The Diary of a Provincial Lady

by E M Delafield

  Go away feeling completely dazed, and quite unable to imagine how I shall explain any of it to Robert. This feeling recrudesces violently in the middle of the night, and in fact keeps me awake for nearly an hour, and is coupled with extremely agitating medley of quite unanswerable questions, such as What I am to Do about a Telephone, and who will look after the flat when I am not in it, and what about having the windows cleaned? After this painful interlude I go to sleep again, and eventually wake up calm, and only slightly apprehensive. This, however, may be the result of mental exhaustion.

  July 11th. – Return home, and am greeted with customary accumulation of unexpected happenings, such as mysterious stain on ceiling of spare bedroom, enormous bruise received by Vicky in unspecified activity connected with gardener’s bicycle, and letters which ought to have been answered days ago and were never forwarded. Am struck by the fact that tea is very nasty, with inferior bought cake bearing mauve decorations, and no jam. Realisation that I shall have to speak to Cook about this in the morning shatters me completely, and by the time I go to bed, Rose, London and Doughty Street have receded into practically forgotten past.

  Robert comes to bed soon after one – am perfectly aware that he has been asleep downstairs – and I begin to tell him about the flat. He says that it is very late, and that he supposes the washerwoman puts his pyjamas through the mangle, as the buttons are always broken. I brush this aside and revert to the flat, but without success. I then ask in desperation if Robert would like to hear about Vicky’s school; he replies Not now, and we subside into silence.

  July 12th. – Cook gives notice.

  July 14th. – Pamela Warburton – now Pamela Pringle – and I meet once again, since I take the trouble to motor into the next county in response to an invitation to tea.

  Enormous house, with enormous gardens – which I trust not to be asked to inspect – and am shown into room with blue ceiling and quantities of little dogs, all barking. Pamela surges up in a pair of blue satin pyjamas and an immense cigarette-holder, and astonishes me by looking extremely young and handsome. Am particularly struck by becoming effect of brilliant coral lipstick, and insane thoughts flit through my mind of appearing in Church next Sunday similarly adorned, and watching the effect upon our Vicar. This flight of fancy routed by Pamela’s greetings, and introduction to what seems like a small regiment of men, oldest and baldest of whom turns out to be Pringle. Pamela then tells them that she and I were at school together – which is entirely untrue – and that I haven’t changed in the least – which I should like to believe, and can’t – and offers me a cocktail, which I recklessly accept in order to show how modern I am. Do not, however, enjoy it in the least, and cannot see that it increases my conversational powers. Am moreover thrown on my beam-ends at the very start by unknown young man who asks if I am not the Colonel’s wife? Repudiate this on the spot with startled negative, and then wonder if I have not laid foundations of a scandal, and try to put it right by feeble addition to the effect that I do not even know the Colonel, and am married to somebody quite different. Unknown young man looks incredulous, and at once begins to talk about interior decoration, the Spanish Royal Family, and modern lighting. I respond faintly, and try to remember if Pamela P. always had auburn hair. Should moreover very much like to know how she has collected her men, and totally eliminated customary accompanying wives.

  Later on, have an opportunity of enquiring into these phenomena, as P. P. takes me to see children. Do not like to ask much about them, for fear of becoming involved in very, very intricate questions concerning P.’s matrimonial extravagances.

  Nurseries are entirely decorated in white, and furnished exactly like illustrated articles in Good Housekeeping, even to coloured frieze all round the walls. Express admiration, but am inwardly depressed, at contrast with extraordinarily inferior schoolroom at home. Hear myself agreeing quite firmly with P. P. that it is most important to Train the Eye from the very beginning – and try not to remember large screen covered with scraps from illustrated papers, extremely hideous Brussels carpet descended from dear Grandmamma, and still more hideous oil-painting of quite unidentified peasant carrying improbable-looking jar – all of which form habitual surroundings of Robin and Vicky.

  P. P. calls children, and they appear, looking, if possible, even more expensive and hygienic than their nursery. Should be sorry to think that I pounce with satisfaction on the fact that all of them wear spectacles, and one a plate, but cannot quite escape suspicion that this is so. All have dark hair, perfectly straight, and am more doubtful than ever about P.’s auburn waves.

  We all exchange handshakes, I say that I have a little boy and a little girl at home – which information children rightly receive with brassy indifference – Pamela shows me adjoining suite of night-nurseries, tiled bathroom and kitchen, and says how handy it is to have a nursery wing quite apart from the rest of the house, and I reply Yes indeed, as if I had always found it so, and say good-bye to the little Spectacles with relief.

  Pamela, on the way downstairs, is gushing, and hopes that she is going to see a great deal of me, now that we are neighbours. Forty-one miles does not, in my opinion, constitute being neighbours, but I make appropriate response, and Pamela says that some day we must have a long, long talk. Cannot help hoping this means that she is going to tell me the story of Stevenson, Templer-Tate and Co.

  (NB Singular and regrettable fact that I should not care twopence about the confidences of P. P. except for the fact that they are obviously bound to contain references to scandalous and deplorable occurrences, which would surely be better left in oblivion?)

  Drive forty-one miles home again, thinking about a new cook – practically no ray of hope anywhere on horizon here – decision about Vicky’s school, Mademoiselle’s probable reactions to final announcement on the point, and problem in regard to furnishing of Doughty Street flat.

  July 17th. – Am obliged to take high line with Robert and compel him to listen to me whilst I tell him about the flat. He eventually gives me his attention, and I pour out torrents of eloquence, which grow more and more feeble as I perceive their effect upon Robert. Finally he says, kindly but gloomily, that he does not know what can have possessed me – neither do I, by this time – but that he supposes I had to do something, and there is a good deal too much furniture here, so some of it can go to Doughty Street.

  At this I revive, and we go into furniture in detail, and eventually discover that the only things we can possibly do without are large green glass vase from drawing-room, small maple-wood table with one leg missing, framed engraving of the Prince Consort from bathroom landing, and strip of carpet believed – without certainty – to be put away in attic. This necessitates complete readjustment of furniture question on entirely new basis. I become excited, and Robert says Well, it’s my own money, after all, and Why not leave it alone for the present, and we can talk about it again later? Am obliged to conform to this last suggestion, as he follows it up by immediately leaving the room.

  Write several letters to Registry Offices, and put advertisement in local Gazette, regarding cook. Advertisement takes much time and thought, owing to feeling that it is better to be honest and let them know the worst at once, and equally strong feeling that situation must be made to sound as attractive as possible. Finally put in ‘good outings’ and leave out ‘oil lamps only’ but revert to candour with ‘quiet country place’ and ‘four in family’.

  Am struck, not for the first time, with absolutely unprecedented display of talent and industry shown by departing Cook, who sends up hitherto undreamed-of triumphs of cookery, evidently determined to show us what we are losing.

  July 19th. – Receive two replies to Gazette advertisement, one from illiterate person who hopes we do not want dinner in the night – (Query: Why should we?) – and another in superior, but unpleasant, handwriting demanding kitchen-maid, colossal wages and improbable concessions as to times off. Reason tells me to leave both unanswered; nevertheless f
ind myself sending long and detailed replies and even – in case of superior scribe – suggesting interview.

  Question of Vicky’s school recrudesces, demanding and receiving definite decisions. Am confronted with the horrid necessity of breaking this to Mademoiselle. Decide to do so immediately after breakfast, but find myself inventing urgent errands in quite other parts of the house, which occupy me until Mademoiselle safely started for walk with Vicky.

  (Query: Does not moral cowardice often lead to very marked degree of self-deception? Answer: Most undoubtedly yes.)

  Decide to speak to Mademoiselle after lunch. At lunch, however, she seems depressed, and says that the weather lui porte sur les nerfs, and I feel better perhaps leave it till after tea. Cannot decide if this is true consideration, or merely further cowardice. Weather gets steadily worse as day goes on, and is probably going to porter sur les nerfs of Mademoiselle worse than ever, but register cast-iron resolution not to let this interfere with speaking to her after Vicky has gone to bed.

  Robin’s Headmaster’s wife writes that boys are all being sent home a week earlier, owing to case of jaundice, which is – she adds – not catching. Can see neither sense nor logic in this, but am delighted at having Robin home almost at once. This satisfaction, most regrettably, quite unshared by Robert. Vicky, however, makes up for it by noisy and prolonged display of enthusiasm. Mademoiselle, as usual, is touched by this, exclaims Ah, quel bon petit cœur! and reduces me once more to despair at thought of the blow in store for her. Find myself desperately delaying Vicky’s bed-time, and prolonging game of Ludo to quite inordinate lengths.

  Just as good-night is being said by Vicky, I am informed that a lady is at the back door, and would like to speak to me, please. The lady turns out to be in charge of battered perambulator, filled with apparently hundreds of green cardboard boxes, all – she alleges – containing garments knitted by herself. She offers to display them; I say No, thank you, not to-day, and she immediately does so. They all strike me as frightful in the extreme.

  Painful monologue ensues, which includes statements about husband having been a Colonel in the Army, former visits to Court, and staff of ten indoor servants. Am entirely unable to believe any of it, but do not like to say so, or even to interrupt so much fluency. Much relieved when Robert appears, and gets rid of perambulator, boxes and all, apparently by power of the human eye alone, in something under three minutes.

  (He admits, later, to having parted with half a crown at back gate, but this I think touching, and much to his credit.)

  Robert, after dinner, is unwontedly talkative – about hay – and do not like to discourage him, so bed-time is reached with Mademoiselle still unaware of impending doom.

  July 21st. – Interview two cooks, results wholly unfavourable. Return home in deep depression, and Mademoiselle offers to make me a tisane – but substitutes tea at my urgent request – and shows so much kindness that I once more postpone painful task of enlightening her as to immediate future.

  July 22nd. – Return of Robin, who is facetious about jaundice case – supposed to be a friend of his – and looks well. He eats enormous tea and complains of starvation at school. Mademoiselle says Le pauvre gosse! and produces packet of Menier chocolate, which Robin accepts with gratitude – but am only too well aware that this alliance is of highly ephemeral character.

  I tell Robin about Doughty Street flat and he is most interested and sympathetic, and offers to make me a box for shoes, or a hanging bookshelf, whichever I prefer. We then adjourn to garden and all play cricket, Mademoiselle’s plea for une balle de caoutchouc being, rightly, ignored by all. Robin kindly allows me to keep wicket, as being post which I regard as least dangerous, and Vicky is left to bowl, which she does very slowly, and with many wides. Helen Wills puts in customary appearance, but abandons us on receiving cricket-ball on front paws. After what feels like several hours of this, Robert appears, and game at once takes on entirely different – and much brisker – aspect. Mademoiselle immediately says firmly Moi, je ne joue plus and walks indoors. Cannot feel that this is altogether a sporting spirit, but have private inner conviction that nothing but moral cowardice prevents my following her example. However, I remain at my post – analogy with Casabianca indicated here – and go so far as to stop a couple of balls and miss one or two catches, after which I am told to bat, and succeed in scoring two before Robin bowls me.

  Cricket decidedly not my game, but this reflection closely followed by unavoidable enquiry: What is? Answer comes there none.

  July 23rd. – Take the bull by the horns, although belatedly, and seek Mademoiselle at two o’clock in the afternoon – Vicky resting, and Robin reading Sherlock Holmes on front stairs, which he prefers to more orthodox sitting-rooms – May I, say I feebly, sit down for a moment?

  Mademoiselle at once advances her own armchair and says Ah, ça me fait du bien de recevoir madame dans mon petit domaine – which makes me feel worse than ever.

  Extremely painful half-hour follows. We go over ground that we have traversed many times before, and reach conclusions only to unreach them again, and the whole ends, as usual, in floods of tears and mutual professions of esteem. Emerge from it all with only two solid facts to hold on to – that Mademoiselle is to return to her native land at an early date, and that Vicky goes to school at Mickleham in September.

  (NB When announcing this to Vicky, must put it to her in such a way that she is neither indecently joyful at emancipation, nor stonily indifferent to Mademoiselle’s departure. Can foresee difficult situation arising here, and say so to Robert, who tells me not to cross my bridges before I get to them – which I consider aggravating.)

  Spend a great deal of time writing to Principal of Vicky’s school, to dentist for appointments, and to Army and Navy Stores for groceries. Am quite unable to say why this should leave me entirely exhausted in mind and body – but it does.

  July 25th. – Go to Exeter in order to interview yet another cook, and spend exactly two hours and twenty minutes in Registry Office waiting for her to turn up – which she never does. At intervals, I ask offensive-looking woman in orange beret, who sits at desk, What she thinks can have Happened, and she replies that she couldn’t say, she’s sure, and such a thing has never happened in the office before, never – which makes me feel that it is all my fault.

  Harassed-looking lady in transparent pink mackintosh trails in, and asks for a cook-general, but is curtly dismissed by orange beret with assurance that cooks-general for the country are not to be found. If they were, adds the orange beret cynically, her fortune would have been made long ago. The pink mackintosh, like Queen Victoria, is not amused, and goes out again. She is succeeded by a long interval, during which the orange beret leaves the room and returns with a cup of tea, and I look – for the fourteenth time – at only available literature, which consists of ridiculous little periodical called ‘Do the Dead Speak?’ and disembowelled copy of the Sphere for February 1929.

  Orange beret drinks tea, and has long and entirely mysterious conversation conducted in whispers with client who looks like a charwoman.

  Paralysis gradually invades me, and feel that I shall never move again – but eventually, of course, do so, and find that I have very nearly missed bus home again. Evolve scheme for selling house and going to live in hotel, preferably in South of France, and thus disposing for ever of servant question. Am aware that this is not wholly practicable idea, and would almost certainly lead to very serious trouble with Robert.

  (Query: Is not theory mistaken, which attributes idle and profitless day-dreaming to youth? Should be much more inclined to add it to many other unsuitable and unprofitable weaknesses of middle-age.)

  Spend the evening with children, who are extraordinarily energetic, and seem surprised when I refuse invitation to play tip-and-run, but agree, very agreeably, to sit still instead and listen to Vice Versa for third time of reading.

  July 26th. – Spirited discussion at breakfast concerning annual problem of a su
mmer holiday. I hold out for Brittany, and produce little leaflet obtained from Exeter Travel Agency, recklessly promising unlimited sunshine, bathing and extreme cheapness of living. Am supported by Robin – who adds a stipulation that he is not to be asked to eat frogs. Mademoiselle groans, and says that the crossing will assuredly be fatal to us all and this year is one notable for naufrages. At this stage Vicky confuses the issue by urging travel by air, and further assures us that in France all the little boys have their hair cut exactly like convicts. Mademoiselle becomes froissée, and says Ah, non, par exemple, je ne m’offense pas, moi, mats ça tout de même – and makes a long speech, the outcome of which is that Vicky has neither heart nor common sense, at which Vicky howls, and Robert says My God and cuts ham.

  Discussion then starts again on a fresh basis, with Vicky outside the door where she can be heard shrieking at intervals – but this mechanical, rather than indicative of serious distress – and Mademoiselle showing a tendency to fold her lips tightly and repeat that nobody is to pay any attention to her wishes about anything whatever.