THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY
PART 8
_April 19th._--Both children simultaneously develop incredibly low
complaint known as "pink-eye" that everyone unites in telling me is
peculiar to the more saliently neglected and underfed section of the
juvenile population in the East End of London.
Vicky has a high temperature and is put to bed, while Robin remains on
his feet, but is not allowed out of doors until present cold winds are
over. I leave Vicky to Mademoiselle and _Les Mémoires d'un Ane_ in
the night-nursery, and undertake to amuse Robin downstairs. He says that
he has a Splendid Idea. This turns out to be that I should play the
piano, whilst he simultaneously sets off the gramophone, the musical-box,
and the chiming clock.
I protest.
Robin implores, and says It will be just like an Orchestra. (Shade of
Dame Ethel Smyth, whose Reminiscences I have just been reading!) I weakly
yield, and attack, _con spirito_, "The Broadway Melody" in the key
of C Major. Robin, in great excitement, starts the clock, puts "Mucking
About the Garden" on the gramophone, and winds up the musical-box, which
tinkles out the Waltz from _Floradora_ in a tinny sort of way, and
no recognisable key. Robin springs about and cheers. I watch him
sympathetically and keep down, at his request, the loud pedal.
The door is flung open by Howard Fitzs., and Lady B. enters, wearing
bran-new green Kasha with squirrel collar, and hat to match, and
accompanied by military-looking friend.
Have no wish to record subsequent few minutes, in which I endeavour to
combine graceful greetings to Lady B. and the military friend, with
simple and yet dignified explanation of singular state of affairs
presented to them, and unobtrusive directions to Robin to switch off
musical-box and gramophone and betake himself and his pink-eye upstairs.
Clock has mercifully ceased to chime, and Robin struggles gallantly with
musical-box, but "Mucking About the Garden" continues to ring brazenly
through the room for what seems about an hour and a half...(Should not
have minded quite so much if it had been "Classical Memories", which I
also possess, or even a Layton and Johnstone duet.)
Robin goes upstairs, but not until after Lady B. has closely scrutinised
him, and observed that He looks like Measles, to her. Military friend
tactfully pretends absorption in the nearest bookcase until this is over,
when he emerges with breezy observation concerning _Bulldog
Drummond_.
Lady B. at once informs him that he must not say that kind of thing to
_me_, as I am so Very Literary. After this, the military friend
looks at me with unconcealed horror, and does not attempt to speak to me
again. On the whole, am much relieved when the call is over.
Go upstairs and see Vicky, who seems worse, and telephone for the doctor.
Mademoiselle begins lugubrious story, which is evidently destined to end
disastrously, about a family in her native town mysteriously afflicted by
Smallpox--(of which all the preliminary symptoms were identical with
those of Vicky's present disorder)--afterwards traced to unconsidered
purchase by _le papa_ of Eastern rugs, sold by itinerant vendor on
the quay at Marseilles. Cut her short after the death of the
six-months-old baby, as I perceive that all the other five children are
going to follow suit, as slowly and agonisingly as possible.
_April 20th._--Vicky develops unmistakable measles, and doctor says
that Robin may follow suit any day. Infection must have been picked up at
Aunt Gertrude's, and shall write and tell her so.
Extraordinary and nightmare-like state of affairs sets in, and I
alternate between making lemonade for Vicky and telling her the story of
_Frederick and the Picnic_ upstairs, and bathing Robin's pink-eye
with boracic lotion and reading _The Coral Island_ to him
downstairs.
Mademoiselle is _dévouée_ in the extreme, and utterly refuses to let
anyone but herself sleep in Vicky's room, but find it difficult to
understand exactly on what principle it is that she persists in wearing a
_peignoir_ and _pantoufles_ day and night alike. She is also
unwearied in recommending very strange _tisanes_, which she proposes
to brew herself from herbs--fortunately unobtainable--in the garden.
Robert, in this crisis, is less helpful than I could wish, and takes up
characteristically masculine attitude that We are All Making a Great Fuss
about Very Little, and the whole thing has been got up for the express
purpose of putting him to inconvenience--(which, however, it does not do,
as he stays out all day, and insists on having dinner exactly the same as
usual every evening).
Vicky incredibly and alarmingly good, Robin almost equally so in patches,
but renders himself unpopular with Fitzs. by leaving smears of
Plasticine, pools of paint-water, and even blots of ink on much of the
furniture. Find it very difficult to combine daily close inspection of
him, with a view to discovering the beginning of measles, with
light-hearted optimism that I feel to be right and rational attitude of
mind.
Weather very cold and rainy, and none of the fires will burn up. Cannot
say why this is, but it adds considerably to condition of gloom and
exhaustion which I feel to be gaining upon me hourly.
_April 25th._--Vicky recovering slowly, Robin showing no signs of
measles. Am myself victim of curious and unpleasant form of chill, no
doubt due to over-fatigue.
Howard Fitzsimmons gives notice, to the relief of everyone, and I obtain
service of superior temporary house-parlourmaid at cost of enormous
weekly sum.
_April 27th._--Persistence of chill compels me to retire to bed for
half a day, and Robert suggests gloomily that I have caught the measles.
I demonstrate that this is impossible, and after lunch get up and play
cricket with Robin on the lawn. After tea, keep Vicky company. She
insists upon playing at the Labours of Hercules, and we give energetic
representations of slaughtering the Hydra, cleaning out the Augean
Stables, and so on. Am divided between gratification at Vicky's classical
turn of mind and strong disinclination for so much exertion.
_May 7th._--Resume Diary after long and deplorable interlude,
vanquished chill having suddenly reappeared with immense force and fury,
and revealed itself as measles. Robin, on same day, begins to cough, and
expensive hospital nurse materialises and takes complete charge. She
proves kind and efficient, and brings me messages from the children, and
realistic drawing from Robin entitled "Ill person being eaten up by
jerms".
(Query: Is dear Robin perhaps future Heath Robinson or Arthur Watts?)
Soon after this all becomes incoherent and muddled. Chief recollection is
of hearing the doctor say that of course my Age is against me, which
hurts my feelings and makes me feel like old Mrs. Blenkinsop. After a few
days, however, I get the better of my age, and am given champagne,
grapes, and Valentine's Meat Juice.
Should like to ask what all this is going to cost, but feel it would be
ungracious.
The children, to my astonishment, are up and about again, and allowed to
come and see me. They play at Panthers on the bed, until removed by
Nurse. Robin reads aloud to me, article on Lord Chesterfield from pages
of _Time and Tide_, which has struck him because he, like the
writer, finds it difficult to accept a compliment gracefully. What do
_I_ do, he enquires, when I receive so many compliments all at once
that I am overwhelmed? Am obliged to admit that I have not yet found
myself in this predicament, at which Robin looks surprised, and slightly
disappointed.
Robert, the nurse, and I decide in conclave that the children shall be
sent to Bude for a fortnight with Nurse, and Mademoiselle given a holiday
in which to recover from her exertions. I am to join the Bude party when
doctor permits.
Robert goes to make this announcement to the nursery, and comes back with
fatal news that Mademoiselle is _blessée_, and that the more he asks
her to explain, the more monosyllabic she becomes. Am not allowed either
to see her or to write explanatory and soothing note and am far from
reassured by Vicky's report that Mademoiselle, bathing her, has wept, and
said that in England there are hearts of stone.
_May 12th._--Further interlude, this time owing to trouble with the
eyes. (No doubt concomitant of my Age, once again.) The children and
hospital nurse depart on the 9th, and I am left to gloomy period of total
inactivity and lack of occupation. Get up after a time and prowl about in
kind of semi-ecclesiastical darkness, further intensified by enormous
pair of tinted spectacles. One and only comfort is that I cannot see
myself in the glass. Two days ago, decide to make great effort and come
down for tea, but nearly relapse and go straight back to bed again at
sight of colossal demand for the Rates, confronting me on hall-stand
without so much as an envelope between us.
(_Mem_.: This sort of thing so very unlike picturesque convalescence
in a novel, when heroine is gladdened by sight of spring flowers,
sunshine, and what not. No mention ever made of Rates, or anything like
them.)
Miss the children very much and my chief companion is kitchen cat, a
hard-bitten animal with only three and a half legs and a reputation for
catching and eating a nightly average of three rabbits. We get on well
together until I have recourse to the piano, when he invariably yowls and
asks to be let out. On the whole, am obliged to admit that he is probably
right, for I have forgotten all I ever knew, and am reduced to playing
popular music by ear, which I do badly.
Dear Barbara sends me a book of Loopy Limericks, and Robert assures me
that I shall enjoy them later on. Personally, feel doubtful of surviving
many more days of this kind.
_May 13th._--Regrettable, but undeniable ray of amusement lightens
general murk on hearing report, through Robert, that Cousin Maud
Blenkinsop possesses a baby Austin, and has been seen running it all
round the parish with old Mrs. B., shawls and all, beside her. (It is
many years since Mrs. B. gave us all to understand that if she so much as
walked across the room unaided, she would certainly fall down dead.)
Cousin Maud, adds Robert thoughtfully, is not _his_ idea of a good
driver. He says no more, but I at once have dramatic visions of old Mrs.
B. flying over the nearest hedge, shawls waving in every direction, while
Cousin Maud and the baby Austin charge a steam-roller in a narrow lane.
Am sorry to record that this leads to hearty laughter on my part, after
which I feel better than for weeks past.
The doctor comes to see me, says that he _thinks_ my eyelashes will
grow again--(should have preferred something much more emphatic, but am
too much afraid of further reference to my age to insist)--and agrees to
my joining children at Bude next week. He also, reluctantly, and with an
air of suspicion, says that I may use my eyes for an hour every day,
unless pain ensues.
_May 15th._--Our Vicar's wife, hearing that I am no longer in
quarantine, comes to enliven me. Greet her with an enthusiasm to which
she must, I fear, be unaccustomed, as it appears to startle her.
Endeavour to explain it (perhaps a little tactlessly) by saying that I
have been alone so long...Robert out all day...children at Bude...and end
up with quotation to the effect that I never hear the sweet music of
speech, and start at the sound of my own. Can see by the way our Vicar's
wife receives this that she does not recognise it as a quotation, and
believes the measles to have affected my brain. (Query: Perhaps she is
right?) More normal atmosphere established by a plea from our Vicar's
wife that kitchen cat may be put out of the room. It is, she knows, very
foolish of her, but the presence of a cat makes her feel faint. Her
grandmother was exactly the same. Put a cat into the same room as her
grandmother, hidden under the sofa if you liked, and in two minutes the
grandmother would say: "I believe there's a cat in this room," and at
once turn queer. I hastily put kitchen cat out of the window, and we
agree that heredity is very odd.
And now, says our Vicar's wife, how am I? Before I can reply, she does so
for me, and says that she knows just how I feel. Weak as a rat, legs like
cotton-wool, no spine whatever, and head like a boiled owl. Am depressed
by this diagnosis, and begin to feel that it must be correct. However,
she adds, all will be different after a blow in the wind at Bude, and
meanwhile, she must tell me all the news.
She does so.
Incredible number of births, marriages, and deaths appear to have taken
place in the parish in the last four weeks; also Mrs. W. has dismissed
her cook and cannot get another one, our Vicar has written a letter about
Drains to the local paper and it has been put in, and Lady B. has been
seen in a new car. To this our Vicar's wife adds rhetorically: Why not an
aeroplane, she would like to know? (Why not, indeed?)
Finally a Committee Meeting has been held--at which, she interpolates
hastily I was much missed--and a Garden Fête arranged, in aid of funds
for Village Hall. It would be so nice, she adds optimistically, if the
Fête could be held _here_. I agree that it would, and stifle a
misgiving that Robert may not agree. In any case, he knows, and I know,
and our Vicar's wife knows, that Fete will have to take place here, as
there isn't anywhere else.
Tea is brought in--superior temporary's afternoon out, and Cook has, as
usual, carried out favourite labour-saving device of three sponge-cakes
and one bun jostling one another on the same plate--and we talk about
Barbara and Crosbie Carruthers, beekeeping, modern youth, and difficulty
of removing oil-stains from carpets. Have I, asks our Vicar's wife, read
_A Brass Hat in No Man's Land_? No, I have not. Then, she says,
_don't_, on any account. There are so many sad and shocking things
in life as it _is_, that writers should confine themselves to the
bright, the happy, and the beautiful. This the author of _A Brass
Hat_ has entirely failed to do. It subsequently turns out that our
Vicar's wife has not read the book herself, but that our Vicar has
skimmed it, and declared it to be very painful and unnecessary. (_Mem_.:
Put _Brass Hat_ down for _Times_ Book Club list, if not
already there.)
Our Vicar's wife suddenly discovers that it is six o'clock, exclaims that
she is shocked, and attempts _fausse sortie_, only to return with
urgent recommendation to me to try Valentine's Meat Juice, which once
practically, under Providence, saved our Vicar's uncle's life. Story of
the uncle's illness, convalescence, recovery, and subsequent death at the
age of eighty-one, follows. Am unable to resist telling her, in return,
about wonderful effect of Bemax on Mary Kell-way's youngest, and this
leads--curiously enough--to the novels of Anthony Trollope, death of the
Begum of Bhopal, and scenery in the Lake Country.
At twenty minutes to seven, our Vicar's wife is again shocked, and rushes
out of the house. She meets Robert on the doorstep and stops to tell him
that I am as thin as a rake, and a very bad colour, and the eyes, after
measles, often give rise to serious trouble. Robert, so far as I can
hear, makes no answer to any of it, and our Vicar's wife finally departs.
(Query here suggests itself: Is not silence frequently more efficacious
than the utmost eloquence? Answer probably yes. Must try to remember this
more often than I do.)
Second post brings a long letter from Mademoiselle, recuperating with
friends at Clacton-on-Sea, written, apparently, with a pin point dipped
in violet ink on thinnest imaginable paper, and crossed in every
direction. Decipher portions of it with great difficulty, but am relieved
to find that I am still "Bien-chère Madame" and that recent mysterious
affront has been condoned.
(_Mem_.: If Cook sends up jelly even once again, as being suitable
diet for convalescence, shall send it straight back to the kitchen.)
_May 16th._--But for disappointing children, should be much tempted
to abandon scheme for my complete restoration to health at Bude. Weather
icy cold, self feeble and more than inclined to feverishness, and
Mademoiselle, who was to have come with me, and helped with children, now
writes that she is _désolée_, but has developed _une angine_.
Do not know what this is, and have alarming thoughts about Angina
Pectoris, but dictionary reassures me. I say to Robert: "After all,
shouldn't I get well just as quickly at home?" He replies briefly:
"Better go," and I perceive that his mind is made up. After a moment he
suggests--but without real conviction--that I might like to invite our
Vicar's wife to come with me. I reply with a look only, and suggestion
falls to the ground.
A letter from Lady B. saying that she has only just heard about
measles--(Why only just, when news has been all over parish for weeks?)
and is so sorry, especially as measles are no joke at my age--(Can she be
in league with Doctor, who also used identical objectionable
expression?).--She cannot come herself to enquire, as with so many
visitors always coming and going it wouldn't be wise, but if I want
anything from the House, I am to telephone without hesitation. She has
given "her people" orders that anything I ask for is to be sent up. Have
a very good mind to telephone and ask for a pound of tea and Lady B.'s
pearl necklace--(Could Cleopatra be quoted as precedent here?)--and see
what happens.
Further demand for the Rates arrives, and Cook sends up jelly once more
for lunch. I offer it to Helen Wills, who gives one heave, and turns
away. Feel that this would more than justify me in sending down entire
dish untouched, but Cook will certainly give notice if I do, and cannot
face possibility. Interesting to note that although by this time all
Cook's jellies take away at sight what appetite measles have left me, am
more wholly revolted by emerald green variety than by yellow or red.
Should like to work out possible Freudian significance of this, but find
myself unable to concentrate.
Go to sleep in the afternoon, and awake sufficiently restored to do what
I have long contemplated and Go Through my clothes. Result so depressing
that I wish I had never done it. Have nothing fit to wear, and if I had,
should look like a scarecrow in it at present. Send off parcel with
knitted red cardigan, two evening dresses (much too short for present
mode), three out-of-date hats, and tweed skirt that bags at the knees, to
Mary Kellway's Jumble Sale, where she declares that _anything_ will
be welcome. Make out a list of all the new clothes I require, get
pleasantly excited about them, am again confronted with the Rates, and
put the list in the fire.
_May 17th._--Robert drives me to North Road station to catch train
for Bude. Temperature has fallen again, and I ask Robert if it is below
zero. He replies briefly and untruthfully that the day will get warmer as
it goes on, and no doubt Bude will be one blaze of sunshine. We arrive
early and sit on a bench on the platform next to a young woman with a
cough, who takes one look at me and then says: "Dreadful, isn't it?"
Cannot help feeling that she has summarised the whole situation quite
admirably. Robert hands me my ticket--he has handsomely offered to make
it first-class and I have refused--and gazes at me with rather strange
expression. At last he says: "You don't think you're going there to
_die_, do you?" Now that he suggests it, realise that I _do_
feel very like that, but summon up smile that I feel to be unconvincing
and make sprightly reference to Bishop, whose name I forget, coming to
lay his bones at place the name of which I cannot remember. All of it
appears to be Greek to Robert, and I leave him still trying to unravel
it. Journey ensues and proves chilly and exhausting. Rain lashes at the
windows, and every time carriage door opens--which is often--gust of icy
wind, mysteriously blowing in two opposite directions at once, goes up my
legs and down back of my neck. Have not told children by what train I am
arriving, so no one meets me, not even bus on which I had counted. Am,
however, secretly thankful, as this gives me an excuse for taking a taxi.
Reach lodgings at rather uninspiring hour of 2.45, too early for tea or
bed, which constitute present summit of my ambitions. Uproarious welcome
from children, both in blooming health and riotous spirits, makes up for
everything.
To be continued
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