Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  Later on, Casabianca turns up — looking pale-green with cold and making straight for the fire — and announces that he and the children have had a Splendid Walk and are all the better for it. Since I know, and Vicky knows, that this is being said for the express benefit of Vicky, we receive it rather tepidly, and conversation lapses while I pursue elusive sum of ten shillings and threepence through shopping accounts. Robin comes in by the window — I say, too late, Oh, your boots! — and Robert, unfortunately choosing this moment to appear, enquires whether there isn’t a schoolroom in the house?

  Atmosphere by this time is quite unfavourable to festivity, and I go up to dress for the Frobishers — or, more accurately, for the Blamingtons — feeling limp.

  Hot bath restores me slightly — but relapse occurs when entirely vital shoulder-strap gives way and needle and thread become necessary.

  Put on my Green, dislike it very much indeed, and once more survey contents of wardrobe, as though expecting to find miraculous addition to already perfectly well-known contents.

  Needless to say, this does not happen, and after some contemplation of my Black — which looks rusty and entirely out of date — and my Blue — which is a candidate for the next Jumble sale — I return to the looking-glass still in my Green, and gaze at myself earnestly.

  (Query: Does this denote irrational hope of sudden and complete transformation in personal appearance? If so, can only wonder that so much faith should meet with so little reward.)

  Jewel-case unfortunately rather low at present — (have every hope of restoring at least part of the contents next month, if American sales satisfactory) — but great-aunt’s diamond ring fortunately still with us, and I put it on fourth finger of left hand, and hope that Bill will think Robert gave it to me. Exact motive governing this wish far too complicated to be analysed, but shelve entire question by saying to myself that Anyway, Robert certainly would have given it to me if he could have afforded it.

  Evening cloak is smarter than musquash coat; put it on. Robert says Am I off my head and do I want to arrive frozen? Brief discussion follows, but I know he is right and I am wrong, and eventually compromise by putting on fur coat, and carrying cloak, to make decent appearance with on arrival in hall.

  Fausse sortie ensues — as it so frequently does in domestic surroundings — and am twice recalled on the very verge of departure, once by Ethel, with superfluous observation that she supposes she had better not lock up at ten o’clock, and once by Robin, who takes me aside and says that he is very sorry, he has broken his bedroom window. It was, he says, entirely an accident, as he was only kicking his football about. I point out briefly, but kindly, that accidents of this nature are avoidable, and we part affectionately. Robert, at the wheel, looks patient, and I feel perfectly convinced that entire evening is going to be a failure.

  Nobody in drawing-room when we arrive, and butler looks disapprovingly round, as though afraid that Lady F. or Sir William may be quietly hiding under some of the furniture, but this proving groundless, he says that he will Inform Her Ladyship, and leaves us. I immediately look in the glass, which turns out to be an ancient Italian treasure, and shows me a pale yellow reflection, with one eye much higher than the other. Before I have in any way recovered, Lady F. is in the room, so is Sir William, and so are the Blamingtons. Have not the slightest idea what happens next, but can see that Bill, except that he has grown bald, is unaltered, and has kept his figure, and that I do not like the look of his wife, who has lovely hair, a Paris frock, and is elaborately made-up.

  We all talk a great deal about the weather, which is — as usual — cold, and I hear myself assuring Sir W. that our rhododendrons are not yet showing a single bud. Sir W. expresses astonishment — which would be even greater if he realised that we only have one rhododendron in the world, and that I haven’t set eyes on it for weeks owing to pressure of indoor occupations — and we go in to dinner. I am placed between Sir W. and Bill, and Bill looks at me and says Well, well, and we talk about Hampstead, and mutual friends, of whom Bill says Do you ever see anything of them nowadays? to which I am invariably obliged to reply No, we haven’t met for years. Bill makes the best of this by observing civilly that I am lucky to live in such a lovely part of the world, and he supposes we have a very charming house, to which I reply captiously No, quite ordinary, and we both laugh.

  Conversation after this much easier, and I learn that Bill has two children, a boy and a girl. I say that I have the same, and, before I can stop myself, have added that this is really a most extraordinary coincidence. Wish I hadn’t been so emphatic about it, and hastily begin to talk about aviation to Sir William. He has a great deal to say about this, and I ejaculate Yes at intervals, and ascertain that Bill’s wife is telling Robert that the policy of the Labour party is suicidal, to which he assents heartily, and that Lady F. and Bill are exchanging views about Norway.

  Shortly after this, conversation becomes general, party-politics predominating — everyone except myself apparently holding Conservative views, and taking it for granted that none other exist in civilised circles — and I lapse into silence.

  (Query: Would not a greater degree of moral courage lead me to straightforward and open declaration of precise attitude held by myself in regard to the Conservative and other parties? Answer: Indubitably, yes — but results of such candour not improbably disastrous, and would assuredly add little to social amenities of present occasion.)

  Entirely admirable dinner brought to a close with South African pears, and Lady F. says Shall we have coffee in the drawing-room? — entirely rhetorical question, as decision naturally rests with herself.

  Customary quarter of an hour follows, during which I look at Bill’s wife, and like her less than ever, especially when she and Lady F. discuss hairdressers, and topic of Permanent Waves being introduced — (probably on purpose) — by Bill’s wife, she says that her own is Perfectly Natural, which I feel certain, to my disgust, is the truth.

  It transpires that she knows Pamela Pringle, and later on she tells Bill that Pamela P. is a great friend of mine, and adds Fancy! which I consider offensive, whatever it means.

  Bridge follows — I play with Sir William, and do well, but as Robert loses heavily, exchequer will not materially benefit — and evening draws to a close.

  Hold short conversation with Bill in the hall whilst Robert is getting the car. He says that Sevenoaks is all on our way to London whenever we motor up — which we never do, and it wouldn’t be even if we did — and it would be very nice if we’d stay a night or two. I say Yes, we’d love that, and we agree that It’s a Promise, and both know very well that it isn’t, and Robert reappears and everybody says good-bye.

  Experience extraordinary medley of sensations as we drive away, and journey is accomplished practically in silence.

  May 1st. — I ask Robert if he thought Lady Blamington good-looking, and he replies that he wouldn’t say that exactly. What would he say, then? Well, he would say striking, perhaps. He adds that he’ll eat his hat if they have a penny less than twenty-thousand a year between them, and old Frobisher says that their place in Kent is a show place. I ask what he thought of Bill, and Robert says Oh, he seemed all right. Make final enquiry as to what I looked like last night, and whether Robert thinks that eighteen years makes much difference in one’s appearance?

  Robert, perhaps rightly, ignores the last half of this, and replies to the former — after some thought — that I looked just as usual, but he doesn’t care much about that green dress. Am sufficiently unwise to press for further information, at which Robert looks worried, but finally admits that, to his mind, the green dress makes me look Tawdry.

  Am completely disintegrated by this adjective, which recurs to me in the midst of whatever I am doing, for the whole of the remainder of the day.

  Activities mainly concerned with school-clothes, of which vast quantities are required by both children, Robin owing to school exigencies, and Vicky to inordinately rapid growth. Effect o
n domestic finances utterly disastrous in either case. Robin’s trunk is brought down from the attic, and Vicky’s suitcase extracted from beneath bed. Casabianca and the gardener are obliged to deal with Casabianca’s trunk, which is of immense size and weight, and sticks on attic staircase.

  (Query, of entirely private nature: Why cannot Casabianca travel about with reasonable luggage like anybody else? Is he concealing murdered body or other incriminating evidence from which he dares not be parted? Answer: Can obviously never be known.)

  Second post brings unexpected and most surprising letter from Mademoiselle, announcing that she is in England and cannot wait to embrace us once again — may she have one sight of Vicky — ce petit ange — and Robin — ce gentil gosse — before they return to school? She will willingly, in order to obtain this privilege, courir nu-pieds from Essex to Devonshire. Despatch immediate telegram inviting her for two nights, and debate desirability of adding that proposed barefooted Marathon wholly unnecessary — but difficulty of including this in twelve words deters me, moreover French sense of humour always incalculable to a degree. Announce impending visit to children, who receive it much as I expected. Robin says Oh, and continues to decipher “John Brown’s Body” very slowly on the piano with one finger — which he has done almost hourly every day these holidays — and Vicky looks blank and eats unholy-looking mauve lozenge alleged to be a present from Cook.

  (Mem.: Speak to Cook, tactfully and at the same time decisively. Must think this well out beforehand.)

  Robert’s reaction to approaching union with devoted friend and guardian of Vicky’s infancy lacking in any enthusiasm whatever.

  May 3rd. — Mademoiselle arrives by earlier train than was expected, and is deposited at front door, in the middle of lunch, by taxi, together with rattan basket, secured by cord, small attaché case, large leather hat-box, plaid travelling rug, parcel wrapped in American oilcloth, and two hand-bags.

  We all rush out (excepting Helen Wills, who is subsequently found to have eaten the butter off dish on sideboard) and much excitement follows. If Mademoiselle says Ah, mais ce qu’ils ont grandis! once, she says it thirty-five times. To me she exclaims that I have bonne mine, and do not look a day over twenty, which is manifestly absurd. Robert shakes hands with her — at which she cries Ah! quelle bonne poignée de main anglaise! and introduction of Casabianca is effected, but this less successful, and rather distant bows are exchanged, and I suggest adjournment to din in groom.

  Lunch resumed — roast lamb and mint sauce recalled for Mademoiselle’s benefit, and am relieved at respectable appearance they still present, which could never have been the case with either cottage pie or Irish stew — and news is exchanged. Mademoiselle has, it appears, accepted another post — doctor’s household in les environs de Londres, which I think means Putney — but has touchingly stipulated for two days in which to visit us before embarking on new duties.

  I say how glad I am, and she says, once more, that the children have grown, and throws up both hands towards the ceiling and tosses her head.

  Suggestion, from Robert, that Robin and Vicky should take their oranges into the garden, is adopted, and Casabianca escorts them from the room.

  Mademoiselle immediately enquires Qu’est-ce que c’est que ce petit jeune homme? in tones perfectly, and I think designedly, audible from the hall where Vicky and Casabianca can be heard in brisk dispute over a question of goloshes. I reply, in rebukefully lowered voice, with short outline of Casabianca’s position in household — which is, to my certain knowledge, perfectly well known to Mademoiselle already. She slightingly replies Tiens, c’est drôle — words and intonation both, in my opinion, entirely unnecessary. The whole of this dialogue rouses in me grave apprehension as to success or otherwise of next forty-eight hours.

  Mademoiselle goes to unpack, escorted by Vicky — should like to think this move wholly inspired by grateful affection, but am more than doubtful — Casabianca walks Robin up and down the lawn, obviously for purpose of admonishment — probably justifiable, but faint feeling of indignation assails me at the sight — and I stand idle just outside hall-door until Robert goes past me with a wheelbarrow and looks astonished, when I remember that I must (a) Write letters, (b) Telephone to the Bread, which ought to be here and isn’t, (c) Go on sorting school clothes, (d) Put Cash’s initials on Vicky’s new stockings, (e) See about sending nursery chintzes to the cleaners.

  Curious and unprofitable reflection crosses my mind that if I were the heroine of a novel, recent encounter between Bill and myself would lead to further developments of tense and emotional description, culminating either in renunciation, or — if novel a modern one — complete flight of cap over windmill.

  Real life, as usual, totally removed from literary conventions, and nothing remains but to hasten indoors and deal with accumulated household duties.

  Arrival of second post, later on, gives rise to faint recrudescence of romantic speculations, when letter in unknown, but educated, handwriting, bearing London postmark, is handed to me. Have mentally taken journey to Paris, met Bill by appointment, and said good-bye to him for ever — and also, alternatively, gone with him to the South Sea Islands, been divorced by Robert, and heard of the deaths of both children — before opening letter. It turns out to be from unknown gentleman of high military rank, who asks me whether I am interested in the New Economy, as he is selling off mild-cured hams very cheaply indeed.

  May 5th. — Fears relating to perfect harmony between Mademoiselle and Casabianca appear to have been well founded, and am relieved that entire party disperses to-morrow. Children, as usual on last day of holidays, extremely exuberant, but am aware, from previous experience, that fearful reaction will set in at eleventh hour.

  Decide on picnic, said to be in Mademoiselle’s honour, and Robert tells me privately that he thinks Casabianca had better be left behind. Am entirely of opinion that he is right, and spend some time in evolving graceful and kindhearted little formula with which to announce this arrangement, but all ends in failure.

  Casabianca says Oh no, it is very kind of me, but he would quite enjoy a picnic, and does not want an afternoon to himself. He has no letters to write — very kind of me to think of such a thing. Nor does he care about a quiet day in the garden, kind though it is of me. Final desperate suggestion that he would perhaps appreciate vague and general asset of A Free Day, he receives with renewed reference to my extreme kindness, and incontrovertible statement that he wouldn’t know what to do with a free day if he had it.

  Retire defeated, and tell Robert that Casabianca wants to come to the picnic — which Robert appears to think unnatural in the extreme. Towards three o’clock it leaves off raining, and we start, customary collection of rugs, mackintoshes, baskets and thermos flasks in back of car.

  Mademoiselle says Ah, combien ça me rappelle le passé que nous ne reverrons plus! and rolls her eyes in the direction of Casabianca, and I remember with some thankfulness that his knowledge of French is definitely limited. Something tells me, however, that he has correctly interpreted meaning of Mademoiselle’s glance.

  Rain begins again, and by the time we reach appointed beauty-spot is falling very briskly indeed. Robert, who has left home under strong compulsion from Vicky, is now determined to see the thing through, and announces that he shall walk the dog to the top of the hill, and that the children had better come too. Mademoiselle, shrouded in large plaid cape, exerts herself in quite unprecedented manner, and offers to go with them, which shames me into doing likewise, sorely against my inclination. We all get very wet indeed, and Vicky falls into mysterious gap in a hedge and comes out dripping and with black smears that turn out to be tar all over her.

  Mon Dieu, says Mademoiselle, il n’y a done plus personne pour s’occuper de cette malheureuse petite? Should like to remind her of many, many similar misfortunes which have befallen Vicky under Mademoiselle’s own supervision — but do not, naturally, do so.

  Situation, already slightly tense, greatly
aggravated by Casabianca, who selects this ill-judged moment for rebuking Vicky at great length, at which Mademoiselle exclaims passionately Ah ma bonne Sainte Vierge, ayez pitié de nous! which strikes us all into a deathly silence.

  Rain comes down in torrents, and I suggest tea in the car, but this is abandoned when it becomes evident that we are too tightly packed to be able to open baskets, let alone spread out their contents. Why not tea in the dining-room at home? is Robert’s contribution towards solving difficulty, backed quietly, but persistently, by Casabianca. This has immediate effect of causing Mademoiselle to advocate un goûter en plein air, as though we were at Fontainebleau, or any other improbable spot, in blazing sunshine.

  Robin suddenly and brilliantly announces that we are quite near Bull Alley Manor, which is empty, and that the gardener will allow us to have a picnic in the hen-house. Everybody says The Hen-house? except Vicky, who screams and looks enchanted, and Mademoiselle, who also screams, and refers to punaises, which she declares will abound. Robin explains that he means a summer-house on the Bull Alley tennis-ground, which has a wire-netting and looks like a hen-house, but he doesn’t think it really is. He adds triumphantly that it has a bench that we can sit on. Robert puts in a final plea for the dining-room at home, but without conviction, and we drive ten miles to Bull Alley Manor, where picnic takes place under Robin’s auspices, all of us sitting in a row on long wooden seat, exactly like old-fashioned school feast. I say that it reminds me of The Daisy Chain, but nobody knows what I mean, and reference is allowed to drop while we eat potted-meat sandwiches and drink lemonade, which is full of pips.