THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY
PART 4
_February 22nd._--Gloom prevails, owing to Helen Wills having
elected, with incredible idiocy, to introduce progeny, one by one, to
Robert's notice at late hour last night, when he was making final round
of the house.
Send Mademoiselle and Vicky on errand to the village whilst massacre of
the innocents takes place in pail of water in backyard. Small ginger is
allowed to survive. Spend much time in thinking out plausible story to
account to Vicky for disappearance of all the rest. Mademoiselle, when
informed privately of what has happened, tells me to leave Vicky to
her--which I gladly agree to do--and adds that "les hommes manquent de
coeur". Feel that this is leading us in the direction of a story which I
have heard before, and do not wish to hear again, regarding _un mariage
échoué_ arranged years ago for Mademoiselle by her parents, in which
negotiations broke down owing to mercenary attitude of _le futur_.
Break in with hasty enquiry regarding water-tightness or otherwise of
Vicky's boots.
(Query: Does incessant pressure of domestic cares vitiate capacity for
human sympathy? Fear that it does, but find myself unable to attempt
reformation in this direction at present.)
Receive long, and in parts illegible, letter from Cissie Crabbe, bearing
on the back of the envelope extraordinary enquiry: Do you know of a
really _good_ hotel Manageress? Combat strong inclination to reply
on a postcard: No, but can recommend thoroughly reliable Dentist. Dear
Cissie, one remembers from old schooldays, has very little sense of
humour.
_February 24th._--Robert and I lunch with our Member and his wife. I
sit next elderly gentleman who talks about stag-hunting and tells me that
there is Nothing Cruel about it. The Stag _likes_ it, and it is an
honest, healthy, thoroughly _English_ form of sport. I say Yes, as
anything else would be waste of breath, and turn to Damage done by recent
storms, New arrivals in the neighbourhood, and Golf-links at Budleigh
Salterton. Find that we get back to stag-hunting again in next to no
time, and remain there for the rest of lunch.
Can hear Robert's neighbour, sitting opposite in cochineal three-piece
suit, telling him about her Chilblains. Robert civil, but does not appear
unduly concerned. (Perhaps three-piece cochineal thinks that he is one of
those people who feel more than they can express?) She goes on to past
appendicitis, present sciatica, and threat of colitis in the near future.
Robert still unmoved.
Ladies retire to the drawing-room and gather round quite inadequate fire.
Coffee. I perform my usual sleight-of-hand, transferring large piece of
candy-sugar from saucer to handbag, for Vicky's benefit. (Query: Why do
people living in same neighbourhood as myself obtain without difficulty
minor luxuries that I am totally unable to procure? Reply to this, if
pursued to logical conclusion, appears to point to inadequate
housekeeping on my part.)
Entrance of males. I hear my neighbour at lunch beginning all over again
about stag-hunting, this time addressed to his hostess, who is well-known
supporter of the R.S.P.C.A.
Our Member talks to me about Football. I say that I think well of the
French, and that Béhotéguy plays a good game. (_N.B._ This solitary
piece of knowledge always coming in useful, but _must_ try and find
out name of at least one British player, so as to vary it.)
As we take our leave with customary graceful speeches, clasp of handbag
unfortunately gives way, and piece of candy-sugar falls, with incredible
noise and violence, on to the parquet, and is pursued with officious zeal
and determination by all present except myself.
Very, very difficult moment...
Robert, on the whole, takes this well, merely enquiring on the way home
if I suppose that we shall ever be asked inside the house again.
_February 28th._--Notice, and am gratified by, appearance of large
clump of crocuses near the front gate. Should like to make whimsical and
charming reference to these, and try to fancy myself as "Elizabeth of the
German Garden", but am interrupted by Cook, saying that the Fish is here,
but he's only brought cod and haddock, and the haddock doesn't smell any
too fresh, so what about cod?
Have often noticed that Life is like that.
_March 1st._--The Kellways lunch with us, before going on all
together to wedding of Rosemary H., daughter of mutual friend and
neighbour. Fire refuses to burn up, and am still struggling with it when
they arrive, with small boy, Vicky's contemporary--all three frozen with
cold. I say, Do come and get warm! and they accept this, alas
meaningless, offer with enthusiasm. Vicky rushes in, and am struck, as
usual, by the complete and utter straightness of her hair in comparison
with that of practically every other child in the world. (Little Kellway
has natural wave.)
Chickens over-done, and potatoes underdone. Meringues quite a success,
especially with the children, though leading to brisk _sotto-voce_
encounter between Vicky and Mademoiselle on question of second helping.
This ends by an appeal from Mademoiselle for "un bon mouvement" on
Vicky's part--which she facilitates by summarily removing her plate,
spoon, and fork. Everybody ignores this drama, with the exception of the
infant Kellway, who looks amused, and unblenchingly attacks a second
meringue.
Start directly after lunch, Robert and Mary's husband appearing in a
highly unnatural state of shiny smartness with a top-hat apiece. Effect
of this splendour greatly mitigated, when they don the top-hats, by
screams of unaffected amusement from both children. We drive off, leaving
them leaning against Mademoiselle, apparently helpless with mirth.
(Query: Is not the inferiority complex, about which so much is written
and spoken, nowadays shifting from the child to the parent?)
Mary wears blue with admirable diamond ornament, and looks nice. I wear
red, and think regretfully of great-aunt's diamond ring, still reposing
in back street of Plymouth, under care of old friend the pawnbroker.
(_Note:_ Financial situation very low indeed, and must positively
take steps to send assortment of old clothes to second-hand dealer for
disposal. Am struck by false air of opulence with which I don fur coat,
white gloves, and new shoes--one very painful--and get into the car.
Irony of life thus exemplified.)
Charming wedding, Rosemary H. looks lovely, bridesmaids highly
picturesque. One of them has bright red hair, and am completely paralysed
by devastating enquiry from Mary's husband, who hisses at me through his
teeth: _Is that the colour yours was when you dyed it?_
Crowds of people at the reception. Know most of them, but am startled by
strange lady in pink, wearing eye-glasses, who says that I don't remember
her--which is only too true--but that she has played tennis at my house.
How, she says, are those sweet twins? Find myself telling her that they
are very well indeed, before I know where I am. Can only trust never to
set eyes on her again.
Exchange talk with Mrs. Somers, recent arrival to the neighbourhood, who
apologises profusely for never having returned my call. Am in doubt
whether to say that I haven't noticed the omission, or that I hope she
will repair it as quickly as possible. Either sounds uncivil.
Speak to old Lady Dufford, who reminds me that the last time we met was
at the Jones wedding. _That_, she says, came to grief within a year.
She also asks if I have heard about the Greens, who have separated, and
poor Winifred R., who has had to go back to her parents because He
drinks. Am not surprised when she concludes with observation that it is
rather _heartrending_ to see the two young things setting out
together.
Large car belonging to bridegroom draws up at hall-door, and old Lady D.
further wags her head at me and says Ah, in _our_ day it would have
been a carriage and pair--to which I offer no assent, thinking it very
unnecessary reminder of the flight of Time--and in any event, am Lady
D.'s junior by a good many years.
Melancholy engendered by the whole of this conversation is lightened by
glass of champagne. I ask Robert, sentimentally, if this makes him think
of _our_ wedding. He looks surprised and says No, not particularly,
why should it? As I cannot at the moment think of any particular reply to
this, the question drops.
Departure of the bridal couple is followed by general exodus, and I take
the Kellways home to tea.
Remove shoes with great thankfulness.
_March 3rd._--Vicky, after Halma, enquires abruptly whether, if she
died, I should cry? I reply in the affirmative. But, she says, should I
cry really _hard_. Should I roar and scream? Decline to commit
myself to any such extravagant demonstrations, at which Vicky displays a
tendency to hurt astonishment. I speak to Mademoiselle and say that I
hope she will discourage anything in Vicky that seems to verge upon the
morbid. Mademoiselle requires a translation of the last word, and, after
some consideration, I suggest dénaturé, at which she screams dramatically
and crosses herself, and assures me that if I knew what I was saying, I
should "en reculer d'effroi".
We decide to abandon the subject.
Our Vicar's wife calls for me at seven o'clock, and we go to a
neighbouring Women's Institute at which I have, rather rashly, promised
to speak. On the way there, our Vicar's wife tells me that the secretary
of the Institute is liable to have a heart attack at any minute and must
on no account exert herself, or be allowed to get over-excited. Even a
violent fit of laughing, she adds impressively, might carry her off in a
moment.
Hastily revise my speech, and remove from it two funny stories. After
this it is a shock to find that the programme for the evening includes
dancing and a game of General Post. I ask our Vicar's wife what would
happen if the secretary _did_ get a heart attack, and she replies
mysteriously, Oh, she always carries Drops in her handbag. The thing to
do is to keep an eye on her handbag. This I do nervously throughout the
evening, but fortunately no crisis supervenes.
I speak, am thanked, and asked if I will judge a Darning Competition.
This I do, in spite of inward misgivings that few people are less
qualified to give any opinion about darning than I am. I am thanked again
and given tea and a doughnut. We all play General Post and get very
heated. Signal success of the evening when two stout and elderly members
collide in the middle of the room, and both fall heavily to the floor
together. This, if anything, will surely bring on a heart attack, and am
prepared to make a rush at the handbag, but nothing happens. We all sing
the National Anthem, and our Vicar's wife says she does hope the lights
of her two-seater are in order, and drives me home. We are relieved, and
surprised, to find that the lights, all except the rear one, are in
order, although rather faint.
I beg our Vicar's wife to come in; she says, No, No, it is far too late,
really, and comes. Robert and Helen Wills both asleep in the
drawing-room. Our Vicar's wife says she must not stay a moment, and we
talk about Countrywomen, Stanley Baldwin, Hotels at Madeira (where none
of us have ever been), and other unrelated topics. Ethel brings in cocoa,
but can tell from the way she puts down the tray that she thinks it an
unreasonable requirement, and will quite likely give notice to-morrow.
At eleven our Vicar's wife says that she _does_ hope the lights of
the two-seater are still in order, and gets as far as the hall-door.
There we talk about forthcoming village concert, parrot-disease, and the
Bishop of the diocese.
Her car refuses to start, and Robert and I push it down the drive. After
a good deal of jerking and grinding, engine starts, the hand of our
Vicar's wife waves at us through the hole in the talc, and car disappears
down the lane.
Robert inhospitably says, let us put out the lights and fasten up the
hall-door and go up to bed immediately, in case she comes back for
anything. We do so, only delayed by Helen Wills, whom Robert tries vainly
to expel into the night. She retires under the piano, behind the
bookcase, and finally disappears altogether.
_March 4th._--Ethel, as I anticipated, gives notice. Cook says this
is so unsettling, she thinks she had better go too. Despair invades me.
Write five letters to Registry Offices.
_March 7th._--No hope.
_March 8th._--Cook relents, so far as to say that she will stay
until I am suited. Feel inclined to answer that, in, that case, she had
better make up her mind to a lifetime spent together--but naturally
refrain. Spend exhausting day in Plymouth chasing mythical
house-parlourmaids. Meet Lady B., who says the servant difficulty, in
reality, is non-existent. She has No trouble. It is a question of knowing
how to treat them. Firmness, she says, but at the same time one must be
human. Am I human? she asks. Do I understand that they want occasional
diversion, just as I do myself? I lose my head and reply No, that it is
my custom to keep my servants chained up in the cellar when their work is
done. This flight of satire rather spoilt by Lady B. laughing heartily,
and saying that I am always so amusing. Well, she adds, we shall no doubt
see one another at lunch-time at the Duke of Cornwall Hotel, where alone
it is possible to get a decent meal. I reply with ready cordiality that
no doubt we shall, and go and partake of my usual lunch of baked beans
and a glass of water in small and obscure café.
Unavoidable Query, of painfully searching character, here presents
itself: If Lady B. had invited me as her guest to lunch at the D. of C.
Hotel, should I have accepted? Am conscious of being heartily tired of
baked beans and water, which in any case do not really serve to support
one through long day of shopping and servant-hunting. Moreover, am always
ready to See Life, in hotels or anywhere else. On the other hand, am
aware that self-respect would suffer severely through accepting
five-shillings-worth of luncheon from Lady B. Ponder this problem of
psychology in train on the way home, but reach no definite conclusion.
Day a complete failure as regards house-parlourmaid, but expedition not
wasted, having found two cigarette-cards on pavement, both quite clean
Curious Beaks.
_March 9th._--Cannot hear of a house-parlourmaid. Ethel, on the
other hand, can hear of at least a hundred situations, and opulent
motor-cars constantly dash up to front door, containing applicants for
her services. Cook more and more unsettled. If this goes on, shall go to
London and stay with Rose, in order to visit Agencies.
Meet Barbara, wearing new tweed, in village this morning--nice bright
girl, but long to suggest she should have adenoids removed. She says,
Will I be an Angel and look in on her mother, now practically an invalid?
I reply warmly Of course I will, not really meaning it, but remember that
we are now in Lent and suddenly decide to go at once. Admire the new
tweed. Barbara says It _is_ rather nice, isn't it, and adds--a
little strangely--that it came out of John Barker's Sale Catalogue, under
four guineas, and only needed letting out at the waist and taking in a
bit on the shoulders. Especially, she adds elliptically, now that skirts
are longer again.
Barbara goes to Evening Service, and I go to look in on her mother, whom
I find in shawls, sitting in an armchair reading--rather
ostentatiously--enormous _Life of Lord Beaconsfield_. I ask how she
is, and she shakes her head and enquires if I should ever guess that her
pet name amongst her friends once used to be Butterfly? (This kind of
question always so difficult, as either affirmative or negative reply apt
to sound unsympathetic. Feel it would hardly do to suggest that
Chrysalis, in view of the shawls, would now be more appropriate.)
However, says Mrs. Blenkinsop with a sad smile, it is never her way to
dwell upon herself and her own troubles. She just sits there, day after
day, always ready to sympathise in the little joys and troubles of
others, and I would hardly believe how unfailingly these are brought to
her. People say, she adds deprecatingly, that just her Smile does them
good. She does not know, she says, what they mean. (Neither do I.)
After this, there is a pause, and I feel that Mrs. B. is waiting for me
to pour out my little joys and troubles. Perhaps she hopes that Robert
has been unfaithful to me, or that I have fallen in love with the Vicar.
Am unable to rise to the occasion, so begin instead to talk about
Barbara's new tweed. Mrs. Blenkinsop at once replies that, for her part,
she has never given up all those little feminine touches that make All
the Difference. A ribbon here, a flower there. This leads to a story
about what was once said to her by a friend, beginning "It's so
wonderful, dear Mrs. Blenkinsop, to see the trouble you always take on
behalf of others", and ending with Mrs. B.'s own reply, to the effect
that she is only A Useless Old Woman, but that she has many, many
friends, and that this must be because her motto has always been: Look
Out and Not In: Look Up and not Down: Lend a Hand.
Conversation again languishes, and I have recourse to _Lord
Beaconsfield_. What, I ask, does Mrs. B. feel about him? She feels,
Mrs. B. replies, that he was a most Remarkable Personality. People have
often said to Mrs. B., Ah, how lonely it must be for you, alone here,
when dear Barbara is out enjoying herself with other young things. But
Mrs. B.'s reply to this is No, no. She is never alone when she has Her
Books. Books, to her, are _Friends_. Give her Shakespeare or Jane
Austen, Meredith or Hardy, and she is Lost--lost in a world of her own.
She sleeps so little that most of her nights are spent in reading. Have I
any idea, asks Mrs. B., what it is like to hear every hour, every
half-hour, chiming out all through the night? I have no idea whatever,
since am invariably obliged to struggle with overwhelming sleepiness from
nine o'clock onwards, but do not like to tell her this, so take my
departure. Mrs. B.'s parting observation is an expression of thanks to me
for coming to enquire after an old woman, and she is as well as she can
hope to be, at sixty-six years old--she _should_ say, sixty-six
years _young_, all her friends tell her.
Reach home totally unbenefited by this visit, and with strange tendency
to snap at everybody I meet.
To be continued
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