Final invitation is to Literary Agent, who much regrets that he is already engaged and would like to know how my new novel is getting on.
Well, it isn’t very far on yet, I reply — as though another week would see it half-way to completion at least.
No? repeats Literary Agent, in tone of distressed surprise. Still, no doubt I realise that now — if ever — is the time when books are going to be read, and of course, whilst there are so few places of entertainment open, and people go out so little in the evenings, they will really be almost forced to take to books.
Am left wondering how many more people are going to dangle this encouraging reflection before me, and why they should suppose it to be a source of inspiration.
Review my wardrobe and can see nothing I should wish to wear for sherry-party. Decide that my Blue is less unbearable than my Black, but that both are out-of-date, unbecoming and in need of pressing, and that I shall wear no hat at all as none of mine are endurable and can never now afford to buy others. Ring at the bell interrupts very gloomy train of thought — Lady Blowfield outdone — and am startled at seeing familiar, but for an instant unrecognisable, figure at the door.
Turns out to be old school-friend Cissie Crabbe, now presenting martial, and yet at the same time rather bulging, figure in khaki uniform.
Cissie assures me that she couldn’t pass the door without looking in on me, but that she hasn’t a moment to call her own, and that she expects to be sent Behind the Line any time now. Can only congratulate her, and say that I wish I was making myself equally useful. Suggestion from Cissie that I can sign on for four years or the duration, if I like, is allowed to pass unheeded.
Enquire what she has done with her cats, which are the only items I can ever remember in her life, and Cissie says that one Dear old Pussy passed away just after Munich — as though he knew — another one has been evacuated to the Isle of Wight, which Cissie feels to be far safer than Norwich for her — and the third one, a very, very individual temperament indeed and could never have survived for even a day if separated from Cissie — had to be Put to Sleep.
Consecrate a moment of reverent silence to this announcement, and then Cissie says that she can’t possibly stop, but she felt she had to get a glimpse of me, she never forgets dear old days in the Fifth Form and do I remember reciting “The Assyrian Came Down like a Wolf on the Fold” and breaking down in the third verse?
No, I don’t, but feel it would be unsympathetic to say so crudely, and merely reply that we’ve all changed a good deal since then, with which contribution to original contemporary thought we exchange farewells.
Watch Cissie walking at unnaturally smart pace towards the Strand and decide once and for all that women, especially when over forty, do not look their best in uniform.
Remainder of the morning goes in the purchase of cigarettes — very expensive — and flowers — so cheap that I ask for explanation and shopman informs me gloomily that nobody is buying them at all and he would be glad to give away carnations, roses and gardenias. He does not, however, offer to do so, and I content myself with chrysanthemums and anemones, for which I pay.
Pause in front of alluring window of small dress-shop has perfectly fatal result, as I am completely carried away by navy-blue siren suit, with zip fastener — persuade myself that it is not only practical, warm and inexpensive — which it is — but indispensable as well, and go straight in and buy it for Serena’s party.
Cannot regret this outburst when I put it on again before the glass in flat, and find the result becoming. Moreover, telephone call from Serena ensues later, for the express purpose of asking (a) How many men have I raked up? she’s only got four, and five women not counting ourselves and the Refugees, and (b) What do I mean to Wear?
On hearing of siren-suit she shrieks and says she’s got one too, and it was meant to surprise me, and we shall both look too marvellous.
Hope she may be right.
Do the best I can with my appearance, but am obliged to rely on final half-hour before Serena’s mirror as I start early for Hampstead, heavily laden with flowers and cigarettes. Am half-way to Charing Cross before I remember Uncle A.’s case of sherry, when nothing is left for it but to take a taxi, go back and collect case, and start out all over again. Appearance by now much disordered but am delighted at having excellent excuse for taxi, and only regret that no such consideration will obtain on return journey.
Youngest and most elegant of Serena’s Refugees opens the door to me — she is now disguised in charming pink check, frills and pleated apron, exactly like stage soubrette, and equally well made-up — we shake hands and she says Please! — takes all the packages from me, and when I thank her says Please! again — case of sherry is deposited by taxi-driver, to whom soubrette repeats Please, please! with very engaging smiles — and she then shows me into Serena’s sitting-room, on the threshold of which we finally exchange Thank you and Please!
Serena is clad in claret-coloured siren-suit and delighted with herself — quite justifiably — and we compliment one another.
Strenuous half-hour follows, in the course of which Serena moves small bowl of anemones from window-sill to bookcase and back again not less than five several times.
Sherry is decanted — Serena has difficulties with corkscrew and begs soubrette to fetch her the scissors, but soubrette rightly declines, and takes corkscrew and all the bottles away, and presently returns two of them, uncorked, and says that her grandfather will open the others as required.
Is the oldest Refugee her grandfather, I enquire.
Serena — looks rather worried — says that they all seem to be related but she doesn’t quite know how, anyway it’s perfectly all right.
Accept this without hesitation and presently Serena’s Refugees come in more or less en bloc and we all shake hands, Serena pours out sherry and we drink one another’s healths, and glasses are then rushed away by the soubrette, washed and returned.
Serena puts on Six O’clock News — nothing sensational has transpired and we assure one another that, what with one thing and another, the Hitler régime is on the verge of a smash, but, says Serena in tones of preternatural wisdom, we must beware at all costs of wishful thinking. The German Reich will collapse, but not immediately, and anything may happen meanwhile. We have got to be prepared.
Assure her that I am prepared — except for loss of gas-mask, which has not yet been replaced — and that, so far as I know, the whole of the British Empire has been prepared for weeks and weeks, and hasn’t had its morale in the least impaired by curious and unprecedented nature of Hitler’s War of Nerves.
Serena, rather absent-mindedly, says Rule, Britannia, moves small pink crystal ash-tray from one table to another, and studies the effect with her head on one side.
Diversion is occasioned by the soubrette, who comes in bearing succession of plates with sandwiches, tiny little sausages on sticks, and exotic and unfamiliar looking odds-and-ends at which Serena and I simultaneously shriek with excitement.
Very shortly afterwards Serena’s guests begin to arrive — J. L. amongst the earliest, and my opinion of him goes up when I see him in earnest discussion with grandfather-presumptive Refugee, I think about the Nature of Eternity, to which both have evidently given a good deal of thought.
Mrs. Peacock comes, as expected, with Mr. Peacock, who is pale and wears pince-nez and is immediately introduced by Serena to pretty A.R.P. worker, Muriel, with whom she thinks he may like to talk about air-raids. They at once begin to discuss Radio-stars Flotsam and Jetsam, and are evidently witty on the subject as both go into fits of laughter.
Party is now going with a swing and second glass of sherry causes me, as usual, to think myself really excellent conversationalist and my neighbours almost equally well worth hearing.
This agreeable frame of mind probably all to the good, as severe shock is inflicted by totally unexpected vision of old Mrs. Winter-Gammon, in rakish-looking toque and small fur cape over bottle-green wo
ol.
Shall never believe that Serena really invited her.
She waves small claw at me from a distance and is presently to be seen perched on arm of large chair — toes unable to touch the floor — in animated conversation with three men at once.
Am much annoyed and only slightly restored when Rose arrives, looking very distinguished as usual, and informs me — quite pale with astonishment — that she thinks she has got a very interesting job, with a reasonable salary attached, at Children’s Clinic in the North of England. Congratulate her warmly and introduce Mr. Weatherby, whom I very nearly — but not quite — refer to as Tall Agrippa. Hope this rapprochement will prove a success as I hear them shortly afterwards talking about Queen Wilhelmina of Holland, and both sound full of approval.
Uncle A. — more like distinguished diplomat than ever — arrives early and stays late, and assures me that he has little or no difficulty in finding his way about in black-out. He takes optimistic view of international situation, says that it will take probably years to establish satisfactory peace terms but he has no doubt that eventually — say in ten or fifteen years’ time — we shall see a very different Europe — free, he trusts and believes, from bloodshed and tyranny. Am glad to see that Uncle A. has every intention of assisting personally at this world-wide regeneration and feel confident that his expectation of doing so will be realised.
He seems much taken with Serena, and they sit in a corner and embark on long tête-à-tête, while J. L. and I hand round Serena’s refreshments. (J. L. inclined to be rather dejected, and when I refer to Plato — which I do solely with a view to encouraging him — he only says in reply that he has, of late, been reading Tolstoy. In the French translation, of course, he adds. Look him straight in the eye and answer, Of course; but he is evidently not taken in by this for one instant.)
Humphrey Holloway — original raison d’être for entire gathering — never turns up at all, but telephones to say that he is very sorry he can’t manage it.
Am quite unable to feel particularly regretful about this — but find myself wishing several times that Robert could be here, or even Aunt Blanche.
Similar idea, to my great fury, has evidently come over Granny Bo-Peep, and she communicates it to me very shrilly above general noise, which has now reached riotous dimensions.
What a pity that dear, good man of mine isn’t here! she cries — she knows very well that I should feel much happier if he were. She can read it in my face. (At this I instinctively do something with my face designed to make it look quite different, and have no doubt that I succeed — but probably at cost of appearance, as Mrs. W.-G. sympathetically enquires whether I bit on a tooth.)
And poor dear Blanche! What a lot of good it would do dear old Blanche to be taken out of herself, and made to meet people. Mrs. W.-G. doesn’t want to say anything about herself — (since when?) — but friends have told her over and over again: Pussy — you are the party. Where you are, with your wonderful vitality and your ridiculous trick of making people laugh, and that absurd way you have of getting on with everybody — there is the party. How well she remembers her great friend, the late Bishop of London, saying those very words to her — and she at once told him he mustn’t talk nonsense. She could say anything she liked to the Bishop — anything. He always declared that she was as good as a glass of champagne.
Think this Episcopal pronouncement quite unsuitable, and have serious thoughts of saying so — but Mrs. W.-G. gives me no time.
She has heard, she says, that dear Blanche’s eldest brother is here and wishes to meet him. Is that him over there, talking to Serena?
It is, and can plainly see that if I do not perform introduction instantly, Mrs. W.-G. will do it for herself.
Can only conform to her wishes, and she supplants Serena at Uncle A.’s side.
Serena makes long, hissing speech in an undertone of which I can only make out that she thinks the party is going well, and is her face purple, she feels as though it were, and whatever happens I’m not to go.
Had had no thought of going.
Everybody talks about the war, and general opinion is that it can’t last long — Rose goes so far as to say Over by February, but J. L. tells her that the whole thing is going to be held up till the spring begins — at which I murmur to myself: Air-raid by air-raid the spring begins, and hopes that nobody hears me — and then, says J. L., although short, it will be appalling. Hitler is a desperate man, and will launch a fearful attack in every direction at once. His main objective will be London.
J. L. states this so authoritatively that general impression prevails that he has received his information direct from Berlin, and must know what he is talking about.
Mrs. Weatherby alone rallies very slightly and points out that an air-raid over London would be followed instantly by reprisals, and she doubts whether the morale of the German people would survive it. She believes them to be on the brink of revolution already, and the Czechs and the Austrians are actually over the brink.
She adds that she wouldn’t break up the party for anything — none of us are to stir — but she must go.
She does go, and we all do stir, and party is broken up — but can quite feel that it has been a success.
Serena, the Refugees and I, see everybody off into depths of blackness unlit by single gleam of light anywhere at all, and Serena says they’ll be lucky if they don’t all end up with broken legs, and if they do, heaven knows where they’ll go as no patients allowed in any of the Hospitals.
One of her Refugees informs her, surprisingly, that the blackout is nothing — nothing at all. Vienna has always been as dark as this, every night, for years — darker, if anything.
Serena and I and the Refugees finish such sandwiches as are left, she presses cigarettes on them and in return they carry away all the plates and glasses and insist that they will wash them and put them away — please — and Serena and I are not to do anything but rest ourselves — please, please.
Thank you, thank you.
Please.
November 21st. — Am startled as never before on receiving notification that my services as a writer are required, and may even take me abroad.
Am unable to judge whether activities will permit of my continuing a diary but prefer to suppose that they will be of too important a nature.
Ask myself whether war, as term has hitherto been understood, can be going to begin at last. Reply, of sorts, supplied by Sir Auckland Geddes over the wireless.
Sir A. G. finds himself obliged to condemn the now general practice of running out into the street in order to view aircraft activities when engaged with the enemy overhead.
Can only hope that Hitler may come to hear of this remarkable reaction to his efforts, on the part of the British.
THE END
NO ONE NOW WILL KNOW
CONTENTS
Prologue
Part I. Nice Maritime
Part II. Rock Place
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Part III. The Grove
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Epilogue
Prologue
1
Fred was his mother’s favourite. After that — a long way after — Lucy, then little Kate, the only child of her second marriage, and finally poor Fanny — whom, indeed, she hardly appeared to care for at all.
Fred and Lucian — or Lucy — and Fanny, were the children of Frederic Lempriére, a Creole gentleman of French extraction who had married Cecilia Odell in the summer of eighteen hundred and sixty-three, and taken her to live a
t Bridgetown, near his sugar plantations in Barbados.
There Fred and Lucy had been born in ‘sixty-four and ‘sixty-five respectively, and Fanny five years after Lucy.
Mr. Lemprière, in whom the Barbadian climate had served to increase natural apathy, left the management of his plantation and of the coloured labour there to his overseer, a Welshman by birth — and quietly devoted himself to rum, poker and the social amenities of Bridgetown.
He was an affectionate and kindly husband and father, and Cecilia, herself energetic by temperament, was rather inclined to admire his pleasantly languid fashion of getting through life.
“No Lemprière ever works,” was a favourite observation of Frederic’s.
No Lemprière had hitherto ever needed to work, for the sugar crops had been admirably managed for them, first by one Daniel Newton and afterwards by his nephew John, and brought them in a considerable income.
Frederic had been the sole issue of his parents’ union and well able to afford marriage with any penniless miss, but had characteristically chosen Cecilia Odell, orphaned and an heiress in a small way, when she had come to Bridgetown in the yacht of some American friends.
Cecilia, under the spell of a tropic moon and of Frederic’s languorous good looks, fell in love with him in return, and thought the West Indies a highly advantageous exchange for the dull home of an elderly uncle and aunt on the front at Brighton.
She ceased, soon after marriage, to be in love with Frederic but remained fond of him. Between rum and the climate he rapidly lost his good looks, became yellow of skin, and stout, although retaining a certain charm based on imperturbable good temper, a lazy, not unsubtle sense of humour, and a talent for the small kindnesses and courtesies of everyday life.
The focussing point of Cecilia’s emotional life became her elder son Fred, as soon as he had left infancy behind.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 483
