December 6th. – Receive cable from Robert, saying All Well and he will meet me at Southampton. This has definitely bracing effect, and complete recovery sets in,
Mrs Smiley, in my absence, has acquired complete domination over Canadian triplets, and monopolises conversation at meals. She appears only moderately gratified by my restoration to health, and says that she herself has kept her feet throughout. She has, also, won a great deal at Bridge, played deck tennis and organised a treasure-hunt which was a great success. To this neither I nor the Canadians have anything to counter, but after a time the youngest-looking of the triplets mutters rather defiantly that they have walked four miles every day, going round and round the deck. I applaud this achievement warmly, and Mrs Smiley says that Those calculations are often defective, which silences us all once more.
Learn that concert has been arranged for the evening – Mrs Smiley has taken very active part in organising this and is to play several accompaniments – and H. Cyril de Mullins G. tells me later that he hopes it won’t give great offence if he keeps away, but he cannot endure amateur performances of any sort or kind. As for music, anything other than Bach is pure torture to him. I suggest that in that case he must suffer quite a lot in the dining-saloon, where music quite other than Bach is played regularly, and he asks in a pained way whether I haven’t noticed that he very seldom comes to the dining-saloon at all? He cannot, as a rule, endure the sight of his fellow-creatures eating. It revolts him. For his own part, he very seldom eats anything at all. No breakfast, an apple for lunch, and a little red wine, fish and fruit in the evening is all that he ever requires. I say, rather enviously, How cheap! and suggest that this must make housekeeping easy for his mother, but H. C. de M. G. shudders a good deal and replies that he hasn’t lived with his parents for years and years and thinks family life extremely bourgeois. As it seems obvious that Cyril and I differ on almost every point of importance, I decide that we might as well drop the conversation, and open new novel by L. A. G. Strong that I want to read.
Modern fiction! says Cyril explosively. How utterly lousy it all is! He will, he admits, give me Shaw – (for whom I haven’t asked) – but there are no writers living to-day. Not one. I say Come, Come, what about ourselves? but Mr de M. G. evidently quite impervious to this witty shaft and embarks on very long monologue, in the course of which he demolishes many world-wide reputations. Am extremely thankful when we are interrupted by Mrs Smiley, at the sight of whom C. de M. G. at once gets on to his feet and walks away. (Deduce from this that they have met before.)
Mrs Smiley has come, she tells me, in order to find out if I will give a little Reading from Something of my Own at to-night’s concert. No, I am very sorry, but I cannot do anything of the kind. Now why? Mrs S. argumentatively enquires. No one will be critical, in fact as likely as not they won’t listen, but it will give pleasure. Do I not believe in brightening this sad old world when I get the chance? For Mrs Smiley’s own part, she never grudges a little trouble if it means happiness for others. Naturally, getting up an entertainment of this kind means hard work, and probably no thanks at the end of it – but she feels it’s a duty. That’s all. Just simply a duty. I remain unresponsive, and Mrs S. shakes her head and leaves me.
(If I see or hear any more of Mrs S. shall almost certainly feel it my duty, if not my pleasure, to kick her overboard at earliest possible opportunity.)
Concert duly takes place, in large saloon, and everyone – presumably with the exception of Cyril – attends it. Various ladies sing ballads, mostly about gardens or little boys with sticky fingers – a gentleman plays a concertina solo, not well, and another gentleman does conjuring tricks. Grand finale is a topical song, said to have been written by Mrs Smiley, into which references to all her fellow-passengers are introduced not without ingenuity. Should much like to know how she has found out so much about them all in the time.
Appeal is then made – by Mrs Smiley – for Naval Charity to which we are all asked to subscribe – Mrs Smiley springs round the room with a tambourine, and we all drop coins into it – and we disperse.
Obtain glimpse, as I pass smoking-saloon, of Mr H. Cyril de Mullins Green drinking what looks like brandy-and-soda, and telling elderly gentleman – who has, I think, reached senility – that English Drama has been dead – absolutely dead – ever since the Reformation.
December 7th. – Pack for – I hope – the last time, and spend most of the day listening to various reports that We shan’t be in before midnight, We shall get in by four o’clock this afternoon, and We can’t get in to-day at all.
Finally notice appears on a board outside dining-saloon, informing us that we shall get to Southampton at nine p.m. and that dinner will be served at six – (which seems to me utterly unreasonable). – Luggage to be ready and outside cabins at four o’clock. (More unreasonable still.) Every possible preparation is completed long before three o’clock, and I feel quite unable to settle down to anything at all, and am reduced to watching Mrs Smiley play table-tennis with one of the Canadian triplets, and beat him into a cocked hat.
Dinner takes place at six o’clock – am far too much excited to eat any – and from thence onward I roam uneasily about from one side of ship to the other, and think that every boat I see is tender from Southampton conveying Robert to meet me.
Am told at last by deck-steward – evidently feeling sorry for me – that tender is the other side, and I rush there accordingly, and hang over the side and wave passionately to familiar figure in blue suit. Familiar figure turns out to be that of complete stranger.
Scan everybody else in advancing tender, and decide that I have at last sighted Robert – raincoat and felt hat – but nerve has been rather shattered and am doubtful about waving. This just as well, as raincoat is afterwards claimed by unknown lady in tweed coat and skirt, who screams: Is that you, Dad? and is in return hailed with: Hallo, Mum, old girl! how are you!
I decide that Robert has (a) had a stroke from excitement, (b) been summoned to the death-bed of one of the children, (c) missed the tender.
Remove myself from the rail in dejection, and immediately come face to face with Robert, who has mysteriously boarded the ship unperceived. Am completely overcome, and disgrace myself by bursting into tears.
Robert pats me very kindly and strolls away and looks at entirely strange pile of luggage whilst I recover myself. Recovery is accelerated by Mrs Smiley, who comes up and asks me If that is my husband? to which I reply curtly that it is, and turn my back on her.
Robert and I sit down on sofa outside the dining-saloon, and much talk follows, only interrupted by old friend the table-steward, who hurries out and greets Robert with great enthusiasm, and says that he will personally see my luggage through the Customs.
This he eventually does, with the result that we get through with quite unnatural rapidity, and have a choice of seats in boat-train. Say good-bye to old friend cordially, and with suitable recognition of his services.
Robert tells me that He is Glad to See Me Again, and that the place has been very quiet. I tell him in return that I never mean to leave home again as long as I live, and ask if there are any letters from the children?
There is one from each, and I am delighted. Furthermore, says Robert, Our Vicar’s Wife sent her love, and hopes that we will both come to tea on Thursday, five o’clock, not earlier because of the Choir Practice.
Agree with the utmost enthusiasm that this will be delightful, and feel that I am indeed Home again.
THE PROVINCIAL LADY IN WARTIME
Affectionately dedicated to
Peter Stucley
because of our long friendship
and as a tribute to many shared recollections
of Moscow, London, Edinburgh
and the West Country
September 1st, 1939. – Enquire of Robert whether he does not think that, in view of times in which we live, diary of daily events might be of ultimate historical value to posterity. He replies that It Depends.
/>
Explain that I do not mean events of national importance, which may safely be left to the Press, but only chronicle of ordinary English citizen’s reactions to war which now appears inevitable.
Robert’s only reply – if reply it can be called – is to enquire whether I am really quite certain that Cook takes a medium size in gas-masks. Personally, he should have thought a large, if not out-size, was indicated. Am forced to realise that Cook’s gas-mask is intrinsically of greater importance than problematical contribution to literature by myself, but am all the same slightly aggrieved. Better nature fortunately prevails, and I suggest that Cook had better be asked to clear up the point once and for all. Inclination on the part of Robert to ring the bell has to be checked, and I go instead to kitchen passage door and ask if Cook will please come here for a moment.
She does come, and Robert selects frightful-looking appliances, each with a snout projecting below a little talc window, from pile which has stood in corner of the study for some days.
Cook shows a slight inclination towards coyness when Robert adjusts one on her head with stout crosspiece, and replies from within, when questioned, that It’ll do nicely, sir, thank you. (Voice sounds very hollow and sepulchral.)
Robert still dissatisfied and tells me that Cook’s nose is in quite the wrong place, and he always thought it would be, and that what she needs is a large size. Cook is accordingly extracted from the medium-size, and emerges looking heated, and much inclined to say that she’d rather make do with this one if it’s all the same to us, and get back to her fish-cakes before they’re spoilt. This total misapprehension as to the importance of the situation is rather sharply dealt with by Robert, as ARP Organiser for the district, and he again inducts Cook into a gas-mask and this time declares the results to be much more satisfactory.
Cook (evidently thinks Robert most unreasonable) asserts that she’s sure it’ll do beautifully – this surely very curious adverb to select? – and departs with a look implying that she has been caused to waste a good deal of valuable time.
Cook’s gas-mask is put into cardboard box and marked with her name, and a similar provision made for everybody in the house, after which Robert remarks, rather strangely, that that’s a good job done.
Telephone bell rings, Vicky can be heard rushing to answer it, and shortly afterwards appears, looking delighted, to say that that was Mr Humphrey Holloway, the billeting officer, to say that we may expect three evacuated children and one teacher from East Poplar at eleven o’clock to-night.
Have been expecting this, in a way, for days and days, and am fully prepared to take it with absolute calm, and am therefore not pleased when Vicky adopts an air capable and says: It’ll be all right, I’m not to throw a fit, she can easily get everything ready. (Dear Vicky in many ways a great comfort, and her position as House prefect at school much to her credit, but cannot agree to be treated as though already in advanced stage of senile decay.)
I answer repressively that she can help me to get the beds made up, and we proceed to top-floor attics, hitherto occupied by Robin, who has now, says Vicky, himself been evacuated to erstwhile spare bedroom.
Make up four beds, already erected by Robin and the gardener in corners, as though about to play Puss-in-the-Corner, and collect as many mats from different parts of the house as can be spared, and at least two that can’t. Vicky undertakes to put flowers in each room before nightfall, and informs me that picture of Infant Samuel on the wall is definitely old-fashioned and must go. Feel sentimental about this and inclined to be slightly hurt, until she suddenly rather touchingly adds that, as a matter of fact, she thinks she would like to have it in her own room – to which we accordingly remove it.
Robin returns from mysterious errand to the village, for which he has borrowed the car, looks all round the rooms rather vaguely and says: Everything seems splendid – which I think is over-estimating the amenities provided, which consist mainly of very old nursery screen with pictures pasted on it, green rush-bottomed chairs, patchwork quilts and painted white furniture. He removes his trouser-press with an air of deep concern and announces, as he goes, that the evacuated children can read all his books if they want to. Look round at volumes of Aldous Huxley, André Maurois, Neo-Georgian Poets, the New Yorker and a number of Greek textbooks, and remove them all.
Inspection of the schoolroom – also to be devoted to evacuated children – follows, and I am informed by Vicky that they may use the rocking-horse, the doll’s house and all the toys, but that she has locked the bookcases. Am quite unable to decide whether I should, or should not, attempt interference here.
(Remembrance awakens, quite involuntarily, of outmoded educational methods adopted by Mr Fairchild. But results, on the whole, not what one would wish to see, and dismiss the recollection at once.)
Vicky asks whether she hadn’t better tell Cook, Winnie and May about the arrival of what she calls ‘The little evacuments’, and I say Certainly, and am extremely relieved at not having to do it myself. Call after her that she is to say they will want a hot meal on arrival but that if Cook will leave the things out, I will get it ready myself and nobody is to sit up.
Reply reaches me later to the effect that Cook will be sitting up in any case, to listen-in to any announcements that may be on the wireless.
Announcement, actually, is made at six o’clock of general mobilisation in England and France.
I say, Well, it’s a relief it’s come at last, Robin delivers a short speech about the Balkan States and their political significance, which is not, he thinks, sufficiently appreciated by the Government – and Vicky declares that if there’s a war, she ought to become a VAD and not go back to school. Robert says nothing.
Very shortly afterwards he becomes extremely active over the necessity of conforming to the black-out regulations, and tells me that from henceforward no chink of light must be allowed to show from any window whatever.
He then instructs us all to turn on every light in the house and draw all the blinds and curtains while he makes a tour of inspection outside. We all obey in frenzied haste, as though a fleet of enemy aircraft had already been sighted making straight for this house and no other, and then have to wait some fifteen minutes before Robert comes in again and says that practically every curtain in the place will have to be lined with black and that sheets of brown paper must be nailed up over several of the windows. Undertake to do all before nightfall to-morrow, and make a note to get in supply of candles, matches, and at least two electric torches.
Telephone rings again after dinner, and conviction overwhelms me that I am to receive information of world-shaking importance, probably under oath of secrecy. Call turns out to be, once more, from Mr Holloway, to say that evacuees are not expected before midnight. Return to paper-games with Robin and Vicky.
Telephone immediately rings again.
Aunt Blanche, speaking from London, wishes to know if we should care to take her as paying guest for the duration of the war. It isn’t, she says frenziedly, that she would mind being bombed, or is in the least afraid of anything that Hitler – who is, she feels perfectly certain, simply the Devil in disguise – may do to her, but the friend with whom she shares a flat has joined up as an Ambulance driver and says that she will be doing twenty-four-hour shifts, and sleeping on a camp bed in the Adelphi, and that as the lease of their flat will be up on September 25th, they had better give it up. The friend, to Aunt Blanche’s certain knowledge, will never see sixty-five again, and Aunt Blanche has protested strongly against the whole scheme – but to no avail. Pussy – Mrs Winter-Gammon – has bought a pair of slacks and been given an armlet, and may be called up at any moment.
I express whole-hearted condemnation of Mrs Winter-Gammon – whom I have never liked – and put my hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone to hiss at Robert that it’s Aunt Blanche, and she wants to come as P.G., and Robert looks rather gloomy but finally nods – like Jove – and I tell Aunt Blanche how delighted we shall all be to have her
here as long as she likes.
Aunt Blanche thanks us all – sounding tearful – and repeats again that it isn’t air-raids she minds – not for one minute – and enquires if Robin is nineteen yet – which he won’t be for nearly a year. She then gives me quantities of information about relations and acquaintances.
William is an ARP Warden and Angela is acting as his skeleton staff – which Aunt Blanche thinks has a very odd sound. Emma Hay is said to be looking for a job as Organiser, but what she wants to organise is not known. Old Uncle A. has refused to leave London and has offered his services to the War Office, but in view of his age – eighty-two – is afraid that he may not be sent on active service.
She asks what is happening to Caroline Concannon, that nice Rose and poor Cissie Crabbe.
Rose is still in London, I tell her, and will no doubt instantly find Hospital work – Caroline married years ago and went to Kenya and is tiresome about never answering letters – and Cissie Crabbe I haven’t seen or heard of for ages.
Very likely not, replies Aunt Blanche in a lugubrious voice, but at a time like this one is bound to recollect old ties. Can only return a respectful assent to this, but do not really see the force of it.
Aunt Blanche then tells me about old Mrs Winter-Gammon all over again, and I make much the same comments as before, and she further reverts to her attitude about air-raids. Perceive that this conversation is likely to go on all night unless steps are taken to check Aunt Blanche decisively, and I therefore tell her that we are expecting a party of evacuees at any moment – (can distinctly hear Vicky exclaiming loudly: Not till midnight – exclamation no doubt equally audible to Aunt Blanche) – and that I must ring off.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 47
