Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Serena is not on duty when I arrive, and telephone-call to her flat has only produced very long and painstaking statement in indifferent English from one of her Refugees, of which I understand scarcely a word, except that Serena is The Angel of Hampstead, is it not? Agree that it is, and exchange cordial farewells, with the Refugee, who says something that I think refers to the goodness of my heart. (Undeserved.)

  Canteen gramophone has altered its repertoire — this a distinct relief — and now we have “Love Never Grows Old” and “Run, rabbit, run”. Final chorus to the latter — Run, Hitler, run — I think a great mistake and quote to myself Dr. Dunstan from The Human Boy: “It ill becomes us, sir, to jest at a fallen potentate — and still less before he has fallen”.

  Helpers behind the counter now number two very young and rather pretty sisters, who say that they wish to be called Patricia and Juanita. Tendency on the part of all the male clientèle, to be served by them and nobody else, and they hold immense conversations, in undertones, with youths in leather jackets and brightly-coloured ties.

  This leaves Red Cross workers, female ambulance drivers, elderly special constables and stretcher-bearers, to me.

  One of these — grey-headed man in spectacles — comes up and scrutinises the menu at great length and then enquires What there is to-night? Suppose his sight has been dimmed by time, and offer to read him the list. He looks offended and says No, no, he has read it. Retrieve this error by asserting that I only made the suggestion because the menu seemed to be so illegibly written.

  Instant judgment follows, as Scottish lady leans down from elevation beside the urns and says severely that she wrote out those cards and took particular pains to see that they were not illegible.

  Decide to abandon the whole question without attempting any explanations whatever.

  Brisk interlude follows, time goes by before I know it, and at eleven o’clock Serena suddenly materialises and asks for coffee — as usual — and says that she is so glad I’ve come back. Can’t I take my supper now and come and join her?

  Yes, I can. Am entitled to free meal and, after much consideration, select sardines, bread-and-butter, tea and two buns. Inform Serena, on principle, that I do not approve of feminine habit of eating unsuitable food at unseasonable hours whilst working and that I had a proper dinner before I came out.

  Serena begs me not to be so grown-up and asks what the meal was. Am obliged to turn the conversation rather quickly, as have just remembered that it was taken in a hurry at a milk-bar and consisted of soup and tinned-salmon sandwich.

  What, I ask, has Serena been doing?

  Serena groans and says Oh, on Sunday morning there was an air-raid alarm and she was all ready for anything, and started up her car, and then the whole thing petered out. She popped up into the street and saw the Embankment Gardens balloon getting ready to defend England, but as soon as the All Clear was given, it came down again, which Serena thinks denotes slackness on the part of somebody.

  She has also been seeing J. L. and would like to talk to me some time, and could she bring him to the flat for a drink one evening?

  Yes, certainly — to-morrow if she likes.

  Serena sighs, and looks distressed, and says That would be great fun. J. L. wants cheering-up — in fact, he’s utterly wretched. He has finished his novel, and it is all about a woman whose husband is a political prisoner in a Concentration Camp and she can’t get news of him and she goes on the streets and one of her children is an epileptic and the other one joins a gang and goes to the bad, and in the end this woman gets shot and the children are just left starving in a cellar. J. L. thinks that it is the very best piece of work he’s ever done, and his publishers say Yes, it is, but they don’t feel sure that anybody is going to want to read it just now, let alone buy it.

  They have gone so far as to suggest that what people want is something more like P. G. Wodehouse, and J. L. is greatly upset, not because he does not admire P. G. Wodehouse, but because he feels himself to be so entirely incapable of emulating him.

  Serena, rather fortunately, does not enquire whether my views on topical fiction coincide with those of J. L. or those of his publishers, and we proceed to the discussion of wider issues.

  What does Serena think of the news?

  Well, she doesn’t think we’re being told much. It’s all very well to say our aircraft is always flying about all over Germany and the Siegfried Line, but do we really always return intact without a single casualty? Nor does she understand about Russia.

  Russia, according to the news, can’t do anything at all. They have masses of oil and masses of grain and probably masses of ammunition as well, but no Russian transport is apparently capable of moving a yard without instantly breaking down, all Russian ports are stiff with ice throughout three-quarters of the year, and no Russian engineers, telephone-operators, engine-drivers, miners or business executives are able at any time to take any constructive action whatsoever.

  Serena cannot help feeling that if Russia had signed a pact with us, instead of with Germany, this would all be described quite differently.

  She also complains that Nazi aircraft has so far directed all its activities towards the North. Scotland, in the opinion of Serena, always has been rather inclined to think itself the hub of the universe, and this will absolutely clinch it. The Scots will now suppose that the enemy share their own opinion, that Edinburgh is more important than London.

  As for the Ministry of Information, Serena is sorry for it. Definitely and absolutely sorry. Look at the things that people have said about it in Parliament, and outside Parliament for that matter, and all the things in the papers! They may have made their mistakes, Serena admits, but the really fatal blunder was to call them Ministry of Information in a war where the one thing that nobody is allowed to have is any information.

  Have they, she adds, done anything about me yet?

  Nothing whatever.

  I am proposing to go there, however, on the strength of a letter of introduction from Uncle A. who stood godfather, some thirty years ago, to the Head of one of the Departments.

  He is not, as yet, aware of the privilege in store for him.

  Serena hopes that I shall be able to find him, but has heard that the Ministry — situated in London University buildings — is much larger than the British Museum and far less well sign-posted. Moreover, if one asks for anybody, one is always told, firstly, that he has never been there at all; secondly, that he isn’t in the department over which he is supposed to be reigning; thirdly, that the department itself is not to be found because it has moved to quite another part of the building and nobody knows where it is, and fourthly, that he left the Ministry altogether ten days ago.

  Can quite see that I shall be well advised to allow plenty of time for the projected visit.

  Serena’s fellow worker, Muriel, appears and asks whether we have heard that the Ritz Hotel has outdistanced all other hotels, which merely advertise Air-Raid Shelter, by featuring elegant announcement outside its portals: Abri du Ritz.

  Shall look at it next time I am waiting for a bus in Piccadilly, which is the only occasion on which I am in the least likely to find myself even outside entrance to the Ritz, let alone inside it.

  Finish supper and return to my own side of the counter.

  Inhabitants of the underworld invariably take on second lease of life towards midnight, and come in search of eggs and bacon — bacon now Off; shepherd’s pie all finished; and toad-in-the-hole just crossed off the list. Do the best we can with scrambled eggs, sausages and ham — which also runs low before the night is out.

  Scottish tea-dispenser presently gets down from high seat which enables her to deal with urns, and commands, rather than requests me, to take her place.

  Do so quite successfully for an hour, when hot-milk tap, for no reason known to me, turns on but declines to turn off and floods the floor, also my own shoes and stockings.

  Succeed in turning it off again after some damage and
much expenditure of milk.

  Professional cashier says Dear, dear, it does seem a waste of milk, doesn’t it? and Patricia suggests without enthusiasm that it really ought to be mopped up.

  Am in full agreement with both, but feel unreasonably annoyed with them and go home, after mopping-up, inclined to tell myself that I have evidently outlived such powers of usefulness as were ever mine This conviction continues during process of undressing and increases by leaps and bounds when bath-water turns out cold.

  (Note: Minor calamities of life apt to assume importance in inverse ratio to advancing hours of the night. Query: Will the black-out in any way affect this state of affairs?)

  Kettle in no hurry to boil water for bottle, and go to bed eventually feeling chilly and dejected.

  October 31st. — Visit the Ministry of Information, and find vast area of Hall where I am eyed with disfavour by Minor Official in uniform who wishes to know what I want.

  I want Mr. Molesworth, and have had enough presence of mind to arrange appointment with him by telephone.

  Minor Official repeats Molesworth? in tones of utter incredulity, and fantastic wonder crosses my mind as to what he would say if I suddenly replied, Oh no, I didn’t mean Molesworth at all. I just said that for fun. What I really meant all the time was Fisher.

  Realise instantly that this would serve no good purpose, and reiterate Molesworth. At this Minor Official shakes his head very slowly, looks at a book, and shakes his head again.

  But I have, I urge, an appointment.

  This evidently necessitates calling in a second opinion, and somebody standing by a lift is asked if he knows anything about Molesworth.

  Molesworth? No. Wait a minute. Molesworth? Yes.

  Where can he be found?

  Second Opinion hasn’t the least idea. He was up on the sixth floor, last week, but that’s all been changed now. Miss Hogg may know.

  Miss Hogg — evidently less elusive than some of her collaborators — is telephoned to. Reply, received after a long wait, is inaudible to me but Minor Official reports that I had better try the third floor; he can’t say for certain, but Mr. M. was there at one time, and Miss Hogg hasn’t heard of his having moved.

  Start off hopefully for lift, am directed to go right across the hall and into quite another part of the building, and take the lift there. Final inspiration of Minor Official is to ask whether I know the number of Mr. M.’s Room — which of course I don’t.

  Walk along lengthy passages for what seems like some time, and meet with kindness, but no definite information, from several blonde young lovelies who mostly — rather mistakenly — favour scarlet jumpers.

  Compare myself mentally with Saracen lady, said to have travelled to England in search of her lover with no vocabulary except two words, London and Gilbert. (London in those days probably much smaller than Ministry of Information in these.)

  Astonishment temporarily surpasses relief when I am at last definitely instructed by young red-headed thing — fortunately not in scarlet — to Room 568. Safeguards herself by adding that Mr. M. was there an hour ago, but of course he may have been moved since then.

  He hasn’t.

  His name is on a card over the door.

  Shall be surprised if I do not hear myself calling him Gilbert.

  Am horrified to find myself quarter of an hour after appointed time, and feel it is only what I deserve when Mr. M. keeps me waiting for twenty minutes.

  Eventually meet him face to face across his own writing-table and he is kindness and civility personified, tells me that he hasn’t seen Uncle A. since early childhood but still has silver mug bestowed at his christening, and has always heard that the old gentleman is wonderful.

  Yes indeed. Wonderful.

  Cannot avoid the conclusion that contemplating the wonderfulness of Uncle A. will get us no further in regard to winning the war, and suggest, I hope diffidently, that I should much like to do something in this direction.

  Mr. M. tells me that this war is quite unlike that of 1914. (Not where Ministries are concerned it isn’t — but do not tell him this.)

  In 1914, he says instructively, a tremendous Machinery had to be set in motion, and this was done with the help of unlimited expenditure and numerous experiments. This time it is all different. The Machinery is expected to be, at the very beginning, all that it was at the very end last time. And expenditure is not unlimited at all. Far from it.

  I say No, I suppose not — as though having given the question a good deal of thought.

  Mr. M. then successively talks about the French, the Turks, the Russians, and recent reconnaissance flights over Germany.

  I suggest that I mustn’t take up any more of his time. I really only wanted to see if I could do some kind of work.

  He appreciates my offer, replies Mr. M., and tells me about Hore-Belisha and the House of Commons.

  I offer him in return my opinion of Winston Churchill — favourable — and of Sir Samuel Hoare — not so good.

  We find ourselves — I cannot say how — talking of the self-government of India.

  A man with a beard and an appearance of exhaustion comes in, apologises, is begged not to go away, and we are introduced — his name inaudible to me, as doubtless mine to him.

  He tells me almost at once that this war is quite unlike that of 1914. Tremendous Machinery set in motion...expenditure...experiment...This time, Machinery expected to begin at stage previously reached in 1918...

  Try to look as though I haven’t heard all this before, express concern at state of affairs depicted, and explain that I am anxious to place my services — etc.

  Ah, says the beard, it is being found very difficult — very, very difficult indeed — to make use of all those whom the Ministry would like to make use of. Later on, no doubt, the right field of activity will present itself — much, much later on.

  Does he, then, think that the war is going to be a lengthy affair?

  It would, says Mr. M. gravely, be merely wishful thinking to take too optimistic a view. The probabilities are that nothing much will happen for some months — perhaps even longer. But let us not look further ahead than the winter.

  The long, cold, dark, dreary, interminable winter lies ahead of us — petrol will be less, travelling more restricted, the black-out more complete and the shortage of certain foodstuffs more noticeable. People will be tired of the war. Their morale will tend to sink lower and lower.

  Quote to myself:

  The North wind doth blow

  And we shall have snow,

  And what will Robin do then, poor thing?

  but feel that it would be quite out of place to say this aloud.

  I ask instead whether there is anything I can do, to alleviate the melancholy state of things that evidently lies ahead.

  All of us can do something, replies Mr. M. There are, for instance, a number of quite false rumours going about. These can be tracked to their source — (how?) — discredited and contradicted.

  The man with the beard breaks in, to tell me that in the last war there were innumerable alarms concerning spies in our midst.

  (As it is quite evident, notwithstanding the beard, that he was still in his cradle at the time of the last war, whilst I had left mine some twenty years earlier, this information would really come better from me to him.)

  The Government wishes to sift these rumours, one and all — (they will have their hands full if they undertake anything of the kind) — and it is possible to assist them in this respect. Could I, for instance, tell him what is being said in the extreme North of England where I live?

  Actually, it is in the extreme West that I live.

  Of course, of course. Mr. M. knew it perfectly well — nothing he knows better — extraordinary slip of the tongue only. What exactly, then, is being said in the extreme West?

  Complete blank comes over me. Can remember nothing but that we have all told ourselves that even if butter is rationed we can get plenty of clotted cream, and that
we really needn’t bother to take our gas-masks wherever we go.

  Can only summon to my help very feeble statement to the effect that our morale seems to be in very good repair and that our evacuees seem to be settling down — at which he looks disappointed, as well he may.

  Can see that my chances of getting a job — never very good — are now practically moribund.

  Raise the subject again, although not confidently, and Mr. M. tells me — evidently in order to get rid of me — that I had better see Captain Skein-Tring. He is — or was, two days ago — in Room 4978, on the fourth floor, in the other building. Do I think I can find my way there?

  Know perfectly well that I can’t, and say so frankly, and Mr. M. sighs but handsomely offers to escort me himself, and does so.

  On the way, we talk about the Papal Encyclical, Uncle A. again, and the B.B.C. Mr. M. is pained about most of the programmes and thinks they are too bright and why so much cinema organ? I defend the B.B.C. and tell him I like most of the popular music, but not the talks to housewives.

  Mr. M. sighs heavily and no point of agreement is found, until we find a joint admiration for L. A. G. Strong’s short stories.

  Just as this desirable stage is reached, we meet with a pallid young man carrying hundreds of files, to whom Mr. M. says compassionately, Hallo, Basil, moving again?

  Basil says Yes, wearily, and toils on, and Mr. M. explains that Poor Basil has been moved three times within the last ten days.

  Just as he disappears from view Mr. M. recalls him, to ask if he knows whether Captain Skein-Tring is still in Propaganda, 4978. Basil looks utterly bewildered and replies that he has never heard of anybody called Skein-Tring. Anyhow, the Propaganda people have all been transferred now, and the department has been taken over by the people from National Economy.