Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Question of Vicky’s school recrudesces, demanding and receiving definite decisions. Am confronted with the horrid necessity of breaking this to Mademoiselle. Decide to do so immediately after breakfast, but find myself inventing urgent errands in quite other parts of the house, which occupy me until Mademoiselle safely started for walk with Vicky.

  (Query: Does not moral cowardice often lead to very marked degree of self-deception? Answer: Most undoubtedly yes.)

  Decide to speak to Mademoiselle after lunch. At lunch, however, she seems depressed, and says that the weather lui Porte sur les nerfs, and I feel better perhaps leave it till after tea. Cannot decide if this is true consideration, or merely further cowardice. Weather gets steadily worse as day goes on, and is probably going to porter sur les nerfs of Mademoiselle worse than ever, but register cast-iron resolution not to let this interfere with speaking to her after Vicky has gone to bed.

  Robin’s Headmaster’s wife writes that boys are all being sent home a week earlier, owing to case of jaundice, which is — she adds — not catching. Can see neither sense nor logic in this, but am delighted at having Robin home almost at once. This satisfaction, most regrettably, quite unshared by Robert. Vicky, however, makes up for it by noisy and prolonged display of enthusiasm. Mademoiselle, as usual, is touched by this, exclaims Ah, quel bon petit coeur! and reduces me once more to despair at thought of the blow in store for her. Find myself desperately delaying Vicky’s bed-time, in prolonging game of Ludo to quite inordinate lengths.

  Just as good-night is being said by Vicky, I am informed that a lady is the back door, and would like to speak to me, please. The lady turns out to be in charge of battered perambulator, filled with apparently hundreds of green cardboard boxes, all — she alleges — containing garments knitted by herself. She offers to display them; I say No, thank you, not to-day, and she immediately does so. They all strike me as frightful in the extreme.

  Painful monologue ensues, which includes statements about husband having been a Colonel in the Army, former visits to Court, and staff of ten indoor servants. Am entirely unable to believe any of it, but do not like to say so, or even to interrupt so much fluency. Much relieved when Robert appears, and gets rid of perambulator, boxes and all, apparently by power of the human eye alone, in something under three minutes.

  (He admits, later, to having parted with half a crown at back gate, but this I think touching, and much to his credit.)

  Robert, after dinner, is unwontedly talkative — about hay — and do not like to discourage him, so bed-time is reached with Mademoiselle still unaware of impending doom.

  July 21st. — Interview two cooks, results wholly unfavourable. Return home in deep depression, and Mademoiselle offers to make me a tisane — but substitutes tea at my urgent request — and shows so much kindness that I once more postpone painful task of enlightening her as to immediate future.

  July 22nd. — Return of Robin, who is facetious about jaundice case — supposed to be a friend of his — and looks well. He eats enormous tea and complains of starvation at school. Mademoiselle says Le pauvre gosse! and produces packet of Menier chocolate, which Robin accepts with gratitude — but am only too well aware that this alliance is of highly ephemeral character.

  I tell Robin about Doughty Street flat and he is most interested and sympathetic, and offers to make me a box for shoes, or a hanging bookshelf, whichever I prefer. We then adjourn to garden and all play cricket, Mademoiselle’s plea for une balle de caoutchouc being, rightly, ignored by all. Robin kindly allows me to keep wicket, as being post which I regard as least dangerous, and Vicky is left to bowl, which she does very slowly, and with many wides. Helen Wills puts in customary appearance, but abandons us on receiving cricket-ball on front paws. After what feels like several hours of this, Robert appears, and game at once takes on entirely different — and much brisker — aspect. Mademoiselle immediately says firmly Moi, je ne joue plus and walks indoors. Cannot feel that this is altogether a sporting spirit, but have private inner conviction that nothing but moral cowardice prevents my following her example. However, I remain at my post — analogy with Casabianca indicated here — and go so far as to stop a couple of balls and miss one or two catches, after which I am told to bat, and succeed in scoring two before Robin bowls me.

  Cricket decidedly not my game, but this reflection closely followed by unavoidable enquiry: What is? Answer comes there none.

  July 23rd. — Take the bull by the horns, although belatedly, and seek Mademoiselle at two o’clock in the afternoon — Vicky resting, and Robin reading Sherlock Holmes on front stairs, which he prefers to more orthodox sitting-rooms — May I, say I feebly, sit down for a moment?

  Mademoiselle at once advances her own armchair and says Ah, ça me fait du bien de recevoir madame dans mon petit domaine — which makes me feel worse than ever.

  Extremely painful half-hour follows. We go over ground that we have traversed many times before, and reach conclusions only to unreach them again, and the whole ends, as usual, in floods of tears and mutual professions of esteem. Emerge from it all with only two solid facts to hold on to — that Mademoiselle is to return to her native land at an early date, and that Vicky goes to school at Mickleham in September.

  (N.B. When announcing this to Vicky, must put it to her in such a way: that she is neither indecently joyful at emancipation, nor stonily indifferent to Mademoiselle’s departure. Can foresee difficult situation arising here, and say so to Robert, who tells me not to cross my bridges before I get to them — which I consider aggravating.)

  Spend a great deal of time writing to Principal of Vicky’s school, to dentist for appointments, and to Army and Navy Stores for groceries. Am quite unable to say why this should leave me entirely exhausted in mind and body — but it does.

  July 25th. — Go to Exeter in order to interview yet another cook, and spend exactly two hours and twenty minute in Registry Office waiting for her to turn up — which she never does. At intervals, I ask offenive-looking woman in orange béret, who sits at desk, What she thinks can have Happened, and she replies that she couldn’t say, she’s sure, and such a thing has never happened in the office before, never — which makes me feel that it is all my fault.

  Harassed-looking lady in transparent pink mackintosh trails in, and asks for a cook-general, but is curtly dismissed by orange béret with assurance that cooks-general for the country are not to be found. If they were, adds the orange béret cynically, her fortune would have been made long ago. The pink mackintosh, like Queen Victoria, is not amused, and goes out again. She is succeeded by a long interval, during which the orange béret leaves the room and returns with a cup of tea, and I look — for the fourteenth time — at only available literature, which consists of ridiculous little periodical called “Do the Dead Speak?” and disembowelled copy of the Sphere for February 1929.

  Orange béret drinks tea, and has long and entirely mysterious conversation conducted in whispers with client who looks like a charwoman.

  Paralysis gradually invades me, and feel that I shall never move again — but eventually, of course, do so, and find that I have very nearly missed bus home again. Evolve scheme for selling house and going to live in hotel, preferably in South of France, and thus disposing for ever of servant question. Am aware that this is not wholly practicable idea, and would almost certainly lead to very serious trouble with Robert.

  (Query: Is not theory mistaken, which attributes idle and profitless day-dreaming to youth? Should be much more inclined to add it to many other unsuitable and unprofitable weaknesses of middle-age.)

  Spend the evening with children, who are extraordinarily energetic, and seem surprised when I refuse invitation to play tip-and-run, but agree, very agreeably, to sit still instead and listen to Vice Versa for third time of reading.

  July 26th. — Spirited discussion at breakfast concerning annual problem of a summer holiday. I hold out for Brittany, and produce little leaflet obtained from Exeter Travel Agency, reckle
ssly promising unlimited sunshine, bathing and extreme cheapness of living. Am supported by Robin — who adds a stipulation that he is not to be asked to eat frogs. Mademoiselle groans, and says that the crossing will assuredly be fatal to us all and this year is one notable for naufrages. At this stage Vicky confuses the issue by urging travel by air, and further assures us that in France all the little boys have their hair cut exactly like convicts. Mademoiselle becomes froissée, and says Ah non, par exemple, je ne m’ offense pas, moi, mais ça tout de même — and makes a long speech, the outcome of which is that Vicky has neither heart nor common sense, at which Vicky howls, and Robert says My God and cuts ham.

  Discussion then starts again on a fresh basis, with Vicky outside the door where she can be heard shrieking at intervals — but this mechanical, rather than indicative of serious distress — and Mademoiselle showing a tendency to fold her lips tightly and repeat that nobody is to pay any attention to her wishes about anything whatever.

  I begin all over again about Brittany, heavily backed by Robin, who says It is well known that all foreigners live on snails. (At this I look apprehensively at Mademoiselle, but fortunately she has not heard.)

  Robert’s sole contribution to discussion is that England is quite good enough for him.

  (Could easily remind Robert of many occasions, connected with Labour Government activities in particular, when England has been far from good enough for him — but refrain.)

  Would it not, I urge, be an excellent plan to shut up the house for a month, and have thorough change, beneficial to mind and body alike? (Should also, in this way, gain additional time in which to install new cook, but do not put forward this rather prosaic consideration.)

  Just as I think my eloquence is making headway, Robert pushes back his chair and says Well, all this is great waste of time, and he wants to get the calf off to market — which he proceeds to do.

  Mademoiselle then begs for ten minutes’ Serious Conversation — which I accord with outward calm and inward trepidation. The upshot of the ten minutes — which expand to seventy by the time we have done with them — is that the entire situation is more than Mademoiselle’s nerves can endure, and unless she has a complete change of environment immediately, she will succomber.

  I agree that this must at all costs be avoided, and beg her to make whatever arrangements suit her best. Mademoiselle weeps, and is still weeping when Gladys comes in to clear the breakfast things. (Cannot refrain from gloomy wonder as to nature of comments that this prolonged tête-à-tête will give rise to in kitchen.)

  Entire morning seems to pass in these painful activities, without any definite result, except that Mademoiselle does not appear at lunch, and both children behave extraordinarily badly.

  (Mem.: A mother’s influence, if any, almost always entirely disastrous. Children invariably far worse under maternal supervision than any other.)

  Resume Brittany theme with Robert once more in the evening, and suggest — stimulated by unsuccessful lunch this morning — that a Holiday Tutor might be engaged. He could, I say, swim with Robin, which would save me many qualms, and take children on expeditions. Am I, asks Robert, prepared to pay ten guineas a week for these services? Reply to this being self-evident, I do not make it, and write a letter to well-known scholastic agency.

  July 29th. — Brittany practically settled, small place near Dinard selected, passports frantically looked for, discovered in improbable places, such as linen cupboard, and — in Robert’s case — acting as wedge to insecurely poised chest of drawers in dressing-room — and brought up to date at considerable expense.

  I hold long conversations with Travel Agency regarding hotel accommodation and registration of luggage, and also interview two holiday tutors, between whom and myself instant and violent antipathy springs up at first sight.

  One of these suggests that seven and a half guineas weekly would be suitable remuneration, and informs me that he must have his evenings to himself, and the other one assures me that he is a good disciplinarian but insists upon having a Free Hand. I reply curtly that this is not what I require, and we part.

  July 30th. — Wholly frightful day, entirely given up to saying good-bye to Mademoiselle. She gives us all presents, small frame composed entirely of mussel shells covered with gilt paint falling to Robert’s share, and pink wool bed-socks, with four-leaved clover worked on each, to mine. We present her in return with blue leather hand-bag — into inner pocket of which I have inserted cheque — travelling clock, and small rolled-gold brooch representing crossed tennis racquets, with artificial pearl for ball — (individual effort of Robin and Vicky). All ends in emotional crescendo, culminating in floods of tears from Mademoiselle, who says nothing except Mais voyons! Il faut se calmer, and then weeps harder than ever. Should like to see some of this feeling displayed by children, but they remain stolid, and I explain to Mademoiselle that the reserve of the British is well known, and denotes no lack of heart, but rather the contrary.

  (On thinking this over, am pretty sure that it is not in the least true — but am absolutely clear that if occasion arose again, should deliberately say the same thing.)

  August 4th. — Travel to Salisbury, for express purpose of interviewing Holiday Tutor, who has himself journeyed from Reading. Terrific expenditure of time and money involved in all this makes me feel that he must at all costs be engaged — but am aware that this is irrational, and make many resolutions against foolish impetuosity.

  We meet in uninspiring waiting-room, untenanted by anybody else, and I restrain myself with great difficulty from saying “Doctor Livingstone, I presume?” which would probably make him doubtful of my sanity.

  Tutor looks about eighteen, but assures me that he is nearly thirty, and has been master at Prep. School in Huntingdonshire for years and years.

  (N.B. Huntingdon most improbable-sounding, but am nearly sure that it does exist. Mem.: Look it up in Vicky’s atlas on return home.)

  Conversation leads to mutual esteem. I am gratified by the facts that he neither interrupts me every time I speak, nor assures me that he knows more about Robin than I do — (Query: Can he really be a schoolmaster?) — and we part cordially, with graceful assurances on my part that “I will write”. Just as he departs I remember that small, but embarrassing, issue still has to be faced, and recall him in order to enquire what I owe him for to-day’s expenses? He says Oh, nothing worth talking about, and then mentions a sum which appalls me. Pay it, however, without blenching, although well aware it will mean that I shall have to forgo tea in the train, owing to customary miscalculation as to amount of cash required for the day.

  Consult Robert on my return; he says Do as I think best, and adds irrelevant statement about grass needing cutting, and I write to Huntingdonshire forthwith, and engage tutor to accompany us to Brittany.

  Painful, and indeed despairing, reflections ensue as to relative difficulties of obtaining a tutor and a cook.

  August 6th. — Mademoiselle departs, with one large trunk and eight pieces of hand luggage, including depressed-looking bouquet of marigolds, spontaneously offered by Robin. (N.B. Have always said, and shall continue to say, that fundamentally Robin has nicer nature than dear Vicky.) We exchange embraces; she promises to come and stay with us next summer, and says Allons, du courage, n’est-ce pas? and weeps again. Robert says that she will miss her train, and they depart for the station, Mademoiselle waving her handkerchief to the last, and hanging across the door at distinctly dangerous angle.

  Vicky says cheerfully How soon will the Tutor arrive? and Robin picks up Helen Wills and offers to take her to see if there are any greengages — (which there cannot possibly be, as he ate the last ones, totally unripe, yesterday).

  Second post brings me letter from Emma Hay, recalling Belgium — where, says Emma, I was the greatest success, underlined — which statement is not only untrue, but actually an insult to such intelligence as I may possess. She hears that I have taken a flat in London — (How?) — and is more tha
n delighted, and there are many, many admirers of my work who will want to meet me the moment I arrive.

  Am distressed at realising that although I know every word of dear Emma’s letter to be entirely untrue, yet nevertheless cannot help being slightly gratified by it. Vagaries of human vanity very very curious. Cannot make up my mind in what strain to reply to Emma, so decide to postpone doing so at all for the present.

  Children unusually hilarious all the evening, and am forced to conclude that loss of Mademoiselle leaves them entirely indifferent.

  Read Hatter’s Castle after they have gone to bed, and am rapidly reduced to utmost depths of gloom. Mentally compose rather eloquent letter to Book Society explaining that most of us would rather be exhilarated than depressed, although at the same time handsomely admitting that book is, as they themselves claim, undoubtedly powerful. But remember Juan in America — earlier choice much approved by myself — and decide to forbear. Also Robert says Do I know that it struck half-past ten five minutes ago? which I know means that he wants to put out Helen Wills, bolt front door and extinguish lights. I accordingly abandon all thoughts of eloquent letters to unknown littérateurs and go to bed.

  August 7th. — Holiday Tutor arrives, and I immediately turn over both children to him, and immerse myself in preparations for journey, now imminent, to Brittany. At the same time, view of garden from behind bedroom window curtains permits me to ascertain that all three are amicably playing tip-and-run on lawn. This looks like auspicious beginning, and am relieved.

  August 8th. — Final, and exhaustive, preparations for journey. Eleventh hour salvation descends in shape of temporary cook, offered me through telephone by Mary Kellaway, who solemnly engages to send her over one day before our return. Maids dismissed on holiday, gardener and wife solemnly adjured to Keep an Eye on the house and feed Helen Wills, and I ask tutor to sit on Robin’s suitcase so that I can shut it, then forget having done so and go to store-cupboard for soap — French trains and hotels equally deficient in this commodity — and return hours later to find him still sitting there, exactly like Casabianca. Apologise profusely, am told that it does not matter, and suitcase is successfully dealt with.