*
But there seems to have been nothing ‘civilised’ about it. Millicent is shocked to arrive at the office next day and find the lock has been changed. There is a note from Matthew pinned to the door saying he will forward the money she is owed to Tilda’s address and repeating that, ‘in the interests of all concerned’, she will not be required to work out her notice. She never sees him again. Her diary, while describing this, is curiously restrained and matter-of-fact and for two days afterwards she writes nothing at all. She remarks on Tilda’s kindness, but she is aware that in spite of their sympathy her sister and her brother-in-law feel that she made a stupid mistake coming to work for Matthew Taylor in the first place and has been responsible for landing herself in a mess of her own making. When she resumes her diary, it is to wonder if she has taken ‘a wrong turn’ in her life from which she will never recover.
3 December 1924
HOW DREADFUL IT is to have no work. I woke this morning with a sick feeling in my stomach and thought how much worse I would be feeling if I were a man and had a family to feed. It was not much help counting my blessings in this fashion. I kept myself busy, tidying and cleaning the house for Tilda, and making a good job of it, and then I looked again at the Times Educational Supplement but there were no new positions advertised. There are too many teachers available, it seems, and those in work do not lightly give it up, as I did, or move around. I don’t want to have to teach in an elementary school in London. The classes are big and the pupils not particularly desirous of learning. How childish I sound.
11 December
I cannot go on like this – a whole week of doing nothing, or nothing that counts. It does not suit me to be unemployed. I can’t persuade myself that it is just a little holiday. I don’t feel on holiday. I feel lost and frightened, almost in a panic of uselessness. I must have work. Even being a shop girl was better than this. I never, ever thought I would say that. I am going to Brighton for Christmas, as I always do, and will be busy there helping Mother which will take up time. It is sad to write that. I thought, when I was young, that I was going to do something special with my life and I am doing nothing. Self-disgust will soon eat me up.
14 December
On the train down to Brighton today I saw an advertisement in The Times. This one was for a teacher for a 10-year-old girl but what caught my eye was that the post was in Italy. The choice of ‘teacher’ not ‘governess’ was interesting to start with. I would not like to be a governess with all that implies. I don’t know Italy of course, so the address meant nothing to me, but ‘a charming country residence near Rome’ was referred to. Is he a widower? It does not say, but it does say ‘no domestic duties required’ so there must be a housekeeper, or some female relative in charge. The pay sounds generous. I think I will apply. I would like to live in Italy.
15 December
I have sent my letter of application off, but now worry this is another example of rashness. What am I thinking of? I dare not mention it to Mother.
16 December
George is to be married. I can hardly credit it, for who would want to take on George? I know it is very unkind of me to say such a thing, and indeed I would never say it, to anyone, but I think it. Mother is delighted. It seems that Esther Holt is exactly the sort of girl she always wished for George. When I asked her what that meant, for I have not yet met this Esther, she said she is kind and dependable and motherly. Motherly! Mother is George’s mother and yet wishes his wife to be motherly. I feel that tells me everything. She wants George to be looked after by someone other than herself. They are to live here, George and his Esther. Mother declares Esther herself wondered if it might be possible. How peculiar.
17 December
I have met Esther. She is a little dumpling of a girl, almost as round as she is tall. Grace had told me beforehand that she was very nervous about meeting me because I was held to be the clever one and she knows herself not to be clever but I saw no sign of nerves. She seemed to me quite complacent and very sure already of her place in this family. She looks after her mother, who is a widow like Mother, and is happy to do so. Her father, a gentleman farmer, was killed in the war. He left Esther and her mother well provided for. After the wedding, Mrs Holt’s sister is to go and live with her. Her sister is a twin and the two of them have long planned to live together when their respective children are settled, as it seems they now are. All this Esther told me as though it were the most riveting information. She has such a droning sort of voice, and she nods her head when she speaks. She reminded me of a toy puppy Michael loves, it nods its head when the key in its ear is turned. I longed to stick a key into Esther’s ear and turn her off. We have nothing in common. She asked me to be a maid of honour but I protested I was too old and she seemed quick to let me off. It will be a spring wedding, she says. I wonder what the financial arrangements will be afterwards. George, I am sure, earns hardly anything and if Esther does not work at all, what will they live on? Mother? It seemed indelicate to inquire, especially when Mother seems so content about the arrangement and prattles on about gaining another daughter, one who wants to live with her, and how nice it will be for Grace. What Grace herself thinks I do not know. I am not at all certain that she will be pleased.
*
Christmas and New Year receive little attention this year in her diary. Mrs Holt spends four days with the Kings and irritates Millicent profoundly with her constant questions about her personal life and whether she has an ‘intended’. On 4 January, just as the holiday period is over and Millicent is beginning to panic over what on earth she is going to do, a letter arrives inviting her to an interview for the teaching post advertised in The Times to which she had replied.
*
5 January 1925
I don’t know what to tell Mother. Nothing, I think. I will just say I am going to stay overnight with Tilda but I must think of a reason why I am going to London. I do not want to lie, but if I say I am going for an interview for a job, she will naturally wish to know more and I do not wish to tell her. I have not yet even told her I have left the magazine. The interview is at 10 a.m. and I will fix a dental appointment for the afternoon. It will relieve my conscience. The interview is to take place at Claridges Hotel in Mayfair, which sounds a rather grandiose place for such a thing. The man, a Mr Russo, is staying there. I wonder if he is Italian? The name sounds Italian but would he not refer to himself as Signore Russo? I have never even walked past Claridges never mind been inside. What on earth shall I wear? There is little choice, really. I have my plain grey coat and underneath it the cream woollen dress I bought three years ago. I have hardly had occasion to wear it in the life I lead and it looks new. Should I wear a hat? Probably. I don’t want to look as if I have come to apply for the job of chambermaid.
14 January
That is the strangest interview I have ever had, more like an encounter than an interview. I was so nervous, I could hardly bring myself to enter the hotel at all and walked up and down Brook Street several times before I did so. It is every bit as impressive as I imagined it to be, with its shiny marble floors and all the glowing honey-coloured wood, and mirrors everywhere – how I hated seeing myself in them, looking like a little shadow in my grey coat. There seemed to be so many beautiful, delicate tables to avoid and I was terrified I would knock over the elaborate floral arrangements. I wandered around hoping to find a reception desk but I could see no such thing and came to rest in the most enormous room, utterly bewildered by the grandeur of it all. I felt an almost irresistible urge to hide behind the heavy swag curtains, but then I was rescued by a man who, I suppose, was a waiter, though he did not look like one in spite of the tray he was carrying. I told him I had an appointment with a Mr Russo and he told me to wait a moment and then went off, returning with the instruction that I should follow him. I trotted behind him like a little lamb. He took me to a small sitting-room opening off a larger one, and there was Mr Russo. His accent was American, not Italian, and he was
as casual as Americans are reputed to be. He was lounging on a sofa when I entered and did not get up, but merely waved a hand at me and said, Hi! Come on over, pour yourself some coffee, though it isn’t very good. I didn’t know whether to pour myself some coffee or not. Was it a test? I smiled, and shook my head, and declined the coffee. Well now, he said, what do you make of this weather? There was nothing remarkable about the weather so I did not know what to say. It was not snowing or raining, it was not anything extreme. I decided to say that it was quite mild for January. Mild, he repeated, and then thought for a while and said, Mild . . . and mused about it. There was a photograph album on the table in front of him and presently he pointed to it and invited me to look at it. It contained very beautiful photographs, of a sort and quality I had never seen, nothing like our snapshots. They were mostly of a house, set on a hillside with steps leading up to it and great urns of flowers on every step. There were only two people in the frame. I recognised Mr Russo and presumed the girl beside him, who looked about Grace’s age, was the daughter for whom he wanted a teacher. What do you think? he asked, Nice house? I said yes, it was. A very nice house, he said, a lovely place to live, don’t you think? Again, I agreed. He got up, abruptly, and began to prowl around the room. My daughter Francesca needs teaching, he said. She doesn’t need looking after, she doesn’t need a nanny, what she needs is to learn. She needs her mind set to work, that’s what. I want an English school marm. What do you think she should learn? She’s 8. She can read and write real good and there’s nothing wrong with her math. She needs some mental excitement. What’s exciting? That isn’t quite how he put it, but near enough. He threw his words down like a challenge. I floundered a bit, saying it was hard to know what would excite his daughter without having met her but that most children of her age found stories exciting if they were introduced to the right ones, and that learning about the natural world could fascinate them, and they liked to learn about other countries, foreign lands, which one day they could travel to. Have you travelled much?, he asked. I said no, only to Paris, unfortunately. He got up then, and began pacing about the little room, and I saw how tall he was and how thin. His clothes were strange, a mixture of formal (the black trousers) and sporty (the yellow waistcoat). I stared at his bow tie, which was spotted! Heavens, Father would’ve had a fit. I’ve travelled, he said, I’ve travelled far and wide, believe me. But not Francesca. She stayed with her mother. Her mother didn’t like travelling. He walked around the room once more, deep in thought. To travel, or not to travel, what do you think? he asked and stopped and stood in front of me with folded arms. I didn’t know what he meant, what he wanted of me, so I merely said that I would really like to travel and broaden my experience of the world. You wouldn’t see much of the world living in my house with Francesca, he said. It’s a remote spot, you’ve no idea how remote, very isolated. Think about it. Could feel like you’d been entirely cut off from the world. I felt he was waiting for me to respond to this and murmured that I’d thought his house was in Rome and that to be there would be thrilling. He laughed and said Rome was thrilling for sure, or certain aspects of it, though there were some unpleasant things happening there at the moment, but that his house was twenty miles outside the city and a different proposition. It struck me then that it might sound as if I had no interest in his daughter other than as a means to get abroad and so I rushed to ask who had taught her up to now and why she did not go to school and in general I tried to show an interest in the girl herself. He said she was delicate and not strong enough to go the long distance involved to school and that there were no children living near and therefore she lacked company. He said that for both these reasons he was going to move her to America, to where his family were, but that he could not do so for another seven months. The post of teacher, he said, was only for that length of time. He wanted Francesca prepared for school. Then, quite suddenly he said goodbye and he held out his hand, and I shook it. I left the hotel feeling utterly confused, and yet somehow elated. I have always wanted something unusual to happen to me and this is certainly that. Had I been dismissed with the understanding that I was being offered the post? Or quite the reverse? I had no idea, but inclined to the latter conclusion. But I went to the dentist feeling optimistic and even excited.
15 January
Mother inquired after my visit to the dentist so it was as well that I had truly been. I cannot stay here much longer, especially now that Esther seems always to be around, chattering pointlessly away. I think there is a mock-innocence about her inquiries as to how I like living in Brighton after what she calls the ‘hurly-burly’ of London.
16 January
There is a vacancy at Grace’s school for a teacher with experience of teaching 7 to ii-year-olds. I do not want to return to that but I am qualified and I need work and I think I should apply. There is no alternative.
17 January
I have applied for that teaching post without telling Mother, who thinks I am still on holiday, though I don’t know how she can, why she is not suspicious. Grace likes the school so perhaps it will not be so bad teaching there, if I get the post. I must think how to explain why I left teaching and also why I wish to return. It will mean lying and the lies must be convincing and somehow work to my credit.
19 January
Good heavens – a letter from Mr Russo offering me the job of teacher to Francesca! I can hardly believe it. The post is, as he said, for seven months and I must begin next week, returning with him and motoring all the way through France to Italy. My spirits leapt at the thought and I found myself grinning idiotically at the breakfast table. Good news, dear?, Mother said, smiling herself. The smile disappeared when I blurted out first that I had given up journalism and then that I had been offered a teaching job abroad. Abroad is such a frightening word to her, never having been abroad in her entire life. Abroad to her means the war, I think. I said, hurriedly, anxious to reassure her, that it was only for seven months and only in Rome, which was not so very far away. Then I rushed to reply to Mr Russo, by telegram, as he had requested, ignoring Mother’s questions about who exactly this Mr Russo is and whether he is married and his age and profession, because, of course, I don’t know the answers and frankly I don’t care. I want to be reckless. When I got back from the Post Office, Esther was there. She wondered aloud, and frequently, why ever I should want to go to Rome which she had been told had a very smelly river, and she lamented the fact that I would, by going there, miss her wedding. I hadn’t thought of that, but now that she had pointed this out I could hardly conceal my relief and had to struggle to express regret.
22 January
Said goodbye to Mother with uncomfortable feelings of guilt quickly followed by assurances to myself that she would hardly miss me now she had Esther. You are always going away, Grace said, accusingly, I thought. It’s true, so there was nothing I could say.
24 January
Shopping all day for clothes. I spent far too much money but I cannot accompany my employer looking dowdy and shabby. I have no idea what kind of clothes I will need, or even what the weather will be like. I suppose they have a winter there, but I am expecting spring to come much sooner than here and for the climate to be sunny and warm by April so I bought mostly light dresses. They were hard to find at this time of the year with the shops still full of furs and tweeds. I bought a valise, too. It is rather large and I think I should have bought two smaller ones. I may not be able to carry this one when it is full, especially with so many books in it, some for myself and some for Francesca. I forgot to ask Mr Russo, well, I never had the chance, what books Francesca has already, and whether there is an ample supply of exercise books and pens, but I suppose there will be, or that they can be ordered from Rome. It is not as though I am going to end up at Dotheboys Hall.
25 January
I dreamed last night that I did end up at Dotheboys Hall, only in a sunny place. I lay for a while suddenly anxious, realising how little I do know about what I am going to.
I have asked no searching questions. I have been too eager and accepting, and Mr Russo will have noticed. But it is too late to do anything about it. Wherever I end up, yet again it will be my own fault. I hope Mr Russo has no designs on me. That is a ridiculous thought, a vain thought, but all at once I am full of suspicion. Perhaps there’s a mad wife in the attic? Such thoughts are absurd. Tilda doesn’t at all like the notion of our motoring all the way and asked pointedly if Mr Russo and I were to be alone, and where we would be staying and who would be paying for the hotels? I had to say I had no idea, that he had said he would make all the arrangements. I feel naive not to have checked such details, which are not so very minor. But I have some money. I am not Jane Eyre, and if anything unpleasant transpires, I can simply come home. Mr Russo is to pick me up at Tilda’s address, tomorrow.
Diary of an Ordinary Woman Page 11
