THE DIARY OF A PROVINCIAL LADY
PART 14
August 25th._--Am displeased by Messrs. R. Sydenham, who have
besought me, in urgently worded little booklet, to Order Bulbs Early, and
when I do so--at no little inconvenience, owing to customary pressure of
holidays--reply on a postcard that order will be forwarded "when ready".
Have serious thoughts of cancelling the whole thing--six selected, twelve
paper-whites, a dozen early assorteds, and a half bushel of Fibre, Moss,
and Charcoal. Cannot very well do this, however, owing to quite recent
purchase of coloured bowls from Woolworth's, as being desirable additions
to existing collection of odd pots, dented enamel basins, large red glass
jam-dish, and dear grandmamma's disused willow-pattern foot-bath.
Departure of the boy Henry--who says that he has enjoyed himself, which I
hope is true--accompanied by Robin, who is to be met and extracted from
train at Salisbury by uncle of boy with whom he is to stay.
(Query: How is it that others are so frequently able to obtain services
of this nature from their relations? Feel no conviction that either
William or Angela would react favourably, if called upon to meet
unknown children at Salisbury or anywhere else.)
Vicky, Mademoiselle, and I wave goodbye from hall door--rain pouring down
as usual--and Vicky seems a thought depressed at remaining behind. This
tendency greatly enhanced by Mademoiselle's exclamation, on retiring into
the house once more--"On dirait un tombeaul"
Second post brings letter from Barbara in the Himalayas, which gives me
severe shock of realising that I haven't yet read her last one, owing to
lack of time and general impression that it is illegibly scrawled and
full of allusions to native servants. Remorsefully open this one,
perceive with relief that it is quite short and contains nothing that
looks like native servants, but very interesting piece of information,
rather circuitously worded by dear Barbara, but still quite beyond
misunderstanding. I tell Mademoiselle, who says "Ah, comme c'est
touchant!" and at once wipes her eyes--display which I think excessive.
Robert, to whom I also impart news, goes to the other extreme, and makes
no comment except "I daresay". On the other hand, our Vicar's wife calls,
for the express purpose of asking whether I think it will be a boy or a
girl, and of suggesting that we should at once go together and
congratulate old Mrs. Blenkinsop. I remind her that Barbara stipulates in
letter for secrecy, and our Vicar's wife says, Of course, of course--it
had slipped her memory for the moment--but surely old Mrs. B. must know
all about it? However, she concedes that dear Barbara may perhaps not
wish her mother to know that we know, just yet, and concludes with
involved quotation from Thomas a Kempis about exercise of discretion. We
then discuss educational facilities in the Himalayas, the Carruthers
nose--which neither of us cares about--and the desirability or otherwise
of having twins. Our Vicar's wife refuses tea, talks about books--she
likes to have something _solid_ in hand, always--is reminded of Miss
Pinkerton, about whom she is doubtful, but admits that it is early days
to judge--again refuses tea, and assures me that she must go. She
eventually stays to tea, and walks up and down the lawn with me
afterwards, telling me of Lady B.'s outrageous behaviour in connection
with purchase of proposed site for the Village Hall. This, as usual,
serves to unite us in warm friendship, and we part cordially.
_August 28th._--Picnic, and Cook forgets to put in the sugar.
Postcard from Robin's hostess says that he has arrived, but adds nothing
as to his behaviour, or impression that he is making, which makes me feel
anxious.
_August 31st._--Read _The Edwardians_ which everybody else has
read months ago--and am delighted and amused. Remember that V.
Sackville-West and I once attended dancing classes together at the Albert
Hall, many years ago, but feel that if I do mention this, everybody will
think I am boasting--which indeed I should be--so better forget about it
again, and in any case, dancing never my strongest point, and performance
at Albert Hall extremely mediocre and may well be left in oblivion. Short
letter from Robin which I am very glad to get, but which refers to
nothing whatever except animals at home, and project for going out in a
boat and diving from it on some unspecified future occasion. Reply to
all, and am too modern to beg tiresomely for information concerning
himself.
_September 1st._--Postcard from the station announces arrival of
parcel, that I at once identify as bulbs, with accompanying Fibre, Moss,
and Charcoal mixture. Suggest that Robert should fetch them this
afternoon, but he is unenthusiastic, and says tomorrow, when he will be
meeting Robin and school-friend, will do quite well.
(_Mem_.: Very marked difference between the sexes is male tendency
to procrastinate doing practically everything in the world except sitting
down to meals and going up to bed. Should like to purchase little painted
motto: _Do it now_, so often on sale at inferior stationers' shops,
and present it to Robert, but on second thoughts quite see that this
would not conduce to domestic harmony, and abandon scheme at once.)
Think seriously about bulbs, and spread sheets of newspaper on attic
floor to receive them and bowls. Resolve also to keep careful record of
all operations, with eventual results, for future guidance. Look out
notebook for the purpose, and find small green booklet, with mysterious
references of which I can make neither head nor tail, in own handwriting
on two first pages. Spend some time in trying to decide what I could have
meant by: Kp. p. in sh. twice p. w. _without_ fail or: Tell H.
_not_ 12" by 8" Washable f.c. to be g'd, but eventually give it up,
and tear out two first pages of little green book, and write BULBS and
to-morrow's date in capital letters.
_September 2nd._--Robert brings home Robin, and friend called Micky
Thompson, from station, but has unfortunately forgotten to call for the
bulbs. Micky Thompson is attractive and shows enchanting dimple whenever
he smiles, which is often.
(_Mem_.: Theory that mothers think their own children superior to
any others Absolute Nonsense. Can see only too plainly that Micky easily
surpasses Robin and Vicky in looks, charm, and good manners--and am very
much annoyed about it.)
_September 4th._--Micky Thompson continues to show himself as
charming child, with cheerful disposition, good manners, and excellent
health. Enquiry reveals that he is an orphan, which does not surprise me
in the least. Have often noticed that absence of parental solicitude
usually very beneficial to offspring. Bulbs still at station.
_September 10th._--Unbroken succession of picnics, bathing
expeditions, and drives to Plymouth Cafe in search of ices. Mademoiselle
continually predicts catastrophes to digestions, lungs, or even
brains--but none materialise.
_September 11th._--Departure of Micky Thompson, but am less
concerned with this than with Robert's return from station, this time
accompanied by bulbs and half-bushel of Fibre, Moss, and Charcoal. Devote
entire afternoon to planting these, with much advice from Vicky and
Robin, and enter full details of transaction in little green book.
Prepare to carry all, with utmost care, into furthest and darkest recess
of attic, when Vicky suddenly announces that Helen Wills is there
already, with six bran-new kittens.
Great excitement follows, which I am obliged to suggest had better be
modified before Daddy enquires into its cause. Children agree to this,
but feel very little confidence in their discretion. Am obliged to leave
bulbs in secondary corner of attic, owing to humane scruples about
disturbing H. Wills and family.
_September 20th._--Letter from County Secretary of adjoining County,
telling me that she knows how busy I am--which I'm certain she
doesn't--but Women's Institutes of Chick, Little March, and Crimpington
find themselves in terrible difficulty owing to uncertainty about next
month's speaker. Involved fragments about son coming, or not coming, home
on leave from Patagonia, and daughter ill--but not dangerously--at
Bromley, Kent--follow. President is away--(further fragment, about
President being obliged to visit aged relative while aged relative's maid
is on holiday)--and County Secretary does not know what to do. What she
does do, however, is to suggest that I should be prepared to come and
speak at all three Institute meetings, if--as she rather strangely puts
it--the worst comes to the worst. Separate half-sheet of paper gives
details about dates, times, and bus between Chick and Little March,
leading on to doctor's sister's two-seater, at cross-roads between Little
March and Crimpington Hill. At Crimpington, County Secretary concludes
triumphantly, I shall be put up for the night by Lady Magdalen
Crimp--always so kind, and such a friend to the Movement--at Crimpington
Hall. P.S. Travel talks always popular, but anything I like will be
delightful. Chick very keen about Folk Lore, Little March more on the
Handicraft side. _But anything I like._ P.P.S. Would I be so kind as
to judge Recitation Competition at Crimpington?
I think this over for some time, and decide to write and say that I will
do it, as Robin will have returned to school next week, and should like
to distract my mind. Tell Mademoiselle casually that I may be going on a
short tour, speaking, and she is suitably impressed. Vicky enquires:
"Like a menagerie, mummie?" which seems to me very extraordinary simile,
though innocently meant. I reply, "No, not in the least like a
menagerie," and Mademoiselle adds, officiously, "More like a mission." Am
by no means at one with her here, but have no time to go further into the
subject, as Gladys summons me to prolonged discussion with the
Laundry--represented by man in white coat at the back gate--concerning
cotton sheet, said to be one of a pair, but which has been returned in
solitary widowhood. The Laundry has much to say about this, and presently
Cook, gardener, Mademoiselle, Vicky, and unidentified boy apparently
attached to Laundry, have all gathered round. Everyone except boy
supports Gladys by saying "That's right" to everything she asserts, and I
eventually leave them to it. Evidently all takes time, as it is not till
forty minutes later that I see gardener slowly returning to his work, and
hear van driving away.
Go up to attic and inspect bulb-bowls, but nothing to be seen. Cannot
decide whether they require water or not, but think perhaps better be on
the safe side, so give them some. Make note in little green book to this
effect, as am determined to keep full record of entire procedure.
_September 22nd._--Invitation from Lady B.--note delivered by hand,
wait reply--to Robert and myself to come and dine tonight. Reads more
like a Royal Command, and no suggestion that short notice may be
inconvenient. Robert out, and I act with promptitude and firmness on own
responsibility, and reply that we are already engaged for dinner.
(Query: Will this suggest convivial evening at neighbouring Rectory, or
rissoles and cocoa with old Mrs. Blenkinsop and Cousin Maud? Can conceive
of no other alternatives.)
Telephone rings in a peremptory manner just as I am reading aloud
enchanting book, _The Exciting Family_ by M. D. Hillyard--(surely
occasional contributor to _Time and Tide_?)--and I rush to
dining-room to deal with it. (_N.B._ Must really overcome foolish
and immature tendency to feel that any telephone-call may be prelude to
(a) announcement of a fortune or, alternatively, (6) news of immense and
impressive calamity.)
On snatching up receiver, unmistakable tones of Lady B. are heard--at
once suggesting perhaps rather ill-natured, but not unjustifiable,
comparison with a pea-hen. What, she enquires, is all this nonsense? Of
course we must dine to-night--she won't hear of a refusal. Besides, what
else can we possibly be doing, unless it's Meetings, and if so, we can
cut them for once.
Am at once invaded by host of improbable inspirations: e.g. that the
Lord-Lieutenant of the County and his wife are dining here informally, or
that Rose's Viscountess is staying with us and refuses either to be left
alone or to be taken to Lady B.'s--(which I know she would at once
suggest)--or even that, really, Robert and I have had so many late nights
recently that we cannot face another one--but do not go so far as to
proffer any of them aloud. Am disgusted, instead, to hear myself saying
weakly that Robin goes back to school day after tomorrow, and we do not
like to go out on one of his last few evenings at home. (This may be true
so far as I am concerned, but can imagine no suggestion less likely to be
endorsed by Robert, and trust that he may never come to hear of it.) In
any case, it instantly revives long-standing determination of Lady B.'s
to establish me with reputation for being a Perfect Mother, and she at
once takes advantage of it.
I return to _The Exciting Family_ in a state of great inward fury.
To be continued
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