Cecil Day Lewis was very charming and yet aloof. The wrinkles round his eyes, as Diana pointed out acutely, assured us that he was a nice person. The pleasant cottage loomed red in the snow, black lane and bushes, but inside there was a rather luxurious atmosphere of green distemper, fabric curtains and square white painted bookshelves. We went upstairs to a pleasant orange-and-green study, with the snow very insistent beyond the curtain, and talked “business” for a while round a gas fire – about addresses for his Peace Council, the sale of Daily Workers outside a local factory and a dirty scheme for a local militia and how to counter it – and his essay on Hopkins. Then we had tea in a pleasant warm room with Cecil’s wife who was tall and tweedy – black hair, pink cheeks and a hardish mouth, but very pleasant and cool. There must be hundreds such in the southern counties, wives of young professional men, writers or musicians – nearly all Oxford or Cambridge men. They run to type.

Diana played trains with two starry-eyed little boys with gorgeous complexions and fiendish larynxes, while I waffled away quietly on a tremendous Steinway, enjoying myself no end. I was startled to see that the sky outside was a vivid blue and the snow was a sort of strange cobalt on the roofs and the walls. It was very nearly dark. The pedals moved the keyboard slightly to the right – a thing which always delighted me – and the simple chords of the more andante of Chopin’s preludes swelled out joyously into the room.

Somehow we stayed to dinner, which was pigeon casserole and coffee ice and lots of sherry. Cecil phoned some people and fixed a place for us. And then we were rushing along the black ribbon of road, its edges defined by the counterpane margins of rounded snow. We reached Northleach and soon Cecil went back and we were left in a little guest-house, all very nicely gotten up and very, very slightly bogus. The outside, of course, was genuine seventeenth century – but inside there was more distemper and more green and grey curtains and chunky bookcases – pouffes and a great brick fireplace. Our hosts were charming: Mister was very tall indeed with a nice grey jowl and a high forehead, wispy dark hair and a rough-hewn face, with secret and dreamy eyes and very good teeth: inevitably a wine-red roll-top pullover, and many cigarettes in good, hairy hands. Missis was yet another black-and-pink tweedy woman, fine breasts and tremendous feet, with a pleasant healthy face and black eyes – disquietingly reminiscent of a tough and stupid fascist schoolfriend of mine – sportscar and porkpie hat and double whiskers. We had more talk about the militia and protest meetings – they were good but politically naïve – and listened to Bolero on the gramophone – Diana’s first time of hearing and she loved it – and soon we went to bed in a square room with a snowy vista through the deep set window, twin beds, grey fabric covers and scarlet blankets, a white