The Diary of a Provincial Lady

by E M Delafield

  Accordingly reply Certainly in tones of icy composure – but am not sure they don’t sound as though I were consciously trying to be refined, and wish I’d let it alone. Moreover Commandant, obviously not in the least ashamed of herself, merely tells me to be quick about it, please, in insufferably authoritative manner.

  Cook angrier than ever.

  Very pretty girl with curls all over her head and waist measurement apparently eighteen-inch, comes and leans up against the counter and asks me to advise her in choice between Milk Chocolate Bar and Plain Chocolate Biscuit.

  Deb. addresses something to her which sounds like Hay-o Mule! and which I realise, minutes later, may have been Hallo, Muriel. Am much flattered when Muriel merely shakes her curls in reply and continues to talk to me. Am unfortunately compelled to leave her, still undecided, in order to collect Commandant’s supper once more.

  Cook hands it to me with curtly expressed, but evidently heart-felt, hope that it may choke her. Pretend I haven’t heard, but find myself exchanging very eloquent look with Cook all the same.

  Plate, I am glad to say unpleasantly hot, is snatched from me by Darling and passed on to Commandant, who in her turn snatches it and goes off without so much as a Thank you.

  Rumour spreads all round the underworld – cannot say why or from where – that the German bombers are going to raid London to-night. They are, it is said, expected. Think this sounds very odd, and quite as though we had invited them. Nobody seems seriously depressed, and Society Deb. is more nearly enthusiastic than I have ever heard her and remarks Ra way baw way, out of one corner of her mouth. Cannot interpret this, and make very little attempt to do so. Have probably not missed much.

  Night wears on; Mrs Peacock looks pale green and evidently almost incapable of stirring from packing-case at all, but leg is not this time to blame, all is due to Commandant, and Mrs P.’s failure in assessing change correctly. Feel very sorry for her indeed.

  Customary pandemonium of noise fills the Canteen: We Hang up our Washing on the Siegfried Line and bellow aloud requests that our friends should Wish us Luck when they Wave us Good-bye: old Mrs Winter-Gammon sits surrounded by a crowd of ambulance men, stretcher-bearers and demolition workers talk far into the night, and sound of voices from Women’s Rest-room goes on steadily and ceaselessly.

  I become involved with sandwich-cutting and think I am doing well until austere woman who came on duty at midnight confronts me with a desiccated-looking slice of bread and asks coldly if I cut that?

  Yes, I did.

  Do I realise that one of those long loaves ought to cut up into thirty-two slices, and that, at the rate I’m doing it, not more than twenty-four could possibly be achieved?

  Can only apologise and undertake – rashly, as I subsequently discover – to do better in future.

  A lull occurs between twelve and one, and Mrs Peacock – greener than ever – asks Do I think I can manage, if she goes home now? Her leg is paining her. Assure her that I can, but austere woman intervenes and declares that both of us can go. She is here now, and will see to everything.

  Take her at her word and depart with Mrs P.

  Street pitch-dark but very quiet, peaceful and refreshing after the underworld. Starlight night, and am meditating a reference to Mars – hope it is Mars – when Mrs Peacock abruptly enquires if I can tell her a book to read. She has an idea – cannot say why, or whence derived – that I know something about books.

  Find myself denying it as though confronted with highly scandalous accusation, and am further confounded by finding myself unable to think of any book whatever except Grimm’s Fairy Tales, which is obviously absurd. What, I enquire in order to gain time, does Mrs Peacock like in the way of books?

  In times such as these, she replies very apologetically indeed, she thinks a novel is practically the only thing. Not a detective novel, not a novel about politics, nor about the unemployed, nothing to do with sex, and above all not a novel about life under Nazi regime in Germany.

  Inspiration immediately descends upon me and I tell her without hesitation to read a delightful novel called The Priory by Dorothy Whipple, which answers all requirements, and has a happy ending into the bargain.

  Mrs Peacock says it seems too good to be true, and she can hardly believe that any modern novel is as nice as all that, but I assure her that it is and that it is many years since I have enjoyed anything so much.

  Mrs P. thanks me again and again, I offer to help her to find her bus in the Strand – leg evidently giving out altogether in a few minutes – beg her to take my arm, which she does, and I immediately lead her straight into a pile of sandbags.

  Heroic pretence from Mrs P. that she doesn’t really mind – she likes it – if anything, the jar will have improved the state of her leg. Say Good-night to her before she can perjure herself any further and help her into bus which may or may not be the one she wants.

  Return to Buckingham Street and find it is nearly two o’clock. Decide that I must get to bed quickly – but find myself instead mysteriously impelled to wash stockings, write to Vicky, tidy up writing-desk, and cut stems and change water of Serena’s gladioli.

  Finally retire to bed with The Daisy Chain wishing we were all back in the England of the ’fifties.

  October 4th. – Serena tells me that Brigadier Pinflitton is very sorry, he doesn’t think the War Office likely to require my services. But she is to tell me that, in time, all will find jobs.

  If I hear this even once again, from any source whatever, I cannot answer for consequences.

  Serena, who brings me this exhilarating message, asks me to walk round the Embankment Gardens with her, as she has got leave to come out for an hour’s fresh air on the distinct understanding that in the event of an air-raid warning she instantly flies back to her post.

  We admire the flowers, which are lovely, and are gratified by the arrival of a balloon in the middle of the gardens, with customary Man and Lorry attached.

  Serena informs me that Hitler’s peace proposals – referred to on posters as ‘peace offensive’ – will be refused, and we both approve of this course and say that any other would be unthinkable and express our further conviction that Hitler is in fearful jam and knows it, and is heading for a catastrophe. He will, predicts Serena, go right off his head before so very long.

  Then we shall be left, I point out, with Goering, Ribbentrop and Hess.

  Serena brushes them aside, asserting that Goering, though bad, is at least a soldier and knows the rules – more or less – that Ribbentrop will be assassinated quite soon – and that Hess is a man of straw.

  Hope she knows what she is talking about.

  We also discuss the underworld, and Serena declares that Granny Bo-Peep has offered to get up a concert on the premises and sing at it herself. She does not see how this is to be prevented.

  Tells me that girl with curls – Muriel – is rather sweet and owns a Chow puppy whose photograph she has shown Serena, and the Chow looks exactly like Muriel and has curls too.

  The Commandant, thinks Serena, will – like Hitler – have a breakdown quite soon. She and Darling had a quarrel at six o’clock this morning because Darling brought her a plate of minced ham and the Commandant refused to touch it on the grounds of having No Time.

  Darling reported to have left the premises in a black fury.

  We then go back to flat and I offer Serena tea, which she accepts, and biscuits. Reflection occurs to me – promoted by contrast between Serena and the Commandant – that Golden Mean not yet achieved between refusal to touch food at all, and inability to refrain from practically unbroken succession of odd cups of tea, coffee, and biscuits all day and all night.

  Just as I am preparing to expound this further, telephone bell rings. Call is from Lady Blowfield: If I am not terribly busy will I forgive short notice and lunch with her to-morrow to meet exceedingly interesting man – Russian by birth, married a Roumanian but this a failure and subsequently married a French-woman, who has
now divorced him. Speaks every language well, and is absolutely certain to have inside information about the European situation. Works as a free-lance journalist. Naturally accept with alacrity and express gratitude for this exceptional opportunity.

  Am I, solicitously adds Lady Blowfield, keeping fairly well? Voice sounds so anxious that I don’t care to say in return that I’ve never been better in my life, so reply Oh yes, I’m fairly all right, in tone which suggests that I haven’t slept or eaten for a week – which isn’t the case at all.

  (Note: Adaptability to another’s point of view is one thing, and rank deceit quite another. Should not care to say under which heading my present behaviour must be listed.)

  Lady Blowfield says Ah! compassionately, down the telephone, and I feel the least I can do is ask after her and Sir Archibald, although knowing beforehand that she will give no good account of either.

  Archie, poor dear, is fearfully over-worked and she is very, very anxious about him, and wishes he would come into the country for a week-end, but this is impossible. He has begged her to go without him, but she has refused because she knows that if she once leaves London, there will be an air-raid and the whole transport system of the country will be disorganised, communications will be cut off everywhere, petrol will be unobtainable, and the Government – if still in existence at all – flung into utter disarray.

  Can only feel that if all this is to be the direct result of Lady Blowfield’s going into Surrey for a week-end she had undoubtedly better remain where she is.

  She further tells me – I think – that Turkey’s attitude is still in doubt and that neither she nor Archie care for the look of things in the Kremlin, but much is lost owing to impatient mutterings of Serena who urges me to ring off, and says Surely that’s enough, and How much longer am I going on saying the same things over and over again?

  Thank Lady Blowfield about three more times for the invitation, repeat that I shall look forward to seeing her and meeting cosmopolitan friend – she reiterates all his qualifications as an authority on international politics, and conversation finally closes.

  Apologise to Serena, who says It doesn’t matter a bit, only she particularly wants to talk to me and hasn’t much time. (Thought she had been talking to me ever since she arrived, but evidently mistaken.)

  Do I remember, says Serena, meeting J. L. at her flat?

  Certainly. He said Plato provided him with escape literature.

  Serena exclaims in tones of horror that he isn’t really like that. He’s quite nice. Not a great sense of humour, perhaps, but a kind man, and not in the least conceited.

  Agree that this is all to the good.

  Do I think it would be a good plan to marry him?

  Look at Serena in surprise. She is wearing expression of abject wretchedness and seems unable to meet my eye.

  Reply, without much originality, that a good deal depends on what she herself feels about it.

  Oh, says Serena, she doesn’t know. She hasn’t the slightest idea. That’s why she wants my advice. Everyone seems to be getting married: haven’t I noticed the announcements in The Times lately?

  Yes, I have, and they have forcibly recalled 1914 and the three succeeding years to my mind. Reflections thus engendered have not been wholly encouraging. Still, the present question, I still feel, hinges on what Serena herself feels about J. L.

  Serena says dispassionately that she likes him, she admires his work, she finds it very easy to get on with him, and she doesn’t suppose they would make more of a hash of things than most people.

  If that, I say, is all, better leave it alone.

  Serena looks slightly relieved and thanks me.

  I venture to ask her whether she has quite discounted the possibility of falling in love, and Serena replies sadly that she has. She used to fall in love quite often when she was younger, but it always ended in disappointment, and anyway the technique of the whole thing has changed, and people never get married now just because they’ve fallen in love. It’s an absolutely understood thing.

  Then why, I ask, do they get married?

  Mostly, replies Serena, because they want to make a change.

  I assure her, with the greatest emphasis, that this is an inadequate reason for getting married. Serena is most grateful and affectionate, promises to do nothing in a hurry, and says that I have helped her enormously – which I know to be quite untrue.

  Just as she is leaving, association of ideas with announcement in The Times leads me to admit that she is still only known to me as Serena Fiddlededee, owing to Aunt Blanche’s extraordinary habit of always referring to her thus. Serena screams with laughter, asserts that nowadays one has to know a person frightfully well before learning their surname, and that hers is Brown with no E.

  October 5th. – Lunch with Lady Blowfield and am privileged to meet cosmopolitan friend.

  He turns out to be very wild-looking young man, hair all over the place and large eyes, and evidently unversed in uses of nail-brush. Has curious habit of speaking in two or three languages more or less at once, which is very impressive as he is evidently thoroughly at home in all – but cannot attempt to follow all he says.

  Sir Archibald not present. He is, says Lady Blowfield, more occupied than ever owing to Hitler’s iniquitous peace proposals. (Should like to ask what, exactly, he is doing about them, but difficult, if not impossible, to word this civilly.)

  Young cosmopolitan – introduced as Monsieur Gitnik – asserts in French, that Ce fou d’Itlère fera un dernier attentat, mais il n’y a que lui qui s’imagine que cela va réussir. Reply En effet, in what I hope is excellent French, and Monsieur Gitnik turns to me instantly and makes me a long speech in what I think must be Russian.

  Look him straight in the eye and say very rapidly Da, da, da! which is the only Russian word I know, and am shattered when he exclaims delightedly, Ah, you speak Russian?

  Can only admit that I do not, and he looks disappointed and Lady Blowfield enquires whether he can tell us what is going to happen next.

  Yes, he can.

  Hitler is going to make a speech to the Reich at midday to-morrow. (Newspapers have already revealed this, as has also the wireless.) He will outline peace proposals – so called. These will prove to be of such a character that neither France nor England will entertain them for a moment. Monsieur Chamberlain prendra la parole et enverra promener Monsieur Itlère, Monsieur Daladier en fera autant, et zut! la lutte s’engagera, pour de bon cette fois-ci.

  Poor de ploo bong? says Lady Blowfield uneasily.

  Gitnik makes very rapid reply – perhaps in Hungarian, perhaps in Polish or possibly in both – which is evidently not of a reassuring character, as he ends up by stating, in English, that people in this country have not yet realised that we are wholly vulnerable not only from the North and the East, but from the South and the West as well.

  And what, asks Lady Blowfield faintly, about the air?

  London, asserts Gitnik authoritatively, has air defences. Of that there need be no doubt at all. The provinces, on the other hand, could be attacked with the utmost ease and probably will be. It is being openly stated in Istanbul, Athens and New Mexico that a seventy-hour bombardment of Liverpool is the first item on the Nazi programme.

  Lady Blowfield moans, but says nothing.

  Remaining guests arrive: turn out to be Mr and Mrs Weatherby, whom I am not particularly pleased to meet again, but feel obliged to assume expression as of one receiving an agreeable surprise.

  Gitnik immediately addresses them in Italian, to which they competently reply in French, whereupon he at once reverts to English. Weatherbys quite unperturbed, and shortly afterwards enquire whether he can tell us anything about America’s attitude.

  Yes, as usual, he can.

  America will, for the present, keep out of the conflict. Her sympathies, however, are with the Allies. There will undoubtedly be much discussion over this business of the embargo on the sale of arms. It has been said in Rome – and G
itnik must beg of us to let this go no further – that the embargo will probably be lifted early next year.

  At this Lady Blowfield looks impressed, but the Weatherbys are left cold – for which I admire them – and conviction gains strength in my own mind that Monsieur Gitnik resembles fourteenth-rate crystal-gazer, probably with business premises in mews off Tottenham Court Road.

  Luncheon extremely welcome, and make determined effort to abandon the sphere of European unrest and talk about rock-gardens instead. This a dead failure.

  Excellent omelette, chicken-casserole and accompaniments are silently consumed while Monsieur Gitnik, in reply to leading question from hostess – (evidently determined to Draw him Out, which is not really necessary) – tells us that if ever he goes to Russia again, he has been warned that he will be thrown into prison because he Knows Too Much. Similar fate awaits him in Germany, Esthonia and the Near East generally, for the same reason.

  Mrs Weatherby – my opinion of her going up every moment by leaps and bounds – declares gaily that this reminds her of a play, once very popular, called The Man Who Knew Too Much. Or does she mean The Man Who Stayed At Home?

  Mr Weatherby thinks that she does. So do I. Lady Blowfield says sadly that it matters little now, it all seems so very far away.

  Gitnik crumbles bread all over the table and says something in unknown tongue, to which nobody makes any immediate reply, but Lady Blowfield’s dog emits short, piercing howl.

  This leads the conversation in the direction of dogs, and I find myself giving rather maudlin account of the charms of Robert’s Benjy, wholly adorable puppy resembling small, square woolly bear. Mrs Weatherby is sympathetic, Mr W. looks rather remote but concedes, in a detached way, that Pekinese dogs are sometimes more intelligent than they are given credit for being, and Lady Blowfield strokes her dog and says that he is to be evacuated to her sister’s house in Hampshire next week.

  Gitnik firmly recalls us to wider issues by announcing that he has received a rather curious little communication from a correspondent whose name and nationality, as we shall of course understand, he cannot disclose, and who is writing from a neutral country that must on no account be mentioned by name.