Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Mrs. P. and I talk about servants, cold East Winds and clipped yew hedges. She also says hopefully that she thinks I know Yorkshire, but to this I have to reply that I don’t, which leads us nowhere. Am unfortunately inspired to add feebly — Except, of course, the Brontes — at which Mrs. P. looks alarmed, and at once takes her leave. My Girl throws Punch away disdainfully, and we exchange good-byes, Mrs. P. saying fondly that she is sure she does not know what I must think of My Girl’s manners. Could easily inform her, and am much tempted to do so, but My Girl at once starts engine of car, and drives herself and parent away.

  April 21st. — Final spate of letters, two post cards, and a telegram, herald arrival of Felicity — not, however, by train that she has indicated, and minus luggage, for which Robert is obliged to return to station later. Am gratified to observe that in spite of this, Robert appears pleased to see her, and make mental note to the effect that a Breath of Air from the Great World is of advantage to those living in the country.

  April 22nd. — Singular reaction of Felicity to announcement that I am taking her to lunch with novelist, famous in two continents for numerous and brilliant contributions to literature. It is very kind of me, says Felicity, in very unconvincing accents, but should I mind if she stayed at home with the children? I should, I reply, mind very much indeed. At this we glare at one another for some moments in silence, after which Felicity — spirit evidently quailing — mutters successively that: (a) She has no clothes. (b) She won’t know what to talk about. (c) She doesn’t want to be put into a book.

  I treat (a) and (b) with silent contempt, and tell her that (c) is quite out of the question, to which she retorts sharply that she doesn’t know what I mean.

  Dead-lock is again reached.

  Discussion finally closed by my declaring that Casabianca and the children are going to Plymouth to see the dentist, and that Robert will be out, and I have told the maids that there will he no dining-room lunch. Felicity submits, I at once offer to relinquish expedition altogether, she protests violently, and we separate to go and dress.

  Query, at this point, suggests itself: Why does my wardrobe never contain anything except heavy garments suitable for arctic regions, or else extraordinarily flimsy ones suggestive of the tropics? Golden mean apparently non-existent.

  Am obliged to do the best I can with brown tweed coat and skirt, yellow wool jumper — sleeves extremely uncomfortable underneath coat sleeves — yellow handkerchief tied in artistic sailor’s knot at throat, and brown straw hat with ciré ribbon, that looks too summery for remainder of outfit. Felicity achieves better results with charming black-and-white check, short pony-skin jacket, and becoming black felt hat.

  Car, which has been washed for the occasion, is obligingly brought to the door by Casabianca, who informs me that he does not think the self-starter is working, but she will probably go on a slope, only he doesn’t advise me to try and wind her, as she kicked badly just now. General impression diffused by this speech is to the effect that we are dealing with a dangerous wild beast rather than a decrepit motor-car.

  I say Thank you to Casabianca, Good-bye to the children, start the car, and immediately stop the engine. Not a very good beginning, is it? says Felicity, quite unnecessarily.

  Casabianca, Robin and Vicky, with better feeling, push car vigorously, and eventually get it into the lane, when engine starts again. Quarter of a mile further on, Felicity informs me that she thinks one of the children is hanging on to the back of the car. I stop, investigate, and discover Robin, to whom I speak severely. He looks abashed. I relent, and say, Well, never mind this time, at which he recovers immediately, and waves us off with many smiles from the top of a hedge.

  Conversation is brisk for the first ten miles. Felicity enquires after That odious woman — cannot remember her name — but she wore a ridiculous cape, and read books, from which description I immediately, and correctly, deduce Miss Pankerton, and reply that I have not, Thank Heaven, come across her for weeks. We also discuss summer clothes, Felicity’s married sister’s children, Lady B. — now yachting in the Mediterranean — and distant days when Felicity and I were at school together.

  Pause presently ensues, and Felicity — in totally different voice — wishes to know if we are nearly there? We are; I stop the car before the turning so that we can powder our noses, and we attain small and beautiful Queen Anne house in silence.

  Am by this time almost as paralysed as Felicity, and cannot understand why I ever undertook expedition at all. Leave car in most remote corner of exquisite courtyard — where it presents peculiarly sordid and degraded appearance — and permit elegant parlourmaid — mauve-and-white dress and mob cap — to conduct us through panelled hall to sitting-room evidently designed and furnished entirely regardless of cost.

  Madam is in the garden, says parlourmaid, and departs in search of her. Felicity says to me, in French — (Why not English?) — Dites que je ne suis pas literary du tout, and I nod violently just as celebrated hostess makes her appearance.

  She is kind and voluble; Felicity and I gradually recover; someone in a blue dress and pince-nez appears, and is introduced as My Friend Miss Postman who Lives with Me; someone else materialises as My Cousin Miss Crump, and we all go in to lunch. I sit next to hostess, who talks competently about modern poetry, and receives brief and evasive replies from myself. Felicity has My Friend Miss Postman, whom I hear opening the conversation rather unfortunately with amiable remark that she has so much enjoyed Felicity’s book. Should like to hear with exactly what energetic turn of phrase Felicity disclaims having had anything to do with any book ever, but cannot achieve this, being under necessity of myself saying something reasonably convincing about Masefield, about whose work I can remember nothing at all.

  Hostess then talks about her own books, My Friend Miss Postman supplies intelligent and laudatory comments, seconded by myself, and Felicity and the cousin remain silent, but wear interested expressions.

  This carries us on safely to coffee in the loggia, where Felicity suddenly blossoms into brilliancy owing to knowing names, both Latin and English, of every shrub and plant within sight.

  She is then taken round the garden at great length by our hostess, with whom she talks gardening. Miss P. and I follow, but ignore flora, and Miss P. tells me that Carina — (reference, evidently, to hostess, whose name is Charlotte Volley) — is Perfectly Wonderful. Her Work is Wonderful, and so are her Methods, her Personality, her Vitality and her Charm.

  I say Yes, a great many times, and feel that I can quite understand why Carina has Miss P. to live with her. (Am only too certain that neither Felicity nor dear Rose would dream of presenting me to visitors in similar light, should occasion for doing so ever arise.)

  Carina and herself, continues Miss P., have been friends for many years now. She has nursed Carina through illness — Carina is not at all strong — and never, never rests. If only she would sometimes spare herself, says Miss P. despairingly — but, no, she has to be Giving Out all the time. People make demands upon her. If it isn’t one, it’s another.

  At this, I feel guilty, and suggest departure. Miss P. protests, but faintly, and is evidently in favour of scheme. Carina is approached, but says, No, no, we must stay to tea, we are expected. Miss P. murmurs energetically, and is told, No, no, that doesn’t matter, and Felicity and I feign absorption in small and unpleasant-looking yellow plant at our feet. Later, Miss P. admits to me that Carina ought to relax absolutely for at least an hour every afternoon, but that it is terribly, terribly difficult to get her to do it. To-day’s failure evidently lies at our door, and Miss P. remains dejected, and faintly resentful, until we finally depart.

  Carina is cordial to the last, sees us into car, has to be told that that door won’t open, will she try the other side, does so, shuts it briskly, and says that we must come again soon. Final view of her is with her arm round Miss P.’s shoulder, waving vigorously. What, I immediately enquire, did Felicity think of her? to which Felicity replies
with some bitterness that it is not a very good moment for her to give an opinion, as Carina has just energetically slammed door of the car upon her foot.

  Condolences follow, and we discuss Carina, Miss P., cousin, house, garden, food and conversation, all the way home. Should be quite prepared to do so all over again for benefit of Robert in the evening, but he shows no interest, after enquiring whether there wasn’t a man anywhere about the place, and being told Only the Gardener.

  April 23rd. — Felicity and I fetch as many of Carina’s works as we can collect from Boots’, and read them industriously. Great excitement on discovering that one of them — the best known — is dedicated to Carina’s Beloved Friend, D. P., whom we immediately identify as Miss Postman, Felicity maintaining that D. stands for Daisy, whilst I hold out for Doris. Discussion closes with ribald reference to Well of Loneliness.

  April 26th. — Felicity, after altering her mind three times, departs, to stay with married sister in Somersetshire. Robin and Vicky lament and I say that we shall all miss her, and she replies that she has loved being here, and it is the only house she knows where the bath towels are really large. Am gratified by this compliment, and subsequently repeat it to Robert, adding that it proves I can’t be such a bad housekeeper. Robert looks indulgent, but asks what about that time we ran out of flour just before a Bank Holiday week-end? To which I make no reply — being unable to think of a good one.

  Telephone message from Lady Frobisher, inviting us to dinner on Saturday next, as the dear Blamingtons will be with her for the weekend. I say The Blamingtons? in enquiring tones, and she says Yes, yes, he knew me very well indeed eighteen years ago, and admired me tremendously. (This seems to me to constitute excellent reason why we should not meet again, merely in order to be confronted with deplorable alterations wrought by the passage of eighteen years.)

  Lady F., however, says that she has promised to produce me — and Robert, too, of course, she adds hastily — and we must come. The Blaming-tons are wildly excited. (Have idle and frivolous vision of the Blamingtons standing screaming and dancing at her elbow, waiting to hear decision.)

  But, says Lady F., in those days — reference as to period preceding the Stone Age at least — in those days, I probably knew him as Bill Ransom? He has only this moment come into the title. I say Oh! Bill Ransom, and lapse into shattered silence, while Lady F. goes on to tell me what an extraordinarily pretty, intelligent, attractive and wealthy woman Bill has married, and how successful the marriage is. (Am by no means disposed to credit this offhand.)

  Conversation closes with renewed assurances from Lady F. of the Blamingtons’ and her own cast-iron determination that they shall not leave the neighbourhood without scene of reunion between Bill and myself, and my own enfeebled assent to this preposterous scheme.

  Spend at least ten minutes sitting by the telephone, still grasping receiver, wondering what Bill and I are going to think of one another, when compelled to meet, and why on earth I ever agreed to anything so senseless.

  Tell Robert about invitation, and he says Good, the Frobishers have excellent claret, but remains totally unmoved at prospect of the Blamingtons. This — perhaps unjustly — annoys me, and I answer sharply that Bill Ransom once liked me very much indeed, to which Robert absently replies that he daresays, and turns on the wireless. I raise my voice, in order to dominate Happy Returns to Patricia Trabbs of Streatham, and screech that Bill several times asked me to marry him, and Robert nods, and walks out through the window into the garden.

  Helen Wills and children rush in at the door, draught causes large vase to blow over, and inundate entire room with floods of water, and incredibly numerous fragments of ribes-flower, and all is merged into frantic moppings and sweepings, and adjurations to children not to cut themselves with broken glass. Happy Families follows, immediately succeeded by Vicky’s bath, and supper for both, and far-distant indiscretions of self and Bill Ransom return to oblivion, but recrudesce much later, when children have gone to bed, Casabianca is muttering quietly to himself over cross-word puzzle, and Robert absorbed in Times.

  Take up a book and read several pages, but presently discover that I have no idea what it is all about, and begin all over again, with similar result. Casabianca suddenly remarks that he would so much like to know what I think of that book, to which I hastily reply Oh! very good indeed, and he says he thought so too, and I offer help with cross-word puzzle in order to stem further discussion.

  Spend much time in arranging how I can best get in to hairdresser’s for shampoo-and-set before Saturday, and also consider purchase of new frock, but am aware that financial situation offers no justification whatever for this.

  Much later on, Robert enquires whether I am ill, and on receiving negative reply, urges that I should try and get to sleep. As I have been doing this, without success, for some time, answer appears to me to be unnecessary.

  (Mem.: Self-control very, very desirable quality, especially where imagination involved, and must certainly endeavour to cultivate.)

  April 30th. — Incredible quantity of household requirements immediately springs into life on my announcing intention of going into Plymouth in order to visit hairdresser. Even Casabianca suddenly says Would it be troubling me too much to ask me to get a postal-order for three shillings and tenpence-halfpenny? Reply tartly that he will find an equally acceptable one at village Post Office, and then wish I hadn’t when he meekly begs my pardon and says that, Yes, of course he can.

  (N.B. This turning of the cheek has effect, as usual, of making me much crosser than before. Feel that doubt is being cast on Scriptural advice, and dismiss subject immediately.)

  Bus takes me to Plymouth, where I struggle with Haberdashery — wholly uncongenial form of shopping, and extraordinarily exhausting — socks for Vicky, pants for Robin, short scrubbing-brush demanded by Cook, but cannot imagine what she means to do with it, or why it has to be short — also colossal list of obscure groceries declared to be unobtainable anywhere nearer than Plymouth. None of these are ever in stock at counters where I ask for them, and have to be procured either Upstairs or in the Basement, and am reminded of comic song prevalent in days of youth: The Other Department, If you please, Straight On and Up the Stairs. Quote it to grey-headed shopman, in whom I think it may rouse memories, but he only replies Just so, moddam, and we part without further advances on either side.

  Rather tedious encounter follows with young gentleman presiding over Pickles, who endeavours to persuade me that I want particularly expensive brand of chutney instead of that which I have asked for, and which he cannot supply. Am well aware that I ought to cut him short with curt assurance that No Substitute will Do, but find myself mysteriously unable to do anything of the kind, and we continue to argue round and round in a circle, although without acrimony on either side. Curious and unsatisfactory conclusion is reached by my abandoning Chutney motif altogether, and buying small and unknown brand of cheese in a little jar. Young gentleman then becomes conversational in lighter vein, and tells me of his preference in films, and we agree that No-one has ever come near Dear Old Charlie. Nor ever will, says the young gentleman conclusively, as he ties string into elegant bow, which will give way the moment I get into street. I say No indeed, we exchange mutual expressions of gratitude, and I perceive that I am going to be late for appointment with hairdresser.

  Collect number of small parcels — including particularly degraded-looking paper-bag containing Chips for which Robin and Vicky have implored — sling them from every available finger until I look like inferior Christmas-tree, thrust library-books under one arm — (they slip continually, and have to be pushed into safety from behind by means of ungraceful acrobatics) — and emerge into street. Unendearing glimpse of myself as I pass looking-glass reveals that my hat has apparently engulfed the whole of my head and half of my face as well. (Disquieting query here: Is this perhaps all for the best?) Also that blue coat with fur collar, reasonably becoming when I left home, has now assumed aspect of
something out of a second-hand clothes-shop. Encourage myself with visions of unsurpassed brilliance that is to be mine after shampoo-and-set, careful dressing to-night, and liberal application of face-powder, and — if necessary — rouge.

  Just as I have, mentally, seen exquisite Paris-model gown that exactly fits me, for sale in draper’s window at improbable price of forty-nine shillings and sixpence, am recalled to reality by loud and cordial greetings of Our Vicar’s Wife, who plunges through traffic at great risk to life in order to say what a coincidence this is, considering that we met yesterday, and are sure to be meeting to-morrow. She also invites me to come and help her choose white linen buttons for pillow-cases — but this evidently leading direct to Haberdashery once more, and I refuse — I hope with convincing appearance of regret.

  Am subsequently dealt with by hairdresser — who says that I am the only lady he knows that still wears a bob — and once more achieve bus, where I meet Miss S. of the Post Office, who has also been shopping. We agree that a day’s shopping is tiring — One’s Feet, says Miss S. — and that the bus hours are inconvenient. Still, we can’t hope for everything in this world, and Miss S. admits that she is looking forward to a Nice Cup of Tea and perhaps a Lay-Down, when she gets home. Reflect, not for the first time, that there are advantages in being a spinster. Should be sorry to say exactly how long it is since I last had a Lay-Down myself, without being disturbed at least fourteen times in the course of it.

  Spend much time, on reaching home, in unpacking and distributing household requirements, folding up and putting away paper and string, and condoling with Vicky, who alleges that Casabianca had made her walk miles and miles, and she has a pain in her wrist. Do not attempt to connect these two statements, but suggest the sofa and Dr. Dolittle, to which Vicky agrees with air of exhaustion, which is greatly intensified every time she catches my eye.