Agreeable hour is spent in Harrods Stores, and I get Vicky’s cake but substitute black felt hat and a check scarf for stockings. Felicity, who has recently had every opportunity of inspecting woollen hoods at close quarters, becomes passionately absorbed in specimens on counter and wishes to know if I think crochet or knitted would suit Veronica best. Do not hesitate to tell her that to me they look exactly alike and that, anyway, Veronica has a very nice one already.
Felicity agrees, but continues to inspect hoods none the less, and finally embarks on discussion with amiable shop-girl as to relative merits of knitting and crochet. She eventually admits that she is thinking of making a hood herself as friend with whom she is living as P. G. in the country does a great deal of knitting and Felicity does not like to be behindhand. Anyway, she adds, she isn’t of any use to anybody, or doing anything to win the war.
Point out to her that very few of us are of any use, unless we can have babies or cook, and that none of us – so far as I can see – are doing anything to win the war. I also explain how different it will all be with Vicky’s generation, and how competent they all are, able to cook and do housework and make their own clothes. Felicity and I then find ourselves, cannot say how, sitting on green sofa in large paved black-and-white hall in the middle of Harrods, exchanging the most extraordinary reminiscences.
Felicity reminds me that she was never, in early youth, allowed to travel by herself, that she shared a lady’s-maid with her sister, that she was never taught cooking, and never mended her own clothes.
Inform her in return that my mother’s maid always used to do my hair for me, that I was considered industrious if I practised the piano for an hour in the morning, that nobody expected me to lift a finger on behalf of anybody else, except to write an occasional note of invitation, and that I had no idea how to make a bed or boil an egg until long after my twenty-first year.
We look at one another in the deepest dismay at these revelation of our past incompetence, and I say that it’s no wonder the world is in the mess it’s in to-day.
Felicity goes yet further, and tells me that, in a Revolution, our heads would be the first to go – and quite right too. But at this I jib and say that, although perhaps not really important assets to the community, we are, at least, able and willing to mend our ways and have in fact been learning to do so for years and years and years.
Felicity shakes her head and asserts that it’s different for me, I’ve had two children and I write books. She herself is nothing but a cumberer of the ground and often contemplates her own utter uselessness without seeing any way of putting it right. She isn’t intellectual, she isn’t mechanically-minded, she isn’t artistic, she isn’t domesticated, she isn’t particularly practical and she isn’t even strong.
Can see, by Felicity’s enormous eyes and distressed expression, that she would, in the event of the Revolution she predicts, betake her self to the scaffold almost as a matter of course.
Can only assure her, with the most absolute truth, that she possesses the inestimable advantages of being sympathetic, lovable and kind, and what the devil does she want more? Her friends, I add very crossly, would hate to do without her, and are nothing if not grateful for the way in which she always cheers them up.
Felicity looks at me rather timidly – cannot imagine why – and suggests that I am tired and would it be too early for a cup of tea?
It wouldn’t, and we go in search of one.
Realise quite suddenly, and for no reason whatever, that I have lost my gas-mask, in neat new leather case.
Had I, I agitatedly ask Felicity, got it on when I arrived at Cadwallader House?
Felicity is nearly certain I had. But she couldn’t swear. In fact, she thinks she is really thinking of someone else. Can I remember if I had it on when I left home?
I am nearly certain I hadn’t. But I couldn’t swear either. Indeed, now I come to think of it, I am, after all, nearly certain I last saw it lying on my bed, with my National Registration Card.
Then is my National Registration Card lost too?
If it’s on the bed in my flat, it isn’t, and if it’s not, then it is.
Agitated interval follows.
Felicity telephones to Cadwallader House – negative result – then to Buckingham Street caretaker, who goes up to look in bedroom but finds nothing, and I return to green sofa in black-and-white hall where places so recently occupied by Felicity and self are now taken up by three exquisite young creatures with lovely faces and no hats, smoking cigarettes and muttering to one another. They look at me witheringly when I enquire whether a gas-mask has been left there, and assure me that it hasn’t, and as it is obviously inconceivable that they should be sitting on it unaware, can only apologise and retreat to enquire my way to Lost Property Office.
Am very kindly received, asked for all particulars and to give my name and address, and assured that I shall be notified if and when my gas-mask appears.
Felicity points out that loss of National Registration Card is much more serious and will necessitate a personal application to Caxton Hall, and even then I shall only get a temporary one issued. Can I remember when I saw mine last?
On my bed, with my gas-mask.
It couldn’t have been, says Felicity, because caretaker says there’s nothing there except a handkerchief and the laundry.
Then it must have got underneath the laundry.
Neither of us really believes this consoling theory, but it serves to buoy me up till I get home and find – exactly as I really expected – that nothing is underneath the laundry except the bed.
Extensive search follows and I find myself hunting madly in quite impossible spots, such as small enamelled box on mantelpiece, and biscuit-tin which to my certain knowledge has never contained anything except biscuits.
Serena walks in whilst this is going on and expresses great dismay and commiseration, and offers to go at once to the underworld where she feels certain I must have left both gas-mask and National Registration Card.
Tell her that I never took either of them there in my life. It is well known that gas-mask is not obligatory within seven minutes’ walk of home, and National Registration Card has lived in my bag.
Then have I, asks Serena with air of one inspired, have I looked into my bag?
Beg Serena, if she has nothing more helpful than this to suggest, to leave me to my search.
November 14th. – Visit Caxton Hall, and am by no means sure that I ought not to do so in sackcloth with rope round my neck and ashes on my head.
Am not, however, the only delinquent. Elderly man stands beside me at counter where exhausted-looking official receives me, and tells a long story about having left card in pocket of his overcoat at his Club. He then turned his back for the space of five minutes and overcoat was instantly stolen.
Official begs him to fill in a form and warns him that he must pay a shilling for new Registration Card.
Elderly gentleman appals me by replying that he cannot possibly do that. He hasn’t got a shilling.
Official, unmoved, says he needn’t pay it yet. It will do when he actually receives the new card. It will perhaps then, he adds kindly, be more convenient.
The only reply of elderly gentleman is to tell the story of his loss all over again – overcoat, card in pocket, Club, and theft during the five minutes in which his back was turned. Official listens with patience, although no enthusiasm, and I am assailed by ardent desire to enquire (a) name of Club, (b) how he can afford to pay his subscription to it if he hasn’t got a shilling.
Endeavour to make my own story as brief as possible by way of contrast – can this be example of psychological phenomenon frequently referred to by dear Rose as compensating? – but find it difficult to make a good showing when I am obliged to admit that I have no idea either when or where National Registration Card was lost.
Nothing for it, says official, but to fill up a form and pay the sum of one shilling.
I do so; at the same t
ime listen to quavering of very old person in bonnet and veil who succeeds me.
She relates, in very aggrieved tones, that she was paying a visit in Scotland when National Registration took place and her host and hostess registered her without her knowledge or permission. This resulted in her being issued with a ration book. She does not wish for a ration book. She didn’t ask for one, and won’t have one.
Should like to hear much more of this, but official removes completed form, issues me with receipt for my shilling and informs me that I shall be communicated with in due course.
Can see no possible excuse for lingering and am obliged to leave Caxton Hall without learning what can be done for aged complainant. Reflect as I go upon extraordinary tolerance of British bureaucrats in general and recall everything I have heard or read as to their counterparts in Germany. This very nearly results in my being run over by bus in Victoria Street, and I am retrieved into safety by passer-by on the pavement, who reveals himself as Humphrey Holloway looking entirely unfamiliar in London clothes.
Look at him in idiotic astonishment, but eventually pull myself together and say that I’m delighted to meet him, and is he up here for long?
No, he doesn’t think so. He has come up in order to find Something to Do as his services as Billeting Officer are now at an end.
Do not like to tell him how extremely slender I consider his chances of succeeding in this quest. Instead, I ask for news of Devonshire.
H. H. tells me that he saw Robert at church on Sunday and that he seemed all right.
Was Aunt Blanche there as well?
Yes, she was all right too.
And Marigold and Margery?
Both seemed to be quite all right.
Am rather discouraged by these laconic announcements and try to lure H. H. into details. Did Robert say anything about his ARP work?
He said that the woman who is helping him – H. H. can’t remember her name – is a damned nuisance. Also that there’s a village that hasn’t got its gas-masks yet, but Robert thinks it will really have them before Christmas, with luck.
Not Mandeville Fitzwarren? I say, appalled.
H. H. thinks that was the name.
Can only reply that I hope the enemy won’t find out about this before Christmas comes.
And what about Our Vicar and his wife and their evacuees?
They are, replies H. H., settling down very nicely. At least the evacuees are. Our Vicar’s Wife thought to be over-working, and looks very pale. She always seems, adds H. H., to be here, there and everywhere. Parents of the evacuees all came down to see them the other day, and this necessitated fresh exertions from Our Vicar’s Wife, but was said to have been successful on the whole.
Lady B. still has no patients to justify either Red Cross uniform or permanently-installed ambulance, and Miss Pankerton has organised a Keep Fit class in village every other evening, which is, says H. H. in tone of surprise, being well attended. He thinks that Aunt Blanche is one of the most regular members, together with Marigold and Margery. Do not inform him in return that Aunt Blanche has already told me by letter that Marigold, Margery and Doreen Fitzgerald attend classes but has made no mention of her own activities.
H. H. then enquires very civilly if the Ministry of Information keeps me very busy and I am obliged, in common honesty, to reply that it doesn’t. Not, at all events, at present. H. H. says Ah, very non-committally, and adds that it’s, in many ways, a very extraordinary war.
I agree that it is and we part, but not until I have recklessly suggested that he should come and meet one or two friends for a glass of sherry to-morrow, and he has accepted.
November 16th. – Ask Serena, across Canteen counter, whether she would like to come and help me entertain Humphrey Holloway over a glass of sherry to-morrow evening. She astonishingly replies that drink is the only thing – absolutely the only thing – at a time like this, and if I would like to bring him to her flat, where there’s more room, she will ask one or two other people and we can provide the sherry between us. Then, I say – in rather stupefied accents – it will be a sherry-party.
Well, says Serena recklessly, why not? If we ask people by telephone at the last minute it won’t be like a real sherry-party and anyway not many of them will come, because of the black-out. Besides, one of her Refugees is perfectly wonderful with sandwiches, as she once worked in a Legation, and it seems waste not to make the most of this talent.
I suggest that this had better be Serena’s party, and that I should be invited as guest, with Humphrey Holloway in attendance, but Serena is firm: it must be a joint party and I am to invite everybody I can think of and tell them that she lives, fortunately, only one minute from a bus-stop. She particularly wishes to have Uncle A. and is certain – so am I – that the black-out will not deter him for a moment.
We can get everything ready to-morrow, when she will be off duty, says Serena – looking wild – and I must take the evening off from the Canteen.
Mrs Peacock, who has been following the conversation rather wistfully, backs this up – and is instantly pressed by Serena to come too.
Mrs Peacock would love it – she hasn’t been to a party for years and years – at least, not since this war started, which feels to her like years and years. Would it be possible for her husband to come too? She doesn’t like to trespass on Serena’s kindness but she and the husband practically never set eyes on one another nowadays, what with ARP and Red Cross and one thing and another, and she isn’t absolutely certain of her leg now, and is glad of an arm – (very peculiar wording here, but meaning crystal-clear to an intelligent listener) – and finally, the husband has heard so much about Serena and myself that he is longing to meet us.
Cannot help feeling that much of this eloquence is really superfluous as Serena at once exclaims in enchanted accents that she is only too delighted to think of anybody bringing any man, as parties are usually nothing but a pack of women. Point out to her later this not at all happily expressed and she agrees, but maintains that it’s true.
Later in the evening Serena again approaches me and mutters that, if we count Uncle A. and J. L., she thinks we shall run to half-a-dozen men at the very least.
Tell her in return that I don’t see why I shouldn’t ask my Literary Agent, and that if she doesn’t mind the Weatherbys, Mr W. will be another man.
Serena agrees to the Weatherbys with enthusiasm – although entirely, I feel, on the grounds of Agrippa’s masculinity.
Remain on duty till 12.30, and have brief passage of arms with Red Cross nurse who complains that I have not given her two-pennyworth of marmalade. Explain that the amount of marmalade bestowed upon her in return for her twopence is decided by a higher authority than my own, then think this sounds ecclesiastical and slightly profane and add that I only mean the head cook, at which the Red Cross nurse looks astounded and simply reiterates that two-pennyworth of marmalade should reach to the rim of the jar, and not just below it. Can see by her expression that she means to contest the point from now until the Day of Judgment if necessary, and that I shall save much wear and tear by yielding at once. Do so, and feel that I am wholly lacking in strength of mind – but not the first time that this has been borne in on me, and cannot permit it to over-shadow evening’s activities.
Mock air-raid takes place at midnight, just as I am preparing to leave, and I decide to stay on and witness it, which I do, and am privileged to see Commandant racing up and down, smoking like a volcano, and directing all operations with great efficiency but, as usual, extreme high-handedness.
Stand at entrance to the underworld, with very heavy coat on over trousers and overall, and embark on abstract speculation as to women’s fitness or otherwise for positions of authority and think how much better I myself should cope with it than the majority, combining common sense with civility, and have just got to rather impressive quotation – Suaviter in modo fortiter in re – when ambulance-man roars at me to Move out of the way or I shall get run over, and stret
cher-bearing party at the same moment urges me to Keep that Gangway clear for Gawd’s sake.
I go home shortly afterwards.
Gas-mask still missing, have only got temporary Registration Card, and find I have neglected to get new battery for electric torch.
Go to bed to the reflection that if Hitler should select to-night for long-awaited major attack on London by air, my chances of survival are not good. Decide that in the circumstances I shall feel justified in awaiting the end in comparative comfort of my bed.
November 17th. – Last night not selected by Hitler.
Serena appears at what seems to me like dawn and discusses proposed party for to-night with enthusiasm. She is going home to get some sleep and talk to Refugee sandwich-expert, and get out the sherry. Will I collect flowers, cigarettes and more sherry, and lend her all the ash-trays I have?
Agree to everything and point out that we must also expend some time in inviting guests, which Serena admits she has forgotten. Shall she, she asks madly, ring some of them up at once?
No, eight o’clock in the morning not at all a good time, and I propose to take her out for some breakfast instead. Lyons’ coffee much better than mine. (Serena agrees to this more heartily than I think necessary.)
Proceed to Lyons and am a good deal struck by extraordinary colour of Serena’s face, reminding me of nothing so much as the sea at Brighton. Implore her to spend the morning in sleep and leave all preparations to me, and once again suggest that she might employ her time to more purpose than in sitting about in the underworld, where she is wrecking her health and at present doing nothing particularly useful.
Serena only says that the war has got to be won somehow, by someone.
Can think of several answers but make none of them, as Serena, for twopence, would have hysterics in the Strand.
We separate after breakfast and I make a great number of telephone calls, on behalf of myself and Serena, inviting our friends and acquaintances to drink sherry – not a party – and eat sandwiches – Refugee, ex-Legation, a genius with sandwiches – in Hampstead – flat one minute’s walk from bus-stop.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 65
