Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Mem.: Amenities of conversation sometimes very curious, especially where society of children is involved. Have sometimes wondered at what stage of development the idea of continuity in talk begins to seem desirable — but here, again, disquieting reflection follows that perhaps this stage is never reached at all. Debate for an instant whether to put the point to Miss Pankerton, but decide better not, and in any case, she turns out to be talking about H. G. Wells, and do not like to interrupt. Just as she is telling me that it is quite absurd to compare Wells with Shaw — (which I have never thought of doing) — a Pankerton nephew and Henry begin to kick one another on the shins, and have to be told that that is Quite Enough. The Pankerton nephew is agitated and says, Tell him my name isn’t Noah, it’s Noel. This misunderstanding cleared up, but the nephew remains Noah to his contemporaries, and is evidently destined to do so for years to come, and Henry receives much applause as originator of brilliant witticism.

  Do not feel that Miss P. views any of it as being in the least amusing, and in order to create a diversion, rush into an invitation to them all to join projected picnic to the sea next week.

  (Query: Would it not be instructive to examine closely exact motives governing suggestions and invitations that bear outward appearance of spontaneity? Answer: Instructive undoubtedly, but probably in many cases painful, and — on second thoughts — shall embark on no such exercise.)

  We part with Pankertons at the crossroads, but not before Miss P. has accepted invitation to picnic, and added that her brother will be staying with her then, and a dear friend who Writes, and that she hopes that will not be too large a party. I say No, not at all, and feel that this settles the question of buying another half-dozen picnic plates and enamel mugs, and better throw in a new Thermos as well, otherwise not a hope of things going round. That, says Miss P., will be delightful, and shall they bring their own sandwiches? — at which I exclaim in horror, and she says Really? and I say Really, with equal emphasis but quite different inflection, and we part.

  Robin says he does not know why I asked them to the picnic, and I stifle impulse to reply that neither do I, and Henry tells me all about hydraulic lifts.

  Send children upstairs to wash for lunch, and call out several times that they must hurry up or they will be late, but am annoyed when gong, eventually, is sounded by Gladys nearly ten minutes after appointed hour. Cannot decide whether I shall, or shall not, speak about this, and am preoccupied all through roast lamb and mint sauce, but forget about it when fruit-salad is reached, as Cook has disastrously omitted banana and put in loganberries.

  August 13th. — I tell Cook about the picnic lunch — for about ten people, say I — which sounds less than if I just said “ten” straight out — but she is not taken in by this, and at once declares that there isn’t anything to make sandwiches of, that she can see, and butcher won’t be calling till the day after tomorrow, and then it’ll be scrag-end for Irish stew. I perceive that the moment has come for taking up absolutely firm stand with Cook, and surprise us both by suddenly saying Nonsense, she must order chicken from farm, and have it cold for sandwiches. It won’t go round, Cook protests — but feebly — and I pursue advantage and advocate supplementary potted meat and hard-boiled eggs. Cook utterly vanquished, and I leave kitchen triumphant, but am met in the passage outside by Vicky, who asks in clarion tones (easily audible in kitchen and beyond) if I know that I threw cigarette-end into drawing-room grate, and that it has lit the fire all by itself?

  August 15th. — Picnic takes place under singular and rather disastrous conditions, day not beginning well owing to Robin and Henry having strange overnight inspiration about sleeping out in summer-house, which is prepared for them with much elaboration by Mademoiselle and myself — even to crowning touch from Mademoiselle of small vase of flowers on table. At 2 A.M. they decide that they wish to come in, and do so through study window left open for them. Henry involves himself in several blankets, which he tries to carry upstairs, and trips and falls down, and Robin knocks over hall-stool, and treads on Helen Wills.

  Robert and myself are roused, and Robert is not pleased. Mademoiselle appears on landing in peignoir and with head swathed in little grey shawl, but screams at the sight of Robert in pyjamas, and rushes away again. (The French undoubtedly very curious mixture of modesty and the reverse.)

  Henry and Robin show tendency to become explanatory, but are discouraged, and put into beds. Just as I return down passage to my room, sounds indicate that Vicky has now awakened, and is automatically opening campaign by saying Can’t I come too? Instinct — unclassified, but evidently stronger than maternal one — bids me leave Mademoiselle to deal with this, which I unhesitatingly do.

  Get into bed again, feeling that the day has not opened very well, but sleep off and on until Gladys calls me — ten minutes late — but do not say anything about her unpunctuality, as Robert does not appear to have noticed it.

  Sky is grey, but not necessarily threatening, and glass has not fallen unreasonably. All is in readiness when Miss Pankerton (wearing Burberry, green knitted cap, and immense yellow gloves) appears in large Ford car which brims over with nephews, sheep-dogs, and a couple of men. Latter resolve themselves into the Pankerton brother — who turns out to be from Vancouver — and the friend who Writes — very tall and pale, and is addressed by Miss P. in a proprietary manner as “Jahsper”.

  (Something tells me that Robert and Jahsper are not going to care about one another.)

  After customary preliminaries about weather, much time is spent in discussing arrangements in cars. All the children show tendency to wish to sit with their own relations rather than anybody else, except Henry, who says simply that the hired car looks much the best, and may he sit in front with the driver, please. All is greatly complicated by presence of the sheep-dogs, and Robert offers to shut them into an outhouse for the day, but Miss Pankerton replies that this would break their hearts, bless them, and they can just pop down anywhere amongst the baskets. (In actual fact, both eventually pop down on Mademoiselle’s feet, and she looks despairing, and presently ask if I have by any chance a little bottle of eau-de-Cologne with me — which I naturally haven’t.)

  Picnic baskets, as usual, weigh incredible amount, and Thermos flasks stick up at inconvenient angles and run into our legs. (I quote “John Gilpin”, rather aptly, but nobody pays any attention.)

  When we have driven about ten miles, rain begins, and goes on and on. Cars are stopped, and we find that two schools of thought exist, one — of which Miss P. is leader — declaring that we are Running out of It, and the other — headed by the Vancouver brother and heavily backed by Robert — that we are Running into It. Miss P. — as might have been expected — wins, and we proceed; but Run into It more and more. By the time destination is reached, we have Run into It to an extent that makes me wonder if we shall ever Run out of It.

  Lunch has to be eaten in three bathing huts, hired by Robert, and the children become hilarious and fidgety. Miss P. talks about Companionate Marriage to Robert, who makes no answer, and Jahsper asks me what I think of James Elroy Flecker. As I cannot remember exact form of J. E. F.’s activities, I merely reply that in many ways he was very wonderful — which no doubt he was — and Jahsper seems satisfied, and eats tomato sandwiches. The children ask riddles — mostly very old and foolish ones — and Miss P. looks annoyed, and says See if it has stopped raining — which it hasn’t. I feel that she and the children must, at all costs, be kept apart, and tell Robert in urgent whisper that, rain or no rain, they must go out.

  They do.

  Miss Pankerton becomes expansive, and suddenly remarks to Jahsper that Now he can see what she meant, about positively Victorian survivals still to be found in English family life. At this, Vancouver brother looks aghast — as well he may — and dashes out into the wet. Jahsper says Yerse, Yerse, and sighs, and I at once institute vigorous search for missing plate, which creates a diversion.

  Subsequently the children bathe, get wetter
than ever, drip all over the place, and are dried — Mademoiselle predicts death from pneumonia for all — and we seek the cars once more. One sheep-dog is missing, but eventually recovered in soaking condition, and is gathered on to united laps of Vicky, Henry, and a nephew. I lack energy to protest, and we drive away.

  Beg Miss P., Jahsper, brother, nephews, sheep-dogs, and all, to come in and get dry and have tea, but they have the decency to refuse, and I make no further effort, but watch them depart with untold thankfulness.

  (Should be sorry to think impulses of hospitality almost entirely dependent on convenience, but cannot altogether escape suspicion that this is so.)

  Robert extremely forbearing on the whole, and says nothing worse than Well! — but this very expressively.

  August 16th. — Robert, at breakfast, suddenly enquires if that nasty-looking fellow does anything for a living? Instinct at once tells me that he means Jahsper, but am unable to give him any information, except that Jahsper writes, which Robert does not appear to think is to his credit. He goes so far as to say that he hopes yesterday’s rain may put an end to him altogether — but whether this means to his presence in the neighbourhood, or to his existence on this planet, am by no means certain, and prefer not to enquire. Ask Robert instead if he did not think, yesterday, about Miss Edgeworth, Rosamond, and the Party of Pleasure, but this wakens no response, and conversation — such as it is — descends once more to level of slight bitterness about the coffee, and utter inability to get really satisfactory bacon locally. This is only brought to a close by abrupt entrance of Robin, who remarks without preliminary: “Isn’t Helen Wills going to have kittens almost at once? Cook thinks so.”

  Can only hope that Robin does not catch exact wording of short ejaculation with which his father receives this.

  August 18th. — Pouring rain, and I agree to let all three children dress up, and give them handsome selection from my wardrobe for the purpose. This ensures me brief half-hour uninterrupted at writing-table, where I deal with baker — brown bread far from satisfactory — Rose — on a picture-postcard of Backs at Cambridge, which mysteriously appears amongst stationery — Robin’s Headmaster’s wife — mostly about stockings, but Boxing may be substituted for Dancing, in future — and Lady Frobisher, who would be so delighted if Robert and I would come over for tea whilst there is still something to be seen in the garden. (Do not like to write back and say that I would far rather come when there is nothing to be seen in the garden, and we might enjoy excellent tea in peace — so, as usual, sacrifice truth to demands of civilisation.)

  Just as I decide to tackle large square envelope of thin blue paper, with curious purple lining designed to defeat anyone endeavouring to read letter within — which would anyhow be impossible, as Barbara Carruthers always most illegible — front door bell rings.

  Thoughts immediately fly to Lady B., and I rapidly rehearse references that I intend to make to recent stay in South of France — (shall not specify length of visit) — and cordial relations there established with distinguished society, and Rose’s Viscountess in particular. Have also sufficient presence of mind to make use of pocket comb, mirror, and small powder-puff kept for emergencies in drawer of writing-table. (Discover, much later, that I have overdone powder-puff very considerably, and reflect, not for the first time, that we are spared much by inability — so misguidedly deplored by Scottish poet — to see ourselves as others see us.)

  Door opens, and Miss Pankerton is shown in, followed — it seems to me reluctantly — by Jahsper. Miss P. has on military-looking cape, and béret as before, which strikes me as odd combination, and anyhow cape looks to me as though it might drip rain-drops on furniture, and I beg her to take it off. This she does with rather spacious gesture — (Can she have been seeing The Three Musketeers at local cinema?) — and unfortunately one end of it, apparently heavily weighted, hits Jahsper in the eye. Miss P. is very breezy and off-hand about this, but Jahsper, evidently in severe pain, falls into deep dejection, and continues to hold large yellow crêpe-de-chine handkerchief to injured eye for some time. Am distracted by wondering whether I ought to ask him if he would like to bathe it — which would involve taking him up to bathroom, probably untidy — and trying to listen intelligently to Miss P., who is talking about Proust.

  This leads, by process that I do not follow, to a discussion on Christian names, and Miss P. says that All Flower Names are Absurd. Am horrified to hear myself replying, senselessly, that I think Rose is a pretty name, as one of my greatest friends is called Rose — to which Miss P. rightly answers that that, really, has nothing to do with it, and Jahsper, still dabbing at injured eye, contributes austere statement to the effect that only the Russians really understand Beauty in Nomenclature. Am again horrified at hearing myself interject “Ivan Ivanovitch” in entirely detached and irrelevant manner, and really begin to wonder if mental weakness is overtaking me. Moreover, am certain that I have given Miss P. direct lead in the direction of Dostoeffsky, about whom I do not wish to hear, and am altogether unable to converse.

  Entire situation is, however, revolutionised by totally unexpected entrance of Robin — staggering beneath my fur coat and last summer’s red crinoline straw hat — Henry, draped in blue kimono, several scarfs belonging to Mademoiselle, old pair of fur gloves, with scarlet school-cap inappropriately crowning all — and Vicky, wearing nothing whatever but small pair of green silk knickerbockers and large and unfamiliar black felt hat put on at rakish angle.

  Completely stunned silence overtakes us all, until Vicky, advancing with perfect aplomb, graciously says, “How do you do?” and shakes hands with Jahsper and Miss P. in turn, and I succeed in surpassing already well-established record for utter futility,, by remarking that They have been Dressing Up.

  Atmosphere becomes very, very strained indeed, only Vicky embarking on sprightly reminiscences of recent picnic, which meet with no response. Final depths of unsuccess are plumbed, when it transpires that Vicky’s black sombrero, picked up in the hall, is in reality the property of Jahsper. I apologise profusely, the children giggle, Miss P. raises her eyebrows to quite unnatural heights, and gets up and looks at the book-shelves in a remote and superior way, and Jahsper says, Oh, never mind, it really is of no consequence, at the same time receiving hat with profound solicitude, and dusting it with two fingers.

  Greatest possible relief when Miss P. declares that they must go, otherwise they will miss the Brahms Concerto on the wireless. I hastily agree that this would never do, and tell Robin to open the door. Just as we all cross the hall, Gladys is inspired to sound the gong for tea, and I am compelled to say, Won’t they stay and have some? but Miss P. says she never takes anything at all between lunch and dinner, thanks, and Jahsper pretends he hasn’t heard me and makes no reply whatever.

  They march out into pouring rain, Miss P. once more giving martial fling to military cape — (at which Jahsper flinches, and removes himself some yards away from her) — and entirely disdaining small and elegant umbrella beneath which Jahsper and his black felt take refuge. Robin enquires, in tones of marked distaste, if I like those people? but I feel it better to ignore this, and recommend getting washed for tea. Customary discussion follows as to whether washing is, or is not, necessary.

  (Mem.: Have sometimes considered — though idly — writing letter to the Times to find out if any recorded instances exist of parents and children whose views on this subject coincide. Topic of far wider appeal than many of those so exhaustively dealt with.)

  August 25th. — Am displeased by Messrs. R. Sydenham, who have besought me, in urgently worded little booklet, to Order Bulbs Early, and when I do so — at no little inconvenience, owing to customary pressure of holidays — reply on a postcard that order will be forwarded “when ready”. Have serious thoughts of cancelling the whole thing — six selected, twelve paper-whites, a dozen early assorteds, and a half bushel of Fibre, Moss, and Charcoal. Cannot very well do this, however, owing to quite recent purchase of coloured bowls from W
oolworth’s, as being desirable additions to existing collection of odd pots, dented enamel basins, large red glass jam-dish, and dear grandmamma’s disused willow-pattern foot-bath.

  Departure of the boy Henry — who says that he has enjoyed himself, which I hope is true — accompanied by Robin, who is to be met and extracted from train at Salisbury by uncle of boy with whom he is to stay.

  (Query: How is it that others are so frequently able to obtain services of this nature from their relations? Feel no conviction that either William or Angela would react favourably, if called upon to meet unknown children at Salisbury or anywhere else.)

  Vicky, Mademoiselle, and I wave goodbye from hall door — rain pouring down as usual — and Vicky seems a thought depressed at remaining behind. This tendency greatly enhanced by Mademoiselle’s exclamation, on retiring into the house once more— “On dirait un tombeaul”

  Second post brings letter from Barbara in the Himalayas, which gives me severe shock of realising that I haven’t yet read her last one, owing to lack of time and general impression that it is illegibly scrawled and full of allusions to native servants. Remorsefully open this one, perceive with relief that it is quite short and contains nothing that looks like native servants, but very interesting piece of information, rather circuitously worded by dear Barbara, but still quite beyond misunderstanding. I tell Mademoiselle, who says “Ah, comme c’est touchant!” and at once wipes her eyes — display which I think excessive.

  Robert, to whom I also impart news, goes to the other extreme, and makes no comment except “I daresay”. On the other hand, our Vicar’s wife calls, for the express purpose of asking whether I think it will be a boy or a girl, and of suggesting that we should at once go together and congratulate old Mrs. Blenkinsop. I remind her that Barbara stipulates in letter for secrecy, and our Vicar’s wife says, Of course, of course — it had slipped her memory for the moment — but surely old Mrs. B. must know all about it? However, she concedes that dear Barbara may perhaps not wish her mother to know that we know, just yet, and concludes with involved quotation from Thomas a Kempis about exercise of discretion. We then discuss educational facilities in the Himalayas, the Carruthers nose — which neither of us cares about — and the desirability or otherwise of having twins. Our Vicar’s wife refuses tea, talks about books — she likes to have something solid in hand, always — is reminded of Miss Pinkerton, about whom she is doubtful, but admits that it is early days to judge — again refuses tea, and assures me that she must go. She eventually stays to tea, and walks up and down the lawn with me afterwards, telling me of Lady B.’s outrageous behaviour in connection with purchase of proposed site for the Village Hall. This, as usual, serves to unite us in warm friendship, and we part cordially.