Our Vicar’s Wife again launches out into the concert – has Miss P. an encore ready? Yes, she has. Two, if necessary. She supposes genially that I am giving a reading of some little thing of my own – I reply curtly that I am not, and shouldn’t dream of such a thing – and Our Vicar’s Wife, definitely tactful, interrupts by saying that She Hears Miss P. is off to London directly the concert is over. If this is really so, and it isn’t giving her any trouble, could she and would she just look in at Harrods’, where they are having a sale, and find out what about tinned apricots? Any reduction on a quantity, and how about carriage? And while she’s in that neighbourhood – but not if it puts her out in any way – could she just look in at that little shop in the Fulham Road – the name has escaped Our Vicar’s Wife for the moment – but it’s really quite unmistakable – where they sell bicycle-parts? Our Vicar has lost a nut, quite a small nut, but rather vital, and it simply can’t be replaced. Fulham Road the last hope.
Miss P. – I think courageously – undertakes it all, and writes down her London address, and Our Vicar’s Wife writes down everything she can remember about Our Vicar’s quite small nut, and adds on the same piece of paper the word ‘haddock’.
But this, she adds, is only if Miss P. really has got time, and doesn’t mind bringing it down with her, as otherwise it won’t be fresh, only it does make a change and is so very difficult to get down here unless one is a regular customer.
At this point I intervene, and firmly suggest driving Our Vicar’s Wife home, as feel certain that, if I don’t, she will ask Miss P. to bring her a live crocodile from the Zoo, or something equally difficult of achievement.
We separate, with light-hearted anticipations of meeting again at the concert.
July 10th. – Concert permeates the entire day, and I spend at least an hour looking through A Thousand and One Gems and The Drawing-room Reciter in order to discover something that I once knew and can recapture without too much difficulty. Finally decide on narrative poem about Dick Turpin, unearthed in Drawing-room Reciter, and popular in far-away schooldays. Walk about the house with book in my hand most of the morning, and ask Robert to Hear Me after lunch, which he does, and only has to prompt three times. He handsomely offers to Hear Me again after tea, and to prompt if necessary during performance, and I feel that difficulty has been overcome.
Everything subject to interruption: small children arrive to ask if I can possibly lend them Anything Chinese, and am able to produce two paper fans – obviously made in Birmingham – one cotton kimono – eight-and-eleven at Messrs Frippy and Coleman’s – and large nautilus shell, always said to have been picked up by remote naval ancestor on the shore at Hawaii.
They express themselves perfectly satisfied, I offer them toffee, which they accept, and they depart with newspaper parcel. Later on message comes from the Rectory, to say that my contribution to Refreshments has not arrived, am covered with shame, and sacrifice new ginger-cake just made for to-day’s tea.
Concert, in common with every other social activity in the village, starts at 7.30, and as Robert has promised to Take the Door and I am required to help with arranging the platform, we forgo dinner altogether, and eat fried fish at tea, and Robert drinks a whisky-and-soda.
Rumour has spread that Our Member and his wife are to appear at concert, but on my hoping this is true, since both are agreeable people, Robert shakes his head and says there’s nothing in it. Everyone else, he admits, will be there, but not Our Member and his wife. I resign myself, and we both join in hoping that we shan’t have to sit next Miss Pankerton. This hope realised, as Robert is put at the very end of front row of chairs, in order that he may get off and on platform frequently, and I am next him and have Our Vicar’s Wife on my other side.
I ask for Our Vicar, and am told that his hay-fever has come on worse than ever, and he has been persuaded to stay at home. Regretful reference is made to this by Robert from the platform, and concert begins, as customary, with piano duet between Miss F. from the shop and Miss W. of the smithy.
Have stipulated that Dick Turpin is to come on very early, so as to get it over, and am asked by Our Vicar’s Wife if I am nervous. I say Yes, I am, and she is sympathetic, and tells me that the audience will be indulgent. They are, and Dick Turpin is safely accomplished with only one prompt from Robert – unfortunately delivered rather loudly just as I am purposely making what I hope is pregnant and dramatic pause – and I sit down again and prepare to enjoy myself.
Miss Pankerton follows me, is accompanied by pale young man who loses his place twice, and finally drops his music on the ground, picks it up again and readjusts it, while Miss P. glares at him and goes on vigorously with Une Fête à Trianon and leaves him to find his own way home as best he can. This he never quite succeeds in doing until final chord is reached, when he joins in again with an air of great triumph, and we all applaud heartily.
Miss P. bows, and at once launches into encore – which means that everybody else will have to be asked for an encore too, otherwise there will be feelings – and eventually sits down again and we go on to Sketch by the schoolchildren, in which paper fans and cotton kimonos are in evidence.
The children look nice, and are delighted with themselves, and everybody else is delighted too, and Sketch brings down the house, at which Miss Pankerton looks superior and begins to tell me about Classical Mime by children that she once organised in large hall – seats two thousand people – near Birmingham, but I remain unresponsive, and only observe in reply that Jimmie H. of the mill is a duck, isn’t he?
At this Miss P.’s eyebrows disappear into her hair, and she tells me about children she has seen in Italy who are pure Murillo types – but Our Butcher’s Son here mounts the platform, in comic checks, bowler and walking-stick, and all is lost in storms of applause.
Presently Robert announces an Interval, and we all turn round in-our seats and scan the room and talk to the people behind us, and someone brings forward a rumour that they’ve taken Close on Three Pounds at the Door, and we all agree that, considering the hot weather, it’s wonderful.
Shortly afterwards Robert again ascends platform, and concert is resumed. Imported talent graces last half of the programme, in the shape of tall young gentleman who is said to be a friend of the Post Office, and who sings a doubtful comic song which is greeted with shrieks of appreciation. Our Vicar’s Wife and I look at one another, and she shakes her head with a resigned expression, and whispers that it can’t be helped, and she hopes the encore won’t be any worse. It is worse, but not very much, and achieves enormous popular success.
By eleven o’clock all is over, someone has started God Save the King much too high, and we have all loyally endeavoured to make ourselves heard on notes that we just can’t reach – Miss Pankerton has boldly attempted something that is evidently meant to be seconds, but results not happy – and we walk out into the night.
Robert drives me home. I say Weren’t the children sweet? and Really, it was rather fun, wasn’t it? and Robert changes gear, but makes no specific reply. Turn into our own lane, and I experience customary wonder whether house has been burnt to the ground in our absence, followed by customary reflection that anyway, the children are away at school – and then get severe shock as I see the house blazing with light from top to bottom.
Robert ejaculates, and puts his foot on the accelerator, and we dash in at gate, and nearly run into enormous blue car drawn up at front door.
I rush into the hall, and at the same moment Pamela Pringle rushes out of the drawing-room, wearing evening dress and grey fur coat with enormous collar, and throws herself on my neck. Am enabled, by mysterious process quite inexplicable to myself, to see through the back of my head that Robert has recoiled on threshold and retired with car to the garage.
Pamela P. explains that she is staying the night at well-known hotel, about forty miles away, and that when she found how near I was, she simply had to look me up, and she had simply no idea that I ever went out at night
. I say that I never do, and urge her into the drawing-room, and there undergo second severe shock as I perceive it to be apparently perfectly filled with strange men. Pamela does not introduce any of them, beyond saying that it was Johnnie’s car they came in, and Plum drove it. Waddell is not included in the party, nor anybody else that I ever saw in my life, and all seem to be well under thirty, except very tall man with bald head who is referred to as Alphonse Daudet, and elderly-looking one with moustache, who I think looks Retired, probably India.
I say weakly that they must have something to drink, and look at the bell – perfectly well aware that maids have gone to bed long ago – but Robert, to my great relief, materialises and performs minor miracle by producing entirely adequate quantities of whisky-and-soda, and sherry and biscuits for Pamela and myself. After this we all seem to know one another very well indeed, and Plum goes to the piano and plays waltz tunes popular in Edwardian days. (Pamela asks at intervals What that one was called? although to my certain knowledge she must remember them just as well as I do myself.)
Towards one o’clock Pamela, who has been getting more and more affectionate towards everybody in the room, suddenly asks where the darling children are sleeping, as she would love a peep at them. Forbear to answer that if they had been at home at all, they couldn’t possibly have been sleeping through conversational and musical orgy of Pamela and friends, and merely reply that both are at school. What, shrieks Pamela, that tiny weeny little dot of a Vicky at school? Am I utterly unnatural? I say Yes, I am, as quickest means of closing futile discussion, and everybody accepts it without demur, and we talk instead about Auteuil, Helen de Liman de la Pelouse – (about whom I could say a great deal more than I do) – and Pamela’s imminent return home to country house where Waddell and three children await her.
Prospect of this seems to fill her with gloom, and she tells me, aside, that Waddell doesn’t quite realise her present whereabouts, but supposes her to be crossing from Ireland to-night, and I must remember this, if he says anything about it next time we meet.
Just as it seems probable that séance is to continue for the rest of the night, Alphonse Daudet rises without any warning at all, says to Robert that, for his part, he’s not much good at late nights, and walks out of the room. We all drift after him, Pamela announces that she is going to drive, and everybody simultaneously exclaims No, No, and Robert says that there is a leak in the radiator, and fetches water from the bathroom.
(Should have preferred him to bring it in comparatively new green enamel jug, instead of incredibly ancient and battered brass can.)
Pamela throws herself into my arms, and murmurs something of which I hear nothing at all except Remember! – like Bishop Juxon – and then gets into the car, and is obliterated by Plum on one side and elderly Indian on the other.
Just as they start, Helen Wills dashes out of adjacent bushes, and is nearly run over, but this tragedy averted, and car departs.
Echoes reach us for quite twenty minutes, of lively conversation, outbreaks of song and peals of laughter, as car flies down the lane and out of sight. Robert says that they’ve turned the wrong way, but does not seem to be in the least distressed about it, and predicts coldly that they will all end up in local police station.
I go upstairs, all desire for sleep having completely left me, and find several drawers in dressing-table wide open, powder all over the place like snow on Mount Blanc, unknown little pad of rouge on pillow, and face-towel handsomely streaked with lipstick.
Bathroom is likewise in great disorder, and when Robert eventually appears he brings with him small, silver-mounted comb which he alleges that he found, quite incomprehensibly, on lowest step of remote flight of stairs leading to attic. I say satirically that I hope they all felt quite at home, Robert snorts in reply, and conversation closes.
July 13th. – Life resumes its ordinary course, and next excitement will doubtless be return of Robin and Vicky from school. Am already deeply immersed in preparations for this, and Cook says that extra help will be required. I reply that I think we shall be away at the sea for at least a month – (which is not perfectly true, as much depends on financial state) – and she listens to me in silence, and repeats that help will be wanted anyway, as children make such a difference. As usual, Cook gets the last word, and I prepare to enter upon familiar and exhausting campaign in search of Extra Help.
This takes up terrific amount of time and energy, and find it wisest to resign all pretensions to literature at the moment, and adopt role of pure domesticity. Interesting psychological reaction to this – (must remember to bring it forward in discussion with dear Rose, always so intelligent) – is that I tell Robert that next year I should like to Go to America. Robert makes little or no reply, except for rather eloquent look, but nevertheless I continue to think of going to America, and taking diary with me.
THE PROVINCIAL LADY IN AMERICA
Parts of this book have already appeared in
the pages of Punch, and my thanks are due
to the Editor and to the Proprietors for
permission to republish.
July 7th. – Incredulous astonishment on receiving by second post – usually wholly confined to local bills and circulars concerning neighbouring Garden Fêtes – courteous and charming letter from publishers in America. They are glad to say that they feel able to meet me on every point concerning my forthcoming visit to the United States, and enclose contract for my approval and signature.
Am completely thrown on my beam-ends by this, but remember that visit to America was once mooted and that I light-heartedly reeled off stipulations as to financial requirements, substantial advances, and so on, with no faintest expectation that anybody would ever pay the slightest attention to me. This now revealed as complete fallacy. Read contract about fourteen times running, and eyes – figuratively speaking – nearly drop out of my head with astonishment. Can I possibly be worth all this?
Probably not, but should like to see America, and in any case am apparently committed to going there whether I want to or not.
Long and involved train of thought follows, beginning with necessity for breaking this news to Robert at the most auspicious moment possible, and going on to requirements of wardrobe, now at lowest possible ebb, and speculating as to whether, if I leave immediately after children’s summer holidays, and return just before Christmas ones, it would not be advisable to embark upon Christmas shopping instantly.
All is interrupted by telephone ring – just as well, as I am rapidly becoming agitated – and voice says that it is Sorry to Disturb Me but is just Testing the Bell. I say Oh, all right, and decide to show publishers’ letter to Robert after tea.
Am absent-minded all through tea as a result, and give Robert sugar, which he doesn’t take. He says Am I asleep or what, and I decide to postpone announcement until evening.
It rains, and presently Florence appears and says If I please, the water’s coming in on the landing through the ceiling, and I say she had better go at once and find Robert – it occurs to me too late that this attitude is far from consistent with feminist views so often proclaimed by myself – and meanwhile put small basin, really Vicky’s sponge-bowl, on stairs to catch water, which drips in steadily.
Return to writing-table and decide to make list of clothes required for American trip, but find myself instead making list of all the things I shall have to do before starting, beginning with passport requirements and ending with ordering China tea from the Stores, 7 lbs cheaper than smaller quantity.
Just as I am bringing this exercise to a close Robert comes in, and shortly afterwards I hear him stumble over sponge-bowl, on stairs, about which nobody has warned him. This definitely precludes breaking American news to him for the present.
He spends the evening up a ladder, looking at gutters, and I write to American publishers but decide not to post letter for a day or two.
July 8th. – Robert still unaware of impending announcement.
July 10th.
– Telegram – reply prepaid – arrives from American publishers’ representative in London, enquiring what I have decided, and this is unfortunately taken down over the telephone by Robert. Full explanations ensue, are not wholly satisfactory, and am left with extraordinary sensations of guilt and duplicity which I do not attempt to analyse.
Woman called Mrs Tressider, whom I once met when staying with Rose, writes that she will be motoring in this direction with The Boy and will call in on us about tea-time to-morrow.
(Query: Why not go out? Answer: (a) The laws of civilisation forbid, (b) Such a course might lead to trouble with dear Rose, (c) Cannot think of anywhere to go.)
Write, on the contrary, amiable letter to Mrs T. saying that I look forward to seeing her and The Boy. Try to remember if I know anything whatever about the latter, but nothing materialises, not even approximate age. Mem.: Order extra milk for tea in case he turns out to be very young – but this not probable, from what I remember of Mrs T.’s appearance.
Go with Robert in the afternoon to neighbouring Agricultural Show, and see a good many iron implements, also a bath standing all by itself outside a tent and looking odd, and a number of animals, mostly very large. Meet the Frobishers, who say There are more people here than there were last year, to which I agree – remember too late that I didn’t come at all last year. Subsequently meet the Palmers, who say Not so many people as there were last year, and I again agree. Am slightly appalled on reflection, and wonder what would happen in the event of Frobishers and Palmers comparing notes as to their respective conversations with me – but this is unlikely in the extreme. (Query: Are the promptings of conscience regulated in proportion to the chances of discovery in wrongdoing? Answer: Obviously of a cynical nature.)
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 33
