The Diary of a Provincial Lady

by E M Delafield

  How, she says, are the dear children, and how is my husband? I reply suitably, and she tells me about cinnamon, Vapex, gargling with glycerine of thymol, blackcurrant tea, onion broth, Friar’s Balsam, linseed poultices, and thermogene wool. I sneeze and say Thank you – thank you very much, a good many times. She goes, but turns back at the door to tell me about wool next the skin, nasal douching, and hot milk last thing at night. I say Thank you, again.

  On returning to night-nursery, find that Robin has unscrewed top of hot-water bottle in Vicky’s bed, which apparently contained several hundred gallons of tepid water, now distributed through and through pillows, pyjamas, sheets, blankets, and mattresses of both. I ring for Ethel, who helps me to reorganise entire situation and says It’s like a hospital, isn’t it, trays up and down stairs all day long, and all this extra work.

  January 20th. – Take Robin, now completely restored, back to school. I ask the Headmaster what he thinks of his progress. The Headmaster answers that the New Buildings will be finished before Easter, and that their numbers are increasing so rapidly that he will probably add on a New Wing next term, and perhaps I saw a letter of his in The Times replying to Dr Cyril Norwood? Make mental note to the effect that Headmasters are a race apart, and that if parents would remember this, much time could be saved.

  Robin and I say good-bye with hideous brightness, and I cry all the way back to the station.

  January 22nd. – Robert startles me at breakfast by asking if my cold – which he has hitherto ignored – is better. I reply that it has gone. Then why, he asks, do I look like that? Refrain from asking like what, as I know only too well. Feel that life is wholly unendurable, and decide madly to get a new hat.

  Customary painful situation between Bank and myself necessitates expedient, also customary, of pawning great-aunt’s diamond ring, which I do, under usual conditions, and am greeted as old friend by Plymouth pawnbroker, who says facetiously, And what name will it be this time?

  Visit four linen-drapers and try on several dozen hats. Look worse and worse in each one, as hair gets wilder and wilder, and expression paler and more harassed. Decide to get myself shampooed and waved before doing any more, in hopes of improving the position.

  Hairdresser’s assistant says, It’s a pity my hair is losing all its colour, and have I ever thought of having it touched up? After long discussion, I do have it touched up, and emerge with mahogany-coloured head. Hairdresser’s assistant says this will wear off ‘in a few days’. I am very angry, but all to no purpose. Return home in old hat, showing as little hair as possible, and keep it on till dressing time – but cannot hope to conceal my shame at dinner.

  January 23rd. – Mary Kellway telegraphs she is motoring past here this morning, can I give her lunch? Telegraph Yes, delighted, and rush to kitchen. Cook unhelpful and suggests cold beef and beetroot. I say Yes, excellent, unless perhaps roast chicken and bread sauce even better? Cook talks about the oven. Compromise in the end on cutlets and mashed potatoes, as, very luckily, this is the day butcher calls.

  Always delighted to see dear Mary – so clever and amusing, and able to write stories, which actually get published and paid for – but very uneasy about colour of my hair, which is not wearing off in the least. Think seriously of keeping a hat on all through lunch, but this, on the whole, would look even more unnatural. Besides, could not hope that it would pass without observation from Vicky, let alone Robert.

  Later. – Worst fears realised, as to hair. Dear Mary, always so observant, gazes at it in nerve-shattering silence but says nothing, till I am driven to make half-hearted explanation. Her only comment is that she cannot imagine why anybody should deliberately make themselves look ten years older than they need. Feel that, if she wishes to discourage further experiments on my part, this observation could scarcely be improved upon. Change the subject, and talk about the children. Mary most sympathetic, and goes so far as to say that my children have brains, which encourages me to tell anecdotes about them until I see Robert looking at me, just as I get to Robin’s precocious taste for really good literature. By curious coincidence second post brings letter from Robin, saying that he wishes to collect cigarette-cards and will I send him all the Types of National Beauty, Curious Beaks, and Famous Footballers, that I can find. Make no comment on this singular request aloud.

  Mary stays to tea and we talk about H. G. Wells, Women’s Institutes, infectious illness, and Journey’s End. Mary says she cannot go and see this latter because she always cries at the theatre. I say, Then once more will make no difference. Discussion becomes involved, and we drop it. Vicky comes in and immediately offers to recite. Can see that Mary (who has three children of her own) does not in the least want to hear her, but she feigns enthusiasm politely. Vicky recites: Maître Corbeau, sur un arbre perché – (NB Suggest to Mademoiselle that Vicky’s repertory should be enlarged. Feel sure that I have heard ‘Maître Corbeau’, alternately with ‘La Cigale et la Fourmi’, some eight hundred times within the last six months.)

  After Mary has gone, Robert looks at me and suddenly remarks ‘Now that’s what I call an attractive woman.’ Am gratified at his appreciation of talented friend, but should like to be a little clearer regarding exact significance of emphasis on the word that. Robert, however, says no more, and opportunity is lost as Ethel comes in to say Cook is sorry she’s run right out of milk, but if I will come to the store-cupboard she thinks there’s a tin of Ideal, and she’ll make do with that.

  January 25th. – Attend a Committee Meeting in the village to discuss how to raise funds for Village Hall. Am asked to take the chair. Begin by saying that I know how much we all have this excellent object at heart, and that I feel sure there will be no lack of suggestions as to best method of obtaining requisite sum of money. Pause for suggestions, which is met with deathlike silence. I say, There are so many ways to choose from – implication being that I attribute silence to plethora of ideas, rather than to absence of them. (Note: Curious and rather depressing, to see how frequently the pursuit of Good Works leads to apparently unavoidable duplicity.) Silence continues, and I say Well, twice, and Come, come, once. (Sudden impulse to exclaim, ‘I lift up my finger and I say Tweet, Tweet,’ is fortunately overcome.) At last extract a suggestion of a concert from Mrs L. (whose son plays the violin) and a whist-drive from Miss P. (who won Ladies’ First Prize at the last one). Florrie P. suggests a dance and is at once reminded that it will be Lent. She says that Lent isn’t what it was. Her mother says the Vicar is one that holds with Lent, and always has been. Someone else says That reminds her, has anyone heard that old Mr Small passed away last night? We all agree that eighty-six is a great age. Mrs L. says that on her mother’s side of the family, there is an aunt of ninety-eight. Still with us, she adds. The aunt’s husband, on the other hand, was gathered just before his sixtieth birthday. Everyone says, You can’t ever tell, not really. There is a suitable pause before we go back to Lent and the Vicar. General opinion that a concert isn’t like a dance, and needn’t – says Mrs L. – interfere.

  On this understanding, we proceed. Various familiar items – piano solo, recitation, duet, and violin solo from Master L. – are all agreed upon. Someone says that Mrs F. and Miss H. might do a duologue, and has to be reminded that they are no longer on speaking terms, owing to strange behaviour of Miss H. about her bantams. Ah, says Mrs S., it wasn’t only bantams was at the bottom of it, there’s two sides to every question. (There are at least twenty to this one, by the time we’ve done with it.)

  Sudden appearance of Our Vicar’s Wife, who says apologetically that she made a mistake in the time. I beg her to take the chair. She refuses. I insist. She says No, no, positively not, and takes it.

  We begin all over again, but general attitude towards Lent much less elastic.

  Meeting ends at about five o’clock. Our Vicar’s Wife walks home with me, and tells me that I look tired. I ask her to come in and have tea. No, she says, no, it’s too kind of me, but she must go on to the far end o
f the parish. She remains standing at the gate telling me about old Small – eighty-six a great age – till quarter-to-six, when she departs, saying that she cannot think why I am looking so tired.

  February 11th. – Robin writes again about cigarette-cards. I send him all those I have collected, and Vicky produces two which she has obtained from the garden-boy. Find that this quest grows upon one, and am apt now, when in Plymouth or any other town, to scan gutters, pavements, and tram-floors in search of Curious Beaks, Famous Football Players, and the like. Have even gone so far as to implore perfect stranger, sitting opposite me in train, not to throw cigarette-card out of the window, but to give it to me instead. Perfect stranger does so with an air of courteous astonishment, and as he asks for no explanation, am obliged to leave him under the impression that I have merely been trying to force him into conversation with me.

  (Note: Could not short article, suitable for Time and Tide, be worked up on some such lines as: Lengths to which Mother-love may legitimately go? On second thoughts abandon the idea, as being faintly reminiscent of démodé enquiry: Do Shrimps make Good Mothers?)

  Hear that Lady Boxe has returned from South of France and is entertaining house-party. She sends telephone message by the butler, asking me to tea to-morrow. I accept. (Why?)

  February 12th. – Insufferable behaviour of Lady B. Find large party, all of whom are directed at front door to go to the Hard Courts, where, under inadequate shelter, in Arctic temperature all are compelled to watch young men in white flannels keeping themselves warm by banging a little ball against a wall. Lady B. wears an emerald-green leather coat with fur collar and cuffs. I, having walked down, have on ordinary coat and skirt, and freeze rapidly. Find myself next unknown lady who talks wistfully about the tropics. Can well understand this. On other side elderly gentleman, who says conversationally that this Naval Disarmament is All his Eye. This contribution made to contemporary thought, he says no more. Past five o’clock before we are allowed to go in to tea, by which time am only too well aware that my face is blue and my hands purple. Lady B. asks me at tea how the children are, and adds, to the table at large, that I am ‘A Perfect Mother’. Am naturally avoided, conversationally, after this, by everybody at the tea-table. Later on, Lady B. tells us about South of France. She quotes repartees made by herself in French, and then translates them.

  (Unavoidable Query presents itself here: Would a verdict of Justifiable Homicide delivered against their mother affect future careers of children unfavourably?)

  Discuss foreign travel with unknown, but charming, lady in black. We are delighted with one another – or so I confidently imagine – and she begs me to go and see her if I am ever in her neighbourhood. I say that I will – but am well aware that courage will fail me when it comes to the point. Pleasant sense of mutual sympathy suddenly and painfully shattered by my admitting – in reply to direct enquiry – that I am not a gardener – which the lady in black is, to an extent that apparently amounts to monomania. She remains charming, but quite ceases to be delighted with me, and I feel discouraged.

  (NB Must try to remember that Social Success is seldom the portion of those who habitually live in the provinces. No doubt they serve some other purpose in the vast field of Creation – but have not yet discovered what.)

  Lady B. asks if I have seen the new play at the Royalty. I say No. She says Have I been to the Italian Art Exhibition? I have not. She enquires what I think of Her Privates We – which I haven’t yet read – and I at once give her a long and spirited account of my reactions to it. Feel after this that I had better go, before I am driven to further excesses.

  Shall she, says Lady B., ring for my car? Refrain from replying that no amount of ringing will bring my car to the door all by itself, and say instead that I walked. Lady B. exclaims that this is Impossible, and that I am Too Marvellous, Altogether. Take my leave before she can add that I am such a Perfect Countrywoman, which I feel is coming next.

  Get home – still chilled to the bone owing to enforced detention at Hard Court – and tell Robert what I think of Lady B. He makes no answer, but I feel he agrees.

  Mademoiselle says Tiens! Madame a mauvaise mine. On dirait un cadavre …

  Feel that this is kindly meant, but do not care about the picture that it conjures up.

  Say good-night to Vicky, looking angelic in bed, and ask what she is thinking about, lying there. She disconcertingly replies with briskness: ‘Oh, Kangaroos and things.’

  (Note: The workings of the infant mind very, very difficult to follow, sometimes. Mothers by no means infallible.)

  February 14th. – Have won first prize in Time and Tide competition, but again divided. Am very angry indeed, and write excellent letter to the Editor under false name, protesting against this iniquitous custom. After it has gone, become seriously uneasy under the fear that the use of a false name is illegal. Look through Whitaker, but can find nothing but Stamp Duties and Concealment of Illegitimate Births, so abandon it in disgust.

  Write to Angela – under my own name – to enquire kindly if she went in for the competition. Hope she did, and that she will have the decency to say so.

  February 16th. – Informed by Ethel, as she calls me in the morning, that Helen Wills has had six kittens, of which five survive.

  Cannot imagine how I shall break this news to Robert. Reflect – not for the first time – that the workings of Nature are most singular.

  Angela writes that she didn’t go in for competition, thinking the subject puerile, but that she solved ‘Merope’s’ Crossword puzzle in fifteen minutes.

  (NB This last statement almost certainly inaccurate.)

  February 21st. – Remove bulb-bowls, with what is left of bulbs, to greenhouse. Tell Robert that I hope to do better another year. He replies, Another year, better not waste my money. This reply depresses me, moreover weather continues Arctic, and have by no means recovered from effects of Lady B.’s so-called hospitality.

  Vicky and Mademoiselle spend much time in boot-cupboard where Helen Wills is established with five kittens. Robert still unaware of what has happened, but cannot hope this ignorance will continue. Must, however, choose suitable moment for revelation – which is unlikely to occur to-day owing to bath-water having been cold again this morning.

  Lady B. calls in the afternoon – not, as might have been expected, to see if I am in bed with pneumonia, but to ask if I will help at a Bazaar early in May. Further enquiry reveals that it is in aid of the Party Funds. I say What Party? (Am well aware of Lady B.’s political views, but resent having it taken for granted that mine are the same – which they are not.)

  Lady B. says she is Surprised. Later on she says Look at the Russians, and even, Look at the Pope. I find myself telling her to Look at Unemployment – none of which gets us any further. Am relieved when tea comes in, and still more so when Lady B. says she really mustn’t wait, as she has to call on such a number of Tenants. She asks after Robert, and I think seriously of replying that he is out receiving the Oath of Allegiance from all the vassals on the estate, but decide that this would be undignified.

  Escort Lady B. to the hall-door. She tells me that the oak dresser would look better on the other side of the hall, and that it is a mistake to put mahogany and walnut in the same room. Her last word is that she will Write, about the bazaar. Relieve my feelings by waving small red flag belonging to Vicky, which is lying on the hall-stand, and saying À la lanterne! as chauffeur drives off. Rather unfortunately, Ethel chooses this moment to walk through the hall. She says nothing, but looks astonished.

  February 22nd. – Gloom prevails, owing to Helen Wills having elected, with incredible idiocy, to introduce progeny, one by one, to Robert’s notice at late hour last night, when he was making final round of the house.

  Send Mademoiselle and Vicky on errand to the village whilst massacre of the innocents takes place in pail of water in backyard. Small ginger is allowed to survive. Spend much time in thinking out plausible story to account to Vicky fo
r disappearance of all the rest. Mademoiselle, when informed privately of what has happened, tells me to leave Vicky to her – which I gladly agree to do – and adds that les hommes manquent de soeur. Feel that this is leading us in the direction of a story which I have heard before, and do not wish to hear again, regarding un mariage échoué arranged years ago for Mademoiselle by her parents, in which negotiations broke down owing to mercenary attitude of le futur. Break in with hasty enquiry regarding water-tightness or otherwise of Vicky’s boots.

  (Query: Does incessant pressure of domestic cares vitiate capacity for human sympathy? Fear that it does, but find myself unable to attempt reformation in this direction at present.)

  Receive long, and in parts illegible, letter from Cissie Crabbe, bearing on the back of the envelope extraordinary enquiry: Do you know of a really good hotel Manageress? Combat strong inclination to reply on a postcard: No, but can recommend thoroughly reliable Dentist. Dear Cissie, one remembers from old schooldays, has very little sense of humour.

  February 24th. – Robert and I lunch with our Member and his wife. I sit next elderly gentleman who talks about stag-hunting and tells me that there is Nothing Cruel about it. The Stag likes it, and it is an honest, healthy, thoroughly English form of sport. I say Yes, as anything else would be waste of breath, and turn to Damage done by recent storms, New arrivals in the neighbourhood, and Golf-links at Budleigh Salterton. Find that we get back to stag-hunting again in next to no time, and remain there for the rest of lunch.