THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY
PART 13
_August 8th._--Frightful afternoon, entirely filled by call from
Miss Pankerton, wearing hand-woven blue jumper, wider in front than at
the back, very short skirt, and wholly incredible small black béret. She
smokes cigarettes in immense holder, and sits astride the arm of the
sofa.
(_N.B._ Arm of the sofa not at all calculated to bear any such
strain, and creaks several times most alarmingly. Must remember to see if
anything can be done about it, and in any case manoeuvre Miss P. into
sitting elsewhere on subsequent visits, if any.)
Conversation very, very literary and academic, my own part in it being
mostly confined to saying that I haven't yet read it, and, It's down on
my library list, but hasn't come, so far. After what feels like some
hours of this, Miss P. becomes personal, and says that I strike her as
being a woman whose life has never known fulfilment. Have often thought
exactly the same thing myself, but this does not prevent my feeling
entirely furious with Miss P. for saying so. She either does not
perceive, or is indifferent to, my fury, as she goes on to ask accusingly
whether I realise that I have no _right_ to let myself become a
domestic beast of burden, with no interests beyond the nursery and the
kitchen. What, for instance, she demands rousingly, have I read within
the last two years? To this I reply weakly that I have read _Gentlemen
Prefer Blondes_, which is the only thing I seem able to remember, when
Robert and the tea enter simultaneously. Curious and difficult interlude
follows, in the course of which Miss P. talks about the N.U.E.C.--(Cannot
imagine what this is, but pretend to know all about it)--and the
situation in India, and Robert either says nothing at all, or contradicts
her very briefly and forcibly. Miss P. finally departs, saying that she
is determined to scrape all the barnacles off me before she has done with
me, and that I shall soon be seeing her again.
_August 9th._--The child Henry deposited by expensive-looking
parents in enormous red car, who dash away immediately, after one
contemptuous look at house, garden, self, and children. (Can understand
this, in a way, as they arrive sooner than expected, and Robin, Vicky,
and I are all equally untidy owing to prolonged game of Wild Beasts in
the garden.)
Henry unspeakably immaculate in grey flannel and red tie--but all is
discarded when parents have departed, and he rapidly assumes disreputable
appearance and loud, screeching tones of complete at-homeness. Robert,
for reasons unknown, appears unable to remember his name, and calls him
Francis. (Should like to trace connection of ideas, if any, but am
baffled.)
Both boys come down to dinner, and Henry astonishes us by pouring out
steady stream of information concerning speedboats, aeroplanes, and
submarines, from start to finish. Most informative. Am quite relieved,
after boys have gone to bed, to find him looking infantile in
blue-striped pyjamas, and asking to have door left open so that he can
see light in passage outside.
I go down to Robert and ask--not very straightforwardly, since I know the
answer only too well--if he would not like to take Mademoiselle, me, and
the children to spend long day at the sea next week. We might invite one
or two people to join us and have a picnic, say I with false optimism.
Robert looks horrified and says, Surely that isn't necessary? but after
some discussion, yields, on condition that weather is favourable.
(Should not be surprised to learn that he has been praying for rain ever
since.)
_August 10th._--See Miss Pankerton through Post Office window and
have serious thoughts of asking if I may just get under the counter for a
moment, or retire into back premises altogether, but am restrained by
presence of children, and also interesting story, embarked upon by
Postmistress, concerning extraordinary decision of Bench, last Monday
week, as to Separation Order applied for by Mrs. W. of the _Queen's
Head_. Just as we get to its being well known that Mr. W. once threw
hand-painted plate with view of Teignmouth right across the
bedroom--absolutely right across it, from end to end, says Postmistress
impressively--we are invaded by Miss P., accompanied by two sheep-dogs
and some leggy little boys.
Little boys turn out to be nephews, paying a visit, and are told to go
and make friends with Robin, Henry, and Vicky--at which all exchange
looks of blackest hatred, with regrettable exception of Vicky, who smirks
at the tallest nephew, who takes no notice. Miss P. pounces on Henry and
says to me Is this my boy, his eyes are so exactly like mine she'd have
known him anywhere. Nobody contradicts her, although I do not feel
pleased, as Henry, in my opinion, entirely undistinguished-looking child.
Postmistress--perhaps diplomatically--intervenes with, Did I say a
two-shilling book, she has them, but I usually take the three-shilling,
if I'll excuse her. I do excuse her, and explain that I only have two
shillings with me, and she says that doesn't matter at all and Harold
will take the other shilling when he calls for the letters. I agree to
all, and turn cast-iron deafness to Miss P. in background exclaiming that
this is Pure Hardy.
We all surge out of Post Office together, and youngest Pankerton nephew
suddenly remarks that at _his_ home the water once came through the
bathroom floor into the dining-room. Vicky says Oh, and all then become
silent again until Miss P. tells another nephew not to twist the
sheep-dog's tail like that, and the nephew, looking astonished, says in
return, Why not? to which Miss P. rejoins, Noel, that will _Do_.
_Mem_.: Amenities of conversation sometimes very curious, especially
where society of children is involved. Have sometimes wondered at what
stage of development the idea of continuity in talk begins to seem
desirable--but here, again, disquieting reflection follows that perhaps
this stage is never reached at all. Debate for an instant whether to put
the point to Miss Pankerton, but decide better not, and in any case, she
turns out to be talking about H. G. Wells, and do not like to interrupt.
Just as she is telling me that it is quite absurd to compare Wells with
Shaw--(which I have never thought of doing)--a Pankerton nephew and Henry
begin to kick one another on the shins, and have to be told that that is
Quite Enough. The Pankerton nephew is agitated and says, Tell him my name
_isn't_ Noah, it's Noel. This misunderstanding cleared up, but the
nephew remains Noah to his contemporaries, and is evidently destined to
do so for years to come, and Henry receives much applause as originator
of brilliant witticism.
Do not feel that Miss P. views any of it as being in the least amusing,
and in order to create a diversion, rush into an invitation to them all
to join projected picnic to the sea next week.
(Query: Would it not be instructive to examine closely exact motives
governing suggestions and invitations that bear outward appearance of
spontaneity? Answer: Instructive undoubtedly, but probably in many cases
painful, and--on second thoughts--shall embark on no such exercise.)
We part with Pankertons at the crossroads, but not before Miss P. has
accepted invitation to picnic, and added that her brother will be staying
with her then, and a dear friend who Writes, and that she hopes that will
not be too large a party. I say No, not at all, and feel that this
settles the question of buying another half-dozen picnic plates and
enamel mugs, and better throw in a new Thermos as well, otherwise not a
hope of things going round. That, says Miss P., will be delightful, and
shall they bring their own sandwiches?--at which I exclaim in horror, and
she says Really? and I say Really, with equal emphasis but quite
different inflection, and we part.
Robin says he does not know why I asked them to the picnic, and I stifle
impulse to reply that neither do I, and Henry tells me all about
hydraulic lifts.
Send children upstairs to wash for lunch, and call out several times that
they must hurry up or they will be late, but am annoyed when gong,
eventually, is sounded by Gladys nearly ten minutes after appointed hour.
Cannot decide whether I shall, or shall not, speak about this, and am
preoccupied all through roast lamb and mint sauce, but forget about it
when fruit-salad is reached, as Cook has disastrously omitted banana and
put in loganberries.
_August 13th._--I tell Cook about the picnic lunch--for about ten
people, say I--which sounds less than if I just said "ten" straight
out--but she is not taken in by this, and at once declares that there
isn't anything to make sandwiches of, that she can see, and butcher won't
be calling till the day after tomorrow, and then it'll be scrag-end for
Irish stew. I perceive that the moment has come for taking up absolutely
firm stand with Cook, and surprise us both by suddenly saying Nonsense,
she must order chicken from farm, and have it cold for sandwiches. It
won't go round, Cook protests--but feebly--and I pursue advantage and
advocate supplementary potted meat and hard-boiled eggs. Cook utterly
vanquished, and I leave kitchen triumphant, but am met in the passage
outside by Vicky, who asks in clarion tones (easily audible in kitchen
and beyond) if I know that I threw cigarette-end into drawing-room grate,
and that it has lit the fire all by itself?
_August 15th._--Picnic takes place under singular and rather
disastrous conditions, day not beginning well owing to Robin and Henry
having strange overnight inspiration about sleeping out in summer-house,
which is prepared for them with much elaboration by Mademoiselle and
myself--even to crowning touch from Mademoiselle of small vase of flowers
on table. At 2 A.M. they decide that they wish to come in, and do so
through study window left open for them. Henry involves himself in
several blankets, which he tries to carry upstairs, and trips and falls
down, and Robin knocks over hall-stool, and treads on Helen Wills.
Robert and myself are roused, and Robert is not pleased. Mademoiselle
appears on landing in _peignoir_ and with head swathed in little
grey shawl, but screams at the sight of Robert in pyjamas, and rushes
away again. (The French undoubtedly very curious mixture of modesty and
the reverse.)
Henry and Robin show tendency to become explanatory, but are discouraged,
and put into beds. Just as I return down passage to my room, sounds
indicate that Vicky has now awakened, and is automatically opening
campaign by saying Can't I come too? Instinct--unclassified, but
evidently stronger than maternal one--bids me leave Mademoiselle to deal
with this, which I unhesitatingly do.
Get into bed again, feeling that the day has not opened very well, but
sleep off and on until Gladys calls me--ten minutes late--but do not say
anything about her unpunctuality, as Robert does not appear to have
noticed it.
Sky is grey, but not necessarily threatening, and glass has not fallen
unreasonably. All is in readiness when Miss Pankerton (wearing Burberry,
green knitted cap, and immense yellow gloves) appears in large Ford car
which brims over with nephews, sheep-dogs, and a couple of men. Latter
resolve themselves into the Pankerton brother--who turns out to be from
Vancouver--and the friend who Writes--very tall and pale, and is
addressed by Miss P. in a proprietary manner as "Jahsper".
(Something tells me that Robert and Jahsper are not going to care about
one another.)
After customary preliminaries about weather, much time is spent in
discussing arrangements in cars. All the children show tendency to wish
to sit with their own relations rather than anybody else, except Henry,
who says simply that the hired car looks much the best, and may he sit in
front with the driver, please. All is greatly complicated by presence of
the sheep-dogs, and Robert offers to shut them into an outhouse for the
day, but Miss Pankerton replies that this would break their hearts, bless
them, and they can just pop down anywhere amongst the baskets. (In actual
fact, both eventually pop down on Mademoiselle's feet, and she looks
despairing, and presently ask if I have by any chance a little bottle of
eau-de-Cologne with me--which I naturally haven't.)
Picnic baskets, as usual, weigh incredible amount, and Thermos flasks
stick up at inconvenient angles and run into our legs. (I quote "John
Gilpin", rather aptly, but nobody pays any attention.)
When we have driven about ten miles, rain begins, and goes on and on.
Cars are stopped, and we find that two schools of thought exist, one--of
which Miss P. is leader--declaring that we are Running out of It, and the
other--headed by the Vancouver brother and heavily backed by Robert--that
we are Running into It. Miss P.--as might have been expected--wins, and
we proceed; but Run into It more and more. By the time destination is
reached, we have Run into It to an extent that makes me wonder if we
shall ever Run out of It.
Lunch has to be eaten in three bathing huts, hired by Robert, and the
children become hilarious and fidgety. Miss P. talks about Companionate
Marriage to Robert, who makes no answer, and Jahsper asks me what I think
of James Elroy Flecker. As I cannot remember exact form of J. E. F.'s
activities, I merely reply that in many ways he was very wonderful--which
no doubt he was--and Jahsper seems satisfied, and eats tomato sandwiches.
The children ask riddles--mostly very old and foolish ones--and Miss P.
looks annoyed, and says See if it has stopped raining--which it hasn't. I
feel that she and the children must, at all costs, be kept apart, and
tell Robert in urgent whisper that, rain or no rain, they must go out.
They do.
Miss Pankerton becomes expansive, and suddenly remarks to Jahsper that
_Now_ he can see what she meant, about positively Victorian
survivals still to be found in English family life. At this, Vancouver
brother looks aghast--as well he may--and dashes out into the wet.
Jahsper says Yerse, Yerse, and sighs, and I at once institute vigorous
search for missing plate, which creates a diversion.
Subsequently the children bathe, get wetter than ever, drip all over the
place, and are dried--Mademoiselle predicts death from pneumonia for
all--and we seek the cars once more. One sheep-dog is missing, but
eventually recovered in soaking condition, and is gathered on to united
laps of Vicky, Henry, and a nephew. I lack energy to protest, and we
drive away.
Beg Miss P., Jahsper, brother, nephews, sheep-dogs, and all, to come in
and get dry and have tea, but they have the decency to refuse, and I make
no further effort, but watch them depart with untold thankfulness.
(Should be sorry to think impulses of hospitality almost entirely
dependent on convenience, but cannot altogether escape suspicion that
this is so.)
Robert extremely forbearing on the whole, and says nothing worse than
Well!--but this very expressively.
_August 16th._--Robert, at breakfast, suddenly enquires if that
nasty-looking fellow does anything for a living? Instinct at once tells
me that he means Jahsper, but am unable to give him any information,
except that Jahsper writes, which Robert does not appear to think is to
his credit. He goes so far as to say that he hopes yesterday's rain may
put an end to him altogether--but whether this means to his presence in
the neighbourhood, or to his existence on this planet, am by no means
certain, and prefer not to enquire. Ask Robert instead if he did not
think, yesterday, about Miss Edgeworth, Rosamond, and the Party of
Pleasure, but this wakens no response, and conversation--such as it
is--descends once more to level of slight bitterness about the coffee,
and utter inability to get really satisfactory bacon locally. This is
only brought to a close by abrupt entrance of Robin, who remarks without
preliminary: "Isn't Helen Wills going to have kittens almost at once?
Cook thinks so."
Can only hope that Robin does not catch exact wording of short
ejaculation with which his father receives this.
_August 18th._--Pouring rain, and I agree to let all three children
dress up, and give them handsome selection from my wardrobe for the
purpose. This ensures me brief half-hour uninterrupted at writing-table,
where I deal with baker--brown bread far from satisfactory--Rose--on a
picture-postcard of Backs at Cambridge, which mysteriously appears
amongst stationery--Robin's Headmaster's wife--mostly about stockings,
but Boxing may be substituted for Dancing, in future--and Lady Frobisher,
who would be so delighted if Robert and I would come over for tea whilst
there is still something to be seen in the garden. (Do not like to write
back and say that I would far rather come when there is nothing to be
seen in the garden, and we might enjoy excellent tea in peace--so, as
usual, sacrifice truth to demands of civilisation.)
Just as I decide to tackle large square envelope of thin blue paper, with
curious purple lining designed to defeat anyone endeavouring to read
letter within--which would anyhow be impossible, as Barbara Carruthers
always most illegible--front door bell rings.
Thoughts immediately fly to Lady B., and I rapidly rehearse references
that I intend to make to recent stay in South of France--(shall not
specify length of visit)--and cordial relations there established with
distinguished society, and Rose's Viscountess in particular. Have also
sufficient presence of mind to make use of pocket comb, mirror, and small
powder-puff kept for emergencies in drawer of writing-table. (Discover,
much later, that I have overdone powder-puff very considerably, and
reflect, not for the first time, that we are spared much by inability--so
misguidedly deplored by Scottish poet--to see ourselves as others see
us.)
Door opens, and Miss Pankerton is shown in, followed--it seems to me
reluctantly--by Jahsper. Miss P. has on military-looking cape, and béret
as before, which strikes me as odd combination, and anyhow cape looks to
me as though it might drip rain-drops on furniture, and I beg her to take
it off. This she does with rather spacious gesture--(Can she have been
seeing _The Three Musketeers_ at local cinema?)--and unfortunately
one end of it, apparently heavily weighted, hits Jahsper in the eye. Miss
P. is very breezy and off-hand about this, but Jahsper, evidently in
severe pain, falls into deep dejection, and continues to hold large
yellow crêpe-de-chine handkerchief to injured eye for some time. Am
distracted by wondering whether I ought to ask him if he would like to
bathe it--which would involve taking him up to bathroom, probably
untidy--and trying to listen intelligently to Miss P., who is talking
about Proust.
This leads, by process that I do not follow, to a discussion on Christian
names, and Miss P. says that All Flower Names are Absurd. Am horrified to
hear myself replying, senselessly, that I think Rose is a pretty name, as
one of my greatest friends is called Rose--to which Miss P. rightly
answers that that, really, has nothing to do with it, and Jahsper, still
dabbing at injured eye, contributes austere statement to the effect that
only the Russians really understand Beauty in Nomenclature. Am again
horrified at hearing myself interject "_Ivan Ivanovitch_" in
entirely detached and irrelevant manner, and really begin to wonder if
mental weakness is overtaking me. Moreover, am certain that I have given
Miss P. direct lead in the direction of Dostoeffsky, about whom I do not
wish to hear, and am altogether unable to converse.
Entire situation is, however, revolutionised by totally unexpected
entrance of Robin--staggering beneath my fur coat and last summer's red
crinoline straw hat--Henry, draped in blue kimono, several scarfs
belonging to Mademoiselle, old pair of fur gloves, with scarlet
school-cap inappropriately crowning all--and Vicky, wearing nothing
whatever but small pair of green silk knickerbockers and large and
unfamiliar black felt hat put on at rakish angle.
Completely stunned silence overtakes us all, until Vicky, advancing with
perfect aplomb, graciously says, "How do you do?" and shakes hands with
Jahsper and Miss P. in turn, and I succeed in surpassing already
well-established record for utter futility,, by remarking that They have
been Dressing Up.
Atmosphere becomes very, very strained indeed, only Vicky embarking on
sprightly reminiscences of recent picnic, which meet with no response.
Final depths of unsuccess are plumbed, when it transpires that Vicky's
black sombrero, picked up in the hall, is in reality the property of
Jahsper. I apologise profusely, the children giggle, Miss P. raises her
eyebrows to quite unnatural heights, and gets up and looks at the
book-shelves in a remote and superior way, and Jahsper says, Oh, never
mind, it really is of no consequence, at the same time receiving hat with
profound solicitude, and dusting it with two fingers.
Greatest possible relief when Miss P. declares that they must go,
otherwise they will miss the Brahms Concerto on the wireless. I hastily
agree that this would never do, and tell Robin to open the door. Just as
we all cross the hall, Gladys is inspired to sound the gong for tea, and
I am compelled to say, Won't they stay and have some? but Miss P. says
she never takes anything at all between lunch and dinner, thanks, and
Jahsper pretends he hasn't heard me and makes no reply whatever.
They march out into pouring rain, Miss P. once more giving martial fling
to military cape--(at which Jahsper flinches, and removes himself some
yards away from her)--and entirely disdaining small and elegant umbrella
beneath which Jahsper and his black felt take refuge. Robin enquires, in
tones of marked distaste, if I _like_ those people? but I feel it
better to ignore this, and recommend getting washed for tea. Customary
discussion follows as to whether washing is, or is not, necessary.
(_Mem_.: Have sometimes considered--though idly--writing letter to
the _Times_ to find out if any recorded instances exist of parents
and children whose views on this subject coincide. Topic of far wider
appeal than many of those so exhaustively dealt with.)
To be continued
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