THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY
PART 5
_March 10th._--Still no house-parlourmaid, and write to ask Rose if
I can go to her for a week. Also write to old Aunt Gertrude in Shropshire
to enquire if I may send Vicky and Mademoiselle there on a visit, as this
will make less work in house while we are short-handed. Do not, however,
give Aunt Gertrude this reason for sending them. Ask Robert if he will be
terribly lonely, and he says Oh no, he hopes I shall enjoy myself in
London. Spend a great deal of eloquence explaining that I am _not_
going to London to enjoy myself, but experience sudden fear that I am
resembling Mrs. Blenkinsop, and stop abruptly.
Robert says nothing.
_March 11th._--Rose wires that she will be delighted to put me up.
Cook, very unpleasantly, says, "I'm sure I hope you'll enjoy your
holiday, mum." Am precluded from making the kind of reply I should
_like_ to make, owing to grave fears that she should also give
notice. Tell her instead that I hope to "get settled" with a
house-parlourmaid before my return. Cook looks utterly incredulous and
says she is sure she hopes so too, because really, things have been so
unsettled lately. Pretend not to hear this and leave the kitchen.
Look through my clothes and find that I have nothing whatever to wear in
London. Read in _Daily Mirror_ that all evening dresses are worn
long, and realise with horror that not one of mine comes even half-way
down my legs.
_March 12th._--Collect major portion of my wardrobe and dispatch to
address mentioned in advertisement pages of _Time and Tide_ as
prepared to pay Highest Prices for Outworn Garments, cheque by return.
Have gloomy foreboding that six penny stamps by return will more
adequately represent value of my contribution, and am thereby impelled to
add Robert's old shooting-coat, mackintosh dating from 1907, and least
reputable woollen sweater. Customary struggle ensues between frank and
straightforward course of telling Robert What I have done, and less
straightforward, but more practical, decision to keep complete silence on
the point and let him make discovery for himself after parcel has left
the house. Conscience, as usual, is defeated, but nevertheless
unsilenced.
(Query: Would it not indicate greater strength of character, even if
lesser delicacy of feeling, not to spend so much time on regretting
errors of judgement and of behaviour? Reply almost certainly in the
affirmative. Brilliant, but nebulous, outline of powerful Article for
_Time and Tide_ here suggests itself: _Is Ruthlessness more
Profitable than Repentance?_ Failing article--for which time at the
moment is lacking, owing to departure of house-parlourmaid and necessity
of learning "Wreck of the Hesperus" to recite at Village Concert--would
this make suitable subject for Debate at Women's Institute? Feel doubtful
as to whether our Vicar's wife would not think subject-matter trenching
upon ground more properly belonging to our Vicar.)
Resign from Book of the Month Club, owing to wide and ever-increasing
divergence of opinion between us as to merits or demerits of recently
published fiction. Write them long and eloquent letter about this, but
remember after it is posted that I still owe them twelve shillings and
sixpence for Maurois's _Byron_.
_March 13th._--Vicky and Mademoiselle leave, in order to pay visit
to Aunt Gertrude. Mademoiselle becomes sentimental and says, "Ah, déjà je
languis pour notre re-tour!" As total extent of her absence at this stage
is about half-an-hour, and they have three weeks before them, feel that
this is not a spirit to be encouraged. See them into the train, when
Mademoiselle at once produces eau-de-Cologne in case either, or both,
should be ill, and come home again. House resembles the tomb, and the
gardener says that Miss Vicky seems such a little bit of a thing to be
sent right away like that, and it isn't as if she could write and
_tell_ me how she was getting on, either.
Go to bed feeling like a murderess.
_March 14th._--Rather inadequate Postal Order arrives, together with
white tennis coat trimmed with rabbit, which--says accompanying
letter--is returned as being unsaleable. Should like to know _why_.
Toy with idea of writing to _Time and Tide_'s Editor, enquiring if
every advertisement is subjected to personal scrutiny before insertion,
but decide that this, in the event of a reply, might involve me in
difficult explanations and diminish my _prestige_ as occasional
recipient of First Prize (divided) in Weekly Competition.
(_Mem_.: See whether tennis coat could be dyed and transformed into
evening cloak.)
Am unfortunately found at home by callers, Mr. and Mrs. White, who are
starting a Chicken-farm in the neighbourhood, and appear to have got
married on the expectation of making a fortune out of it. We talk about
chickens, houses, scenery, and the train-service between here and London.
I ask if they play tennis, and politely suggest that both are probably
brilliant performers. Mr. White staggers me by replying Oh, he wouldn't
say _that_, exactly--meaning that he would, if it didn't seem like
boasting. He enquires about Tournaments. Mrs. White is reminded of
Tournaments in which they have, or have not, come out victors in the
past. They refer to their handicap. Resolve never to ask the Whites to
play on our extremely inferior court.
Later on talk about politicians. Mr. White says that in _his_
opinion Lloyd George is clever, but Nothing Else. That's _all_, says
Mr. White impressively. Just Clever. I refer to Coalition Government and
Insurance Act, but Mr. White repeats firmly that both were brought about
by mere Cleverness. He adds that Baldwin is a thoroughly _honest_
man, and that Ramsay MacDonald is _weak_. Mrs. White supports him
with an irrelevant statement to the effect that the Labour Party must be
hand in glove with Russia, otherwise how would the Bolshevists dare to go
on like that?
She also suddenly adds that Prohibition and the Jews and Everything are
really the thin end of the wedge, don't I think so? I say Yes, I do, as
the quickest way of ending the conversation, and ask if she plays the
piano, to which she says No, but the Ukelele a little bit, and we talk
about local shops and the delivery of a Sunday paper.
(_N.B._ Amenities of conversation afford very, very curious study
sometimes, especially in the country.)
The Whites take their departure. Hope never to set eyes on either of them
again.
_March 15th._--Robert discovers absence of mackintosh dating from
1907. Says that he would "rather have lost a hundred pounds"--which I
know to be untrue. Unsuccessful evening follows. Cannot make up my mind
whether to tell him at once about shooting-coat and sweater, and get it
all over in one, or leave him to find out for himself when present
painful impression has had time to die away. Ray of light pierces
impenetrable gloom when Robert is driven to enquire if I can tell him "a
word for _calmer_ in seven letters" and I, after some thought,
suggest "_serener_"--which he says will do, and returns to
_Times_ Crossword Puzzle. Later he asks for famous mountain in
Greece, but does not accept my too-hasty offer of Mount Atlas, nor listen
to interesting explanation as to associative links between Greece,
Hercules, and Atlas, which I proffer. After going into it at some length,
I perceive that Robert is not attending, and retire to bed.
_March 17th._--Travel up to London with Barbara Blenkinsop--(wearing
new tweed)--who says she is going to spend a fortnight with old
school-friend at Streatham and is looking forward to the Italian Art
Exhibition. I say that I am, too, and ask after Mrs. B. Barbara says that
she is Wonderful. We discuss Girl Guides, and exchange surmises as to
reason why Mrs. T. at the Post Office is no longer on speaking terms with
Mrs. L. at the shop. Later on, conversation takes a more intellectual
turn, and we agree that the Parish Magazine needs Brightening Up. I
suggest a crossword puzzle, and Barbara says a Children's Page.
Paddington is reached just as we decide that it would be hopeless to try
and get a contribution to the Parish Magazine from anyone really
_good_, such as Shaw, Bennett, or Galsworthy.
I ask Barbara to tea at my club one day next week, she accepts, and we
part.
Met by Rose, who has a new hat, and says that _no one_ is wearing a
brim, which discourages me--partly because I have nothing _but_
brims, and partly because I know only too well that I shall look my worst
without one. Confide this fear to Rose, who says, Why not go to
well-known Beauty Culture Establishment, and have course of treatment
there? I look at myself in the glass, see much room for improvement, and
agree to this, only stipulating that all shall be kept secret as the
grave, as could not tolerate the idea of Lady B.'s comments, should she
ever come to hear of it. Make appointment by telephone. In the meantime,
says Rose, what about the Italian Art Exhibition? She herself has already
been four times. I say Yes, yes--it is one of the things I have come to
London _for_, but should prefer to go earlier in the day. Then, says
Rose, the first thing tomorrow morning? To this I reply, with every sign
of reluctance, that to-morrow morning _must_ be devoted to Registry
Offices. Well, says Rose, when _shall_ we go? Let us, I urge, settle
that a little later on, when I know better what I am doing. Can see that
Rose thinks anything but well of me, but she is too tactful to say more.
Quite realise that I shall have to go to the Italian Exhibition sooner or
later, and am indeed quite determined to do so, but feel certain that I
shall understand nothing about it when I do get there, and shall find
myself involved in terrible difficulties when asked my impressions
afterwards.
Rose's cook, as usual, produces marvellous dinner, and I remember with
shame and compassion that Robert, at home, is sitting down to minced beef
and macaroni cheese, followed by walnuts.
Rose says that she is taking me to dinner to-morrow, with distinguished
woman-writer who has marvellous collection of Jade, to meet still more
distinguished Professor (female) and others. Decide to go and buy an
evening dress to-morrow, regardless of overdraft.
_March 18th._--Very successful day, although Italian Art Exhibition
still unvisited. (Mem.: Positively _must_ go there before meeting
Barbara for tea at my club.)
Visit several Registry Offices, and am told that maids do not like the
country--which I know already--and that the wages I am offering are low.
Come away from there depressed, and decide to cheer myself up by
purchasing evening dress--which I cannot afford--with present-day
waist--which does not suit me. Select the Brompton Road, as likely to
contain what I want, and crawl up it, scrutinising windows. Come
face-to-face with Barbara Blenkinsop, who says, _How_ extraordinary
we should meet here, to which I reply that that is so often the way, when
one comes to London. She is, she tells me, just on her way to the Italian
Exhibition...I at once say Good-bye, and plunge into elegant
establishment with expensive-looking garments in the window.
Try on five dresses, but find judgement of their merits very difficult,
as hair gets wilder and wilder, and nose more devoid of powder. Am also
worried by extraordinary and tactless tendency of saleswoman to emphasise
the fact that all the colours I like are very trying by daylight, but
will be less so at night. Finally settle on silver tissue with large bow,
stipulate for its immediate delivery, am told that this is impossible,
reluctantly agree to carry it away with me in cardboard box, and go away
wondering if it wouldn't have been better to choose the black chiffon
instead.
Hope that Beauty Parlour experiment may enhance self-respect, at present
at rather low ebb, but am cheered by going into Fuller's and sending
boxes of chocolates to Robin and Vicky respectively. Add peppermint
creams for Mademoiselle by an afterthought, as otherwise she may find
herself _blessée_. Lunch on oxtail soup, lobster mayonnaise, and cup
of coffee, as being menu furthest removed from that obtainable at home.
Beauty Parlour follows. Feel that a good deal could be written on this
experience, and even contemplate--in connection with recent observations
exchanged between Barbara B. and myself--brightening the pages of our
Parish Magazine with result of my reflections, but on second thoughts
abandon this, as unlikely to appeal to the Editor (Our Vicar).
Am received by utterly terrifying person with dazzling complexion,
indigo-blue hair, and orange nails, presiding over reception room
downstairs, but eventually passed on to extremely pretty little creature
with auburn bob and charming smile. Am reassured. Am taken to discreet
curtained cubicle and put into long chair. Subsequent operations, which
take hours and hours, appear to consist of the removal of hundreds of
layers of dirt from my face. (These discreetly explained away by charming
operator as the result of "acidity".) She also plucks away portions of my
eyebrows. Very, very painful operation.
Eventually emerge more or less unrecognisable, and greatly improved. Lose
my head, and buy Foundation Cream, rouge, powder, lip-stick. Foresee
grave difficulty in reconciling Robert to the use of these appliances,
but decide not to think about this for the present.
Go back to Rose's flat in time to dress for dinner. She tells me that she
spent the afternoon at the Italian Exhibition.
_March 19th._--Rose takes me to dine with talented group of her
friends, connected with Feminist Movement. I wear new frock, and for once
in my life am satisfied with my appearance (but still regret great-aunt's
diamond ring, now brightening pawnbroker's establishment back-street
Plymouth). Am, however, compelled to make strong act of will in order to
banish all recollection of bills that will subsequently come in from
Beauty Parlour and dressmaker. Am able to succeed in this largely owing
to charms of distinguished Feminists, all as kind as possible. Well-known
Professor--(concerning whom I have previously consulted Rose as to the
desirability of reading up something about Molecules or other kindred
topic, for conversational purposes)--completely overcomes me by
producing, with a charming smile, two cigarette-cards, as she has heard
that I collect them for Robin. After this, throw all idea of Molecules to
the winds, and am happier for the rest of the evening in consequence.
Editor of well-known literary weekly also present, and actually remembers
that we met before at Literary Club dinner. I discover, towards the end
of the dinner, that she has not visited the Italian Exhibition--and give
Rose a look that I hope she takes to heart.
Cocktails, and wholly admirable dinner, further brighten the evening. I
sit next Editor, and she rather rashly encourages me to give my opinion
of her paper. I do so freely, thanks to cocktail and Editor's charming
manners, which combine to produce in me the illusion that my words are
witty, valuable, and thoroughly well worth listening to. (Am but too well
aware that later in the night I shall wake up in cold sweat, and view
this scene in retrospect with very different feelings as to my own part
in it.)
Rose and I take our leave just before midnight, sharing taxi with very
well-known woman dramatist. (Should much like Lady B. to know this, and
have every intention of making casual mention to her of it at earliest
possible opportunity.)
Offices, less
_March 20th._--More Registry Offices, less success than ever.
Barbara Blenkinsop comes to tea with me at my club, and says that
Streatham is very gay, and that her friends took her to a dance last
night and a Mr. Crosbie Carruthers drove her home afterwards in his car.
We then talk about clothes--dresses all worn long in the evening--this
graceful, but not hygienic--women will never again submit to long skirts
in the day-time--most people growing their hair--but eventually Barbara
reverts to Mr. C. C. and asks if I think a girl makes herself cheap by
allowing a man friend to take her out to dinner in Soho? I say No, not at
all, and inwardly decide that Vicky would look nice as bridesmaid in blue
taffetas, with little wreath of Banksia roses.
A letter from dear Robin, forwarded from home, arrives to-night. He says,
wouldn't a motor tour in the Easter holidays be great fun, and a boy at
school called Briggs is going on one. (Briggs is the only son of
millionaire parents, owning two Rolls-Royces and any number of
chauffeurs.) Feel that it would be unendurable to refuse this trustful
request, and decide that I can probably persuade Robert into letting me
drive the children to the far side of the county in the old Standard. Can
call this modest expedition a motor tour if we stay the night at a pub.
and return the next day.
At the same time realise that, financial situation being what it is, and
moreover time rapidly approaching when great-aunt's diamond ring must
either be redeemed, or relinquished for ever, there is nothing for it but
to approach Bank on subject of an overdraft.
Am never much exhilarated at this prospect, and do not in the least find
that it becomes less unpleasant with repetition, but rather the contrary.
Experience customary difficulty in getting to the point, and Bank Manager
and I discuss weather, political situation, and probable Starters for the
Grand National with passionate suavity for some time. Inevitable pause
occurs, and we look at one another across immense expanse of pink
blotting-paper. Irrelevant impulse rises in me to ask if he has other
supply, for use, in writing-table drawer, or if fresh pad is brought in
whenever a client calls. (Strange divagations of the human brain under
the stress of extreme nervousness presents itself here as interesting
topic for speculation. Should like to hear opinion of Professor met last
night on this point. Subject far preferable to Molecules.)
Long, and rather painful, conversation follows. Bank Manager kind, but if
he says the word "security" once, he certainly says it twenty times. Am,
myself, equally insistent with "temporary accommodation only", which I
think sounds thoroughly businesslike, and at the same time optimistic as
to speedy repayment. Just as I think we are over the worst, Bank Manager
reduces me to spiritual pulp by suggesting that we should see how the
Account Stands at the Moment. Am naturally compelled to agree to this
with air of well-bred and detached amusement, but am in reality well
aware that the Account Stands--or, more accurately, totters--on a Debit
Balance of Thirteen Pounds, two shillings, and tenpence. Large sheet of
paper, bearing this impressive statement, is presently brought in and
laid before us.
Negotiations resumed.
Eventually emerge into the street with purpose accomplished, but feeling
completely unstrung for the day. Rose is kindness personified, produces
Bovril and an excellent lunch, and agrees with me that it is All Nonsense
to say that Wealth wouldn't mean Happiness, because we know quite well
that it _would_.
To be continued
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