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.<
br />
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.
September 24th. — Frightful welter of packing, putting away, and earnest consultations of School List. Robin gives everybody serious injunctions about not touching anything whatever in his bedroom — which looks like inferior pawnbroking establishment at stocktaking time — and we all more or less commit ourselves to leaving it alone till Christmas holidays — which is completely out of the question.
He is taken away by Robert in the car, looking forlorn and infantile, and Vicky roars. I beseech her to desist at once, but am rebuked by Mademoiselle, who says, “Ah, elle a tant de coeur!” in tone which implies that she cannot say as much for myself.
October 1. — Tell Robert about proposed short tour to Chick, Little March, and Crimpington, on behalf of W. Is. He says little, but that little not very enthusiastic. I spend many hours — or so it seems — looking out Notes for Talks, and trying to remember anecdotes that shall be at once funny and suitable. (This combination rather unusual.)
Pack small bag, search frantically all over writing-table, bedroom, and drawing-room for W.I. Badge — which is at last discovered by Mademoiselle in remote corner of drawer devoted to stockings — and take my departure. Robert drives me to station, and I beg that he will keep an eye on the bulbs whilst I am away.
October 2nd. — Bus from Chick conveys me to Little March, after successful meeting last night, at which I discourse on Amateur Theatricals, am applauded, thanked by President in the chair — name inaudible — applauded once more, and taken home by Assistant Secretary, who is putting me up for the night. We talk about the Movement — Annual Meeting at Blackpool perhaps a mistake, why not Bristol or Plymouth? — difficulty of thinking out new Programmes for monthly meetings, and really magnificent performance of Chick at recent Folk-dancing Rally, at which Institute members called upon to go through “Gathering Peas-cods” no less than three times — two of Chick’s best performers, says Assistant Secretary proudly, being grandmothers. I express astonished admiration, and we go on to Village Halls, Sir Oswald Mosley, and methods of removing ink-stains from linen. Just as Assistant Secretary — who is unmarried and lives in nice little cottage — has escorted me to charming little bedroom, she remembers that I am eventually going on to Crimpington, and embarks on interesting scandal about two members of Institute there, and unaccountable disappearance of one member’s name from Committee. This keeps us up till eleven o’clock, when she begs me to say nothing whatever about her having mentioned the affair, which was all told her in strictest confidence, and we part.
Reach Little March, via the bus — which is old, and rattles — in time for lunch. Doctor’s sister meets me — elderly lady with dog — and talks about hunting. Meeting takes place at three o’clock, inadelightful Hut, and am impressed by business-like and efficient atmosphere. Doctor’s sister, in the chair, introduces me — unluckily my name eludes her at eleventh hour, but I hastily supply it and she says, “Of course, of course” — and I launch out into A Visit to Switzerland. As soon as I have finished, elderly member surges up from front row and says that this has been particularly interesting to her, as she once lived in Switzerland for nearly fourteen years and knows every inch of it from end to end. (My own experience confined to six weeks round and about Lucerne, ten years ago.)
We drink cups of tea, eat excellent buns, sing several Community Songs, and Meeting comes to an end. Doctor’s sister’s two-seater, now altogether home-like, receives me once again, and I congratulate her on Institute. She smiles and talks about hunting.
Evening passes off quietly, doctor comes in — elderly man with two dogs — he also talks about hunting, and we all separate for bed at ten o’clock.
October 3rd. — Part early from doctor, sister, dogs, and two-seater, and proceed by train to Crimpington, as Meeting does not take place till afternoon, and have no wish to arrive earlier than I need. Curious cross-country journey with many stops, and one change involving long and draughty wait that I enliven by cup of Bovril.
Superb car meets me, with superb chauffeur who despises me and my bag at sight, but is obliged to drive us both to Crimping-ton Hall. Butler receives me, and I am conducted through immense and chilly hall with stone flags to equally immense and chilly drawing-room, where he leaves me. Very small fire is lurking behind steel bars at far end of room, and I make my way to it past little gilt tables, large chairs, and sofas, cabinets apparently lined with china cups and lustre tea-pots, and massive writing-tables entirely furnished with hundreds of photographs in silver frames. Butler suddenly reappears with the Times, which he hands to me on small salver. Have already read it from end to end in the train, but feel obliged to open it and begin all over again. He looks doubtfully at the fire, and I hope he is going to put on more coal, but instead he goes away, and is presently replaced by Lady Magdalen Crimp, who is about ninety-five and stone-deaf. She wears black, and large fur cape — as well she may. She produces trumpet, and I talk down it, and she smiles and nods, and has evidently not heard one word — which is just as well, as none of them worth hearing. After some time she suggests my room, and we creep along slowly for about quarter of a mile, till first floor is reached, and vast bedroom with old-fashioned four-poster in the middle of it. Here she leaves me, and I wash, from little brass jug of tepid water, and note — by no means for the first time — that the use of powder, when temperature has sunk below a certain level, merely casts extraordinary azure shade over nose and chin.
Faint hope of finding fire in dining-room is extinguished on entering it, when I am at once struck by its resemblance to a mausoleum. Lady M. and I sit down at mahogany circular table, she says Do I mind a Cold Lunch? I shake my head, as being preferable to screaming “No” down trumpet — though equally far from the truth — and we eat rabbit-cream, coffee-shape, and Marie biscuits.
Conversation spasmodic and unsatisfactory, and I am reduced to looking at portraits on wall, of gentlemen in wigs and ladies with bosoms, also objectionable study of dead bird, dripping blood, lying amongst oranges and other vegetable matter. (Should like to know what dear Rose, with her appreciation of Art, would say to this.) Later we adjourn to drawing-room — fire now a mere ember — and Lady M. explains that she is not going to the Meeting, but Vice-President will look after me, and she hopes I shall enjoy Recitation Competition — some of our members really very clever, and one in particular, so amusing in dialect. I nod and smile, and continue to shiver, and presently car fetches me away to village. Meeting is held in reading-room, which seems to me perfect paradise of warmth, and I place myself as close as possible to large oil-stove. Vice-President — very large and expansive in blue — conducts everything successfully, and I deliver homily about What Our Children Read, which is kindly received. After tea — delightfully hot, in fact scalds me, but I welcome it — Recitation Competition takes place and have to rivet my attention on successive members, who mount a little platform and declaim in turns. We begin with not very successful rendering of verses hitherto unknown to me, entitled “Our Institute”, and which turn out to be original composition of re
citer. This followed by “Gunga Din” and very rousing poem about Keeping the Old Flag Flying. Elderly member then announces “The Mine” and is very dramatic and impressive, but not wholly intelligible, which I put down to Dialect. Finally award first place to “The Old Flag”, and second to “The Mine”, and present prizes. Am unfortunately inspired to observe that dialect poems are always so interesting, and it then turns out that “The Mine” wasn’t in dialect at all. However, too late to do anything about it.
Meeting is prolonged, for which I am thankful, but finally can no longer defer returning to arctic regions of Crimpington Hall. Lady M. and I spend evening cowering over grate, and exchanging isolated remarks, and many nods and smiles, across ear-trumpet. Finally I get into enormous four-poster, covered by very inadequate supply of blankets, and clutching insufficiently heated hot-water bottle.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 318