THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY
PAR
THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY
_November 7th._--Plant the indoor bulbs. Just as I am in the middle
of them, Lady Boxe calls. I say, untruthfully, how nice to see her, and
beg her to sit down while I just finish the bulbs. Lady B. makes
determined attempt to sit down in armchair where I have already placed two bulb-bowls and the bag of charcoal, is headed off just in time, and takes the sofa.
Do I know, she asks, how very late it is for indoor bulbs? September,
really, or even October, is the time. Do I know that the only really
reliable firm for hyacinths is Somebody of Haarlem? Cannot catch the name
of the firm, which is Dutch, but reply Yes, I do know, but think it my
duty to buy Empire products. Feel at the time, and still think, that this
is an excellent reply. Unfortunately Vicky comes into the drawing-room
later and says: "O Mummie, are those the bulbs we got at Woolworths?"
Lady B. stays to tea. (_Mem_.: Bread-and-butter too thick. Speak to
Ethel.) We talk some more about bulbs, the Dutch School of Painting, our
Vicar's wife, sciatica, and _All Quiet on the Western Front_.
(Query: Is it possible to cultivate the art of conversation when living
in the country all the year round?)
Lady B. enquires after the children. Tell her that Robin--whom I refer to
in a detached way as "the boy" so that she shan't think I am foolish
about him--is getting on fairly well at school, and that Mademoiselle
says Vicky is starting a cold.
Do I realise, says Lady B., that the Cold Habit is entirely unnecessary,
and can be avoided by giving the child a nasal douche of salt-and-water
every morning before breakfast? Think of several rather tart and witty
rejoinders to this, but unfortunately not until Lady B.'s Bentley has
taken her away.
Finish the bulbs and put them in the cellar. Feel that after all cellar
is probably draughty, change my mind, and take them all up to the attic.
Cook says something is wrong with the range.
_November 8th._--Robert has looked at the range and says nothing
wrong whatever. Makes unoriginal suggestion about pulling out dampers.
Cook very angry, and will probably give notice. Try to propitiate her by
saying that we are going to Bournemouth for Robin's half-term, and that
will give the household a rest. Cook replies austerely that they will
take the opportunity to do some extra cleaning. Wish I could believe this
was true.
Preparations for Bournemouth rather marred by discovering that Robert, in
bringing down the suit-cases from the attic, has broken three of the
bulb-bowls. Says he understood that I had put them in the cellar, and so
wasn't expecting them.
_November 11th.--Bournemouth._ Find that history, as usual, repeats
itself. Same hotel, same frenzied scurry round the school to find Robin,
same collection of parents, most of them also staying at the hotel.
Discover strong tendency to exchange with fellow-parents exactly the same
remarks as last year, and the year before that. Speak of this to Robert,
who returns no answer. Perhaps he is afraid of repeating himself? This
suggests Query: Does Robert, perhaps, take in what I say even when he
makes no reply?
Find Robin looking thin, and speak to Matron who says brightly, Oh no,
she thinks on the whole he's put _on_ weight this term, and then
begins to talk about the New Buildings. (Query: Why do all schools have
to run up New Buildings about once in every six months?)
Take Robin out. He eats several meals, and a good many sweets. He
produces a friend, and we take both to Corfe Castle. The boys climb,
Robert smokes in silence, and I sit about on stones. Overhear a woman
remark, as she gazes up at half a tower, that has withstood several
centuries, that This looks _fragile_--which strikes me as a singular
choice of adjective. Same woman, climbing over a block of solid masonry,
points out that This has evidently fallen off somewhere.
Take the boys back to the hotel for dinner. Robin says, whilst the friend
is out of hearing: "It's been nice for us, taking out Williams, hasn't
it?" Hastily express appreciation of this privilege.
Robert takes the boys back after dinner, and I sit in hotel lounge with
several other mothers and we all talk about our boys in tones of
disparagement, and about one another's boys with great enthusiasm.
Am asked what I think of _Harriet Hume_ but am unable to say, as I
have not read it. Have a depressed feeling that this is going to be
another case of _Orlando_ about which was perfectly able to talk
most intelligently until I read it, and found myself unfortunately unable
to understand any of it.
Robert comes up very late and says he must have dropped asleep over the
_Times_. (Query: Why come to Bournemouth to do this?)
Postcard by the last post from Lady B. to ask if I have remembered that
there is a Committee Meeting of the Women's Institute on the 14th. Should
not dream of answering this.
_November 12th._--Home yesterday and am struck, as so often before,
by immense accumulation of domestic disasters that always await one after
any absence. Trouble with kitchen range has resulted in no hot water,
also Cook says the mutton has _gone_, and will I speak to the
butcher, there being no excuse weather like this. Vicky's cold, unlike
the mutton, hasn't gone. Mademoiselle says, "Ah, cette petite! Elle ne
sera peut-être pas longtemps pour ce bas monde, madame." Hope that this
is only her Latin way of dramatising the situation.
Robert reads the _Times_ after dinner, and goes to sleep.
_November 13th._--Interesting, but disconcerting, train of thought
started by prolonged discussion with Vicky as to the existence or
otherwise of a locality which she refers to throughout as H.E.L. Am
determined to be a modern parent, and assure her that there is not, never
has been, and never could be, such a place. Vicky maintains that there
_is_, and refers me to the Bible. I become more modern than ever,
and tell her that theories of eternal punishment were invented to
frighten people. Vicky replies indignantly that they don't frighten her
in the least, she _likes_ to think about H.E.L. Feel that deadlock
has been reached, and can only leave her to her singular method of
enjoying herself.
(Query: Are modern children going to revolt against being modern, and if
so, what form will reaction of modern parents take?)
Much worried by letter from the Bank to say that my account is overdrawn
to the extent of Eight Pounds, four shillings, and fourpence. Cannot
understand this, as was convinced that I still had credit balance of Two
Pounds, seven shillings, and sixpence. Annoyed to find that my accounts,
contents of cash-box, and counterfoils in cheque-book, do not tally.
(_Mem_.: Find envelope on which I jotted down Bournemouth expenses,
also little piece of paper (probably last leaf of grocer's book) with
note about cash payment to sweep. This may clear things up.)
Take a look at bulb-bowls on returning suit-case to attic, and am
inclined to think it looks as though the cat had been up here. If so,
this will be the last straw. Shall tell Lady Boxe that I sent all my
bulbs to a sick friend in a nursing-home.
_November 14th._--Arrival of Book of the Month choice, and am
disappointed. History of a place I am not interested in, by an author I
do not like. Put it back into its wrapper again and make fresh choice
from Recommended List. Find, on reading small literary bulletin enclosed
with book, that exactly this course of procedure has been anticipated,
and that it is described as being "the mistake of a lifetime". Am much
annoyed, although not so much at having made (possibly) mistake of a
lifetime, as at depressing thought of our all being so much alike that
intelligent writers can apparently predict our behaviour with perfect
accuracy.
Decide not to mention any of this to Lady B., always so tiresomely
superior about Book of the Month as it is, taking up attitude that she
does not require to be told what to read. (Should like to think of good
repartee to this.)
Letter by second post from my dear old school-friend Cissie Crabbe,
asking if she may come here for two nights or so on her way to Norwich.
(Query: Why Norwich? Am surprised to realise that anybody ever goes to,
lives at, or comes from, Norwich, but quite see that this is unreasonable
of me. Remind myself how very little one knows of the England one lives
in, which vaguely suggests a quotation. This, however, does not
materialise.)
Many years since we last met, writes Cissie, and she expects we have both
_changed_ a good deal. P.S. Do I remember the dear old pond, and the
day of the Spanish Arrowroot. Can recall, after some thought, dear old
_pond_, at bottom of Cissie's father's garden, but am completely
baffled by Spanish Arrowroot. (Query: Could this be one of the Sherlock
Holmes stories? Sounds like it.)
Reply that we shall be delighted to see her, and what a lot we shall have
to talk about, after all these years! (This, I find on reflection, is not
true, but cannot re-write letter on that account.) Ignore Spanish
Arrowroot altogether.
Robert, when I tell him about dear old school-friend's impending arrival,
does not seem pleased. Asks what we are expected to _do_ with her. I
suggest showing her the garden, and remember too late that this is hardly
the right time of the year. At any rate, I say, it will be nice to talk
over old times--(which reminds me of the Spanish Arrowroot reference
still unfathomed).
Speak to Ethel about the spare room, and am much annoyed to find that one
blue candlestick has been broken, and the bedside rug has gone to the
cleaners, and cannot be retrieved in time. Take away bedside rug from
Robert's dressing-room, and put it in spare room instead, hoping he will
not notice its absence.
_November 15th._--Robert does notice absence of rug, and says he
must have it back again. Return it to dressing-room and take small and
inferior dyed mat from the night-nursery to put in spare room.
Mademoiselle is hurt about this and says to Vicky, who repeats it to me,
that in this country she finds herself treated like a worm.
_November 17th._--Dear old school-friend Cissie Crabbe due by the
three o'clock train. On telling Robert this, he says it is most
inconvenient to meet her, owing to Vestry Meeting, but eventually agrees
to abandon Vestry Meeting. Am touched. Unfortunately, just after he has
started, telegram arrives to say that dear old school-friend has missed
the connection and will not arrive until seven o'clock. This means
putting off dinner till eight, which Cook won't like. Cannot send message
to kitchen by Ethel, as it is her afternoon out, so am obliged to tell
Cook myself. She is not pleased. Robert returns from station, not pleased
either. Mademoiselle, quite inexplicably, says, "Il ne manquait que ca!"
(This comment wholly unjustifiable, as non-appearance of Cissie Crabbe
cannot concern her in any way. Have often thought that the French are
tactless.)
Ethel returns, ten minutes late, and says Shall she light fire in spare
room? I say No, it is not cold enough--but really mean that Cissie is no
longer, in my opinion, deserving of luxuries. Subsequently feel this to
be unworthy attitude, and light fire myself. It smokes.
Robert calls up to know What is that Smoke? I call down that It is
Nothing. Robert comes up and opens the window and shuts the door and says
It will Go all right Now. Do not like to point out that the open window
will make the room cold.
Play Ludo with Vicky in drawing-room.
Robert reads the _Times_ and goes to sleep, but wakes in time to
make second expedition to the station. Thankful to say that this time he
returns with Cissie Crabbe, who has put on weight, and says several times
that she supposes we have both _changed_ a good deal, which I
consider unnecessary.
Take her upstairs--spare room like an icehouse, owing to open window, and
fire still smoking, though less--She says room is delightful, and I leave
her, begging her to ask for anything she wants--(_Mem_.: tell Ethel
she _must_ answer spare room bell if it rings--Hope it won't.)
Ask Robert while dressing for dinner what he thinks of Cissie. He says he
has not known her long enough to judge. Ask if he thinks her
good-looking. He says he has not thought about it. Ask what they talked
about on the way from the station. He says he does not remember.
_November 19th._--Last two days very, very trying, owing to quite
unexpected discovery that Cissie Crabbe is strictly on a diet. This
causes Robert to take a dislike to her. Utter impossibility of obtaining
lentils or lemons at short notice makes housekeeping unduly difficult.
Mademoiselle in the middle of lunch insists on discussing diet question,
and several times exclaims: "Ah, mon doux St. Joseph!" which I consider
profane, and beg her never to repeat.
Consult Cissie about the bulbs, which look very much as if the mice had
been at them. She says: Unlimited Watering, and tells me about her own
bulbs at Norwich. Am discouraged.
Administer Unlimited Water to the bulbs (some of which goes through the
attic floor on to the landing below), and move half of them down to the
cellar, as Cissie Crabbe says attic is airless.
Our Vicar's wife calls this afternoon. Says she once knew someone who had
relations living near Norwich, but cannot remember their name. Cissie
Crabbe replies that very likely if we knew their name we might find she'd
heard of them, or even _met_ them. We agree that the world is a
small place. Talk about the Riviera, the new waist-line, choir-practice,
the servant question, and Ramsay MacDonald.
_November 22nd._--Cissie Crabbe leaves. Begs me in the kindest way
to stay with her in Norwich (where she has already told me that she lives
in a bed-sitting-room with two cats, and cooks her own lentils on a
gas-ring). I say Yes, I should love to. We part effusively.
Spend entire morning writing the letters I have had to leave unanswered
during Cissie's visit.
Invitation from Lady Boxe to us to dine and meet distinguished literary
friends staying with her, one of whom is the author of _Symphony in
Three Sexes_. Hesitate to write back and say that I have never heard
of _Symphony in Three Sexes_, so merely accept. Ask for _Symphony
in Three Sexes_ at the library, although doubtfully. Doubt more than
justified by tone in which Mr. Jones replies that it is not in stock, and
never has been.
Ask Robert whether he thinks I had better wear my Blue or my
Black-and-gold at Lady B.'s. He says that either will do. Ask if he can
remember which one I wore last time. He cannot. Mademoiselle says it was
the Blue, and offers to make slight alterations to Black-and-gold which
will, she says, render it unrecognisable. I accept, and she cuts large
pieces out of the back of it. I say: "Pas trop décolletée," and she
replies intelligently: "Je comprends, Madame ne desire pas se voir nue au
salon."
(Query: Have not the French sometimes a very strange way of expressing
themselves, and will this react unfavourably on Vicky?)
Tell Robert about the distinguished literary friends, but do not mention
_Symphony in Three Sexes_. He makes no answer.
Have absolutely decided that if Lady B. should introduce us to
distinguished literary friends, or anyone else, as Our Agent, and Our
Agent's Wife, I shall at once leave the house.
Tell Robert this. He says nothing. (_Mem_.: Put evening shoes out of
window to see if fresh air will remove smell of petrol.)
_November 25th._--Go and get hair cut and have manicure in the
morning, in honour of Lady B.'s dinner party. Should like new pair of
evening stockings, but depressing communication from Bank, still
maintaining that I am overdrawn, prevents this, also rather unpleasantly
worded letter from Messrs. Frippy and Coleman requesting payment of
overdue account by return of post. Think better not to mention this to
Robert, as bill for coke arrived yesterday, also reminder that Rates are
much overdue, therefore write civilly to Messrs. F. and C. to the effect
that cheque follows in a few days. (Hope they may think I have
temporarily mislaid cheque-book.)
Black-and-gold as rearranged by Mademoiselle very satisfactory, but am
obliged to do my hair five times owing to wave having been badly set.
Robert unfortunately comes in just as I am using bran-new and expensive
lip-stick, and objects strongly to result.
(Query: If Robert could be induced to go to London rather oftener, would
he perhaps take broader view of these things?)
Am convinced we are going to be late, as Robert has trouble in getting
car to start, but he refuses to be agitated. Am bound to add that
subsequent events justify this attitude, as we arrive before anybody
else, also before Lady B. is down. Count at least a dozen Roman hyacinths
growing in bowls all over the drawing-room. (Probably grown by one of the
gardeners, whatever Lady B. may say. Resolve not to comment on them in
any way, but am conscious that this is slightly ungenerous.)
Lady B. comes down wearing silver lace frock that nearly touches the
floor all round, and has new waist-line. This may or not be becoming, but
has effect of making everybody else's frock look out-of-date.
Nine other people present besides ourselves, most of them staying in
house. Nobody is introduced. Decide that a lady in what looks like blue
tapestry is probably responsible for _Symphony in Three Sexes_.
Just as dinner is announced Lady B. murmurs to me: "I've put you next to
Sir William. He's interested in _water-supplies_, you know, and I
thought you'd like to talk to him about local conditions."
Find, to my surprise, that Sir W. and I embark almost at once on the
subject of Birth Control. Why or how this topic presents itself cannot
say at all, but greatly prefer it to water-supplies. On the other side of
the table, Robert is sitting next to _Symphony in Three Sexes_. Hope
he is enjoying himself.
Conversation becomes general. Everybody (except Robert) talks about
books. We all say (a) that we have read _The Good Companions_, (b)
that it is a very _long_ book, (c) that it was chosen by the Book of
the Month Club in America and must be having immense sales, and (d) that
American sales are What Really Count. We then turn to _High Wind in
Jamaica_ and say (a) that it is quite a short book, (b) that we
hated--or, alternatively, adored--it, and (c) that it Really _Is_
exactly _Like_ Children. A small minority here surges into being,
and maintains No, they Cannot Believe that any children in the World
wouldn't ever have _noticed_ that John wasn't there any more. They
can swallow everything else, they say, but not _that_. Discussion
very active indeed. I talk to pale young man with horn-rimmed glasses,
sitting at my left-hand, about Jamaica, where neither of us has ever
been. This leads--but cannot say how--to stag-hunting, and eventually to
homeopathy. (_Mem_.: Interesting, if time permitted, to trace train
of thought leading on from one topic to another. Second, and most
disquieting idea: perhaps no such train of thought exists.) Just as we
reach interchange of opinions about growing cucumbers under glass, Lady
B. gets up.
Go into the drawing-room, and all exclaim how nice it is to see the fire.
Room very cold. (Query: Is this good for the bulbs?) Lady in blue
tapestry takes down her hair, which she says she is growing, and puts it
up again. We all begin to talk about hair. Depressed to find that
everybody in the world, except apparently myself, has grown, or is
growing, long hair again. Lady B. says that Nowadays, there Isn't a
Shingled Head to be seen _anywhere_, either in London, Paris, or New
York. Nonsense.
Discover, in the course of the evening, that the blue tapestry has
nothing whatever to do with literature, but is a Government Sanitary
Inspector, and that _Symphony in Three Sexes_ was written by pale
young man with glasses. Lady B. says, Did I get him on to the subject of
_perversion_, as he is always so amusing about it? I reply
evasively.
Men come in, and all herded into billiard room (just as drawing-room
seems to be getting slightly warmer) where Lady B. inaugurates unpleasant
game of skill with billiard balls, involving possession of a Straight
Eye, which most of us do not possess. Robert does well at this. Am
thrilled, and feel it to be more satisfactory way of acquiring
distinction than even authorship of _Symphony in Three Sexes_.
Congratulate Robert on the way home, but he makes no reply.
_November 26th._--Robert says at breakfast that he thinks we are no
longer young enough for late nights.
Frippy and Coleman regret that they can no longer allow account to stand
over, but must request favour of a cheque by return, or will be
compelled, with utmost regret, to take Further Steps. Have written to
Bank to transfer Six Pounds, thirteen shillings, and tenpence from
Deposit Account to Current. (This leaves Three Pounds, seven shillings,
and twopence, to keep Deposit Account open.) Decide to put off paying
milk book till next month, and to let cleaners have something on account
instead of full settlement. This enables me to send F. and C. cheque,
post-dated Dec. 1st, when allowance becomes due. Financial instability
very trying.
_November 28th._--Receipt from F. and C. assuring me of attention to
my future wishes--but evidently far from realising magnitude of effort
involved in setting myself straight with them.
_December 1st._--Cable from dear Rose saying she lands at Tilbury on
10th. Cable back welcome, and will meet her Tilbury, 10th. Tell Vicky
that her godmother, my dearest friend, is returning home after three
years in America. Vicky says: "Oh, will she have a present for me?" Am
disgusted with her mercenary attitude and complain to Mademoiselle, who
replies: "Si la Sainte Vierge revenait sur la terre, madame, ce serait
notre petite Vicky." Do not at all agree with this. Moreover, in other
moods Mademoiselle first person to refer to Vicky as "ce petit demon
enrage".
(Query: Are the Latin races always as sincere as one would wish them to
be?)
_December 3rd._--Radio from dear Rose, landing Plymouth 8th after
all. Send return message, renewed welcomes, and will meet her Plymouth.
Robert adopts unsympathetic attitude and says This is Waste of Time and
Money. Do not know if he means cables, or journey to meet ship, but feel
sure better not to enquire. Shall go to Plymouth on 7th. (_Mem_.:
Pay grocer's book before I go, and tell him last lot of gingernuts were
soft. Find out first if Ethel kept tin properly shut.)
_December 8th.--Plymouth._ Arrived last night, terrific storm, ship
delayed. Much distressed at thought of Rose, probably suffering severe
sea-sickness. Wind howls round hotel, which shakes, rain lashes against
window-pane all night. Do not like my room and have unpleasant idea that
someone may have committed a murder in it. Mysterious door in corner
which I feel conceals a corpse. Remember all the stories I have read to
this effect, and cannot, sleep. Finally open mysterious door and find
large cupboard, but no corpse. Go back to bed again.
Storm worse than ever in the morning, am still more distressed at thought
of Rose, who will probably have to be carried off ship in state of
collapse.
Go round to Shipping Office and am told to be on docks at ten o'clock.
Having had previous experience of this, take fur coat, camp-stool, and
copy of _American Tragedy_ as being longest book I can find, and
camp myself on docks. Rain stops. Other people turn up and look enviously
at camp-stool. Very old lady in black totters up and down till I feel
guilty, and offer to give up camp-stool to her. She replies: "Thank you,
thank you, but my Daimler is outside, and I can sit in that when I wish
to do so."
Return to _American Tragedy_ feeling discouraged.
Find _American Tragedy_ a little oppressive, but read on and on for
about two hours when policeman informs me that tender is about to start
for ship, if I wish to go on board. Remove self, camp-stool, and
_American Tragedy_ to tender. Read for forty minutes. (Mem.: Ask
Rose if American life is really like that.)
Very, very unpleasant half-hour follows. Camp-stool shows tendency to
slide about all over the place, and am obliged to abandon _American
Tragedy_ for the time being.
Numbers of men of seafaring aspect walk about and look at me. One of them
asks Am I a good sailor? No, I am not. Presently ship appears, apparently
suddenly rising up from the middle of the waves, and ropes are dangled in
every direction. Just as I catch sight of Rose, tender is carried away
from ship's side by colossal waves.
Consoled by reflection that Rose is evidently not going to require
carrying on shore, but presently begin to feel that boot, as they say,
may be on the other leg.
More waves, more ropes, and tremendous general activity.
I return to camp-stool, but have no strength left to cope with
_American Tragedy_. A man in oilskins tells me I am In the Way
there, Miss.
Remove myself, camp-stool, and _American Tragedy_ to another corner.
A man in sea-boots says that If I stay there, I may get Badly Knocked
About.
Renewed déménagement of self, camp-stool, _American Tragedy_. Am
slightly comforted by having been called "Miss".
Catch glimpse of Rose from strange angles as tender heaves up and down.
Gangway eventually materialises, and self, camp-stool, and _American
Tragedy_ achieve the ship. Realise too late that camp-stool and
_American Tragedy_ might equally well have remained where they were.
Dear Rose most appreciative of effort involved by coming to meet her, but
declares herself perfectly good sailor, and slept all through last
night's storm. Try hard not to feel unjustly injured about this.
To be continued
No comments:
Post a Comment