General Impression, as the evening wears on, that she is getting almost more than she bargained for, of this form of amusement.
An Elderly Gentleman in a Pink Coat, approaching a contemporary Lady in Vermilion Chiffon.
THE E. G. And which of your daughters is here to-night — or have you brought them both?
THE V. C. Neither, I’m afraid. Mollie had a Girl Guide Meeting, don’t you know, and she wouldn’t miss it for the world — she’s so keen about her Guides — and Dollie is giving a raffia demonstration at the Women’s Institute. So I’m here quite by myself.
THE E. G. Then let’s dance, shall we? Topping band, this.
THE V. C. Too marvellous.
On the Stairs.
A VOICE. ... Frightfully heavy going, but I got well away, and kept in sight of hounds pretty nearly all the way....
ANOTHER VOICE. But I said to him, “The mare may be a good fencer,” I said, “but does she like water?” I said. Of course, between you and I and the gate-post, that little mare, as I know very well ...
YET ANOTHER VOICE. My dear, she always has her skirt a good eight inches longer behind than in front, and a petticoat showing below that! Of course that’s the result of marrying a parson, and living in the country all the year round.
A COUNTY MATRON. He married a Sock — a Yorkshire Sock — her mother was a Boote, you know, a daughter of old Lord Hatt — there’s some connection with the Westcotts, of Somersetshire....
HER NEIGHBOUR. Ah yes — through the Coats family. One of them married a ... (And so on.)
General Impression that they have happily solved the frightful problem of What on Earth to Talk About.
This is being dealt with in various other ways by various other people — the Floor, the Band, the Weather, Prohibition (look at America, my dear), the Garden, and the Depression in the City all playing their usual parts, until a General Impression that the English Countryside takes its pleasures perhaps rather solemnly, is triumphantly overlaid by the strains of “John Peel”.
GENERAL IMPRESSION OF A SECOND-HAND CLOTHES SHOP
First, and most unpleasant, General Impression that there must be a Decaying Mouse somewhere in the immediate vicinity of the discoloured and shapeless garments that lie in heaps All over the Place, or else drip dejectedly from moth-eaten clothes-hangers suspended by a sagging piece of grey tape above the counter.
The Proprietor, in a stained and mustard-coloured waistcoat, is thoughtfully, but thoroughly, making use of a Hairpin to explore his Back Teeth, and at the same time giving contemptuous attention to a client.
THE CLIENT (recklessly throwing open a large Black Bag). How much for these?
THE PROPRIETOR. Very little doing nowadays. But let’s have a look.
He has a look at three old pairs of boots, two bowler hats, a pepper-and-salt suit, and a large pile of miscellaneous underwear.
THE P. (in accents of despair). There’s nothing there, you know. Not a thing.
THE C. Come, come. Don’t say that. It isn’t as if you and me weren’t old friends.
THE P. I know, I know. It isn’t that I won’t, but that I can’t. You can see for yourself that there simply — isn’t — anything — whatever — there.
They both gaze with the extreme of gloom at the multiple contents of the Black Bag, now spilling all over the counter.
THE C. (rallying). What about these Boots, now? There’s always a demand for a good Boot, you know.
In order to emphasize this point, he picks up one of the Boots and poises it on the fingers of one hand, looking at it admiringly with his head on one side.
THE P. Ah, there’s Boots, and Boots. Now if this had been a Hunting-Boot, I don’t say ——
The Boot, however, declines to transform itself into a Hunting-Boot, and the Client wisely transfers his attention to the Bowler Hats instead.
THE C. I’m not saying it to influence you in any way, ole man, but it is a Fact that Top-hats are absolutely Gone Out — absolutely — and nach’rally there’s a demand for Bowlers. It follows. You know that as well as I do.
THE P. Ah, but what about Felts? Now I could get rid of any number of Felts, easy enough, but when it comes to Bowlers — well!
General Impression that Bowlers represent the lowest depths of degradation in the sartorial world.
THE P. (at last, and after much discussion). Well, for an old friend like yourself, let’s say Seven Shillings and Sixpence.
Feint on the part of the Client of scooping everything back into the bag again.
THE C. I couldn’t do it, ole man. I’d rather Go Elsewhere. There’s Twelve Shillings here if there’s a penny.
THE P. Twelve Shillings? Twelve Shillings?
THE C. (firmly). Every penny of Twelve Shillings.
They glare at one another for some moments. General Impression that a deadlock has been reached when the Proprietor suddenly thinks better of the whole thing, produces a ten-shilling note and a florin, and sweeps the black bag and all its contents beneath the counter with a single gesture of contempt.
THE C. (mysteriously, as he departs). I may be round again, in a week’s time. He’s off for Winter Sports, he is, and that’ll mean another new outfit, I suppose.
Later in the Day. Entrance of an uncertain-looking Female, with a large cardboard box and a newspaper parcel.
THE F. Good afternoon. A — A friend of mine, who’s had to go into mourning, you know, has asked me to — to dispose of a few Things for her.
THE P. (who knows all about that kind of Friend). She has, has she, miss? And what kind of Things are they?
General Impression that they are particularly mildewy, disreputable, and out-of-date kind of things, and consist mainly of old Feather Boas, well-worn Evening Dresses, and Corsets of Queen Victoria’s date.
THE P. (unerringly). The Moth’s been in here, miss. Still in, as like as not ... ah, I thought so. And of course the dresses — well, there, you can see for yourself. Gone under the arms, every one of them.
THE F. Of course, they’ve been worn — but then they’re good dresses. I mean, they’re from a good place. A person could easily alter them a little, to bring them up to date.... (Her voice falters into silence under the pitying Eye of the Proprietor.)
THE P. Well, miss, of course there’s really nothing there that’s of the slightest use, to me or anyone else, but as I don’t want to disappoint a lady — What were you asking?
THE F. I’d rather you made me an offer, please.
THE P. (inexorably). What are you asking, miss?
THE F. I don’t really know, I’d rather you said.
THE P. (with sudden righteous indignation). But I can’t be buyer and seller both, can I?
This, of course, defeats the Uncertain Female at once. General Impression that it is only a question of time before she caves in completely and crawls out of the shop, leaving everything behind her sooner than do up her parcels again beneath the Proprietor’s Eye, and with the sum of One Shilling and Sixpence in exchange — for which, in all probability, she has meekly said Thank You.
GENERAL IMPRESSION OF AN ATLANTIC LINER (FIRST DAY OUT)
First, regrettable, but quite unmistakable, General Impression that every individual passenger on board is commenting unfavourably on the appearance of every other passenger. This stage, fortunately, modifies itself after the first twenty-four hours.
A NAÏVE LADY (excitedly, to her husband). Henry, I’ve found out about the Purple Jersey. She’s the sister of the Plus Fours, not his wife, and they’re going out to visit an old mother, who’s married again and lives in a town called something-or-other — quite a large place, I gather. And just fancy, the mother is seventy-three!
HENRY (of a sardonic humour). And what date is her birthday, and what did they send her for a birthday present?
Amongst the First-class Passengers, a gentleman with a Fur Coat and a cigar is looking down at the third-class passengers on the lower deck, in the company of a lady in a Fur Coat and a Rop
e of Pearls.
THE ROPE OF PEARLS. I never can imagine where they all come from, can you?
THE CIGAR. Never. Nor where they’re all going to, don’t you know.
THE ROPE OF PEARLS (tolerantly). Oh well, I daresay they have their own interests, you know. What I always say is, that it takes all sorts to make a world.
In less exalted regions, the second-and third-class passengers are remarking to one another that they really wouldn’t care about travelling first, even if they could afford it, because— “My dear, look at the people. They’re simply too Awful. And half those pearls aren’t real, everyone wears Woolworth nowadays.”
In a Four-berth Cabin.
A LADY WHO HAS HAD A PERMANENT WAVE PUT IN HER HAIR BEFORE STARTING AND IS ANXIOUS TO DRAW ATTENTION TO IT. The worst of a sea-voyage is that it’s so difficult to keep tidy.
A LADY WHO HASN’T HAD A P. W. (and is conscious of being All Over the Place). You should tie your head up in a handkerchief, as I do.
THE P. W. I suppose I shall have to. That’s the worst of curly hair, isn’t it — the sea air, you know ——
General Impression that she has drawn attention to her curls at the expense of her popularity with the other ladies, and will live to regret it.
A GENTLEMAN IN A BERET (walking briskly round the deck). I believe in exercise, you know, on board ship. The only way to keep fit. I do this round fifteen times every morning and five times every afternoon. That’s the equivalent of a five-mile walk....
In the Dining Saloon.
ONE PERFECT STRANGER (to another). And is this your first time across the Atlantic?
THE OTHER P. S. I’ve crossed sixteen times already.
1ST P. S. (not to be outdone). Well, it’s my twenty-first trip.
A LADY. Will it get much rougher than this?
HER HUSBAND. It isn’t rough at all yet.
THE LADY. But is it going to be?
THE H. Well, of course, dear, the Atlantic is the Atlantic.
General Impression that this is perfectly incontrovertible, and that his wife had better resign herself to the Worst.
At a Port of Call. General Impression that we are taking on nearly a Hundred New People here, and disposition on the part of the original passengers to resent this violently, and despise and dislike the new-comers. This attitude not incompatible with a frenzied desire to see them come on board, and a general rush to the side for the purpose.
A CRITIC. My dear, I ask you, Is there a decently-dressed woman amongst them? And really, you know — children! I always think children are so out-of-place on board ship.
*
Usual agitation in regard to cabins, hand-luggage, and deck-chairs and rugs. Melodramatic atmosphere introduced by the striking of a gong, and repeated adjurations to any Passengers for the Shore, please. In spite of this, two elderly people prolong their farewells to their friends, and realize too late that We Have Started.
1ST ELDERLY PERSON. But we aren’t going! We have to get off!
A STEWARD. The launch will have left, madam....
ONLOOKERS (in an explanatory manner to one another). Those people have got left behind! They only came to see someone off ... they’re being taken on by mistake....
Variety of General Impressions: That they will have to go All the Way to America Now — that they will be Lowered over the ship’s side by Ropes — that a Special Boat will be launched to take them back to shore — that they will have to pay a fine of A Hundred Dollars — and so on. General Anti-climax when it turns out that the launch hasn’t left after all, and they’re in Plenty of Time if they Look Sharp.
GENERAL IMPRESSION OF A CHILDREN’S PARTY
First General Impression of dispassionate onlooker: that it is a mistake to mix Children and Grown-Ups. First, Second, and Final Impression of every Mother in the room: that her own children are better-looking and better-behaved than any others — combined, however, with a completely illogical and yet wholly rational conviction that Nannie ought never to have been allowed to cut John’s hair herself, as he is a Perfect little Sight like That, and that Joan is pretty certain to disgrace herself by Bursting into Tears if they have to stand about waiting for tea much longer.
THE HOSTESS. We ought to play a nice game, oughtn’t we? Oh, how-d’y-do — and how d’y-do, Teddy dear — it is Teddy, isn’t it?
MOTHER OF THE NEW ARRIVAL. No, this is Archie.
HOSTESS. Oh, Archie, of course. Stupid of me — of course I remember Archie perfectly.
General Impression, to which the Hostess is by no means insensitive, that she is not speaking the truth.
A SMALL BOY (suddenly and loudly). I want my Tea, Nurse.
NURSE (rashly). You shall have it in a minute, dear.
SPECTATORS (to one another). Did you hear that little chap saying he wanted his tea? Aren’t children refreshing ...? Isn’t he quaint ...? Don’t you call that rather sweet ...? and so on.
MOTHER OF THREE (to a Lady Unknown). Which are your dear little people?
THE L. U. None of them, I’m afraid. I came with the Browns.
M. OF T. Really? I hope you love children, as they’ve brought you to such a very baby-party.
General Impression that the L. U. is now in a delicate position, from which, however, she extricates herself by a small, civil, and entirely non-committal laugh.
THE HOST. I’ve just been talking to your boy, Mrs. Brown — the big fair-haired fellow in the Eton suit. Is that your youngest?
MRS. BROWN (aged thirty-three, and having always been told that she looks younger). My little boy is the one crawling on the floor, in the blue silk smock, and I haven’t any youngest. He’s the only one, so far.
At the Tea-table, from which the Grown-Ups have been wisely excluded, but from which no human power can keep about a dozen Mothers from hovering like flies.
A LITTLE BOY (proudly). Last time I went to a party, I was Sick in the Night. Five times.
HIS NEIGHBOUR. Once I was sick eight times, when I had whooping-cough.
THE L. B. Ah, but mine was pink sickness!
The Neighbour, recognizing that she can produce nothing from her past to compete with this achievement, subsides.
A MOTHER WHOSE CHILD HAS CURLS. Dear me, how very untidy Pamela looks! It’s so difficult to keep her hair tidy for five minutes together.
Mothers of Straight-haired Children express polite admiration of Pamela’s curls — which is exactly what Pamela’s Mother meant them to do.
A GOVERNESS (who is in imperfect sympathy with her charge). If you can’t behave better than that, Johnnie, what do you suppose people will say?
JOHNNIE (artlessly). That my governess doesn’t teach me manners, I suppose, Miss Smith.
In the Drawing-room.
A MOTHER. ... But I’ve tried punishment, and I’ve tried coaxing, and I’ve tried reasoning, and I’ve even tried taking no notice whatever — but it doesn’t make any difference.
HER FRIEND. Really? Now with Mary, you know, I never have the least difficulty. It isn’t that she hasn’t plenty of spirit — but it’s just ...
General Impression that the rest of this conversation will not be worth listening to — which is perhaps as well, since neither lady is paying the slightest attention to what the other is saying.
A LADY WHO HAS DOMESTIC DIFFICULTIES. So I said, “Nurse,” I said, “what is the Meaning of This? Didn’t I distinctly tell you, Milk for Baby’s supper, and Not Extract?” I simply asked her, straight out. I was determined to show her once and for all who the child’s Mother was. And of course she gave notice next day.
A SYMPATHETIC LISTENER. I know of such a good Temporary — absolutely trustworthy, and lets one into the nursery whenever one likes, practically, and does all her own dusting — a perfect Treasure.
THE LADY WHO HAS D. D. Oh, do give me her address. I’d simply give her any wages she liked ——
THE S. L. Oh, she’s with some people in Australia just now, I believe — at least she was three years
ago. But I know she’s a perfect Treasure.
At the End of the Party.
A NUMBER OF DUTIFUL VOICES. Thank you very much for having me.... Thank you for my nice party.... Good-bye, I’ve enjoyed myself very much, thank you....
HOSTESS. Good-bye — I hope you’ll come and see me again one day.
A YOUTHFUL GUEST (literally). When?
General Impression that it’s all been a great success, and if we don’t have the windows of the car up, Betty will certainly catch cold, but on the other hand if we do, Billy is quite likely to be sick. Mothers and Nurses, as usual, grapple with these and other problems, to which the Einstein Theory is as nothing, but for the solution of which they will receive no credit whatever from anybody.
GENERAL IMPRESSION OF A LADIES’ CLUB
First General Impression that the whole establishment is owned, managed, and generally kept going by the Hall Porter.
In the Lounge, where a Very Young Gentleman sits bolt upright on a sofa in an obvious agony of alarm, and where a dozen ladies are all talking at once.
A LARGE LADY IN BLACK (very earnestly indeed). So I said to her: “But life is so Beautiful,” I said. “There’s Beauty Everywhere, if you only have Eyes to see it. It’s all Beautiful.” (With a spacious gesture, she knocks over a small ash-tray at her elbow, with disastrous results.)
HER FRIEND. It doesn’t matter a bit, dear — no, really, I like it — this is only an old frock, anyway — quite all right — do go on about Beauty. It’s all so true.
A WAITER (approaching the V. Y. Gentleman). Miss Wells is not in the Club, sir.
THE V. Y. G. (blankly). Isn’t she? Er — it was really Miss Winter I asked for.
THE WAITER. Miss Winter, sir? Perhaps you’d speak to the Hall Porter, sir?
This is the last thing that the V. Y. G. wants to do, but he meekly conforms, and is obliged to cross the lounge under some twenty pairs of female eyes, whilst a complete silence descends upon the room for the space of nearly ten seconds.
THE HALL PORTER. Miss Winter? No lady here of that name, sir.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 597
