Shall certainly not, in view of all this, permit spirits to be daunted by rather large pile of letters almost all concerned with Accounts Rendered, that I find on my writing-table. Could have dispensed, however, with the Milk-book, the Baker’s Bill, and the Grocer’s Total for the Month, all of them handed to me by Cook with rider to the effect that There was twelve-and-sixpence had to be given to the sweep, and twopence to pay on a letter last Monday week, and she hopes she did right in taking it in.
Robert enquires very amiably what I have been writing lately, and I say lightly, Oh, an article on Modern Freedom in Marriage, and then remember that I haven’t done a word of it, and ask Robert to give me some ideas. He does so, and they are mostly to the effect that People talk a great deal of Rubbish nowadays, and that Divorce may be All Very Well in America, and the Trouble with most women is that they haven’t got nearly Enough to Do. At this I thank Robert very much and say that will do splendidly — which is true in the spirit, though not the letter — but he appears to be completely wound up and unable to stop, and goes on for quite a long time, telling me to Look at Russia, and wishing to know How I should like to see the children whisked off to Siberia — which I think forceful but irrelevant.
Become surprisingly sleepy at ten o’clock — although this never happened to me in London — and go up to bed.
Extraordinary and wholly undesirable tendency displays itself to sit upon window-seat and think about Myself — but am well aware that this kind of thing never a real success, and that it will be the part of wisdom to get up briskly instead and look for shoe-trees to insert in evening-shoes — which I accordingly do; and shortly afterwards find myself in bed and ready to go to sleep.
July 8th. — Short, but rather poignant article on Day-Dreaming which appears in to-day’s Time and Tide over signature of L. A. G. Strong, strangely bears out entry in my diary previous to this one. Am particularly struck — not altogether agreeably, either — by Mr. Strong’s assertion that: “Day-dreaming is only harmful when it constitutes a mental rebellion against the circumstances of our life, which does not tend to any effort to improve them”.
This phrase, quite definitely, exactly epitomises mental exercise in which a large proportion of my life is passed. Have serious thoughts of writing to Mr. Strong, and asking him what, if anything, can be done about it — but morning passes in telephone conversation with the Fishmiddle-cut too expensive, what about a nice sole? — post card to Cissie Crabbe, in return for view of Scarborough with detached enquiry on the back as to How I am and How the children are — other post cards to tradespeople, cheque to the laundry, cheque to Registry Office, and cheque to local newsagent — and Mr. Strong is superseded. Nevertheless am haunted for remainder of the day by recollection surging up at unexpected moments, of the harmfulness of daydreams. Foresee plainly that this will continue to happen to me at intervals throughout the rest of life.
Just before lunch Our Vicar’s Wife calls, and says that It’s too bad to disturb me, and she has only just popped in for one moment and has to nip off to the school at once, but she did so want to talk to me about the concert, and hear all about London. Rather tedious and unnecessary argument follows as to whether she will or will not stay to lunch, and ends — as I always knew it would — in my ringing bell and saying Please lay an extra place for lunch, at the same time trying to send silent telepathic message to Cook that meat-pie alone will now not be enough, and she must do something with eggs or cheese as first course.
(Cook’s interpretation of this subsequently turns out to be sardines, faintly grilled, lying on toast, which I think a mistake, but shall probably not say so, as intentions good.)
Our Vicar’s Wife and I then plunge into the concert, now only separated from us by twenty-four hours. What, says Our Vicar’s Wife hopefully, am I giving them? Well — how would it be if I gave them “John Gilpin”? (Know it already and shall not have to learn anything new.) Splendid, perfectly splendid, Our Vicar’s Wife asserts in rather unconvinced accents. The only thing is, Didn’t I give it to them at Christmas, and two years ago at the Church Organ Fête, and, unless she is mistaken, the winter before that again when we got up that entertainment for St. Dunstan’s?
If this is indeed fact, obviously scheme requires revision. What about “An Austrian Army”? “An Austrian Army?” says Our Vicar’s Wife. Is that the League of Nations?
(Extraordinary frequency with which the unfamiliar is always labelled the League of Nations appalls me.)
I explain that it is very, very interesting example of Alliterative Poetry, and add thoughtfully: “Apt Alliteration’s Artful Aid”, at which Our Vicar’s Wife looks astounded, and mutters something to the effect that I mustn’t be too clever for the rest of the world.
Conversation temporarily checked, and I feel discouraged, and am relieved when gong rings. This, however, produces sudden spate of protests from Our Vicar’s Wife, who says she really must be off, she couldn’t dream of staying to lunch, and what can she have been thinking of all this time?
Entrance of Robert — whose impassive expression on being unexpectedly confronted with a guest I admire — gives fresh turn to entire situation, and we all find ourselves in dining-room quite automatically.
Conversation circles round the concert, recent arrivals at neighbouring bungalow, on whom we all say that we must call, and distressing affair in the village which has unhappily ended by Mrs. A. of Jubilee Cottages being summonsed for assault by her neighbour Mrs. H. Am whole-heartedly thrilled by this, and pump Our Vicar’s Wife for details, which she gives spasmodically, but has to switch off into French, or remarks about the weather, whenever parlour-maid is in the room.
Cook omits to provide coffee — in spite of definite instructions always to do so when we have a guest — and have to do the best I can with cigarettes, although perfectly well aware that Our Vicar’s Wife does not smoke, and never has smoked.
Concert appears on the tapis once more, and Robert is induced to promise that he will announce the items. Our Vicar’s Wife, rather nicely, says that everyone would love it if dear little Vicky could dance for us, and I reply that she will still be away at school, and Our Vicar’s Wife replies that she knows that, she only meant how nice it would be if she hadn’t been away at school, and could have danced for us. Am ungrateful enough to reflect that this is as singularly pointless an observation as ever I heard.
What, asks Our Vicar’s Wife, am I doing this afternoon? Why not come with her and call on the new people at the bungalow and get it over? In this cordial frame of mind we accordingly set out, and I drive Standard car, Our Vicar’s Wife observing — rather unnecessarily — that it really is wonderful how that car goes on and on and on.
Conversation continues, covering much ground that has been traversed before, and only diversified by hopes from me that the bungalow inhabitants may all be out, and modification from Our Vicar’s Wife to the effect that she is hoping to get them to take tickets for the concert.
Aspirations as to absence of new arrivals dashed on the instant of drawing up at their gate, as girl in cretonne overall, older woman — probably mother — with spectacles, and man in tweeds, are all gardening like mad at the top of the steps. They all raise themselves from stooping postures, and all wipe their hands on their clothes — freakish resemblance here to not very well co-ordinated revue chorus — and make polite pretence of being delighted to see us. Talk passionately about rock-gardens for some time, then are invited to come indoors, which we do, but cretonne overall and man in tweeds — turns out to be visiting uncle — sensibly remain behind and pursue their gardening activities.
We talk about the concert — two one-and-sixpenny tickets disposed of successfully — hostess reveals that she thinks sparrows have been building in one of the water-pipes, and I say Yes, they do do that, and Our Vicar’s Wife backs me up, and shortly afterwards we take our leave.
On passing through village, Our Vicar’s Wife says that we may just as well look in on Miss Panke
rton, as she wants to speak to her about the concert. I protest, but to no avail, and we walk up Miss P.’s garden-path and hear her practising the violin indoors, and presently she puts her head out of ground-floor window and shrieks — still practising — that we are to walk straight in, which we do, upon which she throws violin rather recklessly on to the sofa — which is already piled with books, music, newspapers, appliances for raffia-work, garden-hat, hammer, chisel, sample tin of biscuits, and several baskets — and shakes us by both hands. She also tells me that she sees I have taken her advice, and released a good many of my inhibitions in that book of mine. Should like to deny violently having ever taken any advice of Miss P.’s at all, or even noticed that she’d given it, but she goes on to say that I ought to pay more attention to Style — and I diverge into wondering inwardly whether she means prose, or clothes.
(If the latter, this is incredible audacity, as Miss P.’s own costume — on broiling summer’s day — consists of brick-red cloth dress, peppered with glass knobs, and surmounted by abominable little brick-red three-tiered cape, closely fastened under her chin.)
Our Vicar’s Wife again launches out into the concert — has Miss P. an encore ready? Yes, she has. Two, if necessary. She supposes genially that I am giving a reading of some little thing of my own — I reply curtly that I am not, and shouldn’t dream of such a thing — and Our Vicar’s Wife, definitely tactful, interrupts by saying that She Hears Miss P. is off to London directly the concert is over. If this is really so, and it isn’t giving her any trouble, could she and would she just look in at Harrods’, where they are having a sale, and find out what about tinned apricots? Any reduction on a quantity, and how about carriage? And while she’s in that neighbourhood — but not if it puts her out in any way — could she just look in at that little shop in the Fulham Road — the name has escaped Our Vicar’s ‘Wife for the moment — but it’s really quite unmistakable — where they sell bicycle-parts? Our Vicar has lost a nut, quite a small nut, but rather vital, and it simply can’t be replaced. Fulham Road the last hope.
Miss P. — I think courageously — undertakes it all, and writes down her London address, and Our Vicar’s Wife writes down everything she can remember about Our Vicar’s quite small nut, and adds on the same piece of paper the word “haddock”.
But this, she adds, is only if Miss P. really has got time, and doesn’t mind bringing it down with her, as otherwise it won’t be fresh, only it does make a change and is so very difficult to get down here unless one is a regular customer.
At this point I intervene, and firmly suggest driving Our Vicar’s Wife home, as feel certain that, if I don’t, she will ask Miss P. to bring her a live crocodile from the Zoo, or something equally difficult of achievement.
We separate, with light-hearted anticipations of meeting again at the concert.
July 10th. — Concert permeates the entire day, and I spend at least an hour looking through A Thousand and One Gems and The Drawing-room Reciter in order to discover something that I once knew and can recapture without too much difficulty. Finally decide on narrative poem about Dick Turpin, unearthed in Drawing-room Reciter, and popular in far-away schooldays. Walk about the house with book in my hand most of the morning, and ask Robert to Hear Me after lunch, which he does, and only has to prompt three times. He handsomely offers to Hear Me again after tea, and to prompt if necessary during performance, and I feel that difficulty has been overcome.
Everything subject to interruption: small children arrive to ask if I can possibly lend them Anything Chinese, and am able to produce two paper fans — obviously made in Birmingham — one cotton kimono — eight-and-eleven at Messrs. Frippy and Coleman’s — and large nautilus shell, always said to have been picked up by remote naval ancestor on the shore at Hawaii.
They express themselves perfectly satisfied, I offer them toffee, which they accept, and they depart with newspaper parcel. Later on message comes from the Rectory, to say that my contribution to Refreshments has not arrived, am covered with shame, and sacrifice new ginger-cake just made for to-day’s tea.
Concert, in common with every other social activity in the village, starts at 7.30, and as Robert has promised to Take the Door and I am required to help with arranging the platform, we forgo dinner altogether, and eat fried fish at tea, and Robert drinks a whisky-and-soda.
Rumour has spread that Our Member and his wife are to appear at concert, but on my hoping this is true, since both are agreeable people, Robert shakes his head and says there’s nothing in it. Everyone else, he admits, will be there, but not Our Member and his wife. I resign myself, and we both join in hoping that we shan’t have to sit next Miss Pankerton. This hope realised, as Robert is put at the very end of front row of chairs, in order that he may get off and on platform frequently, and I am next him and have Our Vicar’s Wife on my other side.
I ask for Our Vicar, and am told that his hay-fever has come on worse than ever, and he has been persuaded to stay at home. Regretful reference is made to this by Robert from the platform, and concert begins, as customary, with piano duet between Miss F. from the shop, and Miss W. of the smithy.
Have stipulated that Dick Turpin is to come on very early, so as to get it over, and am asked by Our Vicar’s Wife if I am nervous. I say Yes, I am, and she is sympathetic, and tells me that the audience will be indulgent. They are, and Dick Turpin is safely accomplished with only one prompt from Robert — unfortunately delivered rather loudly just as I am purposely making what I hope is pregnant and dramatic pause — and I sit down again and prepare to enjoy myself.
Miss Pankerton follows me, is accompanied by pale young man who loses his place twice, and finally drops his music on the ground, picks it up again and readjusts it, while Miss P. glares at him and goes on vigorously with Une Fête à Trianon and leaves him to find his own way home as best he can. This he never quite succeeds in doing until final chord is reached, when he joins in again with an air of great triumph, and we all applaud heartily.
Miss P. bows, and at once launches into encore — which means that everybody else will have to be asked for an encore too, otherwise there will be feelings — and eventually sits down again and we go on to Sketch by the school-children, in which paper fans and cotton kimonos are in evidence.
The children look nice, and are delighted with themselves, and everybody else is delighted too, and Sketch brings down the house, at which Miss Pankerton looks superior and begins to tell me about Classical Mime by children that she once organised in large hall — seats two thousand people — near Birmingham, but I remain unresponsive, and only observe in reply that Jimmie H. of the mill is a duck, isn’t he?
At this Miss P.’s eyebrows disappear into her hair, and she tells me about children she has seen in Italy who are pure Murillo types — but Our Butcher’s Son here mounts the platform, in comic checks, bowler and walking-stick, and all is lost in storms of applause.
Presently Robert announces an Interval, and we all turn round in our seats and scan the room and talk to the people behind us, and someone brings forward a rumour that they’ve taken Close on Three Pounds at the Door, and we all agree that, considering the hot weather, it’s wonderful.
Shortly afterwards Robert again ascends platform, and concert is resumed. Imported talent graces last half of the programme, in the shape of tall young gentleman who is said to be a friend of the Post Office, and who sings a doubtful comic song which is greeted with shrieks of appreciation. Our Vicar’s Wife and I look at one another, and she shakes her head with a resigned expression, and whispers that it can’t be helped, and she hopes the encore won’t be any worse. It is worse, but not very much, and achieves enormous popular success.
By eleven o’clock all is over, someone has started God Save the King much too high, and we have all loyally endeavoured to make ourselves heard on notes that we just can’t reach — Miss Pankerton has boldly attempted something that is evidently meant to be seconds, but results not happy — and we walk out into the nig
ht.
Robert drives me home. I say Weren’t the children sweet? and Really, it was rather fun, wasn’t it? and Robert changes gear, but makes no specific reply. Turn into our own lane, and I experience customary wonder whether house has been burnt to the ground in our absence, followed by customary reflection that anyway, the children are away at school — and then get severe shock as I see the house blazing with light from top to bottom.
Robert ejaculates, and puts his foot on the accelerator, and we dash in at gate, and nearly run into enormous blue car drawn up at front door.
I rush into the hall, and at the same moment Pamela Pringle rushes out of the drawing-room, wearing evening dress and grey fur coat with enormous collar, and throws herself on my neck. Am enabled, by mysterious process quite inexplicable to myself, to see through the back of my head that Robert has recoiled on threshold and retired with car to the garage.
Pamela P. explains that she is staying the night at well-known hotel, about forty miles away, and that when she found how near I was, she simply had to look me up, and she had simply no idea that I ever went out at night. I say that I never do, and urge her into the drawing-room, and there undergo second severe shock as I perceive it to be apparently perfectly filled with strange men. Pamela does not introduce any of them, beyond saying that it was Johnnie’s car they came in, and Plum drove it. Waddell is not included in the party, nor anybody else that I ever saw in my life, and all seem to be well under thirty, except very tall man with bald head who is referred to as Alphonse Daudet, and elderly-looking one with moustache, who I think looks Retired, probably India.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 380