She also suggests that I should take duty on Sunday for an hour or two, as this always a difficult day on which to get help, and I light-heartedly say Yes, yes, any time she likes — I live just over the way and nothing can be easier than to step across. She can put me down for whatever hour is most difficult to fill. She immediately puts me down for 6 A.M.
October 8th. — Inclined to wish I hadn’t been so obliging. Six A.M. very un-inspiring hour indeed.
Granny Bo-Peep enters Canteen at half-past seven — looks as fresh as a daisy — and tells me roguishly that my eyes are full of sleepy-dust and she thinks the sand-man isn’t far away, and orders breakfast — a pot of tea, buttered toast and scrambled eggs.
Colonial fellow-worker hands them to her and ejaculates — to my great annoyance — that she thinks Mrs. Winter-Gammon is just wonderful. Always cheerful, always on her feet, always thinking of others.
Granny Bo-Peep — must have preternaturally acute hearing — manages to intercept this and enquires what nonsense is that? What is there wonderful about a good-for-nothing old lady doing her bit, as the boys in brave little Belgium used to call it? Why, she’s proud to do what she can, and if the aeroplanes do come and a bomb drops on her — why, it just isn’t going to matter. Should like, for the first time in our association, to tell old Mrs. W.-G. that I entirely agree with her. Young Colonial — evidently nicer nature than mine — expresses suitable horror at suggested calamity, and Mrs. W.-G. is thereby encouraged to ruffle up her curls with one claw and embark on story concerning one of the stretcher-bearers who has — she alleges — attached himself to her and follows her about everywhere like a shadow. Why, she just can’t imagine. (Neither can I.)
Order for Two Sausages from elderly and exhausted-looking Special Constable who has been on duty in the street all night takes me to the kitchen, where Cook expresses horror and incredulity at message and says I must have made a mistake, as nobody could order just sausages. He must have meant with fried bread, or mashed, or even tomatoes.
Special Constable says No, he didn’t. He said sausages and he meant sausages.
Can only report this adamant spirit to Cook, who seems unable to credit it even now, and takes surreptitious look through the hatch at Special Constable, now leaning limply against the counter. He shakes his head at my suggestions of coffee, bread-and-butter or a nice cup of tea, and removes his sausages to corner of table, and Cook says it beats her how anybody can eat a sausage all on its own, let alone two of them, but she supposes it’ll take all sorts to win this war.
Lull has set in and sit down on Mrs. Peacock’s box and think of nineteen hundred and fourteen and myself as a V.A.D. and tell myself solemnly that a quarter of a century makes a difference to one in many ways.
This leads on to thoughts of Robin and Vicky and I have mentally put one into khaki and the other into blue slacks, suède jacket and tin hat, when Granny Bo-Peep’s voice breaks in with the assertion that she knows just what I’m thinking about: she can read it in my face. I’m thinking about my children.
Have scarcely ever been so near committing murder in my life.
Young Colonial — could wish she had either more discrimination or less kindliness — is encouraging old Mrs. W.-G. — who isn’t in the least in need of encouraging — by respectful questions as to her own family circle, and Mrs. W.-G. replies that she is alone, except for the many, many dear friends who are good enough to say that she means something in their lives. She has never had children, which she implies is an error on the part of Providence as she knows she ought to have been the mother of sons. She has a natural affinity with boys and they with her.
When she was living with her dear Edgar in his East End parish, many years ago, she invariably asked him to let her teach the boys. Not the girls. The boys. Just the boys. And Edgar used to reply: These boys are the Roughest of the Rough. They are beyond a gentlewoman’s control. But Mrs. W.-G. would simply repeat: Give me the boys, Edgar. And Edgar — her beloved could never hold out against her — eventually gave her the boys. And what was the result?
The result was that the boys — though still the Roughest of the Rough — became tamed. A lady’s influence, was the verdict of Edgar, in less than a month. One dear lad — a scallywag from the dockside if ever there was one, says Mrs. W.-G. musingly — once made use of Bad Language in her presence. And the other poor lads almost tore him to pieces, dear fellows. Chivalry. Just chivalry. The Beloved always said that she seemed to call it out.
She herself — ha-ha-ha — thinks it was because she was such A Tiny — it made them feel protective. Little Mother Sunshine they sometimes called her — but that might have been because in those days her curlywig was gold, not silver.
Even the young Colonial is looking rather stunned by this time, and only ejaculates very feebly when Mrs. W.-G. stops for breath. As for myself, a kind of coma has overtaken me and I find myself singing in an undertone “South of the Border, down Mexico Way” — to distant gramophone accompaniment.
Am relieved at Cash Register what seems like weeks later — but is really only two hours — and retire to Buckingham Street.
Curious sense of unreality pervades everything — cannot decide if this is due to extraordinary and unnatural way in which the war is being conducted, without any of the developments we were all led to expect, or to lack of sleep, or merely to prolonged dose of old Mrs. Winter-Gammon’s conversation.
Debate the question lying in hot bath, wake up with fearful start although am practically positive that I haven’t been asleep, and think how easily I might have drowned — recollections of George Joseph Smith and Brides in the Bath follow — crawl into bed and immediately become mentally alert and completely wide awake.
This state of things endures until I get up and dress and make myself tea and hot buttered toast.
Timid tap at flat door interrupts me, and, to my great surprise, find Muriel — curls and all — outside. She explains that Serena has said that I have a bathroom and that I am very kind and that there is no doubt whatever of my allowing her to have a bath. Is this all right?
Am touched and flattered by this trusting spirit, and assure her that it is.
(Query: Are my services to the Empire in the present world-war to take the form of supplying hot baths to those engaged in more responsible activities? Answer: At present, apparently, yes.)
Muriel comes out from bathroom more decorative than ever — curls evidently natural ones — and we have agreeable chat concerning all our fellow workers, about whom our opinions tally. She then drifts quietly out again, saying that she is going to have a really marvellous time this afternoon, because she and a friend of hers have been saving up all their petrol and they are actually going to drive out to Richmond Park. Remembrance assails me, after she has gone, that Serena has said that Muriel’s parents own a Rolls-Royce and are fabulously wealthy. Have dim idea of writing short, yet brilliant, article on New Values in War-Time — but nothing comes of it.
Instead, write a letter to Robert — not short, but not brilliant either. Also instructions to Aunt Blanche about letting Cook have the Sweep, if that’s what she wants, and suggesting blackberry jelly if sugar will run to it, and not allowing her, on any account, to make pounds and pounds of marrow jam which she is certain to suggest and which everybody hates and refuses to touch.
P.S.: I have seen Mrs. Winter-Gammon quite a lot, and she seems very energetic indeed and has sent Aunt Blanche her love. Can quite understand why Aunt Blanche has said that she will not agree to share a flat with her again when the war is over. Mrs. W.-G. has dynamic personality and is inclined to have a devitalising effect on her surroundings.
Re-read postscript and am not at all sure that it wouldn’t have been better to say in plain English that old Mrs. W.-G. is more aggravating than ever, and Aunt Blanche is well out of sharing a flat with her.
Ring up Rose later on and enquire whether she has yet got a job.
No, nothing like that. Rose has sent in her
name and qualifications to the British Medical Association, and has twice been round to see them, and she has received and filled in several forms, and has also had a letter asking if she is prepared to serve with His Majesty’s Forces abroad with the rank of Major, and has humorously replied Yes, certainly, if H.M. Forces don’t mind about her being a woman, and there the question, at present, remains.
All Rose’s medical colleagues are equally unoccupied and she adds that the position of the Harley Street obstetricians is particularly painful, as all their prospective patients have evacuated themselves from London and the prospect of their talents being utilised by the Services is naturally non-existent.
What, asks Rose, about myself?
Make the best show I can with the Canteen — position on Cash Register obviously quite a responsible one in its way — but Rose simply replies that it’s too frightful the way we’re all hanging about wasting our time and doing nothing whatever.
Retire from this conversation deeply depressed.
October 9th. — Mrs. Peacock electrifies entire Canteen by saying that she has met a man who says that the British Government is going to accept Hitler’s peace terms.
Can only reply that he must be the only man in England to have adopted this view — and this is supported by everyone within hearing, Serena going so far as to assert that man must be a Nazi propaganda-agent as nobody else could have thought of anything so absurd.
Mrs. P. looks rather crushed, but is not at all resentful, only declaring that man is not a Nazi propaganda-agent, but she thinks perhaps he just said it so as to be unlike anybody else — in which he has succeeded.
Man forthwith dismissed from the conversation by everybody.
No further incident marks the day until supper-time, when customary uproar of radio, gramophone, darts contest and newly imported piano (situated just outside Women’s Rest-room) has reached its climax.
Ginger-headed stretcher-bearer then comes up to order two fried eggs, two rashers, one sausage-roll and a suet dumpling, and asks me if I’ve heard the latest.
Prepare to be told that Dr. Goebbels has been executed at the behest of his Führer at the very least, but news turns out to be less sensational. It is to the effect that the underworld has now been issued with shrouds, to be kept in the back of each car. Am dreadfully inclined to laugh at this, but stretcher-bearer is gloom personified, and I feel that my reaction is most unsuitable and immediately stifle it.
Stretcher-bearer then reveals that his chief feeling at this innovation is one of resentment. He was, he declares, in the last war, and nobody had shrouds then, but he supposes that this is to be a regular Gentleman’s Business.
Condole with him as best I can, and he takes his supper and walks away with it, still muttering very angrily about shrouds.
October 10th. — Letter received from extremely distinguished woman, retired from important Civil Service post less than a year ago, and with whom I am only in a position to claim acquaintance at all because she is friend of Rose’s. She enquires — very dignified phraseology — if I can by any chance tell her of suitable war work.
Can understand use of the word suitable when she adds, though without apparent rancour, entire story of recent attempts to serve her country through the medium of local A.R.P. where she lives. She has filled up numbers of forms, and been twice interviewed by very refined young person of about nineteen, and finally summoned to nearest Council Offices for work alleged to be in need of experienced assistance.
Work takes the form of sitting in very chilly entrance-hall of Council Offices directing enquirers to go Upstairs and to the Right for information about Fuel Control, and Downstairs and Straight Through for Food Regulations.
Adds — language still entirely moderate — that she can only suppose the hall-porter employed by Council Offices has just been called up.
Am shocked and regretful, but in no position to offer any constructive suggestion.
Letter also reaches me from Cook — first time we have ever corresponded — saying that Winnie’s mother has sent a message that Winnie’s young sister came back from school with earache which has now gone to her foot and they think it may be rheumatic fever and can Winnie be spared for a bit to help. Cook adds that she supposes the girl had better go, and adds P.S.: The Butcher has took Winnie and dropped her the best part of the way. P.P.S.: Madam, what about the Sweep?
Am incredibly disturbed by this communication on several counts. Winnie’s absence more than inconvenient, and Cook herself will be the first person to complain of it bitterly. Have no security that Winnie’s mother’s idea of “a bit” will correspond with mine.
Cannot understand why no letter from Aunt Blanche. Can Cook have made entire arrangement without reference to her? Allusion to Sweep also utterly distracting. Why so soon again? Or, alternatively, did Aunt Blanche omit to summon him at Cook’s original request, made almost immediately after my departure? If so, for what reason, and why have I been told nothing?
Can think of nothing else throughout very unsatisfactory breakfast, prepared by myself, in which electric toaster alternately burns the bread or produces no impression on it whatever except for three pitch-black perpendicular lines.
Tell myself that I am being foolish, and that all will be cleared up in the course of a post or two, and settle down resolutely to Inside Information column of favourite daily paper, which I read through five times only to find myself pursuing long, imaginary conversation with Cook at the end of it all.
Decide that the only thing to do is to telephone to Aunt Blanche this morning and clear up entire situation.
Resume Inside Information.
Decide that telephoning is not only expensive, but often unsatisfactory as well, and letter will serve the purpose better.
Begin Inside Information all over again.
Imaginary conversation resumed, this time with Aunt Blanche.
Decide to telephone, and immediately afterwards decide not to telephone.
Telephone bell rings and strong intuitional flash comes over me that decision has been taken out of my hands. (Just as well.)
Yes?
Am I Covent Garden? says masculine voice.
No, I am not.
Masculine voice ejaculates — tone expressive of annoyance, rather than regret for having disturbed me — and conversation closes.
Mysterious unseen compulsion causes me to dial TRU and ask for home number.
Die now cast.
After customary buzzing and clicking, Robert’s voice says Yes? and is told by Exchange to go ahead.
We do go ahead and I say Is he all right? to which he replies, sounding rather surprised, that he’s quite all right. Are the children, Aunt Blanche and the maids all right? What about Winnie?
Robert says, rather vaguely, that he believes Winnie has gone home for a day or two, but they seem to be Managing, and do I want anything special?
Answer in the weakest possible way that I only wanted to know if they were All Right, and Robert again reiterates that they are and that he will be writing to-night, but this A.R.P. business takes up a lot of time. He hopes the Canteen work is proving interesting and not too tiring, and he thinks that Hitler is beginning to find out that he’s been playing a mug’s game.
So do I, and am just about to elaborate this theme when I remember the Sweep and enquire if I can speak to Aunt Blanche.
Robert replies that he thinks she’s in the bath.
Telephone pips three times, and he adds that, if that’s all, perhaps we’d better ring off.
Entire transaction strikes me as having been unsatisfactory in the extreme.
October 11th. — Nothing from Aunt Blanche except uninformative picture postcard of Loch in Scotland — in which I take no interest whatever — with communication to the effect that the trees are turning colour and looking lovely and she has scarcely ever before seen so many holly-berries out so early. The children brought in some beautiful branches of beech-leaves on Sunday and Aunt Blan
che hopes to put them in glycerine so that they will last in the house for months. The news seems to her good on the whole. The Russians evidently not anxious for war, and Hitler, did he but know it, up a gum-tree. Much love.
Spend much time debating question as to whether I had not better go home for the week-end.
October 12th. — Decide finally to ask Mrs. Peacock whether I can be spared for ten days in order to go home on urgent private affairs. Am unreasonably reluctant to make this suggestion in spite of telling myself what is undoubtedly the fact: that Canteen will easily survive my absence without disaster.
Mrs. Peacock proves sympathetic but tells me that application for leave will have to be made direct to Commandant. Can see she expects me to receive this announcement with dismay, so compel myself to reply Certainly, with absolute composure.
(Do not believe that she is taken in for one second.)
Debate inwardly whether better to tackle Commandant instantly, before having time to dwell on it, or wait a little and get up more spirit. Can see, however, that latter idea is simply craven desire to postpone the interview and must not on any account be entertained seriously.
Serena enters Canteen just as I am preparing to brace myself and exclaims that I look very green in the face, do I feel ill?
Certainly not. I am perfectly well. Does Serena know if Commandant is in her office, as I wish to speak to her.
Oh, says Serena, that accounts for my looks. Yes, she is.
I say Good, in very resolute tone, and go off. Fragmentary quotations from Charge of the Light Brigade come into my mind, entirely of their own accord.
Serena runs after me and says she’ll come too, and is it anything very awful?
Not at all. It is simply that I feel my presence to be temporarily required at home, and am proposing to go down there for ten days. This scheme to be subjected to Commandant’s approval as a mere matter of courtesy.
At this Serena laughs so much that I find myself laughing also, though perhaps less whole-heartedly, and I enquire whether Serena supposes Commandant will make a fuss? Serena replies, cryptically, that it won’t exactly be a fuss, but she’s sure to be utterly odious — which is precisely what I anticipate myself.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 473
