Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  I remind him in return about Mandeville Fitzwarren, and he assures me that he has not forgotten it at all and it’s as safe as the Bank of England.

  Go up and make the beds.

  Doreen Fitzgerald, who is helping me, asserts that it is unlucky to turn the mattress on a Monday, and we accordingly leave it unturned. Learn subsequently from Aunt Blanche that D.F. holds similar views concerning Sundays, Fridays and the thirteenth of every month.

  Learn from wireless News at one o’clock that Finnish-Soviet negotiations have been suspended, and am not in any way cheered by Aunt Blanche, who says that it is only a question of time, now, before every country in Europe is dragged into war.

  Lunch follows, and we make every effort not to talk of world situation in front of the children, but are only moderately successful, and Marigold — eating apple-tart — suddenly enquires in most intelligent tones whether I think the Germans will actually land in England, or only drop bombs on it from aeroplanes?

  Instantly decide to take both Marigold and Margery out in car, petrol or no petrol, and have tea at small newly-opened establishment in neighbouring market town, by way of distracting their thoughts.

  Both are upstairs, having official rest — (can hear Margery singing “South of the Border” very loudly and Marigold kicking the foot of the bed untiringly) — when Winnie opens drawing-room door and announces Lady B. with what seems like deliberate unexpectedness.

  Lady B., whom I have not seen for months, has on admirable black two-piece garment, huge mink collar, perfectly brand-new pair of white gloves, exquisite shoes and stockings and tiny little black-white-red-blue-orange hat, intrinsically hideous but producing effect of extreme smartness and elegance.

  Am instantly aware that my hair is out of curl, that I have not powdered my nose for hours, that my shoes — blue suède — bear no relation whatever to my dress — grey tweed — and that Aunt Blanche, who has said earlier in the day that she can’t possibly go about for another minute in her old mauve wool cardigan, has continued to do so. Lady B. is doubtless as well aware as I am myself of these deficiencies, but both of us naturally ignore them, and assume appearance of delight in our reunion.

  Aunt Blanche is introduced; Lady B. looks over the top of her head and says Don’t let me disturb you, in very patronising tones indeed, and sits down without waiting to be asked.

  What a world, she says, we’re living in! All in it together. (Can see that this seems to her very odd.) We shall all alike suffer, all alike have to play our part — rich and poor.

  Aunt Blanche, with great spirit, at once retorts that it won’t be rich and poor at all, but poor and poor, with the new income-tax, and Lady B. — evidently a good deal startled — admits that Aunt Blanche is too right. She herself is seriously considering closing the London house, selling the villa in the South of France, making over the place in Scotland to the younger generation, and living quite, quite quietly on a crust in one half of the house at home.

  Enquire whether she has taken any steps as yet towards accomplishing all this, and she says No, she is expecting a number of wounded officers at any moment, and has had to get the house ready for them. Besides, it would in any case be unpatriotic to dismiss members of the staff and cause unemployment, so Lady B. is keeping them all on except the second footman, who has been called up, and to whom she has said: Henry, you must go. The country has called for you, and I should be the very last person in the world not to wish you to go and fight. Leave your address and I will arrange to send you some cigarettes.

  Henry, says Lady B., had tears in his eyes as he thanked her.

  She then asks very solicitously what I have been doing to cause myself to look like a scarecrow, and she has heard that I am taking in evacuees, and where have I managed to squeeze them in, it’s too clever of me for words.

  Wonder whether to reply that I have set apart two suites for the evacuees and still have the whole of the West Wing empty, but decide on the truth as being simpler and more convincing, and merely inform Lady B. that as my own children are away, it is all very easy.

  Lady B. at once supposes that My Girl, who must be quite grown-up by now, is working somewhere.

  No, she’s still at school, and will be for another two and a half years at least.

  Lady B. says Really! in tones of astonishment. And what about My Boy? In France?

  Not at all. In the Sixth at Rugby.

  Ah, Rugby! says Lady B.

  Am perfectly certain that in another second she is going to tell me about her nephews at Eton, and accordingly head her off by enquiring what she thinks about the probable duration of the war.

  Lady B. shakes her head and is of opinion that we are not being told everything, by any means.

  At the same time, she was at the War Office the other day (should like to know why, and how) and was told in strict confidence —

  At this point Lady B. looks round the room, as though expecting to see a number of the Gestapo hiding behind the curtains, and begs me to shut the window, if I don’t mind One never can be absolutely certain, and she has to be so particularly careful, because of being related to Lord Gort. (First I’ve ever heard of it.)

  Shut the window — nothing to be seen outside except one blackbird on the lawn — and Aunt Blanche opens the door and then shuts it again.

  Have often wondered what exact procedure would be if, on opening a door, Cook or Winnie should be discovered immediately outside it. Prefer not to pursue the thought.

  Well, says Lady B., she knows that what she is going to say will never go beyond these four walls. At this she fixes her eyes on Aunt Blanche, who turns pale and murmurs Certainly not, and is evidently filled with apprehension.

  Does Aunt Blanche, enquires Lady B., happen to know Violetta, Duchess of Tittington?

  No.

  Then do I know Violetta, Duchess of Tittington?

  Am likewise obliged to disclaim Violetta, Duchess of Tittington — but dishonestly do so in rather considering tones, as though doubtful whether thinking of Violetta or of some other Duchess of my acquaintance.

  Violetta, it seems, is a dear friend of Lady B’s. She is naturally in close touch with the Cabinet, the House of Lords, the Speaker of the House of Commons, the War Office and Admiralty House. And from one or all of these sources, Violetta has deduced that a lull is expected shortly. It will last until the spring, and is all in favour of the Allies.

  Will this lull, asks Aunt Blanche agitatedly, extend to the air? She is not, she adds hastily, in the least afraid of bombs or gas or anything of that kind — not at all — but it is very unsettling not to know. And, of course, we’ve all been expecting air-raids ever since the very beginning, and can’t quite understand why they haven’t happened.

  Oh, they’ll happen! declares Lady B. very authoritatively.

  They’ll happen all right — (surely rather curious form of qualification?) — and they’ll be quite unpleasant. Aunt Blanche must be prepared for that. But at the same time she must remember that our defences are very good, and there’s the balloon barrage to reckon with. The Duke, Violetta’s husband, has pronounced that not more than one in fifteen of the enemy bombers will get through.

  And will the raids all be over London? further enquires Aunt Blanche.

  Try to convey to her in a single look that Lady B. is by no means infallible, and that I should be much obliged if Aunt Blanche wouldn’t encourage her to believe that she is, and also that if we are to take evacuees out in the car, it is time this call came to an end — but message evidently beyond the compass of a single look, or of Aunt Blanche’s powers of reception, and she continues to gaze earnestly at Lady B. through large pair of spectacles, reminding me of anxious, but intelligent, white owl.

  Lady B. is grave, but not despairing, about London.

  It will be the main objective, but a direct hit on any one particular building from the air is practically impossible. Aunt Blanche may take that as a fact.

  Am instantly filled with a
desire to repudiate it altogether, as a fact, and inform Lady B. that the river is unfortunately visible from the air at almost any height.

  Completely defeated by Lady B., who adopts an attitude of deep concern and begs to be told instantly from what source I have heard this, as it is exactly the kind of inaccurate and mischievous rumour that the Government are most anxious to track down and expose.

  As I have this moment evolved it, I find myself at a loss, and answer that I can’t remember where I heard it.

  I must remember, says Lady B. A great many utterly false statements of the kind are being circulated all over the country by Nazi propaganda agents, and the Authorities are determined to put an end to it. They are simply designed to impair the morale of the nation.

  Can only assure her that I am practically certain it didn’t emanate from a Nazi propaganda agent — but Lady B. is still far from satisfied, and begs me to be very much more careful, and, above all, to communicate with her direct, the moment I meet with any kind of subversive rumour.

  Should not dream of doing anything of the kind.

  Aunt Blanche — do not care at all for the tone that she is taking — begs Lady B. for inside information in regard to the naval situation, and is told that this is Well in Hand. Lady B. was dining with the First Lord of the Admiralty only a few nights ago and he told her — but this must on no account go further — that the British Navy was doing wonders.

  It always does, says Aunt Blanche firmly — at which she goes up in my estimation and I look at her approvingly, but she ignores me and continues to fix her eyes immovably on Lady B.

  Tell myself, by no means for the first time, that Time and the Hour run through the Roughest Day.

  Lady B. asks what I have been doing in London and doesn’t wait for an answer, but adds that she is very glad to see me back again, as really there is plenty to do in one’s own home nowadays, and no need to go out hunting for war jobs when there are plenty of young people ready and willing to undertake them.

  Should like to inform Lady B. that I have been urgently invited to work for the Ministry of Information, but Aunt Blanche intervenes and states — intentions very kind but wish she had let it alone — that I am making myself most useful taking night duty at a W.V.S. Canteen.

  The one in Berkeley Square?

  No, not the one in Berkeley Square. In the Adelphi.

  Lady B. loses all interest on learning of this inferior locality, and takes her leave almost at once.

  She looks round the study and tells me that I am quite right to have shut up the drawing-room — she herself is thinking of only using three or four of the downstairs rooms — and asks why I don’t put down parquet flooring, as continual sweeping always does wear any carpet into holes, and professes to admire three very inferior chrysanthemums in pots, standing in the corner.

  Do I know La Garonne? A lovely pink one, and always looks so well massed in the corners of a room or at the foot of the staircase.

  (Should be very sorry to try to mass even two chrysanthemums in pots at the foot of my own staircase, as they would prevent anybody from either going up or down.)

  Express civil interest in La Garonne and ring the bell for Winnie, who doesn’t answer it. Have to escort Lady B. to hall door and waiting Bentley myself, and there bid her goodbye. Her last word is to the effect that if things get too difficult, I am to ring her up as, in times like these, we must all do what we can for one another.

  She then steps into Bentley, is respectfully shrouded in large fur rug by chauffeur, and driven away.

  Return to study fire and inform Aunt Blanche that, much as I dislike everything I have ever heard or read about Stalin and his régime, there are times when I should feel quite prepared to join Communist party. Aunt Blanche only answers, with great common sense, that she does not think I had better say anything of that kind in front of Robert, and what about telling Marigold and Margery to get ready for their drive?

  Follow her advice and very successful expedition ensues, with much running downhill with car in neutral gear, in the hope that this saves petrol, and tea at rather affected little hostelry recently opened under the name of Betty’s Buttery.

  Return before black-out and listen to the Six O’clock News. German aircraft have made daylight raid over Firth of Forth and have been driven off, and aerial battle has been watched from the streets by the inhabitants of Edinburgh.

  Aunt Blanche waxes very indignant over this, saying that her sister-in-law deliberately went up North in search of safety and now she has had all this excitement and seen the whole thing. She is unable to get over this for the rest of the evening, and says angrily at intervals that it’s all so exactly like Eleanor.

  Evening passes uneventfully. Robert returns, says that he’s already heard the News, seems unwilling to enter into any discussion of it, and immerses himself in Times crossword puzzle. Aunt Blanche not deterred by this from telling him all about air-raid over Firth of Forth with special emphasis on the fact of her sister-in-law Eleanor having been there and, as she rather strangely expresses it, had all the fun for nothing.

  Robert makes indeterminate sound, but utters no definite comment.

  Later on, however, he suggests that Vicky’s school, on the East Coast, may have heard something of raid and that, if so, she will be delighted.

  October 18th. — Long letter from Vicky informs us that school did receive air-raid warning, interrupting a lacrosse match, and that everybody had to go into the shelter. The weather has been foul, and a most divine concert has taken place, with a divine man playing the violin marvellously. Vicky is trying a new way of doing her hair, curled under, and some of her friends say it’s like Elizabeth Bergner and others say it’s simply frightful. Tons of love and Vicky is frightfully sorry for sending such a deadly letter but it’s been a frightfully dull term and nothing ever seems to happen.

  Robert, at this, enquires caustically what the young want nowadays? Nothing ever satisfies them.

  October 19th. — Cook, steeped in gloom, is driven by myself to distant crossroads where she is met by an uncle, driving a large car full of milkcans. Her suit-case is wedged amongst the milk-cans, and she tells me in sepulchral tones that if she’s wanted back in a hurry I can always ring up the next farm — name of Blore — and they’ll always run across with a message and she can be got as far as the cross-roads if not all the way, as uncle has plenty of petrol.

  Take my leave of her, reflecting how much more fortunately situated uncle is than I am myself.

  Mrs. Vallence is in the kitchen on my return and instantly informs me that she isn’t going to say a word. Not a single word. But it’ll take her all her time, and a bit over, just to get things cleaned up.

  I give a fresh turn to the conversation by suggesting that I am anxious to learn as much as I can in the way of cooking, and should be glad of anything that Mrs. Vallence can teach me, and we come to an amicable agreement regarding my presence in the kitchen at stated hours of the day.

  Indulge in long and quite unprofitable fantasy of myself preparing and cooking very superior meals for (equally superior) succession of Paying Guests, at the end of the war. Just as I have achieved a really remarkable dinner of which the principal features are lobster à l’Américaine and grapes in spun sugar, Winnie comes in to say that the grocer has called for orders please’m and Mrs. Vallence says to say that we’re all right except for a packet of cornflour and half-a-dozen of eggs for the cakes if that’ll be all right.

  I give my sanction to the packet of cornflour and half-dozen of eggs and remind myself that there is indeed a wide difference between fact and fancy.

  This borne in on me even more sharply at a later hour when Mrs. Vallence informs me that gardener has sent in two lovely rabbits and they’ll come in handy for to-morrow’s lunch and give me an opportunity of seeing how they ought to be got ready, which is a thing many ladies never have any idea of whatever.

  Do not care to reply that I should be more than content to remain
with the majority in this respect.

  October 21st. — Aunt Blanche tells me very seriously to have nothing to do with rabbits. Breakfast scones if I like, mayonnaise sauce and an occasional sweet if I really feel I must, but not rabbits. They can, and should, be left to professional cooks.

  Could say a great deal in reply, to the effect that professional cooks are anything but numerous and that those there are will very shortly be beyond my means — but remember in time that argument with the elderly, more especially when a relative, is of little avail and go to the kitchen without further discussion.

  Quite soon afterwards am wishing from the bottom of my heart that I had taken Aunt Blanche’s advice.

  This gives place, after gory and unpleasant interlude, to rather more self-respecting frame of mind, and Mrs. V. tells me approvingly that I have now done The Worst Job in all Cooking.

  Am thankful to hear it.

  Rabbit-stew a success, but make my own lunch off scrambled eggs.

  October 24th. — Obliged to ring up Cook’s uncle’s neighbour and ask him to convey a message to the effect that petrol will be insufficient to enable me to go and meet her either at station or bus stop. Can the uncle convey her to the door, or must conveyance be hired?

  Aunt Blanche says that Robert has plenty of A.R.P. petrol, she supposes, but Robert frowns severely on this, and says with austerity that he hasn’t plenty at all — only just enough to enable him to perform his duties.

  Aunt Blanche inclined to be hurt at Robert’s tone of voice and, quite unjustly, becomes hurt with me as well, and when I protest says that she doesn’t know what I mean, there’s nothing the matter at all, and she’s not the kind of person to take offence at nothing, and never has been. I ought to know her better than that, after all these years.

  Assure her in return that of course I do, but this not a success either and I go off to discuss Irish stew and boiled apple pudding with Mrs. Vallence in kitchen, leaving Aunt Blanche looking injured over the laundry book. She is no better when I return, and tells me that practically not a single table-napkin is fit to be seen and most of them are One Large Darn.