Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Crawl into bed again feeling exactly as if I had been lashed to an iceberg and then dragged at the cart’s tail. Very singular and unpleasant sensation. Spend disturbed and uncomfortable night, evolving distressing chain of circumstances by which I may yet find myself at the Old Bailey committing perjury and — still worse — being found out — and, alternatively, imagining that I hear rings and knocks at front door, heralding arrival of Pamela P.’s husband bent on extracting information concerning his wife’s whereabouts.

  Wake up, after uneasy dozings, with bad headache, impaired complexion and strong sensation of guilt. Latter affects me to such a degree that am quite startled and conscience-stricken at receiving innocent and childlike letters from Robin and Vicky, and am inclined to write back and say that they ought not to associate with me — but breakfast restores balance, and I resolve to relegate entire episode to oblivion. (Mem.: Vanity of human resolutions exemplified here, as I find myself going over and over telephone conversation all day long, and continually inventing admirable exhortations from myself to Pamela P.)

  Robert writes briefly, but adds P.S. Isn’t it time that I thought about coming home again? which I think means that he is missing me, and feel slightly exhilarated.

  October 25th. — Am taken out to lunch by Literary Agent, which makes me feel important, and celebrated writers are pointed out to me — mostly very disappointing, but must on no account judge by appearances. Literary Agent says Oh, by the way, he has a small cheque for me at the office, shall he send it along? Try to emulate this casualness, and reply Yes, he may as well, and shortly afterwards rush home and write to inform Bank Manager that, reference our recent conversation, he may shortly expect to receive a Remittance — which I think sounds well, and commits me to nothing definite.

  October 27th. — Am chilled by reply from Bank Manager, who has merely Received my letter and Noted Contents. This lack of abandon very discouraging, moreover very different degree of eloquence prevails when subject under discussion is deficit, instead of credit, and have serious thoughts of writing to point this out.

  Receive curious and unexpected tribute from total stranger in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, where I have negotiated crossing with success, but pause on refuge, when voice says in my ear that owner has been following me ever since we left the pavement — which does, indeed, seem like hours ago — and would like to do so until Haymarket is safely reached. Look round at battered-looking lady carrying three parcels, two library books, small umbrella and one glove, and say Yes, yes, certainly, at the same time wondering if she realises extraordinarily insecure foundations on which she has built so much trust. Shortly afterwards I plunge, Look Right, Look Left, and execute other manoeuvres, and find myself safe on opposite side. Battered-looking lady has, rather to my horror, disappeared completely, and I see her no more. Must add this to life’s many other unsolved mysteries.

  Meanwhile, select new coat and skirt — off the peg, but excellent fit, with attractive black suede belt — try on at least eighteen hats — very, very aggravating assistant who tells me that I look Marvellous in each, which we both know very well that I don’t — and finally select one with a brim — which is not, says the assistant, being worn at all now, but after all, there’s no telling when they may come in again — and send Robert small jar of pâté de foie gras from Jackson’s in Piccadilly.

  October 31st. — Letters again give me serious cause for reflection. Robert definitely commits himself to wishing that I would come home again, and says — rather touchingly — that he finds one can see the house from a hill near Plymouth, and he would like me to have a look at it. Shall never wholly understand advantages to be derived from seeing any place from immense distance instead of close at hand, as could so easily be done from the tennis lawn without any exertion at all — but quite realise that masculine point of view on this question, as on so many others, differs from my own, and am deeply gratified by dear Robert’s thought of me.

  Our Vicar’s Wife sends post card of Lincoln Cathedral, and hopes on the back of it that I have not forgotten our Monthly Meeting on Thursday week, and it seems a long time since I left home, but she hopes I am enjoying myself and has no time for more as post just going, and if I am anywhere near St. Paul’s Churchyard, I might just pop into a little bookseller’s at the corner of a little courtyard somewhere quite near the Cathedral, and see if they are doing anything about Our Vicar’s little pamphlet, of which they had several copies in the summer. But I am not to take any trouble about this, on any account. Also, across the top of post card, could I just look in at John Barker’s, when I happen to be anywhere near, and ask the price of filet lace there? But not to put myself out, in any way. Robert, she adds across top of address, seems very lonely, underlined, also three exclamation marks, which presumably denote astonishment. Why?

  November 2nd. — Regretfully observe in myself cynical absence of surprise when interesting invitations pour in on me just as I definitely decide to leave London and return home. Shall not, however, permit anything to interfere with date appointed and undertaking already given by Robert on half-sheet of note-paper, to meet 4.1 8 train at local station next Tuesday.

  Buy two dust-sheets — yellow-and-white check, very cheap — with which to swathe furniture of fiat during my absence. Shopman looks doubtful and says Will two be all I require, and I say Yes, I have plenty of others. Absolute and gratuitous lie, which covers me with shame when I think of it afterwards.

  November 3rd. — Further telephone communication from Pamela P., but this time of a less sensational character, as she merely says that the fog makes her feel too, too suicidal, and she’s had a fearful run of bad luck at Bridge and lost twenty-three pounds in two afternoons, and don’t I feel that when things have got to that stage there’s nothing for it but a complete change? To this I return with great conviction Oh, absolutely nothing, and mentally frame witty addition to the effect that after finding myself unplaced in annual whist-drive in our village, I always make a point of dashing over the Somerset border. This quip, however, joins so many others in limbo of the unspoken.

  I ask Pamela where she is going for complete change and she astonishes me by replying Oh, the Bahamas. That is, if Waddell agrees, but so far he is being difficult, and urging the Pyrenees. I say weakly Well, wouldn’t the Pyrenees be very nice in their own way? — but Pamela, to this, exclaims My dear! in shocked accents, and evidently thinks less than nothing of the Pyrenees. The fact is, she adds, that she has a very great friend in the Bahamas, and he terribly wants her to come out there, and really things are so dreadfully complicated in London that she sometimes feels the only thing to do is to GO. (This I can well believe, but still think the Bahamas excessive.) Meanwhile, however, have I a free afternoon because Pamela has heard of a really marvellous clairvoyante, and she wants someone she can really trust to go there with her, only not one word about it to Waddell, ever. Should like to reply to this that I now take it for granted that any activity of Pamela’s is subject to similar condition — but instead say that I should like to come to marvellous clairvoyante, and am prepared to consult her on my own account. All is accordingly arranged, including invitation from myself to Pamela to lunch with me at my Club beforehand, which she effusively agrees to do.

  Spend the rest of the afternoon wishing that I hadn’t asked her.

  November 6th. — Altogether unprecedented afternoon, with Pamela Pringle. Lunch at my Club not an unmitigated success, as it turns out that Pamela is slimming and can eat nothing that is on menu and drink only orangeade, but she is amiable whilst I deal with chicken casserole and pineapple flan, and tells me about a really wonderful man — (who knows about wild beasts) — who has adored her for years and years, absolutely without a thought of self. Exactly like something in a book, says Pamela. She had a letter from him this morning, and do I think it’s fair to go on writing to him? If there is one thing that Pamela never has been, never possibly could be, it is the kind of woman who Leads a Man On. Lead, kin
dly Light, I say absently, and then feel I have been profane as well as unsympathetic, but Pamela evidently not hurt by this as she pays no attention to it whatever and goes on to tell me about brilliant man-friend in the Diplomatic Service, who telephoned from The Hague this morning and is coming over next week by air apparently entirely in order that he may take Pamela out to dine and dance at the Berkeley.

  Anti-climax supervenes here whilst I pay for lunch and conduct Pamela to small and crowded dressing-room, where she applies orange lipstick and leaves her rings on wash-stand and has to go back for them after taxi has been called and is waiting outside.

  Just as I think we are off page-boy dashes up and says Is it Mrs. Pringle, she is wanted on the telephone, and Pamela again rushes. Ten minutes later she returns and says Will I forgive her, she gave this number as a very great friend wanted to ring her up at lunch-time, and in Sloane Street flat the telephone is often so difficult, not that there’s anything to conceal, but people get such queer ideas, and Pamela has a perfect horror of things being misunderstood. I say that I can quite believe it, then think this sounds unkind, but on the whole do not regret having said it.

  Obscure street in Soho is reached, taxi dismissed after receiving vast sum from Pamela, who insists on paying, and we ascend extraordinarily dirty stairs to second floor, where strong smell of gas prevails. Pamela says Do I think it’s all right? I reply with more spirit than sincerity, that of course it is, and we enter and are received by anaemic-looking young man with curls, who takes one look at us and immediately vanishes behind green plush curtain, but reappears, and says that Madame Inez is quite ready but can only receive one client at a time. Am not surprised when Pamela compels me to go first, but give her a look which I hope she understands is not one of admiration.

  Interview with unpleasant-looking sibyl follows. She gazes into large glass ball and says that I have known grief — (should like to ask her who hasn’t) — and that I am a wife and a mother. Juxtaposition of these statements no doubt unintentional. Long and apparently inspired monologue follows, but little of practical value emerges except that: (a) There is trouble in the near future. (If another change of cook, this is definitely unnerving.) (b) I have a child whose name will one day be famous. (Reference here almost certainly to dear Vicky.) (c) In three years’ time I am to cut loose from my moorings, break new ground and throw my cap over the windmill.

  None of it sounds to me probable, and I thank her and make way for Pamela. Lengthy wait ensues, and I distinctly hear Pamela scream at least three times from behind curtain. Finally she emerges in great agitation, throws pound notes about, and tells me to Come away quickly — which we both do, like murderers, and hurl ourselves into first available taxi quite breathless.

  Pamela shows disposition to clutch me and weep, and says that Madame Inez has told her she is a reincarnation of Helen of Troy and that there will never be peace in her life. (Could have told her the last part myself, without requiring fee for doing so.) She also adds that Madame Inez predicts that Love will shortly enter into her life on hitherto unprecedented scale, and alter it completely — at which I am aghast, and suggest that we should both go and have tea somewhere at once.

  We do so, and it further transpires that Pamela did not like what Madame Inez told her about the past. This I can well believe.

  We part in Sloane Street, and I go back to fiat and spend much time packing.

  November 7th. — Doughty Street left behind, yellow-and-white dust-sheets amply sufficing for entire flat, and Robert meets me at station. He seems pleased to see me but says little until seated in drawing-room after dinner, when he suddenly remarks that He has Missed Me. Am astonished and delighted, and should like him to enlarge on theme, but this he does not do, and we revert to wireless and The Times.

  * * * * *

  April 13th. — Immense and inexplicable lapse of time since diary last received my attention, but on reviewing past five months, can trace no unusual activities, excepting arrears of calls — worked off between January and March on fine afternoons, when there appears to be reasonable chance of finding everybody out — and unsuccessful endeavour to learn cooking by correspondence in twelve lessons.

  Financial situation definitely tense, and inopportune arrival of Rates casts a gloom, but Robert points out that they are not due until May 28th, and am unreasonably relieved. Query: Why? Reply suggests, not for the first time, analogy with Mr. Micawber.

  April 15th. — Felicity Fairmead writes that she could come for a few days’ visit, if we can have her, and may she let me know exact train later, and it will be either the 18th or the 19th, but, if inconvenient, she could make it the 27th, only in that case, she would have to come by Southern Railway and not G.W.R. I write back five pages to say that this would be delightful, only not the 27th, as Robert has to take the car to Crediton that day, and any train that suits her best, of course, but Southern easiest for us.

  Have foreboding that this is only the beginning of lengthy correspondence and number of extremely involved arrangements. This fear confirmed by telegram received at midday from Felicity: Cancel letter posted yesterday could after all come on twenty-first if convenient writing suggestions to-night.

  Say nothing to Robert about this, but unfortunately fresh telegram arrives over the telephone, and is taken down by him, to the effect that Felicity is So sorry but plans altered Writing.

  Robert makes no comment, but goes off at seven o’clock to a British Legion Meeting, and does not return till midnight. Casablanca and I have dinner tête-à-tête, and talk about dog-breeding, the novels of E. F. Benson, and the Church of England, about which he holds to my mind optimistic views. Just as we retire to the drawing-room and wireless, Robin appears in pyjamas, and says that he has distinctly heard a burglar outside his window.

  I give him an orange — but avoid Casabianca’s eye, which is disapproving — and after short sessions by the fire, Robin departs and no more is heard about burglar. Drawing-room, in the most extraordinary way, smells of orange for the rest of the evening to uttermost corners of the room.

  April 19th. — Felicity not yet here, but correspondence continues briskly, and have given up telling Robert anything about which train he will be required to meet.

  Receive agreeable letter from well-known woman writer, personally unknown to me, who says that We have Many Friends in Common, and will I come over to lunch next week and bring anyone I like with me? Am flattered, and accept for self and Felicity. (Mem.: Notify Felicity on post card of privilege in store for her, as this may help her to decide plans.) Further correspondence consists of Account Rendered from Messrs. Frippy and Coleman, very curtly worded, and far more elaborate epistle, which fears that it has escaped my memory, and ventures to draw my attention to enclosed, also typewritten notice concerning approaching Jumble Sale — (about which I know a good deal already, having contributed two hats, three suspender-belts, disintegrating fire-guard, and a foot-stool with Moth) — and request for reference of last cook but two.

  Weather very cold and rainy, and daily discussion takes place between Casabianca and children as to desirability or otherwise of A Walk. Compromise finally reached with Robin and Vicky each wheeling a bicycle uphill, and riding it down, whilst Casabianca, shrouded in mackintosh to the eyebrows, walks gloomily in the rear, in unrelieved solitude. Am distressed at viewing this unnatural state of affairs from the window, and meditate appeal to Robin’s better feelings, if any, but shall waste no eloquence upon Vicky.

  Stray number of weekly Illustrated Paper appears in hall — cannot say why or how — and Robert asks where this rag came from? and then spends an hour after lunch glued to its pages. Paper subsequently reaches the hands of Vicky, who says Oh, look at that picture of a naked lady, and screams with laughter. Ascertain later that this description, not wholly libellous, applies to full-page photograph of Pamela Pringle — wearing enormous feathered headdress, jewelled breast-plates, one garter, and a short gauze skirt — representing Chastity at recent P
ageant of Virtue through the Ages organised by Society women for the benefit of Zenana Mission.

  I ask Robert, with satirical intent, if he would like me to take in Illustrated Weekly regularly, to which he disconcerts me by replying Yes, but not that one. He wants the one that Marsh writes in. Marsh? I say. Yes, Marsh. Marsh is a sound fellow, and knows about books. That, says Robert, should appeal to me. I agree that it does, but cannot, for the moment, trace Marsh. Quite brisk discussion ensues, Robert affirming that I know all about Marsh — everyone does — fellow who writes regularly once a week about books. Illumination suddenly descends upon me, and I exclaim, Oh, Richard King! Robert signifies assent, and adds that he knew very well that I knew about the fellow, everyone does — and goes into the garden.

  (Mem.: Wifely intuition very peculiar and interesting, and apparently subject to laws at present quite unapprehended by finite mind. Material here for very deep, possibly scientific, article. Should like to make preliminary notes, but laundry calls, and concentrate instead on total omission of everything except thirty-four handkerchiefs and one face-towel from clothes-basket. Decide to postpone article until after the holidays.)

  Ethel’s afternoon out, and customary fatality of callers ensues, who are shown in by Cook with unsuitable formula: Someone to see you, ‘m. Someone turns out to be unknown Mrs. Poppington, returning call with quite unholy promptitude, and newly grown-up daughter, referred to as My Girl. Mrs. Poppington sits on window-seat — from which I hastily remove Teddy-bear, plasticine, and two pieces of bitten chocolate — and My Girl leans back in arm-chair and reads Punch from start to finish of visit.