Can foresee that Aunt Blanche and I are going to spend hours discussing old Mrs. W.-G. and her faults.
I enquire what the car was, and am told It was Nothing Whatever, only a man and his wife who suggested that we should like to give them photographs from which they propose to evolve exquisitely-finished miniatures, painted on ivorine, suitably framed, to be purchased by us for the sum of five guineas each.
Ask how Aunt Blanche got rid of them and she seems reluctant to reply, but at last admits that she told them that we ourselves didn’t want any miniatures at the moment but that they might go on down the road, turn to the left, and call on Lady Boxe.
The butler, adds Aunt Blanche hurriedly, will certainly know how to get rid of them.
Cannot pretend to receive the announcement of this unscrupulous proceeding with anything but delighted amusement.
It also leads to my asking for news of Lady B.’s present activities and hearing that she still talks of a Red Cross Hospital — officers only — but that it has not so far materialised. Lady B.’s Bentley, however, displays a Priority label on wind-screen, and she has organised First Aid classes for the village.
At this I exclaim indignantly that we all attended First Aid classes all last winter, under conditions of the utmost discomfort, sitting on tiny chairs in front of minute desks in the Infant School, as being only available premises. What in the name of common sense do we want more First Aid for?
Aunt Blanche shakes her head and says Yes, she knows all that, but there it is. People are interested in seeing the inside of a large house, and they get coffee and biscuits, and there you are.
I tell Aunt Blanche that, if it wasn’t for Stalin and his general behaviour, I should almost certainly become a Communist to-morrow. Not a Bolshevik, surely? says Aunt Blanche. Yes, a Bolshevik — at least to the extent of beheading quite a number of the idle rich.
On thinking this over, perceive that the number really boils down to one — and realise that my political proclivities are of a biassed and personal character, and not worth a moment’s consideration. (Note: Say no more about them.)
Tea is succeeded by Happy Families with infant evacuees Marigold and Margery, again recalling nursery days now long past of Robin and Vicky.
Both are eventually despatched to bed, and I see that the moment has come for visiting Cook in the kitchen. Remind myself how splendidly she behaved at outbreak of war, and that Aunt Blanche has said she thinks things are all right, but am nevertheless apprehensive.
Have hardly set foot in the kitchen before realising — do not know how or why — that apprehensions are about to be justified. Start off nevertheless with faux air of confident cheerfulness, and tell Cook that I’m glad to be home again, glad to see that Winnie’s back at work, glad to see how well the children look, very glad indeed to see that she herself doesn’t look too tired. Cannot think of anything else to be glad about, and come to a stop.
Cook, in very sinister tones, hopes that I’ve enjoyed my holiday.
Well, it hasn’t been exactly a holiday.
(Should like to tell her that T have been engaged, day and night, on activities of national importance but this totally unsupported by facts, and do not care to mention Canteen which would not impress Cook, who knows the extent of my domestic capabilities, in the very least.)
Instead, ask weakly if everything has been All Right?
Cook says Yes’m, in tones which mean No’m, and at once adds that she’s been on the go from morning till night, and of course the nursery makes a great deal of extra work and that girl Winnie has no head at all. She’s not a bad girl, in her way, but she hasn’t a head. She never will have, in Cook’s opinion.
I express concern at this deficiency, and also regret that Winnie, with or without head, should have had to be away.
As to that, replies Cook austerely, it may or may not have been necessary. All she knows is that she had to be up and on her hands and knees at half-past five every morning, to see to that there blessed kitchen range.
(If this was really so, can only say that Cook has created a precedent, as no servant in this house has ever, in any circumstances, dreamed of coming downstairs before a quarter to seven at the very earliest — Cook herself included.)
The range, continues Cook, has been more trying than she cares to say. She does, however, say — and again describes herself at half-past five every morning, on her hands and knees. (Cannot see that this extraordinary position could have been in any way necessary, or even desirable.)
There is, in Cook’s opinion, Something Wrong with the Range. Make almost automatic reply to this well-worn domestic plaint, to the effect that it must be the flues, but Cook repudiates the flues altogether and thinks it’s something more like the whole range gone, if I know what she means.
I do know what she means, only too well, and assure her that a new cooking-stove is quite out of the question at present and that I regret it as much as she does. Cook obviously doesn’t believe me and we part in gloom and constraint.
Am once again overcome by the wide divergence between fiction and fact, and think of faithful servant Hannah in the March family and how definite resemblance between her behaviour and Cook’s was quite discernible at outbreak of war, but is now no longer noticeable in any way. All would be much easier if Cook’s conduct rather more consistent, and would remain preferably on Hannah-level, or else definitely below it — but not veering from one to the other.
Make these observations in condensed form to Robert and he asks Who is Hannah? and looks appalled when I say that Hannah is character from the classics. Very shortly afterwards he goes into the study and I have recourse to Aunt Blanche.
She is equally unresponsive about Hannah, but says Oh yes, she knows Little Women well, only she can’t remember anybody called Hannah, and am I sure I don’t mean Aunt March? And anyway, books are no guide to real life.
Abandon all literary by-paths and come into the open with straightforward enquiry as to the best way of dealing with Cook.
Give her a week’s holiday, advises Aunt Blanche instantly. A week will make all the difference. She and I and Winnie can manage the cooking between us, and perhaps Doreen Fitzgerald would lend a hand.
Later on I decide to adopt this scheme, with modifications — eliminating all assistance from Aunt Blanche, Winnie and Doreen Fitzgerald and sending for Mrs. Vallence — once kitchen-maid to Lady Frobisher — from the village.
October 15th. — We plough the fields and scatter, at Harvest Home service, and church is smothered in flowers, pumpkins, potatoes, apples and marrows. The infant Margery pulls my skirt — which is all she can reach — and mutters long, hissing communication of which I hear not one word and whisper back in dismay: Does she want to be taken out?
She shakes her head.
I nod mine in return, to imply that I quite understand whatever it was she meant to convey, and hope she will be satisfied — but she isn’t, and hisses again.
This time it is borne in on me that she is saying it was she who placed the largest marrow — which is much bigger than she is herself — in position near the organ-pipes, and I nod very vigorously indeed, and gaze admiringly at the marrow.
Margery remains with her eyes glued to it throughout the service.
Note that no single member of the congregation is carrying gas-mask, and ask Robert afterwards if he thinks the omission matters, and he says No.
Our Vicar is encouraging from the pulpit — sensation pervades entire church when one R.A.F. uniform and one military one walk in and we recognise, respectively, eldest son of the butcher and favourite nephew of Mrs. Vallence — and strange couple in hiker’s attire appear in pew belonging to aged Farmer (who has been bed-ridden for years and never comes to church) — and are viewed with most un-Christian disfavour by everybody. (Presumable exception must here be made, however, in favour of Our Vicar.)
Exchange customary greetings outside with neighbours, take automatic glance — as usual — at corner ben
eath yew-tree where I wish to be deposited in due course and register hope that Nazi bombs may not render this impracticable — and glean the following items of information:
Johnnie Lamb from Water Lane Cottages, has gone.
(Sounds very final indeed, but really means training-camp near Salisbury.)
Most of the other boys haven’t yet Gone, but are anxious to Go, and expect to do so at any minute.
Bill Chuff, who was in the last war, got himself taken at once and is said by his wife to be guarding the Power Station at Devonport. (Can only say, but do not of course do so, that Bill Chuff will have to alter his ways quite a lot if he is to be a success at the Power Station at Devonport. Should be interested to hear what Our Vicar, who has spent hours in spiritual wrestling with Bill Chuff in the past fifteen years, thinks of this appointment.)
An aeroplane was seen over the mill, flying very low, three days ago, and had a foreign look about it — but it didn’t do anything, so may have been Belgian. Cannot attempt to analyse the component parts of this statement and simply reply, Very Likely.
Lady B. has sent up to say that she will employ any girl who has passed her First Aid Examination, in future Red Cross Hospital, and has met with hardly any response as a rumour has gone round that she intends to make everybody else scrub the floors and do the cooking while she manages all the nursing.
Am quite prepared to believe this, and manage to convey as much without saying it in so many words.
Gratified at finding myself viewed as a great authority on war situation, and having many enquiries addressed to me.
What is going to happen about Finland, and do I think that Russia is playing a Double Game? (To this I reply, Triple, at the very least.)
Can I perhaps say where the British Army is, exactly?
If I can’t, it doesn’t matter, but it would be a Comfort to know whether it has really moved up to the Front yet, or not. The Ministry of Information doesn’t tell one much, does it?
No, it doesn’t.
Then what, in my opinion, is it for?
To this, can only return an evasive reply.
The village of Mandeville Fitzwarren, into which Mrs. Greenslade’s Ivy married last year, hasn’t had a single gas-mask issued to it yet, and is much disturbed, because this looks as though it was quite Out of the World, which isn’t the case at all.
Promise to lay the case of Mandeville Fitzwarren before Robert in his official A.R.P. capacity without delay.
(M. F. is minute cluster of six cottages, a farm, inn and post-office, in very remote valley concealed in a labyrinth of tiny lanes and utterly invisible from anywhere at all, including the sky.)
Final enquiry is whether Master Robin is nineteen yet, and when I reply that he isn’t, everybody expresses satisfaction and hopes It’ll be Over before he’s finished his schooling.
Am rather overcome and walk to the car, where all emotion is abruptly dispersed by astonishing sight of cat Thompson sitting inside it, looking out of the window.
Evacuees Marigold and Margery, who are gazing at him with admiration, explain that he followed them all the way from home and they didn’t know what else to do with him, so shut him into the car. Accordingly drive back with Thompson sitting on my knee and giving me sharp, severe scratch when Robert sounds horn at the corner.
Peaceful afternoon ensues, write quantity of letters, and Aunt Blanche says it is a great relief not to have to read the newspapers, and immerses herself in Journals of Miss Weeton instead and says they are so restful.
Tell her that I have read them all through three times already and find them entrancing, but not a bit restful. Doesn’t Aunt Barton’s behaviour drive her to a frenzy, and what about Brother Tom’s?
Aunt Blanche only replies, in thoroughly abstracted tones, that poor little Miss Pedder has just caught fire and is in a fearful blaze, and will I please not interrupt her till she sees what happens next.
Can only leave Aunt Blanche to enjoy her own idea of restful literature.
Finish letters — can do nothing about Cook owing to nationwide convention that employers do not Speak on a Sunday in any circumstance whatever — decide that this will be a good moment to examine my wardrobe — am much discouraged by the result — ask Robert if he would like a walk and he says No, not now, this is his one opportunity of going through his accounts.
As Robert is leaning back in study armchair in front of the fire, with Blackwood’s Magazine on his knees, I think it tactful to withdraw.
Reflect on the number of times I have told myself that even one hour of leisure would enable me to mend arrears of shoulder-straps and stockings, wash gloves, and write long letter to Robert’s mother in South of France, and then instantly retire to drawing-room fire and armchair opposite to Aunt Blanche’s, and am only roused by ringing of gong for tea.
Evening is spent in playing Spillikins with evacuees, both of whom are highly skilled performers, and leave Aunt Blanche and myself standing at the post.
Eleven o’clock has struck and I am half-way to bed before I remember Mandeville Fitzwarren and go down again and lay before Robert eloquent exposition of the plight of its inhabitants.
Robert not at all sympathetic — he has had several letters from Mandeville Fitzwarren, and has personally addressed a Meeting of its fourteen parishioners, and assured them that they have not been forgotten. In the meantime, he declares, nobody is, in the least likely to come and bomb them from the air, and they need not think it. It’s all conceit.
This closes the discussion.
October 16th. — Very exhausting debate between myself and Cook.
I tell her — pleasant tone, bright expression, firmness mingled with benevolence — that she has thoroughly earned a rest and that I should like her to take at least a week’s holiday whilst I am at home. Wednesday, I should suggest, would be a good day for her to go.
Cook immediately assumes an air of profound offence and says Oh no’m, that isn’t at all necessary. She doesn’t want any holiday.
Yes, I say, she does. It will do her good.
Cook shakes her head and gives superior smile, quite devoid of mirth.
Yes, Cook, really.
No’m. It’s very kind of me, but she couldn’t think of such a thing.
But we could manage, I urge — at which Cook looks highly incredulous and rather resentful — and I should like her to have a holiday, and I feel sure she needs a holiday.
Cook returns, unreasonably, that she is too tired for a holiday to do her any good. She wouldn’t enjoy it.
In another moment we are back at the stove motif again, and I am once more forced to hear of Cook’s suspicion that something is wrong with it, that she thinks the whole range is going, if it hasn’t actually gone, and of her extraordinary and unnatural activities, on her hands and knees, at half-past five in the morning.
I tell Cook — not without defiance — that A Man will come and look at the range whilst she is away. She says a man won’t be able to do nothing. The Sweep, last time he saw it, said he couldn’t understand how it was still holding together. In his opinion it wouldn’t take more than a touch to send the whole thing to pieces, it was in such a way.
Sweep has evidently been very eloquent indeed, as Cook continues to quote him at immense length.
(Note: Make enquiries as to whether any other Sweep lives within a ten-mile radius, and if so, employ him for the future.)
Find myself edging nearer and nearer to the door, while at the same time continuing to look intelligently and responsively at Cook, but no break occurs in her discourse to enable me to disappear altogether.
After what seems like hours, Cook pauses for a moment and I again reiterate my intention of sending her for a holiday, to which she again replies that this is not necessary, nor even possible. Should like to ask whether Cook has ever heard of Mr. Bultitude who said that Everything would go to rack and ruin without him and was informed in return, not unreasonably, that he couldn’t be as important as all that.
Instead, tell her that I shall expect her to be ready on Wednesday, and that Mrs. Vallence from the village is coming in to lend a hand.
Have just time to see, quite unwillingly, Cook assume an expression of horrified incredulity, before going out of the kitchen as quickly as I can.
Meet Aunt Blanche in the hall, and she asks if I am feeling ill as I am such a queer colour. Admit to feeling Upset, if not actually ill, after discussion in the kitchen and Aunt Blanche at once replies that she knows exactly what I mean, and it always does make a wreck of one, but I shall find that everything will go simply perfectly for at least a fortnight now. This is always the result of Speaking.
Feel that Aunt Blanche is right, and rally.
Serena very kindly takes the trouble to write and say that I am missed in the underworld, that they have had another lecture on the treatment of shock, and everybody says the air-raids are to begin on Sunday next. P.S.: She was taken out to dinner last night by J.L. and things are getting rather difficult, as she still can’t make up her mind. When I come back she would like my advice.
(This leads to long train of thought as to the advisability or otherwise of (a) asking and (b) giving, advice. Reach the conclusion that both are undesirable. Am convinced that nothing I can say will in reality alter the course of Serena’s existence, and that she probably knows this as well as I do, but wants to talk to somebody. Can quite understand this, and am more than ready to oblige her.)
Also receive official-looking envelope — no stamp — and decide that the Ministry of Information has at last awakened to a sense of its own folly in failing to utilise my services for the nation, and has written to say so. Have already mentally explained situation to Robert, left Aunt Blanche to deal with Cook, packed up and gone to London by 11.40 — if still running — before I have so much as slit open the envelope. It turns out to be strongly-worded appeal on behalf of no-doubt excellent charity, in no way connected with the war.
Robert departs for his A.R.P. office in small official two-seater, and tells me not to forget, if I want to take the car out, that I have barely three gallons of petrol and am not entitled to have my next supply until the twenty-third of the month.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 475
