Dressing is accomplished without mishap and proceed downstairs and into street with Our Mutual Friend, boiled sweets and electric torch. Am shocked to find myself strongly inclined to run like a lamplighter, in spite of repeated instructions issued to the contrary. If this is the case when no raid at all is taking place, ask myself what it would be like with bombers overhead — and do not care to contemplate reply.
Street seems very dark, and am twice in collision with other pedestrians. Reaction to this is merry laughter on both sides. (Effect of black-out on national hilarity quite excellent.)
Turn briskly down side street and up to entrance of air-raid shelter, which turns out to be locked. Masculine voice enquires where I think I am going, and I say, Is it the police? No, it is the Air-raid Warden. Explain entire situation; he commends my forethought and says that on the first sound of siren alarm He Will be There. Assure him in return that in that case we shall meet, as I shall also Be There, with equal celerity, and we part — cannot say whether temporarily or for ever.
Wrist-watch, in pocket of coat, reveals that entire performance has occupied four and a half minutes only.
Am much impressed, and walk back reflecting on my own efficiency and wondering how best to ensure that it shall be appreciated by Robert, to whom I propose to write spirited account.
Return to fiat reveals that I have left all the electric lights burning — though behind blue shades — and forgotten gas-mask, still lying in readiness on table.
Decide to put off writing account to Robert.
Undress and get into bed again, leaving clothes and other properties ready as before — gas-mask in prominent position on shoes — but realise that if I have to go through whole performance all over again to-night, shall be very angry indeed.
October 2nd. — No alarm takes place. Wake at two o’clock and hear something which I think may be a warbling note from a siren — which we have been told to expect — but if so, warbler very poor and indeterminate performer, and come to the conclusion that it is not worth my attention and go to sleep again.
Post — now very late every day — does not arrive until after breakfast.
Short note from Robert informs me that all is well, he does not care about the way the Russians are behaving — (he never has) — his A.R.P. office has more volunteers than he knows what to do with — and young Cramp from the garage, who offered to learn method of dealing with unexploded bombs, has withdrawn after ten minutes’ instruction on the grounds that he thinks it seems rather dangerous.
Robert hopes I am enjoying the black-out — which I think is satirical — and has not forwarded joint letter received from Robin as there is nothing much in it. (Could willingly strangle him for this.)
Vicky’s letter, addressed to me, makes some amends, as she writes ecstatically about heavenly new dormitory, divine concert and utterly twee air-raid shelter newly constructed (towards which parents will no doubt be asked to contribute). Vicky’s only complaint is to the effect that no air-raid has yet occurred, which is very dull.
Also receive immensely long and chatty letter from Aunt Blanche. Marigold and Margery are well, Doreen Fitzgerald and Cook have failed to reach identity of views regarding question of the children’s supper but this has now been adjusted by Aunt Blanche and I am not to worry, and Robert seems quite all right, though not saying much.
Our Vicar’s Wife has been to tea — worn to a thread and looking like death — but has declared that she is getting on splendidly and the evacuees are settling down, and a nephew of a friend of hers, in the Militia, has told his mother, who has written it to his aunt, who has passed it on to Our Vicar’s Wife, that all Berlin is seething with discontent, and a revolution in Germany is scheduled for the first Monday in November.
Is this, asks Aunt Blanche rhetorically, what the Press calls Wishful Thinking?
She concludes with affectionate enquiries as to my well-being, begs me to go and see old Uncle A. when I have time, and is longing to hear what post I have been offered by the Ministry of Information. P.S.: What about the Sweep? Cook has been asking.
Have never yet either left home, or got back to it, without being told that Cook is asking about the Sweep.
Large proportion of mail consists of letters, full of eloquence, from tradespeople who say that they are now faced with a difficult situation which will, however, be improved on receipt of my esteemed cheque.
Irresistible conviction comes over me that my situation is even more difficult than theirs, and, moreover, no cheques are in the least likely to come and improve it.
Turn, in hopes of consolation, to remainder of mail and am confronted with Felicity Fairmead’s writing — very spidery — on envelope, and typewritten letter within, which she has forgotten to sign. Tells me that she is using typewriter with a view to training for war work, and adds candidly that she can’t help hoping war may be over before she finds it. This, says Felicity, is awful, she knows very well, but she can’t help it. She is deeply ashamed of her utter uselessness, as she is doing nothing whatever except staying as Paying Guest in the country with delicate friend whose husband is in France, and who has three small children, also delicate, and one maid who isn’t any use, so that Felicity and friend make the beds, look after the children, do most of the cooking and keep the garden in order. Both feel how wrong it is not to be doing real work for the country, and this has driven Felicity to the typewriter and friend to the knitting of socks and Balaclava helmets.
Felicity concludes with wistful supposition that I am doing something splendid.
Should be very sorry to enlighten her on this point, and shall feel constrained to leave letter unanswered until reality of my position corresponds rather more to Felicity’s ideas.
Meanwhile, have serious thoughts of sending copies of her letter to numerous domestic helpers of my acquaintance who have seen fit to leave their posts at a moment’s notice in order to seek more spectacular jobs elsewhere.
Remaining item in the post is letter-card — which I have customary difficulty in tearing open and only succeed at the expense of one corner — and proves to be from Barbara Carruthers née Blenkinsop, now living in Midlands. She informs me that this war is upsetting her very much: it really is dreadful for her, she says, because she has children, and situation may get very difficult later on and they may have to do without things and she has always taken so much trouble to see that they have everything. They are at present in Westmorland, but this is a considerable expense and moreover petrol regulations make it impossible to go and see them, and train-service — about which Barbara is indignant and says it is very hard on her — most unsatisfactory. How long do I think war is going on? She had arranged for her elder boys to go to excellent Preparatory School near London this autumn, but school has moved to Wales, which isn’t at all the same thing, and Barbara does feel it’s rather too bad. And what do I think about food shortage? It is most unfair if her children are to be rationed, and she would even be prepared to pay extra for them to have additional supplies. She concludes by sending me her love and enquiring casually whether Robin has been sent to France yet, or is he just too young?
Am so disgusted at Barbara’s whole attitude that I dramatically tear up letter into fragments and cast it from me, but realise later that it should have been kept in order that I might send suitable reply.
Draft this in my own mind several times in course of the day, until positively vitriolic indictment is evolved which will undoubtedly never see the light of day, and would probably land me in the Old Bailey on a charge of defamatory libel if it did.
Purchase overall for use in Canteen, debate the question of trousers and decide that I must be strong-minded enough to remain in customary clothing which is perfectly adequate to work behind the counter. Find myself almost immediately afterwards trying on very nice pair of navy-blue slacks, thinking that I look well in them and buying them.
Am prepared to take any bet that I shall wear them every time I go on duty.
Ring up Uncle A. — his housekeeper says he will be delighted to see me at tea-time — and also Mrs. Weatherby, living in Chelsea, who invites me to lunch and says her husband, distinguished Civil Servant, will be in and would much like to meet me. Imagination instantly suggests that he has heard of me (in what connection cannot possibly conceive), and, on learning that he is to be privileged to see me at his table, will at once realise that Civil Service would be the better for my assistance in some highly authoritative capacity.
Spend hours wondering what clothes would make me look most efficient, but am quite clear not slacks for the Civil Service. Finally decide on black coat and skirt, white blouse with frill of austere, not frilly, type, and cone-shaped black hat. Find that I look like inferior witch in third-rate pantomime in the latter, and take it off again. Only alternative is powder-blue with rainbow-like swathings, quite out of the question. Feel myself obliged to go out and buy small black hat, with brim like a jockey-cap and red edging. Have no idea whether this is in accordance with Civil Service tastes or not, but feel that I look nice in it.
Walk to Chelsea, and on looking into small mirror in handbag realise that I don’t after all. Can do nothing about it, and simply ask hall-porter for Mrs. Weatherby, and am taken up in lift to sixth-floor flat, very modern and austere, colouring entirely neutral and statuette — to me wholly revolting — of misshapen green cat occupying top of bookcase, dominating whole of the room.
Hostess comes in — cannot remember if we are on Christian-name terms or not, but inclined to think not and do not risk it — greets me very kindly and again repeats that her husband wishes to meet me.
(Civil Service appointment definitely in sight, and decide to offer Serena job as my private secretary.)
Discuss view of the river from window — Mrs. Weatherby says block of flats would be an excellent target from the air, at which we both laugh agreeably — extraordinary behaviour of the Ministry of Information, and delightful autumnal colouring in neighbourhood of Bovey Tracy, which Mrs. Weatherby says she knows well.
Entrance of Mr. Weatherby puts an end to this interchange, and we are introduced. Mr. W. very tall and cadaverous, and has a beard, which makes me think of Agrippa.
He says that he has been wishing to meet me, but does not add why. Produces sherry and we talk about black-out, President Roosevelt — I say that his behaviour throughout entire crisis has been magnificent and moves me beyond measure — Mrs. Weatherby agrees, but Agrippa seems surprised and I feel would like to contradict me but politeness forbids — and we pass on to cocker spaniels, do not know how or why.
Admirable parlourmaid — uniform, demeanour and manner all equally superior to those of Winnie, or even departed May — announces that Luncheon is served, madam, and just as I prepare to swallow remainder of sherry rapidly, pallid elderly gentleman crawls in, leaning on stick and awakening in me instant conviction that he is not long for this world.
Impression turns out to be not without foundation as it transpires that he is Agrippa’s uncle, and has recently undergone major operation at London Nursing Home but was desired to leave it at five minutes’ notice in order that bed should be available if and when required. Uncle asserts that he met this — as well he might — with protests but was unfortunately too feeble to enforce them and accordingly found himself, so he declares, on the pavement while still unable to stand. From this fearful plight he has been retrieved by Agrippa, and given hospitality of which he cannot speak gratefully enough.
Story concludes with examples of other, similar cases, of which we all seem to know several, and Mrs. Weatherby’s solemn assurance that all the beds of all the Hospitals and Nursing Homes in England are standing empty, and that no civilian person is to be allowed to be ill until the war is over.
Agrippa’s uncle shakes his head, and looks worse than ever, and soon after he has pecked at chicken soufflé, waved away sweet omelette and turned his head from the sight of Camembert cheese, he is compelled by united efforts of the Weatherbys to drink a glass of excellent port and retire from the room.
They tell me how very ill he has been — can well believe it — and that there was another patient even more ill, in room next to his at Nursing Home, who was likewise desired to leave. She, however, defeated the authorities by dying before they had time to get her packing done.
Find myself exclaiming “Well done!” in enthusiastic tone before I have time to stop myself, and am shocked. So, I think, are the Weatherbys — rightly.
Agrippa changes the conversation and asks my opinion about the value of the natural resources of Moravia. Fortunately answers his own question, at considerable length.
Cannot see that any of this, however interesting, is leading in the direction of war work for me.
On returning to drawing-room and superb coffee which recalls Cook’s efforts at home rather sadly to my mind — I myself turn conversation forcibly into desired channel.
What an extraordinary thing it is, I say, that so many intelligent and experienced people are not, so far as one can tell, being utilised by the Government in any way!
Mrs. Weatherby replies that she thinks most people who are really trained for anything worth while have found no difficulty whatever in getting jobs, and Agrippa declares that it is largely a question of Standing By, and will continue to be so for many months to come.
Does he, then, think that this will be a long war?
Agrippa, assuming expression of preternatural discretion, replies that he must not, naturally, commit himself. Government officials, nowadays, have to be exceedingly careful in what they say as I shall, he has no doubt, readily understand.
Mrs. Weatherby strikes in to the effect that it is difficult to see how the war can be a very short one, and yet it seems unlikely to be a very long one.
I enquire whether she thinks it is going to be a middling one, and then feel I have spoken flippantly and that both disapprove of me.
Should like to leave at once, but custom and decency alike forbid as have only this moment finished coffee.
Ask whether anything has been heard of Pamela Pringle, known to all three of us, at which Agrippa’s face lights up in the most extraordinary way and he exclaims that she is, poor dear, quite an invalid but as charming as ever.
Mrs. Weatherby — face not lighting up at all but, on the contrary, resembling a thunder-cloud — explains that Pamela, since war started, has developed unspecified form of Heart and retired to large house near the New Forest where she lies on the sofa, in eau-de-nil velvet wrapper, and has all her friends down to stay in turns.
Her husband has a job with the Army and is said to be in Morocco, and she has despatched the children to relations in America, saying that this is a terrible sacrifice, but done for their own sakes.
Can only reply, although I hope indulgently, that it all sounds to me exactly like dear Pamela. This comment more of a success with Mrs. W. than with Agrippa, who stands up — looks as if he might touch the ceiling — and says that he must get back to work.
Have abandoned all serious hope of his offering me a post of national importance, or even of no importance at all, but put out timid feeler to the effect that he must be very busy just now.
Yes, yes, he is. He won’t get back before eight o’clock to-night, if then. At one time it was eleven o’clock, but things are for the moment a little easier, though no doubt this is only temporary. (Query: Why is it that all those occupied in serving the country are completely overwhelmed by pressure of work but do not apparently dream of utilising assistance pressed upon them by hundreds of willing helpers? Answer comes there none.)
Agrippa and I exchange unenthusiastic farewells, but he sticks to his guns to the last and says that he has always wanted to meet me. Does not, naturally, add w
hether the achievement of this ambition has proved disappointing or the reverse.
Linger on for a few moments in frail and unworthy hope that Mrs. Weatherby may say something more, preferably scandalous, about Pamela Pringle, but she only refers, rather bleakly, to Agrippa’s uncle and his low state of health and asserts that she does not know what the British Medical Association can be thinking about.
Agree that I don’t either — which is true not only now but at all times — and take my leave. Tell her how much I have liked seeing them both, and am conscious of departing from spirit of truth in saying so, but cannot, obviously, inform her that the only parts of the entertainment I have really enjoyed are her excellent lunch and hearing about Pamela.
Go out in search of bus — all very few and far between now — and contemplate visit to hairdresser’s, but conscience officiously points out that visits to hairdresser constitute an unnecessary expense and could very well be replaced by ordinary shampoo in bedroom basin at flat. Inner prompting — probably the Devil — urges that Trade must be Kept Going and that it is my duty to help on the commercial life of the nation.
Debate this earnestly, find that bus has passed the spot at which I intended to get out, make undecided effort to stop it, then change my mind and sit down again and am urged by conductor to Make up My Mind. I shall have to move a lot faster than that, he jocosely remarks, when them aeroplanes are overhead. Much amusement is occasioned to passengers in general, and we all part in high spirits.
Am much too early for Uncle A. and walk about the streets — admire balloons which look perfectly entrancing — think about income-tax, so rightly described as crushing, and decide not to be crushed at all but readjust ideas about what constitutes reasonable standard of living, and learn to cook for self and family — and look at innumerable posters announcing contents of evening papers.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 470
