Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  “You too,” said Julia.

  She felt quite calm again now.

  “Hadn’t I better go down to my place?” she enquired.

  “No, no,” said grandmama. “You’ll get left behind. You can go along the corridor when the train’s started. Here comes your mother!”

  She began to make frantic signals, and Julia climbed into the carriage and leant out of the window.

  She remembered that she hadn’t said anything to Peggy.

  “Goodbye, Peggy!” she said. “Thank you for coming to see me off.”

  Peggy kissed her, and handed her a bottle of boiled sweets.

  Then she moved back and Terry took her place, and he and Julia smiled at one another.

  “I hope it won’t seem too frightfully long till Christmas,” Terry said. “It won’t be so bad, once you’ve got settled down.”

  He was trying, she knew, to send her off feeling fairly cheerful.

  Julia looked at him gratefully.

  “I know it won’t,” she said.

  “Goodbye, my pet,” interrupted grandmama, and Terry had to move away.

  “Here’s mummie, just in time,” said Peggy.

  The guard blew his whistle as mummie hurried to the window. Julia had just time to lean out and kiss her.

  The train began to move. The grown-up people stood back and waved, but Terry walked along beside the train, going quicker and quicker.

  “I hope you’ll have fun,” shrieked Julia.

  “I hope you will too,” shouted Terry, and he added something of which Julia only caught the words “at Christmas.”

  The train was going faster and faster and making more and more noise and in another minute he had to stop running.

  Julia hung out of the window, waving. Almost at once Terry’s face, his kind, troubled smile and grave eyes, his waving hand, had become quite invisible.

  Julia carefully pulled up the window, leaving it open at the top for fresh air, and turned round. There were only three people in the carriage after all — four if you counted the little dog — and one corner seat was empty.

  Julia sat down in it, and decided that she would go and find her place in the school carriage in a few minutes.

  There was something at the back of her mind that she couldn’t quite remember, and it was worrying her.

  It couldn’t be about leaving Terry, because he was going back to school that very afternoon and she was sure he’d be with mummie till then and quite all right.

  And of course, while he was actually at school, Julia couldn’t ever do anything to help him so it wasn’t any good worrying about it. It was only in the holidays —

  Something gave a little click inside Julia’s mind.

  In one second, as it seemed, she had realized that she and Terry weren’t going to be together for the holidays at all.

  The grown-ups didn’t mean them to be.

  Julia was going to be at “Rosslyn” with mummie and uncle Tom, and Terry was going to be with daddy and Petah, before going off to this place in Norfolk. Words that she had heard, and forgotten, on the day when she had listened to mummie and Dr. Dubillier talking together, came back to her.

  “Their father and I are going to make some other arrangement. Alternate holidays, or something of that kind.”

  Julia and Terry being divided, really, between mummie and daddy. That was what it came to.

  What Dr. Dubillier had to do with it, Julia couldn’t imagine. But evidently he’d advised it.

  One hadn’t somehow taken that in at the time, and yet in another way one had — only without properly realizing it.

  The Pekingese suddenly began to bark, looking at Julia, and at the same time she noticed that she was making quite a loud noise, breathing through her nose.

  She stopped at once and looked apologetically at the little dog. His barking reminded her of Chang.

  “Be quiet!” said the lady belonging to the Pekingese. She tapped his head, but she gave Julia rather a severe look as if she was really the person to blame.

  Julia got up, and stepping carefully across all the feet and the legs, went out into the corridor to go and find her place in the school coach.

  As she walked along, bumped from side to side by the swaying of the train, it occurred to her that she didn’t even know whether Terry had yet been told, or had properly understood, about these new plans.

  THE PROVINCIAL LADY IN WARTIME

  DEDICATION

  AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

  TO

  PETER STUCLEY

  BECAUSE OF OUR LONG FRIENDSHIP

  AND AS A TRIBUTE TO MANY SHARED RECOLLECTIONS

  OF MOSCOW, LONDON, EDINBURGH

  AND THE WEST COUNTRY

  THE PROVINCIAL LADY IN WARTIME

  September 1st, 1939. — Enquire of Robert whether he does not think that, in view of times in which we live, diary of daily events might be of ultimate historical value to posterity. He replies that It Depends.

  Explain that I do not mean events of national importance, which may safely be left to the Press, but only chronicle of ordinary English citizen’s reactions to war which now appears inevitable.

  Robert’s only reply — if reply it can be called — is to enquire whether I am really quite certain that Cook takes a medium size in gas-masks. Personally, he should have thought a large, if not out-size, was indicated. Am forced to realise that Cook’s gas-mask is intrinsically of greater importance than problematical contribution to literature by myself, but am all the same slightly aggrieved. Better nature fortunately prevails, and I suggest that Cook had better be asked to clear up the point once and for all. Inclination on the part of Robert to ring the bell has to be checked, and I go instead to kitchen passage door and ask if Cook will please come here for a moment.

  She does come, and Robert selects frightful-looking appliances, each with a snout projecting below a little talc window, from pile which has stood in corner of the study for some days.

  Cook shows a slight inclination towards coyness when Robert adjusts one on her head with stout crosspiece, and replies from within, when questioned, that It’ll do nicely, sir, thank you. (Voice sounds very hollow and sepulchral.)

  Robert still dissatisfied and tells me that Cook’s nose is in quite the wrong place, and he always thought it would be, and that what she needs is a large size. Cook is accordingly extracted from the medium-size, and emerges looking heated, and much inclined to say that she’d rather make do with this one if it’s all the same to us, and get back to her fish-cakes before they’re spoilt. This total misapprehension as to the importance of the situation is rather sharply dealt with by Robert, as A.R.P. Organiser for the district, and he again inducts Cook into a gas-mask and this time declares the results to be much more satisfactory.

  Cook (evidently thinks Robert most unreasonable) asserts that she’s sure it’ll do beautifully — this surely very curious adverb to select? — and departs with a look implying that she has been caused to waste a good deal of valuable time.

  Cook’s gas-mask is put into cardboard box and marked with her name, and a similar provision made for everybody in the house, after which Robert remarks, rather strangely, that that’s a good job done.

  Telephone bell rings, Vicky can be heard rushing to answer it, and shortly afterwards appears, looking delighted, to say that that was Mr. Humphrey Holloway, the billeting officer, to say that we may expect three evacuated children and one teacher from East Poplar at eleven o’clock to-night.

  Have been expecting this, in a way, for days and days, and am fully prepared to take it with absolute calm, and am therefore not pleased when Vicky adopts an air capable and says: It’ll be all right, I’m not to throw a fit, she can easily get everything ready. (Dear Vicky in many ways a great comfort, and her position as House prefect at school much to her credit, but cannot agree to be treated as though already in advanced stage of senile decay.)

  I answer repressively that she can help me to get the beds made up, and
we proceed to top-floor attics, hitherto occupied by Robin, who has now, says Vicky, himself been evacuated to erstwhile spare bedroom.

  Make up four beds, already erected by Robin and the gardener in corners, as though about to play Puss-in-the-Corner, and collect as many mats from different parts of the house as can be spared, and at least two that can’t. Vicky undertakes to put flowers in each room before nightfall, and informs me that picture of Infant Samuel on the wall is definitely old-fashioned and must go. Feel sentimental about this and inclined to be slightly hurt, until she suddenly rather touchingly adds that, as a matter of fact, she thinks she would like to have it in her own room — to which we accordingly remove it.

  Robin returns from mysterious errand to the village, for which he has borrowed the car, looks all round the rooms rather vaguely and says: Everything seems splendid — which I think is overestimating the amenities provided, which consist mainly of very old nursery screen with pictures pasted on it, green rush-bottomed chairs, patchwork quilts and painted white furniture. He removes his trouser-press with an air of deep concern and announces, as he goes, that the evacuated children can read all his books if they want to. Look round at volumes of Aldous Huxley, André Maurois, Neo-Georgian Poets, the New Yorker and a number of Greek textbooks, and remove them all.

  Inspection of the schoolroom — also to be devoted to evacuated children — follows, and I am informed by Vicky that they may use the rocking-horse, the doll’s house and all the toys, but that she has locked the bookcases. Am quite unable to decide whether I should, or should not, attempt interference here.

  (Remembrance awakens, quite involuntarily, of outmoded educational methods adopted by Mr. Fairchild. But results, on the whole, not what one would wish to see, and dismiss the recollection at once.)

  Vicky asks whether she hadn’t better tell Cook, Winnie and May about the arrival of what she calls “The little evacuments”, and I say Certainly, and am extremely relieved at not having to do it myself. Call after her that she is to say they will want a hot meal on arrival but that if Cook will leave the things out, I will get it ready myself and nobody is to sit up.

  Reply reaches me later to the effect that Cook will be sitting up in any case, to listen-in to any announcements that may be on the wireless.

  Announcement, actually, is made at six o’clock of general mobilisation in England and France.

  I say, Well, it’s a relief it’s come at last, Robin delivers a short speech about the Balkan States and their political significance, which is not, he thinks, sufficiently appreciated by the Government — and Vicky declares that if there’s a war, she ought to become a V.A.D. and not go back to school.

  Robert says nothing.

  Very shortly afterwards he becomes extremely active over the necessity of conforming to the black-out regulations, and tells me that from henceforward no chink of light must be allowed to show from any window whatever.

  He then instructs us all to turn on every light in the house and draw all the blinds and curtains while he makes a tour of inspection outside. We all obey in frenzied haste, as though a fleet of enemy aircraft had already been sighted making straight for this house and no other, and then have to wait some fifteen minutes before Robert comes in again and says that practically every curtain in the place will have to be lined with black and that sheets of brown paper must be nailed up over several of the windows. Undertake to do all before nightfall to-morrow, and make a note to get in supply of candles, matches, and at least two electric torches.

  Telephone rings again after dinner, and conviction overwhelms me that I am to receive information of world-shaking importance, probably under oath of secrecy. Call turns out to be, once more, from Mr. Holloway, to say that evacuees are not expected before midnight. Return to paper-games with Robin and Vicky.

  Telephone immediately rings again.

  Aunt Blanche, speaking from London, wishes to know if we should care to take her as paying guest for the duration of the war. It isn’t, she says frenziedly, that she would mind being bombed, or is in the least afraid of anything that Hitler — who is, she feels perfectly certain, simply the Devil in disguise — may do to her, but the friend with whom she shares a flat has joined up as an Ambulance driver and says that she will be doing twenty-four-hour shifts, and sleeping on a camp bed in the Adelphi, and that as the lease of their flat will be up on September 25th, they had better give it up. The friend, to Aunt Blanche’s certain knowledge, will never see sixty-five again, and Aunt Blanche has protested strongly against the whole scheme — but to no avail. Pussy — Mrs. Winter-Gammon — has bought a pair of slacks and been given an armlet, and may be called up at any moment.

  I express whole-hearted condemnation of Mrs. Winter-Gammon — whom I have never liked — and put my hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone to hiss at Robert that it’s Aunt Blanche, and she wants to come as P.G., and Robert looks rather gloomy but finally nods — like Jove — and I tell Aunt Blanche how delighted we shall all be to have her here as long as she likes.

  Aunt Blanche thanks us all — sounding tearful — and repeats again that it isn’t air-raids she minds — not for one minute — and enquires if Robin is nineteen yet — which he won’t be for nearly a year. She then gives me quantities of information about relations and acquaintances.

  William is an A.R.P. Warden and Angela is acting as his skeleton staff — which Aunt Blanche thinks has a very odd sound. Emma Hay is said to be looking for a job as Organiser, but what she wants to organise is not known. Old Uncle A. has refused to leave London and has offered his services to the War Office, but in view of his age — eighty-two — is afraid that he may not be sent on active service.

  She asks what is happening to Caroline Concannon, that nice Rose and poor Cissie Crabbe.

  Rose is still in London, I tell her, and will no doubt instantly find Hospital work — Caroline married years ago and went to Kenya and is tiresome about never answering letters — and Cissie Crabbe I haven’t seen or heard of for ages.

  Very likely not, replies Aunt Blanche in a lugubrious voice, but at a time like this one is bound to recollect old ties. Can only return a respectful assent to this, but do not really see the force of it.

  Aunt Blanche then tells me about old Mrs. Winter-Gammon all over again, and I make much the same comments as before, and she further reverts to her attitude about air-raids. Perceive that this conversation is likely to go on all night unless steps are taken to check Aunt Blanche decisively, and I therefore tell her that we are expecting a party of evacuees at any moment — (can distinctly hear Vicky exclaiming loudly: Not till midnight — exclamation no doubt equally audible to Aunt Blanche) — and that I must ring off.

  Of course, of course, cries Aunt Blanche, but she just felt she had to have news of all of us, because at a time like this —

  Can see nothing for it but to replace receiver sharply, hoping she may think we have been cut off by exchange.

  Return to paper-games and am in the midst of searching my mind for famous Admiral whose name begins with D — nothing but Nelson occurs to me — when I perceive that Robin is smoking a pipe.

  Am most anxious to let dear Robin develop along his own lines without undue interference, but am inwardly shattered by this unexpected sight, and by rather green tinge all over his face. Do not say anything, but all hope of discovering Admiral whose name begins with D has now left me, as mind definitely — though temporarily, I hope — refuses to function.

  Shortly afterwards pipe goes out, but Robin — greener than ever — re-lights it firmly. Vicky says Isn’t it marvellous, he got it in the village this afternoon — at which Robin looks at me with rather apologetic smile, and I feel the least I can do is to smile back again. Am rather better after this.

  Vicky embarks on prolonged discussion as to desirability or otherwise of her sitting up till twelve to receive little evacuments, when front-door bell peals violently, and everyone except Robert says: Here they are!

  Winnie can be heard
flying along kitchen passage at quite unprecedented speed, never before noticeable when answering any bell whatever, and almost instantly appears to say that Robert is Wanted, please — which sounds like a warrant for his arrest, or something equally dramatic.

  Vicky at once says that it’s quite impossible for her to go to bed till she knows what it is.

  Robin re-lights pipe, which has gone out for the seventh time.

  Suspense is shortly afterwards relieved when Robert reappears in drawing-room and says that a crack of light is distinctly visible through the pantry window and a special constable has called to say that it must immediately be extinguished.

  Vicky asks in awed tones how he knew about it and is told briefly that he was making his rounds, and we are all a good deal impressed by so much promptitude and efficiency. Later on, Robert tells me privately that special constable was only young Leslie Oakford from the Home Farm, and that he has been told not to make so much noise another time. Can see that Robert is in slight state of conflict between patriotic desire to obey all regulations, and private inner conviction that young Leslie is making a nuisance of himself. Am glad to note that patriotism prevails, and pantry light is replaced by sinister-looking blue bulb and heavily draped shade.

  Telephone rings once more — Humphrey Holloway thinks, apologetically, that we may like to know that evacuated children now not expected at all, but may be replaced next Monday by three young babies and one mother. Can only say Very well, and ask what has happened. Humphrey Holloway doesn’t know. He adds that all is very difficult, and one hundred and forty children evacuated to Bude are said to have arrived at very small, remote moorland village instead. On the other hand, Miss Pankerton — who asked for six boys — has got them, and is reported to be very happy. (Can only hope the six boys are, too.) Lady B. — whose house could very well take in three dozen — has announced that she is turning it into a Convalescent Home for Officers, and can therefore receive no evacuees at all. Am indignant at this, and say so, but H. H. evidently too weary for anything but complete resignation, and simply replies that many of the teachers are more difficult than the children, and that the mothers are the worst of all.