The Diary of a Provincial Lady: No 6

THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY

PART 6

_March 21st._--Express to Rose serious fear that I shall lose my

reason if no house-parlourmaid materialises. Rose, as usual, sympathetic,

but can suggest nothing that I have not already tried. We go to a Sale in

order to cheer ourselves up, and I buy yellow linen tennis-frock--£1 9s.

6d.--on strength of newly-arranged overdraft, but subsequently suffer

from the conviction that I am taking the bread out of the mouths of Robin

and Vicky.

Rather painful moment occurs when I suggest the Italian Exhibition to

Rose, who replies--after a peculiar silence--that it is now _over_.

Can think of nothing whatever to say, and do not care for dear Rose's

expression, so begin at once to discuss new novels with as much

intelligence as I can muster.

_March 22nd._--Completely amazed by laconic postcard from

Robert to say that local Registry Office can supply us with

house-parlour_man_, and if I am experiencing difficulty in finding

anyone, had we not better engage him? I telegraph back Yes, and then feel

that I have made a mistake, but Rose says No, and refuses to let me rush

out and telegraph again, for which, on subsequent calmer reflection, I

feel grateful to her--and am sure that Robert would be still more so,

owing to well-authenticated masculine dislike of telegrams.

Spend the evening writing immense letter to Robert enclosing list of

duties of house-parlourman. (Jib at thought of being called by him in the

mornings with early tea, and consult Rose, who says boldly, Think of

waiters in Foreign Hotels!--which I do, and am reminded at once of many

embarrassing episodes which I would rather forget.) Also send detailed

instructions to Robert regarding the announcement of this innovation to

Cook. Rose again takes up modern and fearless attitude, and says that

Cook, mark her words, will be delighted.

I spend much of the night thinking over the whole question of running the

house successfully, and tell myself--not by any means for the first

time--that my abilities are very, very deficient in this direction. Just

as the realisation of this threatens to overwhelm me altogether, I fall

asleep.

_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_.