THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY
PART 9
_May 19th._--Recovery definitely in sight, although almost certainly
retarded by landlady's inspiration of sending up a nice jelly for supper
on evening of arrival. Rooms reasonably comfortable--(except for extreme
cold, which is, says landlady, quite unheard-of at this or any other time
of year)--all is linoleum, pink and gold china, and enlarged photographs
of females in lace collars and males with long moustaches and bow ties.
Robin, Vicky, and the hospital nurse--retained at vast expense as a
temporary substitute for Mademoiselle--have apparently braved the weather
and spent much time on the Breakwater. Vicky has also made friends with a
little dog, whose name she alleges to be "Baby", a gentleman who sells
papers, another gentleman who drives about in a Sunbeam, and the head
waiter from the Hotel. I tell her about Mademoiselle's illness, and after
a silence she says "Oh!" in tones of brassy indifference, and resumes
topic of little dog "Baby". Robin, from whom I cannot help hoping better
things, makes no comment except "Is she?" and immediately adds a request
for a banana.
(_Mem_.: Would it not be possible to write more domesticated and
less foreign version of _High Wind in Jamaica_, featuring
extraordinary callousness of infancy?) Can distinctly recollect heated
correspondence in _Time and Tide_ regarding _vraisemblance_ or
otherwise of Jamaica children, and now range myself, decidedly and for
ever, on the side of the author. Can quite believe that dear Vicky would
murder any number of sailors, if necessary.
_May 23rd._--Sudden warm afternoon, children take off their shoes
and dash into pools, landlady says that it's often like this On the.
_last_ day of a visit to the sea, she's noticed, and I take brisk
walk over the cliffs, wearing thick tweed coat, and really begin to feel
quite warm at the end of an hour. Pack suit-case after children are in
bed, register resolution never to let stewed prunes and custard form part
of any meal ever again as long as I live, and thankfully write postcard
to Robert, announcing time of our arrival at home to-morrow.
_May 28th._--Mademoiselle returns, and is greeted with
enthusiasm--to my great relief. (Robin and Vicky perhaps less like
Jamaica children than I had feared.) She has on new black and white check
skirt, white blouse with frills, black kid gloves, embroidered in white
on the backs, and black straw hat almost entirely covered in purple
violets, and informs me that the whole outfit was made by herself at a
total cost of one pound, nine shillings, and fourpence-halfpenny. The
French undoubtedly thrifty, and gifted in using a needle, but cannot
altogether stifle conviction that a shade less economy might have
produced better results.
She presents me, in the kindest way, with a present in the shape of two
blue glass flower-vases, of spiral construction, and adorned with gilt
knobs at many unexpected points. Vicky receives a large artificial-silk
red rose, which she fortunately appears to admire, and Robin a small
affair in wire that is intended, says Mademoiselle, to extract the stones
out of cherries.
(_Mem_.: Interesting to ascertain number of these ingenious
contrivances sold in a year.)
Am privately rather overcome by Mademoiselle's generosity, and wish that
we could reach the level of the French in what they themselves describe
as _petits soins_. Place the glass vases in conspicuous position on
dining-room mantelpiece, and am fortunately just in time to stem comment
which I see rising to Robert's lips when he sits down to midday meal and
perceives them.
After lunch, Robin is motored back to school by his father, and I examine
Vicky's summer wardrobe with Mademoiselle, and find that she has outgrown
everything she has in the world.
_May 30th._--Arrival of _Time and Tide_, find that I have been
awarded half of second prize for charming little effort that in my
opinion deserves better. Robert's attempt receives an honourable mention.
Recognise pseudonym of first-prize winner as being that adopted by Mary
Kellway. Should like to think that generous satisfaction envelops me, at
dear friend's success, but am not sure. This week's competition announces
itself as a Triolet--literary form that I cannot endure, and rules of
which I am totally unable to master.
Receive telephone invitation to lunch with the Frobishers on Sunday. I
accept, less because I want to see them than because a change from
domestic roast beef and gooseberry-tart always pleasant; moreover,
absence makes work lighter for the servants. (_Mem_.: Candid and
intelligent self-examination as to motive, etc., often leads to very
distressing revelations.)
Constrained by conscience, and recollection of promise to Barbara, to go
and call on old Mrs. Blenkinsop. Receive many kind enquiries in village
as to my complete recovery from measles, but observe singular tendency on
part of everybody else to treat this very serious affliction as a joke.
Find old Mrs. B.'s cottage in unheard-of condition of hygienic
ventilation, no doubt attributable to Cousin Maud. Windows all wide open,
and casement curtains flapping in every direction, very cold east wind
more than noticeable. Mrs. B.--(surely fewer shawls than
formerly?)--sitting quite close to open window, and not far from equally
open door, seems to have turned curious shade of pale-blue, and shows
tendency to shiver. Room smells strongly of furniture polish and
black-lead. Fireplace, indeed, exhibits recent handsome application of
the latter, and has evidently not held fire for days past. Old Mrs. B.
more silent than of old, and makes no reference to silver linings and the
like. (Can spirit of optimism have been blown away by living in continual
severe draught?) Cousin Maud comes in almost immediately. Have met her
once before, and say so, but she makes it clear that this encounter left
no impression, and has entirely escaped her memory. Am convinced that
Cousin Maud is one of those people who pride themselves on always
speaking the truth. She is wearing brick-red sweater--feel sure she
knitted it herself--tweed skirt, longer at the back than in front--and
large row of pearl beads. Has very hearty and emphatic manner, and uses
many slang expressions.
I ask for news of Barbara, and Mrs. B.--(voice a mere bleat, by
comparison with Cousin Maud's)--says that the dear child will be coming
down once more before she sails, and that continued partings are the lot
of the Aged, and to be expected. I begin to hope that she is approaching
her old form, but all is stopped by Cousin Maud, who shouts out that
we're not to talk Rot, and it's a jolly good thing Barbara has got Off
the Hooks at last, poor old girl. We then talk about golf handicaps,
Roedean--Cousin Maud's dear old school--and the baby Austin. More
accurate statement would perhaps be that Cousin Maud talks, and we
listen. No sign of _Life of Disraeli_, or any other literary
activities, such as old Mrs. B. used to be surrounded by, and do not like
to enquire what she now does with her time. Disquieting suspicion that
this is probably settled for her, without reference to her wishes.
Take my leave feeling depressed. Old Mrs. B. rolls her eyes at me as I
say goodbye, and mutters something about not being here much longer, but
this is drowned by hearty laughter from Cousin Maud, who declares that
she is Nothing but an Old Humbug and will See Us All Out.
Am escorted to the front gate by Cousin Maud, who tells me what a topping
thing it is for old Mrs. B. to be taken out of herself a bit, and asks if
it isn't good to be Alive on a bracing day like this? Should like to
reply that it would be far better for some of us to be dead, in my
opinion, but spirit for this repartee fails me, and I weakly reply that I
know what she means. I go away before she has time to slap me on the
back, which I feel certain will be the next thing.
Had had in mind amiable scheme for writing to Barbara to-night to tell
her that old Mrs. B. is quite wonderful, and showing no signs of
depression, but this cannot now be done, and after much thought, do not
write at all, but instead spend the evening trying to reconcile grave
discrepancy between account-book, counterfoils of cheque-book, and rather
unsympathetically worded communication from the Bank.
_June 1st._--Sunday lunch with the Frobishers, and four guests
staying in the house with them--introduced as, apparently, Colonel and
Mrs. Brightpie--(which seems impossible)--Sir William Reddieor Ready, or
Reddy, or perhaps even Reddeigh--and My sister Violet. Latter quite
astonishingly pretty, and wearing admirable flowered tussore that I, as
usual, mentally try upon myself, only to realise that it would
undoubtedly suggest melancholy saying concerning mutton dressed as lamb.
The Colonel sits next to me at lunch, and we talk about fishing, which I
have never attempted, and look upon as cruelty to animals, but this, with
undoubted hypocrisy and moral cowardice, I conceal. Robert has My sister
Violet, and I hear him at intervals telling her about the pigs, which
seems odd, but she looks pleased, so perhaps is interested.
Conversation suddenly becomes general, as topic of present-day Dentistry
is introduced by Lady F. We all, except Robert, who eats bread, have much
to say.
(_Mem_.: Remember to direct conversation into similar channel, when
customary periodical deathly silence descends upon guests at my own
table.)
Weather is wet and cold, and had confidently hoped to escape tour of the
garden, but this is not to be, and directly lunch is over we rush out
into the damp. Boughs drip on to our heads and water squelches beneath
our feet, but rhododendrons and lupins undoubtedly very magnificent, and
references to Ruth Draper not more numerous than usual. I find myself
walking with Mrs. Brightpie (?), who evidently knows all that can be
known about a garden. Fortunately she is prepared to originate all the
comments herself, and I need only say, "Yes, isn't that an attractive
variety?" and so on. She enquires once if I have _ever_ succeeded in
making the dear blue Grandiflora Magnifica Superbiensis--(or something
like that)--feel really happy and at home in this climate? to which I am
able to reply with absolute truth by a simple negative, at which I fancy
she looks rather relieved. Is her own life perhaps one long struggle to
acclimatise the G. M. S.? and what would she have replied if I had said
that, in _my_ garden, the dear thing grew like a weed?
(_Mem_.: Must beware of growing tendency to indulge in similar idle
speculations, which lead nowhere, and probably often give me the
appearance of being absentminded in the society of my fellow-creatures.)
After prolonged inspection, we retrace steps, and this time find myself
with Sir William R. and Lady F. talking about grass. Realise with horror
that we are now making our way towards the _stables_. Nothing
whatever to be done about it, except keep as far away from the horses as
possible, and refrain from any comment whatever, in hopes of concealing
that I know nothing about horses except that they frighten me. Robert, I
notice, looks sorry for me, and places himself between me and
terrifying-looking animal that glares out at me from loose-box and curls
up its lip. Feel grateful to him, and eventually leave stables with
shattered nerves and soaking wet shoes. Exchange customary graceful
farewells with host and hostess, saying how much I have enjoyed coming.
(Query here suggests itself, as often before: Is it utterly impossible to
combine the amenities of civilisation with even the minimum of honesty
required to satisfy the voice of conscience? Answer still in abeyance at
present.)
Robert goes to Evening Service, and I play Halma with Vicky. She says
that she wants to go to school, and produces string of excellent reasons
why she should do so. I say that I will think it over, but am aware, by
previous experience, that Vicky has almost miraculous aptitude for
getting her own way, and will probably succeed in this instance as in
others.
Rather depressing Sunday supper--cold beef, baked potatoes, salad, and
depleted cold tart--after which I write to Rose, the Cleaners, the Army
and Navy Stores, and the County Secretary of the Women's Institute, and
Robert goes to sleep over the _Sunday Pictorial_.
_June 3rd._--Astounding and enchanting change in the weather, which
becomes warm. I carry chair, writing-materials, rug, and cushion into the
garden, but am called in to have a look at the Pantry Sink, please, as it
seems to have blocked itself up. Attempted return to garden frustrated by
arrival of note from the village concerning Garden Fete arrangements,
which requires immediate answer, necessity for speaking to the butcher on
the telephone, and sudden realisation that Laundry List hasn't yet been
made out, and the Van will be here at eleven. When it does come, I have
to speak about the tablecloths, which leads--do not know how--to long
conversation about the Derby, the Van speaking highly of an
outsider--_Trews_--whilst I uphold the chances of _Silver
Flare_--(mainly because I like the name).
Shortly after this, Mrs. S. arrives from the village, to collect jumble
for Garden Fête, which takes time. After lunch, sky clouds over, and
Mademoiselle and Vicky kindly help me to carry chair, writing-materials,
rug, and cushion into the house again.
Robert receives letter by second post announcing death of his godfather,
aged ninety-seven, and decides to go to the funeral on 5th June.
(_Mem_.: Curious, but authenticated fact, that a funeral is the only
gathering to which the majority of men ever go willingly. Should like to
think out why this should be so, but must instead unearth top-hat and
other accoutrements of woe and try if open air will remove smell of
naphthaline.)
_June 7th._--Receive letter--(Why, in Heaven's name, not
telegram?)--from Robert, to announce that godfather has left him Five
Hundred Pounds. This strikes me as so utterly incredible and magnificent
that I shed tears of pure relief and satisfaction. Mademoiselle comes in,
in the midst of them, and on receiving explanation kisses me on both
cheeks and exclaims: "Ah, je m'en doutais! Voilá bien ce bon Saint
Antoine!" Can only draw conclusion that she has, most touchingly, been
petitioning Heaven on our behalf, and very nearly weep again at the
thought. Spend joyful evening making out lists of bills to be paid,
jewellery to be redeemed, friends to be benefited, and purchases to be
made, out of legacy, and am only slightly disconcerted on finding that
net total of lists, when added together, comes to exactly one thousand
three hundred and twenty pounds.
_June 9th._--Return, yesterday, of Robert, and have every reason to
believe that, though neither talkative nor exuberant, he fully
appreciates newly achieved stability of financial position. He warmly
concurs in my suggestion that great-aunt's diamond ring should be
retrieved from Plymouth pawnbroker's in time to figure at our next
excitement, which is the Garden Fete, and I accordingly hasten to
Plymouth by earliest available bus.
Not only do I return with ring--(pawnbroker, after a glance at the
calendar, congratulates me on being just in time)--but have also
purchased new hat for myself, many yards of material for Vicky's frocks,
a Hornby train for Robin, several gramophone records, and a small mauve
bag for Mademoiselle. All give the utmost satisfaction, and I furthermore
arrange to have hot lobster and fruit salad for dinner--these, however,
not a great success with Robert, unfortunately, and he suggests--though
kindly--that I was perhaps thinking more of my own tastes than of his,
when devising this form of celebration. Must regretfully acknowledge
truth in this. Discussion of godfather's legacy fills the evening
happily, and I say that we ought to give a Party, and suggest combining
it with Garden Fete. Robert replies, however,--and on further reflection
find that I agree with him--that this would not conduce to the success of
either entertainment, and scheme is abandoned. He also begs me to get
Garden Fête over before I begin to think of anything else, and I agree to
do so.
_June 12th._--Nothing is spoken of but weather, at the moment
propitious--but who can say whether similar conditions will prevail on
17th?--relative merits of having the Tea laid under the oak trees or near
the tennis-court, outside price that can be reasonably asked for articles
on Jumble Stall, desirability of having Ice-cream combined with Lemonade
Stall, and the like. Date fortunately coincides with Robin's half-term,
and I feel that he must and shall come home for the occasion. Expense, as
I point out to Robert, now nothing to us. He yields. I become reckless,
have thoughts of a House-party, and invite Rose to come down from London.
She accepts.
Dear old school-friend Cissie Crabbe, by strange coincidence, writes that
she will be on her way to Land's End on 16th June; may she stay for two
nights? Yes, she may. Robert does not seem pleased when I explain that he
will have to vacate his dressing-room for Cissie Crabbe, as Rose will be
occupying spare bedroom, and Robin at home. This will complete
House-party.
To be continued
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