THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY
PART 10
_June 17th._--Entire household rises practically at dawn, in order
to take part in active preparations for Garden Fete. Mademoiselle
reported to have refused breakfast in order to put final stitches in
embroidered pink satin boot-bag for Fancy Stall, which she has, to my
certain knowledge, been working at for the past six weeks. At ten o'clock
our Vicar's wife dashes in to ask what I think of the weather, and to say
that she cannot stop a moment. At eleven she is still here, and has been
joined by several stall-holders, and tiresome local couple called White,
who want to know if there will be a Tennis Tournament, and if not, is
there not still time to organise one? I reply curtly in the negative to
both suggestions and they depart, looking huffed. Our Vicar's wife says
that this may have lost us their patronage at the Fete altogether, and
that Mrs. White's mother, who is staying with them, is said to be rich,
and might easily have been worth a couple of pounds to us.
Diversion fortunately occasioned by unexpected arrival of solid and
respectable-looking claret-coloured motor-car, from which Barbara and
Crosbie Carruthers emerge. Barbara is excited; C. C. remains calm but
looks benevolent. Our Vicar's wife screams, and throws a pair of scissors
wildly into the air. (They are eventually found in Bran Tub containing
Twopenny Dips, and are the cause of much trouble, as small child who
fishes them out maintains them to be _bona fide_ dip and refuses to
give them up.)
Barbara looks blooming, and says how wonderful it is to see the dear old
place quite unchanged. Cannot whole-heartedly agree with this, as it is
not three months since she was here last, but fortunately she requires no
answer, and says that she and C. C. are looking up old friends and will
return for the Opening of the Fete this afternoon.
Robert goes to meet old school-friend Cissie Crabbe at station, and Rose
and Ito help price garments at Jumble Stall. (Find that my views are not
always similar to those of other members of Committee. Why, for instance,
only three-and-sixpence for grey georgette only sacrificed reluctantly at
eleventh hour from my wardrobe?)
Arrival of Cissie Crabbe (wearing curious wool hat which I at once feel
would look better on Jumble Stall) is followed by cold lunch. Have made
special point of remembering nuts and banana sandwiches for Cissie, but
have difficulty in preventing Robin and Vicky--to whom I have omitted to
give explanation--making it obvious that they would prefer this diet to
cold lamb and salad. Just as tinned pineapple and junket stage is passed,
Robin informs me that there are people beginning to arrive, and we all
disperse in desperate haste and excitement, to reappear in best clothes.
I wear red foulard and new red hat, but find--as usual--that every
petticoat I have in the world is either rather too long or much too
short. Mademoiselle comes to the rescue and puts safety-pins in
shoulder-straps, one of which becomes unfastened later and causes me
great suffering. Rose, also as usual, looks nicer than anybody else in
delightful green delaine. Cissie Crabbe also has reasonably attractive
dress, but detracts from effect with numerous scarab rings, cameo
brooches, tulle scarves, enamel buckles, and barbaric necklaces.
Moreover, she clings (I think mistakenly) to little wool hat, which looks
odd. Robin and Vicky both present enchanting appearance, although Mary's
three little Kellways, all alike in pale rose tussore, undeniably
decorative. (Natural wave in hair of all three, which seems to me unjust,
but nothing can be done until Vicky reaches age suitable for Permanent
Waving.)
Lady Frobisher arrives--ten minutes too early--to open Fete, and is
walked about by Robert until our Vicar says, Well, he thinks perhaps that
we are now all gathered together...(Have profane impulse to add "_In
the sight of God_", but naturally stifle it.) Lady F. is poised
gracefully on little bank under the chestnut tree, our Vicar beside her,
Robert and myself modestly retiring a few paces behind, our Vicar's wife
kindly, but mistakenly, trying to induce various unsuitable people to
mount bank--which she humorously refers to as the Platform--when all is
thrown into confusion by sensational arrival of colossal Bentley
containing Lady B.--in sapphire-blue and pearls--with escort of
fashionable creatures, male and female, apparently dressed for Ascot.
"Go on, go on!" says Lady B., waving hand in white kid glove, and
dropping small jewelled bag, lace parasol, and embroidered handkerchief
as she does so. Great confusion while these articles are picked up and
restored, but at last we do go on, and Lady F. says what a pleasure it is
to her to be here to-day, what a desirable asset a Village Hall is, and
much else to the same effect. Our Vicar thanks her for coming here
to-day--so many claims upon her time--Robert seconds him with almost
incredible brevity--someone else thanks Robert and myself for throwing
open these magnificent grounds--(tennis-court, three flower borders, and
microscopic shrubbery)--I look at Robert, who shakes his head, thus
obliging me to make necessary reply myself, and our Vicar's wife, with
undeniable presence of mind, darts forward and reminds Lady F. that she
has forgotten to declare the Fete open. This is at once done and we
disperse to stalls and sideshows.
Am stopped by Lady B., who asks reproachfully, Didn't I know that she
would have been perfectly ready to open the Fete herself, if I had asked
her? Another time, she says, I am not to hesitate for a _moment_.
She then spends ninepence on a lavender bag, and drives off again with
expensive-looking friends. This behaviour provides topic of excited
conversation for us all, throughout the whole of the afternoon.
Everyone else buys nobly, unsuitable articles are raffled--(raffling
illegal, winner to pay sixpence)--guesses are made as to contents of
sealed boxes, number of currants in large cake, weight of bilious-looking
ham, and so on. Band arrives, is established on lawn, and plays
selections from _The Geisha_. Mademoiselle's boot-bag bought by
elegant purchaser in grey flannels, who turns out, on closer inspection,
to be Howard Fitzsimmons. Just as I recover from this, Robin, in wild
excitement, informs me that he has won a Goat in a raffle. (Goat has
fearful local reputation, and is of immense age and savageness.) Have no
time to do more than say how _nice_ this is, and he had better run
and tell Daddy, before old Mrs. B., Barbara, C. C., and Cousin Maud all
turn up together. (Can baby Austin _possibly_ have accommodated them
all?) Old Mrs. B. rather less subdued than at our last meeting, and goes
so far as to say that she has very little money to spend, but that she
always thinks a smile and a kind word are better than gold, with which I
inwardly disagree.
Am definitely glad to perceive that C. C. has taken up cast-iron attitude
of unfriendliness towards Cousin Maud, and contradicts her whenever she
speaks. Sports, tea, and dancing on the tennis-lawn all
successful--(except possibly from point of view of future
tennis-parties)--and even Robin and Vicky do not dream of eating final
ice cream cornets, and retiring to bed, until ten o'clock.
Robert, Rose, Cissie Crabbe, Helen Wills, and myself all sit in the
drawing-room in pleasant state of exhaustion, and congratulate ourselves
and one another. Robert has information, no doubt reliable, but source
remains mysterious, to the effect that we have Cleared Three Figures.
All, for the moment, is _couleur-de-rose_.
_June 23rd._--Tennis-party at wealthy and elaborate house, to which
Robert and I now bidden for the first time. (Also, probably, the last.)
Immense opulence of host and hostess at once discernible in fabulous
display of deck-chairs, all of complete stability and miraculous
cleanliness. Am introduced to youngish lady in yellow, and serious young
man with horn-rimmed spectacles. Lady in yellow says at once that she is
sure I have a lovely garden. (Why?)
Elderly, but efficient-looking, partner is assigned to me, and we play
against the horn-rimmed spectacles and agile young creature in expensive
crepe-de-chine. Realise at once that all three play very much better
tennis than I do. Still worse, realise that _they_ realise this.
Just as we begin, my partner observes gravely that he ought to tell me he
is a left-handed player. Cannot imagine what he expects me to do about
it, lose my head, and reply madly that That is Splendid.
Game proceeds, I serve several double-faults, and elderly partner becomes
graver and graver. At beginning of each game he looks at me and repeats
score with fearful distinctness, which, as it is never in our favour,
entirely unnerves me. At "Six-_one_" we leave the court and silently
seek chairs as far removed from one another as possible. Find myself in
vicinity of Our Member, and we talk about the Mace, peeresses in the
House of Lords--on which we differ--winter sports, and Alsatian dogs.
Robert plays tennis, and does well.
Later on, am again bidden to the court and, to my unspeakable horror,
told to play once more with elderly and efficient partner.
I apologise to him for this misfortune, and he enquires in return, with
extreme pessimism. Fifty years from now, what will it matter if we
_have_ lost this game? Neighbouring lady--probably his wife?--looks
agitated at this, and supplements it by incoherent assurances about its
being a great pleasure, in any case. Am well aware that she is lying, but
intention evidently very kind, for which I feel grateful. Play worse than
ever, and am not unprepared for subsequent enquiry from hostess as to
whether I think I have _really_ quite got over the measles, as she
has heard that it often takes a full year. I reply, humorously, that, so
far as tennis goes, it will take far more than a full year. Perceive by
expression of civil perplexity on face of hostess that she has entirely
failed to grasp this rather subtle witticism, and wish that I hadn't made
it. Am still thinking about this failure, when I notice that conversation
has, mysteriously, switched on to the United States of Ameerca, about
which we are all very emphatic. Americans, we say, undoubtedly
_hospitable_--but what about the War Debt? What about Prohibition?
What about Sinclair Lewis? Aimée MacPherson, and Co-education? By the
time we have done with them, it transpires that none of is have ever been
to America, but all hold definite views, which fortunately coincide with
the views of everybody else.
(Query: Could not interesting little experiment he tried, by possessor of
unusual amount of moral courage, in the shape of suddenly producing
perfectly brand-new opinion: for example, to the effect that Americans
have better manners than we have, or that their divorce laws are a great
improvement upon our own? Should much like to see effect of these, or
similar, psychological bombs, but should definitely wish Robert to he
absent from the scene.)
Announcement of tea breaks off these intelligent speculations.
Am struck, as usual, by infinite superiority of other people's food to my
own.
Conversation turns upon Lady B. and everyone says she is really very
kindhearted, and follows this up by anecdotes illustrating all her less
attractive qualities. Youngish lady in yellow declares that she met Lady
B. last week in London, face three inches thick in new sunburn-tan. Can
quite believe it. Feel much more at home after this, and conscious of new
bond of union cementing entire party. Sidelight thus thrown upon human
nature regrettable, but not to be denied. Even tennis improves after
this, entirely owing to my having told funny story relating to Lady B.'s
singular behaviour in regard to local Jumble Sale, which meets with
success. Serve fewer double-faults, but still cannot quite escape
conviction that whoever plays with me invariably loses the set--which I
cannot believe to be mere coincidence.
Suggest to Robert, on the way home, that I had better give up tennis
altogether, to which, after long silence--during which I hope he is
perhaps evolving short speech that shall be at once complimentary and yet
convincing--he replies that he does not know what I could take up
instead. As I do not know either, the subject is dropped, and we return
home in silence.
_June 27th._--Cook says that unless I am willing to let her have the
Sweep, she cannot possibly be responsible for the stove. I say that of
course she can have the Sweep. If not, Cook returns, totally disregarding
this, she really can't say what won't happen. I reiterate my complete
readiness to send the Sweep a summons on the instant, and Cook continues
to look away from me and to repeat that unless I _will_ agree to
having the Sweep in, there's no knowing.
This dialogue--cannot say why--upsets me for the remainder of the day.
_June 30th._--The Sweep comes, and devastates the entire day.
Bath-water and meals are alike cold, and soot appears quite irrelevantly
in portions of the house totally removed from sphere of Sweep's
activities. Am called upon in the middle of the day to produce
twelve-and-sixpence in cash, which I cannot do. Appeal to everybody in
the house, and find that nobody else can, either. Finally Cook announces
that the Joint has just come and can oblige at the back door, if I don't
mind its going down in the hook. I do not, and the Sweep is accordingly
paid and disappears on a motor-bicycle.
_July 3rd._--Breakfast enlivened by letter from dear Rose written
at, apparently, earthly paradise of blue sea and red rocks, on South
Coast of France. She says that she is having complete rest, and enjoying
congenial society of charming group of friends, and makes unprecedented
suggestion that I should join her for a fortnight. I am moved to
exclaim--perhaps rather thoughtlessly--that the most wonderful thing in
the world must be to be a childless widow--but this is met by
unsympathetic silence from Robert, which recalls me to myself, and impels
me to say that that isn't in the least what I meant.
(_Mem_.: Should often be very, very sorry to explain exactly what it
is that I _do_ mean, and am in fact conscious of deliberately
avoiding self-analysis on many occasions. Do not propose, however, to go
into this now or at any other time.)
I tell Robert that if it wasn't for the expense, and not having any
clothes, and the servants, and leaving Vicky, I should think seriously of
Rose's suggestion. Why, I enquire rhetorically, should Lady B. have a
monopoly of the South of France? Robert replies, Well--and pauses for
such a long while that I get agitated, and have mentally gone through the
Divorce Court with him, before he ends up by saying Well, again, and
picking up the _Western Morning News_. Feel--but do not say--that
this, as contribution to discussion, is inadequate. Am prepared, however,
to continue it single-handed sooner than allow subject to drop
altogether. Do so, but am interrupted first by entrance of Helen Wills
through the window--(Robert says, Dam' that cat, I shall have it drowned,
but only absent-mindedly)--and then by spirit-lamp, which is discovered
to be extinct, and to require new wick. Robert strongly in favour of
ringing immediately, but I discourage this, and undertake to speak about
it instead, and tie knot in pocket-handkerchief. (Unfortunately
overcharged memory fails later when in kitchen, and find myself unable to
recollect whether marmalade has run to sugar through remaining too long
in jar, or merely porridge lumpier than usual--but this a digression.)
I read Rose's letter all over again, and feel that I have here
opportunity of a lifetime. Suddenly hear myself exclaiming passionately
that Travel broadens the Mind, and am immediately reminded of our Vicar's
wife, who frequently makes similar remark before taking our Vicar to
spend fortnight's holiday in North Wales.
Robert finally says Well, again--this time tone of voice slightly more
lenient--and then asks if it is quite impossible for his bottle of Eno's
to be left undisturbed on bathroom shelf?
I at once and severely condemn Mademoiselle as undoubted culprit,
although guiltily aware that original suggestion probably emanated from
myself. And what, I add, about the South of France? Robert looks
astounded, and soon afterwards leaves the dining-room without having
spoken.
I deal with my correspondence, omitting Rose's letter. Remainder boils
down to rather uninspiring collection of Accounts Rendered, offensive
little pamphlet that makes searching enquiry into the state of my gums,
postcard from County Secretary of Women's Institutes with notice of
meeting that I am expected to attend, and warmly worded personal
communication addressed me by name from unknown Titled Gentleman, which
ends up with a request for five shillings if I cannot spare more, in aid
of charity in which he is interested. Whole question of South of France
is shelved until evening, when I seek Mademoiselle in schoolroom, after
Vicky has gone to bed. Am horrified to see that supper, awaiting her on
the table, consists of cheese, pickles, and slice of jam roly-poly,
grouped on single plate--(Would not this suggest to the artistic mind a
Still-life Study in Modern Art?)--flanked by colossal jug of cold water.
Is this, I ask, what Mademoiselle _likes_? She assures me that it is
and adds, austerely, that food is of no importance to her. She could go
without anything for days and days, without noticing it. From her early
childhood, she has always been the same.
(Query unavoidably suggests itself here: Does Mademoiselle really expect
me to believe her, and if so, what can be her opinion of my mental
capacity?)
We discuss Vicky: tendency to argumentativeness, I hint. "C'est un petit
coeur d 'or," returns Mademoiselle immediately. I agree, in modified
terms, and Mademoiselle at once points out dear Vicky's undeniable
obstinacy and self-will, and goes so far as to say: "Plus tard, ce sera
un esprit fort...elle ira loin, cette petite."
I bring up the subject of the South of France. Mademoiselle more than
sympathetic, assures me that I must, at all costs, go, adding--a little
unnecessarily--that I have grown many, many years older in the last few
months, and that to live as I do, without any distractions, only leads to
madness in the end.
Feel that she could hardly have worded this more trenchantly, and am a
good deal impressed.
(Query: Would Robert see the force of these representations, or not?
Robert apt to take rather prejudiced view of all that is not purely
English.)
Return to drawing-room and find Robert asleep behind the _Times_.
Read Rose's letter all over again, and am moved to make list of clothes
that I should require if I joined her, estimate of expenses--financial
situation, though not scintillating, still considerably brighter than
usual, owing to recent legacy--and even Notes, on back of envelope, of
instructions to be given to Mademoiselle, Cook, and the tradespeople,
before leaving.
To be continued
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