Can see no particular reason why this conversation should ever end, and less reason still why it should go on, so feel it better to smile and walk away, which I do. Stewardess comes to my cabin later, and is very nice and offers to bring vases for flowers. Some of them, she thinks, had better go on my table in dining-saloon.
I thank her and agree, and look at letters, telegrams and books. Am gratified to discover note from Mr. Alexander Woollcott, no less. He has, it appears, two very distinguished friends also travelling on the Berengaria, and they will undoubtedly come and introduce themselves to me, and make my acquaintance. This will, writes Mr. W. gracefully, be to the great pleasure and advantage of all of us.
Am touched, but know well that none of it will happen, (a) because the distinguished friends are travelling first-class and I am not, and (b) because I shall all too certainly be laid low directly the ship gets into the open sea, and both unwilling and unable to make acquaintance with anybody.
Unpack a few necessities — am forcibly reminded of similar activities on s.s. Statendam and realise afresh that I really am on my way home and need not become agitated at mere sight of children’s photographs — and go in search of dining-saloon.
Find myself at a table with three Canadian young gentlemen who all look to me exactly alike — certainly brothers, and quite possibly triplets — and comparatively old acquaintance whose son performed athletic feat at Southampton Docks.
Enormous mountain of flowers decorates the middle of the table — everybody says Where do these come from? and I admit ownership and am evidently thought the better of thenceforward:
Much greater triumph, however, awaits me when table-steward, after taking a good look at me, suddenly proclaims that he and I were on board s.s. Mentor together in 1922. Overlook possibly scandalous interpretation to which his words may lend themselves, and admit to s.s. Mentor. Table-steward, in those days, was with the Blue Funnel line. He had the pleasure, he says, of waiting upon my husband and myself at the Captain’s table. He remembers us perfectly, and I have changed very little.
At this my prestige quite obviously goes up by leaps and bounds, and English fellow-traveller — name turns out to be Mrs. Smiley — and Canadian triplets all gaze at me with awe-stricken expressions.
Behaviour of table-steward does nothing towards diminishing this, as he makes a point of handing everything to me first, and every now and then breaks off in the performance of his duties to embark on agreeable reminiscences of our earlier acquaintance.
Am grateful for so much attention, but feel very doubtful if I shall be able to live up to it all through voyage.
December 4th. — Flowers have to be removed from cabin, and books remain unread, but stewardess is kindness itself and begs me not to think of moving.
I do not think of moving.
December 5th. — Stewardess tells me that storm has been frightful, and surpassed any in her experience. Am faintly gratified at this — Why? — and try not to think that she probably says exactly the same thing more or less every voyage to every sea-sick passenger.
Practically all her ladies, she adds impressively, have been laid low, and one of the stewardesses. And this reminds her: the table-steward who looks after me in the dining-saloon has enquired many times how I am getting on, and if there is anything I feel able to take, later on, I have only to let him know.
Am touched by this, and decide that I could manage a baked potato and a dry biscuit. These are at once provided, and do me a great deal of good. The stewardess encourages me, says that the sea is now perfectly calm, and that I shall feel better well wrapped up on deck.
Feel that she is probably right, and follow her advice. Am quite surprised to see numbers of healthy-looking people tramping about vigorously, and others — less active, but still robust — sitting in chairs with rugs round their legs. Take up this attitude myself, but turn my back to the Atlantic Ocean, which does not seem to me quite to deserve eulogies bestowed upon it by stewardess. Canadian triplets presently go past — all three wearing black bérets — and stop and ask how I am. They have, they say, missed me in the dining-room. I enquire How they are getting on with Mrs. Smiley? and they look at one another with rather hunted expressions, and one of them says Oh, she talks a good deal.
Can well believe it.
Alarming thought occurs to me that she may be occupying the chair next mine, but inspection of card on the back of it reveals that this is not so, and that I am to be privileged to sit next to Mr. H. Cyril de Mullins Green. Am, most unjustly, at once conscious of being strongly prejudiced against him. Quote Shakespeare to myself in a very literary way — What’s in a Name? — and soon afterwards doze.
Day passes with extreme slowness, but not unpleasantly. Decide that I positively must write and thank some of the people who so kindly sent me flowers and books for journey, but am quite unable to rouse myself to the extent of fetching writing materials from cabin. Take another excursion into the realms of literature and quote to myself from Mrs. Gamp: “Rouge yourself, Mr. Chuffey” — but all to no avail.
Later in the afternoon Mr. H. Cyril de Mullins Green materialises as pale young man with horn-rimmed glasses and enormous shock of black hair. He tells me — in rather resentful tone of voice — that he knows my name, and adds that he writes himself Feel inclined to reply that I Thought as Much — but do not do so. Enquire instead — though not without misgivings as to tactfulness of the question — with whom the works of Mr. H. C. de M. G. are published? He mentions a firm of which I have never heard, and I reply Oh really? as if I had known all about them for years, and the conversation drops. Remain on deck for dinner, but have quite a good one nevertheless, and immediately afterwards go down below.
December 6th. — Receive cable from Robert, saying All Well and he will meet me at Southampton. This has definitely bracing effect, and complete recovery sets in.
Mrs. Smiley, in my absence, has acquired complete domination over Canadian triplets, and monopolises conversation at meals. She appears only moderately gratified by my restoration to health, and says that she herself has kept her feet throughout. She has, also, won a great deal at Bridge, played deck tennis and organised a treasure-hunt which was a great success. To this neither I nor the Canadians have anything to counter, but after a time the youngest-looking of the triplets mutters rather defiantly that they have walked four miles every day, going round and round the deck. I applaud this achievement warmly, and Mrs. Smiley says that Those calculations are often defective, which silences us all once mire.
Learn that concert has been arranged for the evening-Mrs. Smiley has taken very active part in organising this and is to play several accompaniments — and H. Cyril de Mullins G. tells me later that he hopes it won’t give great offence if he keeps away, but he cannot endure amateur performances of any sort or kind. As for music, anything other than Bach is pure torture to him. I suggest that in that case he must suffer quite a lot in the dining-saloon, where music quite other than Bach is played regularly, and he asks in a pained way whether I haven’t noticed that he very seldom comes to the dining-saloon at all? He cannot, as a rule, endure the sight of his fellow-creatures eating. It revolts him. For his own part, he very seldom eats anything at all. No breakfast, an apple for lunch, and a little red wine, fish and fruit in the evening is all that he ever requires. I say, rather enviously, How cheap! and suggest that this must make housekeeping easy for his mother, but H. C. de M. G. shudders a good deal and replies that he hasn’t lived with his parents for years and years and thinks family life extremely bourgeois. As it seems obvious that Cyril and I differ on almost every point of importance, I decide that we might as well drop the conversation, and open new novel by L. A. G. Strong that I want to read.
Modern fiction! says Cyril explosively. How utterly lousy it all is! He will, he admits, give me Shaw — (for whom I haven’t asked) — but there are no writers living to-day. Not one. I say Come, Come, what about ourselves? but Mr. de M. G. evidently quite imperviou
s to this witty shaft and embarks on very long monologue, in the course of which he demolishes many worldwide reputations. Am extremely thankful when we are interrupted by Mrs. Smiley, at the sight of whom C. de M. G. at once gets on to his feet and walks away. (Deduce from this that they have met before.)
Mrs. Smiley has come, she tells me, in order to find out if I will give a little Reading from Something of my Own at to-night’s concert. No, I am very sorry, but I cannot do anything of the kind. Now why? Mrs. S. argumentatively enquires. No one will be critical, in fact as likely as not they won’t listen, but it will give pleasure. Do I not believe in brightening this sad old world when I get the chance? For Mrs. Smiley’s own part, she never grudges a little trouble if it means happiness for others. Naturally, getting up an entertainment of this kind means hard work, and probably no thanks at the end of it — but she feels it’s a duty. That’s all. Just simply a duty. I remain unresponsive, and Mrs. S. shakes her head and leaves me.
(If I see or hear any more of Mrs. S. shall almost certainly feel it my duty, if not my pleasure, to kick her overboard at earliest possible opportunity.)
Concert duly takes place, in large saloon, and everyone — presumably with the exception of Cyril — attends it. Various ladies sing ballads, mostly about gardens or little boys with sticky fingers — a gentleman plays a concertina solo, not well, and another gentleman does conjuring tricks. Grand finale is a topical song, said to have been written by Mrs. Smiley, into which references to all her fellow-passengers are introduced not without ingenuity. Should much like to know how she has found out so much about them all in the time.
Appeal is then made — by Mrs. Smiley — for Naval Charity to which we are all asked to subscribe — Mrs. Smiley springs round the room with a tambourine, and we all drop coins into it — and we disperse.
Obtain glimpse, as I pass smoking-saloon, of Mr. H. Cyril de Mullins Green drinking what looks like brandy-and-soda, and telling elderly gentleman — who has, I think, reached senility — that English Drama has been dead — absolutely dead — ever since the Reformation.
December 7th. — Pack for — I hope — the last time, and spend most of the day listening to various reports that We shan’t be in before midnight, We shall get in by four o’clock this afternoon, and We can’t get in to-day at all.
Finally notice appears on a board outside dining-saloon, informing us that we shall get to Southampton at nine P.M. and that dinner will be served at six — (which seems to me utterly unreasonable). — Luggage to be ready and outside cabins at four o’clock. (More unreasonable still.) Every possible preparation is completed long before three o’clock, and I feel quite unable to settle down to anything at all, and am reduced to watching Mrs. Smiley play table-tennis with one of the Canadian triplets, and beat him into a cocked hat.
Dinner takes place at six o’clock — am far too much excited to eat any — and from thence onward I roam uneasily about from one side of ship to the other, and think that every boat I see is tender from Southampton conveying Robert to meet me.
Am told at last by deck-steward — evidently feeling sorry for me — that tender is the other side, and I rush there accordingly, and hang over the side and wave passionately to familiar figure in blue suit. Familiar figure turns out to be that of complete stranger.
Scan everybody else in advancing tender, and decide that I have at last sighted Robert — raincoat and felt hat — but nerve has been rather shattered and am doubtful about waving. This just as well, as raincoat is afterwards claimed by unknown lady in tweed coat and skirt, who screams: Is that you, Dad? and is in return hailed with: Hello, Mum, old girl! how are you!
I decide that Robert has (a) had a stroke from excitement, (b) been summoned to the death-bed of one of the children, (c) missed the tender.
Remove myself from the rail in dejection, and immediately come face to face with Robert, who has mysteriously boarded the ship unperceived. Am completely overcome, and disgrace myself by bursting into tears.
Robert pats me very kindly and strolls away and looks at entirely strange pile of luggage whilst I recover myself. Recovery is accelerated by Mrs. Smiley, who comes up and asks me If that is my husband? to which I reply curtly that it is, and turn my back on her.
Robert and I sit down on sofa outside the dining-saloon, and much talk follows, only interrupted by old friend the table-steward, who hurries out and greets Robert with great enthusiasm, and says that he will personally see my luggage through the Customs.
This he eventually does, with the result that we get through with quite unnatural rapidity, and have a choice of seats in boat-train. Say good-bye to old friend cordially, and with suitable recognition of his services.
Robert tells me that He is Glad to See Me Again, and that the place has been very quiet. I tell him in return that I never mean to leave home again as long as I live, and ask if there are any letters from the children?
There is one from each, and I am delighted. Furthermore, says Robert, Our Vicar’s Wife sent her love, and hopes that we will both come to tea on Thursday, five o’clock, not earlier because of the Choir Practice.
Agree with the utmost enthusiasm that this will be delightful, and feel that I am indeed Home again.
THE END
FASTER! FASTER!
CONTENTS
Part I. Week-End at Arling: August
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
Part II. October In The Office
I
II
III
IV
V
Part III. The Following Spring
Part I. Week-End at Arling: August
I
1
A Slender, middle-aged lady stood with an air of mingled recklessness and timidity on the kerb and watched, in some despair, the stream of London traffic.
Twice she stepped into the roadway, and twice she stepped back again onto the pavement. There, for some little while, she appeared to take root, her head turning from side to side with quiet regularity, as she followed with surprised and reproachful eyes the endless procession of cars and taxicabs, omnibuses and vans.
At last the traffic-signals altered. The watcher, as though unable to credit such a reversal in her fortunes, still hesitated, looking from right to left and back again. But other pedestrians were plunging: she plunged with them, scurried to a refuge, scurried again, and landed with a gasp of relief on the river side of the Strand.
As she went, she talked quietly to herself, commenting on the noise, and the number of people in the street, and adjuring herself from time to time not to be ridiculous and absurd.
It was six years since Frances Ladislaw had last been in London; and she had then only spent two nights there, in frantic preparations for a voyage that was to restore her husband’s health. It had not restored it, but it had prolonged his life, to cause them both a good deal of misery. Eventually Jack Ladislaw had died in Arizona.
She made no pretence to herself of regretting Jack’s death. Through the ten years of their married life he had always shown himself selfish, unimaginative, slightly unkind whenever he lost his temper, and at all times contemptuous of his wife. Frances often wondered why he had ever married her. She also had the candour to wonder why she had ever married him, and to know that it was because nobody else had ever asked her. She had been the daughter of a widowed clergyman in a Yorkshire country parish.
“Like the Brontës,” she muttered, thinking this over. But she immediately added, with characteristic honesty and common sense: “Well, no. Not really in the least like the Brontës.” And indeed she did not, in any way, resemble the gifted and unhappy Brontës.
Presently she turned down Norfolk Street, and entered a doorway that bore a plate with the inscription: “C. Winsloe and S. Oliv
er: London Universal Services.”
The stone stairs were dark and winding, and led to a bright-blue door on which was printed in black letters: “Please Enter.”
Mrs Ladislaw entered, prefacing the entrance with a small knock that was unlikely to be heard by anybody but herself.
Inside the little office were two young girls, very decorative and brightly made-up, and an elderly woman with short, thick hair, dyed a disastrous canary colour, and a rather mauve face coated in white powder. In spite of these curious adjuncts she looked both pleasant and competent, and her manner reassured the visitor.
“Could I see Mrs Winsloe? She is expecting me.”
“Is it Mrs Ladislaw?” enquired the canary graciously.
“Yes,” said Frances, relieved. Although she had spoken to her old friend Claudia Winsloe over the telephone the previous evening, and had been assured of a warm welcome at the office, she still felt anxious and insecure.
“Would you be seated for a moment?” elegantly enquired the canary, sweeping several papers from a chair to the floor. She went through a door leading to an inner room.
The two young girls looked steadily at Frances. Then, by a simultaneous impulse, they turned away. Each had a typewriter in front of her. One of them was polishing her nails with a little buffer, and the other was stitching at a piece of pale-green silk. They spoke together low and earnestly. Frances Ladislaw could catch words and sentences here and there.
“And directly she came into the office, I got up and I said ... My dear, I nearly died. … It isn’t, I said, as if I could afford to put on weight. … Oh, but you’re not … Oh, my dear, I am … honestly. … Look at my oyster jumper, if you don’t believe me!”
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 423