Grace felt a desperate certainty that affairs were indeed past remedy when Miss Delmege had to resort so freely to her favourite adjective “strange” to describe the manners and conduct of Miss Marsh.
She entered the hall rather dejectedly. It was very tiring to hurry about with heavy trays at the end of a long day’s work, and the atmosphere seemed thicker than ever tonight and the noise greater. Grace hung up her coat and hat, and hastily made room on the already overcrowded peg for Miss Marsh’s belongings, as she heard Miss Delmege say gently “Excuse me,” and deliberately appropriate to her own use the peg selected by her neighbour.
“Did you see that?” demanded Miss Marsh excitedly. “Isn’t that Delmege all over? After this, Gracie, I shall simply not speak to her till she apologizes. Simply ignore her. Believe me, dear, it’s the only way. I shall behave as though Delmege didn’t exist.”
This threat was hardly carried out to the letter. No one could have failed to see a poignant consciousness of Miss Delmege’s existence in the elaborate blindness and deafness which assailed Miss Marsh when within her neighbourhood.
Miss Delmege adopted a still more trying policy, and addressed acid remarks in a small, penetrating voice to her surroundings.
“I must say the state of some trays is like nothing on earth!” she said to Grace, when Miss Marsh had spilt a cup of cocoa over her tray-cloth and brought it back to the counter for a fresh supply. “How the poor men stand it! I must say I do like things to be dainty myself. Give me a meal daintily served and I don’t care what it is! All depends what one’s been used to, I suppose.”
“I should be awfully obliged, Gracie, if you could get hold of a clean tray-cloth for me,” said Miss Marsh furiously. “There doesn’t seem to be anybody not-what-I-call-capable here.”
Grace looked appealingly at Miss Delmege, but the pince-nez were directed towards the roof, and Miss Delmege’s elegantly curved fingers were engaged in swiftly unloading a tray of clean plates.
“A clean cloth for this tray, please,” said Gracie rapidly. “There’s been a spill.”
Miss Delmege, appearing quite capable of seeing through the back of her head, still kept her back turned to the infuriated Miss Marsh, and said coldly: “How very messy, dear! But I’m sure you’re not responsible for that. Some people are so strange; their fingers seem to be all thumbs.”
“I can’t stand here all night, Gracie!” exclaimed Miss Marsh, recklessly tipping all the dirty crockery from the tray on to the counter. “You wouldn’t let me have your cloth, I suppose, would you, dear?” At the same time she skilfully disproved her own supposition by rapidly possessing herself of Grace’s clean tray-cloth.
“Of all the coolness! Here, dear; I’ll give you another one. What’s your order?”
“Cup of tea, sausage and mashed, roll of bread.”
Miss Delmege gave the short mirthless snigger with which she always acclaimed such orders, so as to make it clear that she did not take anything so vulgar as a sausage and mashed potatoes seriously, and further exclaimed, “They are quaint, aren’t they?” as she telephoned through to the kitchen.
“Miss Jones,” said Char’s cool voice behind her, “I’ve been watching you for the last five minutes. Kindly ask for what you want a little more quickly. You seem to forget that the man is waiting for his supper.”
She waited while the order was being rapidly executed from the kitchen, watching the two girls. Miss Delmege coloured faintly, and moved about restlessly under the scrutiny of which she was obviously conscious, but Grace’s small, pale face had not altered, and she stood by the counter waiting for her tray, gazing quite interestedly at a small group of new arrivals.
Mrs. Willoughby stood at the door, eagerly ushering in visitors whom she had obviously invited to survey the scene of her activities.
“This is my little job — plenty of the dear fellows here tonight, you see. Aren’t they dears, and don’t they look too delightfully at home for words? I must fly back to my barmaid’s job now; you’ll see me behind the counter in another minute, Joanna. I find I have the most wonderful talent for chaff — the men love it so, you know. Do come in, John — you’re my chief asset here tonight; the men will simply love your Military Cross. I want you to come round and tell one or two of my special pets exactly how you won it.”
Only the secret pressure of his Cousin Joanna’s hand on his arm and the mirthful gleam in her blue eyes prevented Captain Trevellyan, with his Military Cross, from taking an instant departure.
Lady Vivian raised her lorgnette. “Where’s Char?”
“Much too busy on her high official horse even to see me,” cried Lesbia with a sort of jovial spite. “Now, Joanna, I insist upon your getting into an overall at once, and helping me. I’ll commandeer one.”
Grace Jones went past them with her laden tray, and Mrs. Willoughby grasped her arm.
“I want you to find me an overall for this lady before you stir another step,” she shrieked emphatically.
“Nonsense, Lesbia!” interposed Lady Vivian brusquely. “I don’t suppose there is such a thing to spare, and, besides, I don’t want one.”
She wore the plainest of dark coats and skirts and a soft silk shirt. Grace looked at her with composed admiration and a sense of gratitude. She did not wish to be further delayed with the heavy tray on her hands.
“There’s my dear Lance-Corporal!” exclaimed Lesbia, and hurled herself in the direction of a burly form which appeared strongly impelled to seek cover behind the piano as she advanced.
Captain Trevellyan gently took the tray from Miss Jones.
“Where shall I take it?”
“Thank you very much,” said Grace thankfully, dropping her aching arms. “That table over there, right at the end, if you will. It’s very kind of you.”
She turned to Lady Vivian rather apologetically. “I’m afraid I ought not to have let him do that, but we’re rather behindhand tonight. Are you come to help?”
She supposed that this tall, curiously attractive new-comer was the wife of one of the officers from the camp.
“Yes, if you’ll tell me what to do.”
“If you’d carry trays? One of our workers is — is impeded tonight,” said Grace, conscientiously selecting a euphemism for the peculiar handicap under which Miss Marsh was labouring.
For the next two hours Lady Vivian worked vigorously, in spite of a protest from John, who took the view of feminine weakness peculiar to unusually strong men.
“These trays are too heavy for any woman to carry! It’s monstrous! I shall tell Char so.”
“By all means tell her. I certainly think it’s very bad for these girls, and at the end of a long day’s work, too. But as for me, you know I’m as strong as a horse, Johnnie, and I enjoy the exercise. It warms me!”
Her face was glowing and her step elastic. John realized, not for the first time, that Sir Piers’s slow, rambling walks round the grounds and still slower evening games of billiards formed the major part of his Cousin Joanna’s physical activities. He stood watching her thoughtfully.
Char stopped in his immediate vicinity, and gave a couple of orders in her slow, despotic drawl. She rather wanted Johnnie to see how promptly and unquestioningly they were received.
Johnnie, however, appeared to have his thoughts elsewhere, and Char rather vexedly followed his gaze.
“How I wish my mother wouldn’t do this sort of thing!” she said under her breath. “It’s most tiring for her, and besides—”
“Besides?” inquired Trevellyan, always courteous, but never of the quickest at catching an inflection.
“I’m afraid I think it infra dig. Darting about with all these girls, when she’s capable of such very different sort of work — if only she’d do it!”
“My dear Char, what on earth do you want her to do?” demanded Trevellyan, to whom it came as a shock that any one who was privileged to live near Joanna should think her anything but perfect.
“She is an extremely c
apable woman of business; why shouldn’t she take up some big work for the Government? They are crying out for educated women.”
“She couldn’t possibly leave your father alone at Plessing.”
“She could do a certain amount of work at home even without that. The truth is, Johnnie, that neither she nor my father have realized there’s a war on at all. They’ve no sons out there in the trenches, and it hasn’t hit them materially; they’ve not felt it in any single, smallest way. I shouldn’t say it to any one but you, but there are times at Plessing when I could go mad. To hear my father talk on and on about whether some tree on the estate needs cutting or not, just as though on the other side of a little strip of sea—”
She broke off with a shudder that was not altogether histrionic.
“And mother — she wouldn’t even knit socks, because it interfered with his billiards in the evenings! I don’t understand her, Johnnie. She must know what it all means, yet it’s all shoved away in the background. Brucey tells me that she’s under standing orders not to discuss the news in the papers at breakfast, and mother won’t have a single war-book in the house — not even a war-novel, if she can help it. It’s as though they were deliberately trying to blind themselves. I can’t understand it.”
Trevellyan did not feel sure that he understood it, either, but, unlike Char, there was in his mind no shadow of criticism for that which he did not understand. The limitation, Trevellyan always felt, was entirely his.
But he was able to look sympathetically also at Char’s vexed bewilderment.
“You’re not at Plessing very much, nowadays, yourself.”
“No. I don’t think I could bear it, Johnnie. Of course they say I’m doing too much, but, after all, I’m of an age to decide that for myself, and to my mind there’s simply no choice in the matter. Thank Heaven one can work!”
“Your undertaking is a colossal thing, in its way. It’s wonderful of you, Char!”
She looked pleased.
“It’s running well at present. Of course, I know what a tiny part of the whole it is really, but—” She broke off quickly as Lady Vivian joined them.
“Who is the little dark-haired girl I’ve been working with, Char? The one at that table....”
“Oh, a Miss — er — Jones,” said Char languidly.
“You never told me you had any one of her sort here. I want to ask her out to Plessing. Couldn’t we take her back in the car tonight?”
“My dear mother!” Char opened her eyes in an expression of exaggerated horror. “One of my staff?”
“Well?” queried Lady Vivian coolly, stripping off her borrowed overall.
“Quite out of the question. You don’t in the least realize the official footing on which I have to keep those women.”
“I should have thought you needn’t be any the less official for showing some friendliness to a girl who’s come all the way from Wales to help you.”
“She’s my under-secretary, mother.”
“What! sub-scrub to the genteel Miss Delmege? She’s got ten times her brains, and is a lady into the bargain.”
It infuriated Char that her mother’s cool, tacit refusal to acknowledge the infallibility of the Director of the Midland Supply Depôt could always make her feel like a little girl again.
She rallied all her most official mannerisms together.
“It’s quite impossible for me to differentiate between the various members of the staff, or to make any unofficial advances to any of them.”
“Very well, my dear. As, thank Heaven, I’m not a member of your staff, I can remain as unofficial as I please, and have nice little Miss Jones out to see me.”
“Mother,” said Char in an agony, “it’s simply impossible. The girl would never know her place in the office again; and think of all the cackling there’d be at the Questerham Hostel about my asking any one out to Plessing. Johnnie, do tell her it’s out of the question.”
Trevellyan looked at Joanna with a laugh in his blue eyes. He realized, as Char would never realize, that her assumption of officialdom always provoked her mother to the utterance of ironical threats which she had never the slightest intention of fulfilling.
She shrugged her shoulders slightly at her daughter’s vehemence, and crossed over to where Grace Jones was putting on her coat and hat again.
“Good-night. I hope you’re not as tired as you look,” she said with a sort of abrupt graciousness.
“Oh no, thank you. It’s been an extra busy night. It was so kind of you to help.”
“I wish I could come again,” said Lady Vivian rather wistfully, “but I don’t know that I shall be able to.”
Lesbia Willoughby, dashing past them at full speed, found time to fling a piercing rebuke over her shoulder.
“There’s always a will where there’s a way, Joanna. Look at me!”
Neither of them took advantage of the invitation, and Joanna said irrelevantly: “I should like you to come and see me, if you will, but I know you’re at work all day. I must try and find you next time I come into Questerham.”
“Thank you very much,” said Grace in a pleased voice. “I should like that very much indeed. Good-night.”
“Good-night,” repeated Joanna, and went back to where her daughter, with a rather indignant demeanour, was waiting for her.
“Well?” asked Char, rather sullenly.
Lady Vivian, who almost invariably became flippant when her daughter was most in earnest, said provokingly: “Well, my dear, I’ve made arrangements for all sorts of unofficial rendezvous. You may see Miss Delmege at Plessing yet.”
“Miss Delmege is a very good worker,” said Char icily. “She’s very much in earnest, always ready to stay overtime and finish up anything important.”
“I’m sure Miss Jones is good at her job, too,” said Trevellyan, supposing himself to be tactful.
“Fairly good. Not extraordinarily quick-witted, though, and much too sure of herself. I can’t help thinking it’s rather a pity to distinguish her from the others, mother; she’s probably only too ready to take airs as it is, if she’s of rather a different class.”
“Fiddlesticks!” declared Lady Vivian briskly. “Put on your coat, Char, and come along. I can’t keep the car waiting any longer. Rather a different class indeed! What has that to do with it? The girl’s most attractive — an original type, too.”
“Of course, if mother has taken one of her sudden violent fancies to this Jones child, I may as well make up my mind to hear nothing else, morning, noon, or night,” Char muttered to John Trevellyan, who replied with matter-of-fact common sense that Char wasn’t at Plessing for more than an hour or two on any single day, let alone morning, noon, and night.
“Char,” said Lady Vivian from the car, “if you don’t come now I shall leave you to spend the night at the Questerham Hostel, where you’ll lose all your prestige with the staff, and have to eat and sleep just like an ordinary human being.”
The Director of the Midland Supply Depôt got into her parent’s motor in silence, and with a movement that might have been fairly described as a flounce.
The members of the staff walked up the street towards the Hostel.
“Who was the lady in black who helped with the trays?” asked Grace. “She was so nice.”
“My dear, didn’t you know? That was Miss Vivian’s mother!”
“Oh, was it?” said Grace placidly. “I didn’t know that. Miss Vivian isn’t very like her, is she?”
“No. Of course, Miss Vivian’s far better looking. I’m not saying it because it’s her,” added Miss Delmege with great distinctness, for the benefit of Miss Marsh and Mrs. Potter, walking behind, from one of whom a sound of contemptuous mirth had proceeded faintly. “It’s simply a fact. Miss Vivian is far better looking than Lady Vivian ever was. Takes after her father — Sir Piers Vivian he is, you know.”
Miss Delmege had only once been afforded a view of the back of Sir Piers Vivian’s white head in church, but she made the asserti
on with her usual air of genteel omniscience.
At the Hostel Mrs. Bullivant was waiting for them. It was past eleven o’clock, and the fire had gone out soon after eight; but in spite of cold and weariness, Mrs. Bullivant was unconquerably bright.
“Come along; I’ll have some nice hot tea for you in a moment. The kettle is on the gas-ring. I am sorry the fire’s out, but it smoked so badly all the evening I thought I’d better leave it alone. Sit down; I’m sure you’re all tired.”
“Simply dead,” exclaimed Miss Marsh. “So are you, aren’t you, Plumtree, after all those awful plates and dishes — I must say your washing-up job is the worst of the lot.”
“I’m going to bed. I can’t keep on my feet another minute, tea or no tea. If I don’t drag myself upstairs now I never shall. It’s fatal to sit down; one can’t get up again.”
“That’s right,” assented Miss Marsh. “I’ll bring up your tea when I come, dear.”
“Angel, thanks awfully. Good-night, ladies and gentlemen.”
Miss Plumtree left the sitting-room with this languidly facetious valediction.
“That girl does look tired. I hope she gets into bed quickly,” observed Mrs. Potter, pulling off her hat and exposing a rakishly décoiffé tangle of wispy hair.
“Not she — she’ll dawdle for ages,” prophesied Miss Marsh. “Still, it’s something if she gets into her dressing-gown and bedroom slippers, out of her corsets, you know.”
Miss Delmege put down her cup of tea.
“Rather a strange subject we seem to be on for mealtime, don’t we?” she remarked detachedly to Grace.
“Meal-time?” exclaimed Miss Henderson derisively.
“That’s what I said, dear, and I’m in the habit of meaning what I say, as far as I know.”
“I really don’t know how you can call it meal-time when we’re not even at table. Besides, if we were, there’s nothing in what Marsh said — absolutely nothing at all.”
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 39