Vivien passed through the other day going out to Elisabeth’s part of the world, so I was able to send a letter. I’m extremely well, though I humbugged my knee a bit the other day. Humbug is the local expression. A thief got into my living room and stole a loaf of bread, a table cloth, two bottles of beer, an unopened bottle of sherry, the fountain pen which I’ve had since 1926, and my sole remaining pair of glasses. (I cabled for more). So I got wire put up over all the windows which gives the impression that one is either living in a prison, a nursery, or a loony bin. The wretched carpenter left a coil of this rusty criss cross wire on the path, the same colour as the stones, and running out in the rain to a taxi I caught my foot in it, twisted my knee and cut it. I could hardly walk for 24 hours, but now it’s only a little stiff. The cut of course festered in a small way – you can’t scratch yourself here without festering, even if you swab on iodine at once, but I think the pus has all come out now and it should heal in a day or two.



Last week was rather frantically social with dull people in every night for dinner or drinks, but this week, thank God, looks like being a little quieter. I see my cook approaching in the distance proudly escorting two carriers: the lord knows what he’s been buying: one has a pail on his head and the other a large box. I suppose I shall know soon. Things are a bit short here as we haven’t had any ships in for a good while. Milk (tinned of course) has been unobtainable, and butter too. (I see now it’s logs for the stove and not a box). But of course we are really very well off compared with England – though not quite so disgustingly so as Lagos.

There’s a chance of sending this letter off by a quick route, so I must close. I hope Da’s keeping well. It really looks as if the war may be over next year. Don’t you feel so? Much love to you all from
Graham


Date: 2015-02-03; view: 613


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