(Mem.: Speak to Cook, tactfully and at the same time decisively. Must think this well out beforehand.)
Robert’s reaction to approaching union with devoted friend and guardian of Vicky’s infancy lacking in any enthusiasm whatever.
May 3rd. – Mademoiselle arrives by earlier train than was expected, and is deposited at front door, in the middle of lunch, by taxi, together with rattan basket, secured by cord, small attaché-case, large leather hat-box, plaid travelling rug, parcel wrapped in American oilcloth, and two hand-bags.
We all rush out (excepting Helen Wills, who is subsequently found to have eaten the butter off dish on sideboard) and much excitement follows. If Mademoiselle says Ah, mais ce qu’ils ont grandis! once, she says it thirty-five times. To me she exclaims that I have bonne mine, and do not look a day over twenty, which is manifestly absurd. Robert shakes hands with her – at which she cries Ah! quelle bonne poignie de main anglaise! and introduction of Casabianca is effected, but this less successful, and rather distant bows are exchanged, and I suggest adjournment to dining-room.
Lunch resumed – roast lamb and mint sauce recalled for Mademoiselle’s benefit, and am relieved at respectable appearance they still present, which could never have been the case with either cottage pie or Irish stew – and news is exchanged. Mademoiselle has, it appears, accepted another post – doctor’s household in les environs de Londres, which I think means Putney – but has touchingly stipulated for two days in which to visit us before embarking on new duties.
I say how glad I am, and she says, once more, that the children have grown, and throws up both hands towards the ceiling and tosses her head.
Suggestion, from Robert, that Robin and Vicky should take their oranges into the garden, is adopted, and Casabianca escorts them from the room.
Mademoiselle immediately enquires Qu’est-ce que c’est que ce petit jeune homme? in tones perfectly, and I think designedly, audible from the hall where Vicky and Casabianca can be heard in brisk dispute over a question of goloshes. I reply, in rebukefully lowered voice, with short outline of Casabianca’s position in household – which is, to my certain knowledge, perfectly well known to Mademoiselle already. She slightingly replies Tiens, c’est drôle – words and intonation both, in my opinion, entirely unnecessary. The whole of this dialogue rouses in me grave apprehension as to success or otherwise of next forty-eight hours.
Mademoiselle goes to unpack, escorted by Vicky – should like to think this move wholly inspired by grateful affection, but am more than doubtful – Casabianca walks Robin up and down the lawn, obviously for purpose of admonishment – probably justifiable, but faint feeling of indignation assails me at the sight – and I stand idle just outside hall-door until Robert goes past me with a wheelbarrow and looks astonished, when I remember that I must (a) Write letters, (b) Telephone to the Bread, which ought to be here and isn’t, (c) Go on sorting school clothes, (d) Put Cash’s initials on Vicky’s new stockings, (e) See about sending nursery chintzes to the cleaners.
Curious and unprofitable reflection crosses my mind that if I were the heroine of a novel, recent encounter between Bill and myself would lead to further developments of tense and emotional description, culminating either in renunciation, or – if novel a modern one – complete flight of cap over windmill.
Real life, as usual, totally removed from literary conventions, and nothing remains but to hasten indoors and deal with accumulated household duties.
Arrival of second post, later on, gives rise to faint recrudescence of romantic speculations, when letter in unknown, but educated, handwriting, bearing London postmark, is handed to me. Have mentally taken journey to Paris, met Bill by appointment, and said good-bye to him for ever – and also, alternatively, gone with him to the South Sea Islands, been divorced by Robert, and heard of the deaths of both children – before opening letter. It turns out to be from unknown gentleman of high military rank, who asks me whether I am interested in the New Economy, as he is selling off mild-cured hams very cheaply indeed.
May 5th. – Fears relating to perfect harmony between Mademoiselle and Casabianca appear to have been well founded, and am relieved that entire party disperses to-morrow. Children, as usual on last day of holidays, extremely exuberant, but am aware, from previous experience, that fearful reaction will set in at eleventh hour.
Decide on picnic, said to be in Mademoiselle’s honour, and Robert tells me privately that he thinks Casabianca had better be left behind. Am entirely of opinion that he is right, and spend some time in evolving graceful and kind-hearted little formula with which to announce this arrangement, but all ends in failure.
Casabianca says Oh no, it is very kind of me, but he would quite enjoy a picnic, and does not want an afternoon to himself. He has no letters to write – very kind of me to think of such a thing. Nor does he care about a quiet day in the garden, kind though it is of me. Final desperate suggestion that he would perhaps appreciate vague and general asset of A Free Day, he receives with renewed reference to my extreme kindness, and incontrovertible statement that he wouldn’t know what to do with a free day if he had it.
Retire defeated, and tell Robert that Casabianca wants to come to the picnic – which Robert appears to think unnatural in the extreme. Towards three o’clock it leaves off raining, and we start, customary collection of rugs, mackintoshes, baskets and thermos flasks in back of car.
Mademoiselle says Ah, combien ça me rappelle le passé que nous ne reverrons plus! and rolls her eyes in the direction of Casabianca, and I remember with some thankfulness that his knowledge of French is definitely limited. Something tells me, however, that he has correctly interpreted meaning of Mademoiselle’s glance.
Rain begins again, and by the time we reach appointed beauty-spot is falling very briskly indeed. Robert, who has left home under strong compulsion from Vicky, is now determined to see the thing through, and announces that he shall walk the dog to the top of the hill, and that the children had better come too. Mademoiselle, shrouded in large plaid cape, exerts herself in quite unprecedented manner, and offers to go with them, which shames me into doing likewise, sorely against my inclination. We all get very wet indeed, and Vicky falls into mysterious gap in a hedge and comes out dripping and with black smears that turn out to be tar all over her.
Mon Dieu, says Mademoiselle, il n’y a donc plus personne pour s’occuper de cette malheureuse petite? Should like to remind her of many, many similar misfortunes which have befallen Vicky under Mademoiselle’s own supervision – but do not, naturally, do so.
Situation, already slightly tense, greatly aggravated by Casabianca, who selects this ill-judged moment for rebuking Vicky at great length, at which Mademoiselle exclaims passionately Ah, ma bonne Sainte Vierge, ayez pitié de nous! which strikes us all into a deathly silence.
Rain comes down in torrents, and I suggest tea in the car, but this is abandoned when it becomes evident that we are too tightly packed to be able to open baskets, let alone spread out their contents. Why not tea in the dining-room at home? is Robert’s contribution towards solving difficulty, backed quietly, but persistently, by Casabianca. This has immediately effect of causing Mademoiselle to advocate un goûter en plein air, as though we were at Fontainebleau, or any other improbable spot, in blazing sunshine.
Robin suddenly and brilliantly announces that we are quite near Bull Alley Manor, which is empty, and that the gardener will allow us to have a picnic in the hen-house. Everybody says The Hen-house? except Vicky, who screams and looks enchanted, and Mademoiselle, who also screams, and refers to punaises, which she declares will abound. Robin explains that he means a summer-house on the Bull Alley tennis-ground, which has a wire-netting and looks like a hen-house, but he doesn’t think it really is. He adds triumphantly that it has a bench that we can sit on. Robert puts in a final plea for the dining-room at home, but without conviction, and we drive ten miles to Bull Alley Manor, where picnic takes place under Robin’s auspices, all of us sitting in a row on lon
g wooden seat, exactly like old-fashioned school feast. I say that it reminds me of The Daisy Chain, but nobody knows what I mean, and reference is allowed to drop while we eat potted-meat sandwiches and drink lemonade, which is full of pips.
Return home at half-past six, feeling extraordinarily exhausted. Find letter from Literary Agent, suggesting that the moment has now come when fresh masterpiece from my pen may definitely be expected, and may he hope to receive my new manuscript quite shortly? Idle fancy, probably born of extreme fatigue, crosses my mind as to results of a perfectly candid reply – to the effect that literary projects entirely swamped by hourly activities concerned with children, housekeeping, sewing, letter-writing, Women’s Institute Meetings, and absolute necessity of getting eight hours’ sleep every night.
Decide that another visit to Doughty Street is imperative, and say to Robert, feebly and untruthfully, that I am sure he would not mind my spending a week or two in London, to get some writing done. To this Mademoiselle, officiously and unnecessarily, adds that, naturally, madame désire se distraire de temps en temps – which is not in the least what I want to convey. Robert says nothing, but raises one eyebrow.
May 6th. – Customary heart-rending half-hour in which Robin and Vicky appear to realise for the first time since last holidays that they must return to school. Robin says nothing whatever, but turns gradually eau-de-nil, and Vicky proclaims that she feels almost certain she will not be able to survive the first night away from home. I tell myself firmly that, as a modem mother, I must be Bracing, but very inconvenient lump in my throat renders this difficult, and I suggest instead that they should go and say good-bye to the gardener.
Luggage, which has theoretically been kept within very decent limits, fills the hall and overflows outside front door, and Casabianca’s trunk threatens to take entire car all to itself. Mademoiselle eyes it disparagingly and says Ciel! on dirait tout un déménagement, but relents at the moment of farewell, and gives Casabianca her hand, remarking Sans rancune, hein? which he fortunately does not understand, and can therefore not reply to, except by rather chilly bow, elegantly executed from the waist. Mademoiselle then without warning bursts into tears, kisses children and myself, says On se reverra au Paradis, au moins – which is on the whole optimistic – and is driven by Robert to the station.
Hired car removes Casabianca, after customary exchange of compliments between us, and extraordinarily candid display of utter indifference from both Robin and Vicky, and I take them to the Junction, where unknown parent of unknown schoolfellow of Robin’s takes charge of him with six other boys, who all look to me exactly alike.
Vicky weeps, and I give her an ice and then escort her to station all over again, and put her in charge of the guard, to whom she immediately says Can she go in the Van with him? He agrees, and they disappear hand-in-hand.
Drive home again, and avoid the nursery for the rest of the day.
May 10th. – Decide that a return to Doughty Street flat is imperative, and try to make clear to Robert that this course really represents Economy in the Long Run. Mentally assemble superb array of evidence to this effect, but it unfortunately eludes me when trying to put it into words and all becomes feeble and incoherent. Also observe in myself tendency to repeat over and over again rather unmeaning formula: It Isn’t as if It was going to be For Long, although perfectly well aware that Robert heard me the first time, and was unimpressed. Discussion closes with my fetching A. B.C. out of the dining-room, and discovering that it dates from 1929.
May 17th. – Return to Doughty Street flat, and experience immense and unreasonable astonishment at finding it almost exactly as I left it, yellow-and-white check dust-sheets and all. Am completely entranced, and spend entire afternoon and evening arranging two vases of flowers, unpacking suit-case and buying tea and biscuits in Gray’s Inn Road, where I narrowly escape extinction under a tram.
Perceive that Everybody in the World except myself is wearing long skirts, a tiny hat on extreme back of head, and vermilion lipstick. Look at myself in the glass and resolve instantly to visit Hairdresser, Beauty Parlour, and section of large Store entitled Inexpensive Small Ladies, before doing anything else at all.
Ring up Rose, who says Oh, am I back? – which I obviously must be – and charmingly suggests dinner next week – two friends whom she wants me to meet – and a luncheon party at which I must come and help her. Am flattered, and say Yes, yes, how? to which Rose strangely replies, By leaving rather early, if I don’t mind, as this may break up the party.
Note: Extraordinary revelations undoubtedly hidden below much so-called hospitality, if inner thoughts of many hostesses were to be revealed. This thought remains persistently with me, in spite of explanation from Rose that she has appointment miles away at three o’clock, on day of luncheon, and is afraid of not getting there punctually. Agree, but without enthusiasm, to leave at half-past two in the hopes of inducing fellow-guests to do likewise.
Rose also enquires, with some unnecessary mirth, whether I am going to Do Anything about my little friend Pamela Pringle, to which I reply Not that I know of, and say Good-night and ring off. Completely incredible coincidence ensues, and am rung up five minutes later by P. P., who alleges that she ‘had a feeling’ I should be in London again. Become utterly helpless in the face of this prescience, and agree in enthusiastic terms to come to a cocktail party at Pamela’s flat, meet her for a long talk at her Club, and go with her to the Royal Academy one morning. Entire prospect fills me with utter dismay, and go to bed in completely dazed condition.
Pamela rings up again just before midnight, and hopes so, so much she hasn’t disturbed me or anything like that, but she forgot to say – she knows so well that I shan’t misunderstand – there’s nothing in it at all – only if a letter comes for her addressed to my flat, will I just keep it till we meet? Quite likely it won’t come at all, but if it does, will I just do that and not say anything about it, as people are so terribly apt to misunderstand the simplest thing? Am I sure I don’t mind? As by this time I mind nothing at all except being kept out of my bed any longer, I agree to everything, say that I understand absolutely, and am effusively thanked by Pamela and rung off.
May 21st. – Attend Pamela Pringle’s cocktail party after much heart-searching as to suitable clothes for the occasion. Consult Felicity – on a postcard – who replies – on a postcard – that she hasn’t the least idea, also Emma Hay (this solely because I happen to meet her in King’s Road, Chelsea, not because I have remotest intention of taking her advice). Emma says lightly Oh, pyjamas are the thing, she supposes, and I look at her and am filled with horror at implied suggestion that she herself ever appears anywhere in anything of the kind. But, says Emma, waving aside question which she evidently considers insignificant, Will I come with her next week to really delightful evening party in Bloomsbury, where every single Worth While Person in London is to be assembled? Suggest in reply, with humorous intention, that the British Museum has, no doubt, been reserved to accommodate them all, but Emma not in the least amused, and merely replies No, a basement flat in Little James Street, if I know where that is. As it is within two minutes’ walk of my own door, I do, and agree to be picked up by Emma and go on with her to the party.
She tells me that all London is talking about her slashing attack on G. B. Stern’s new novel, and what did I feel? I ask where the slashing attack is to be found, and Emma exclaims Do I really mean that I haven’t seen this month’s Hampstead Clarionet? and I reply with great presence of mind but total disregard for truth, that they’ve probably Sold Out, at which Emma, though obviously astounded, agrees that that must be it, and we part amiably.
Question of clothes remains unsolved until eleventh hour, when I decide on black crêpe-de-chine and new hat that I think becoming.
Bus No. 19, as usual, takes me to Sloane Street, and I reach flat door at half-past six, and am taken up in lift, hall-porter – one of many – informing me on the way that I am the First. At this I beg to be ta
ken down again and allowed to wait in the hall, but he replies, not unreasonably, that Someone has got to be first, Miss. Revive at being called Miss, and allow myself to be put down in front of P. P.’s door, where porter rings the bell as if he didn’t altogether trust me to do it for myself – in which he is right – and I subsequently crawl, rather than walk, into Pamela’s drawing-room. Severe shock ensues when Pamela – wearing pale pink flowered chiffon – reveals herself in perfectly brand-new incarnation as purest platinum blonde. Recover from this with what I consider well-bred presence of mind, but am shattered anew by passionate enquiry from Pamela as to whether I like it. Reply, quite truthfully, that she looks lovely, and all is harmony. I apologise for arriving early, and Pamela assures me that she is only too glad, and adds that she wouldn’t have been here herself as early as this if her bedroom clock hadn’t been an hour fast, and she wants to hear all my news. She then tells me all hers, which is mainly concerned with utterly unaccountable attitude of Waddell, who goes into a fit if any man under ninety so much as looks at Pamela. (Am appalled at cataclysmic nature of Waddell’s entire existence, if this is indeed the case.)
Previous experience of Pamela’s parties leads me to enquire if Waddell is to be present this afternoon, at which she looks astonished and says Oh Yes, she supposes so, he is quite a good host in his own way, and anyway she is sure he would adore to see me.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 28
