Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  (Mental note here, to the effect that no more unpopular section of the community exists, anywhere, than mothers as a whole.)

  Robert, when told that evacuees are not coming to-night, says Thank God and we prepare to go upstairs when Vicky makes dramatic appearance in vest and pants and announces that there is No Blind in the W.C. Robert points out, shortly and sharply, that no necessity exists for turning on the light at all; Vicky disagrees and is disposed to argue the point, and I beg her to retire to bed instantly.

  Impression prevails as of having lived through at least two European wars since morning, but this view certainly exaggerated and will doubtless disperse after sleep.

  September 3rd, 1939. — England at war with Germany. Announcement is made by Prime Minister over the radio at eleven-fifteen and is heard by us in village church, where wireless has been placed on the pulpit.

  Everyone takes it very quietly and general feeling summed up by old Mrs. S. at the Post Office who says to me, after mentioning that her two sons have both been called up: Well, we’ve got to show ‘Itler, haven’t we? Agree, emphatically, that we have.

  September 7th. — Discuss entire situation as it affects ourselves with Robert, the children and Cook.

  Robert says: Better shut up the house as we shan’t be able to afford to live anywhere, after the war — but is brought round to less drastic views and agrees to shutting up drawing-room and two bedrooms only. He also advocates letting one maid go — which is as well since both have instantly informed me that they feel it their duty to leave and look for war work.

  Cook displays unexpectedly sporting spirit, pats me on the shoulder with quite unprecedented familiarity, and assures me that I’m not to worry — she’ll see me through, whatever happens. Am extremely touched and inclined to shed tears. Will Cook agree to let Aunt Blanche take over the housekeeping, if Robert is away all day, the children at school, and I am doing war work in London and coming down here one week out of four? (This course indicated by absolute necessity of earning some money if possible, and inability to remain out of touch with current happenings in London.)

  Yes, Cook declares stoutly, she will agree to anything and she quite understands how I’m situated. (Hope that some time or other she may make this equally clear to me.) We evolve hurried scheme for establishment of Aunt Blanche, from whom nothing as to date of arrival has as yet been heard, and for weekly Help for the Rough from the village.

  Cook also asserts that May can do as she likes, but Winnie is a silly girl who doesn’t know what’s good for her, and she thinks she can talk her round all right. She does talk her round, and Winnie announces a change of mind and says she’ll be glad to stay on, please. Should much like to know how Cook accomplished this, but can probably never hope to do so.

  Spend most of the day listening to News from the wireless and shutting up the drawing-room and two bedrooms, which involves moving most of the smaller furniture into the middle of the room and draping everything with dust-sheets.

  Robin — still dealing with pipe, which goes out oftener than ever — has much to say about enlisting, and Vicky equally urgent — with less foundation — on undesirability of her returning to school. School, however, telegraphs to say that reopening will take place as usual, on appointed date.

  September 8th. — Am awakened at 1.10 A.M. by telephone. Imagination, as usual, runs riot and while springing out of bed, into dressing-gown and downstairs, has had ample time to present air-raid, assembly of household in the cellar, incendiary bombs, house in flames and all buried beneath the ruins. Collide with Robert on the landing — he says briefly that It’s probably an A.R.P. call and dashes down, and I hear him snatch up receiver.

  Reach the telephone myself in time to hear him say Yes, he’ll come at once. He’ll get out the car. He’ll be at the station in twenty minutes’ time.

  What station?

  Robert hangs up the receiver and informs me that that was the station-master. An old lady has arrived from London, the train having taken twelve hours to do the journey — usually accomplished in five and says that we are expecting her, she sent a telegram. She is, the station-master thinks, a bit upset.

  I ask in a dazed way if it’s an evacuee, and Robert says No, it’s Aunt Blanche, and the telegram must, like the train, have been delayed.

  Am torn between compassion for Aunt Blanche — stationmaster’s description almost certainly an understatement — and undoubted dismay at unpropitious hour of her arrival. Can see nothing for it but to assure Robert — untruthfully — that I can Easily Manage, and will have everything ready by the time he’s back from station. This is accomplished without awakening household, and make mental note to the effect that air-raid warning itself will probably leave Cook and Winnie quite impervious and serenely wrapped in slumber.

  Proceed to make up bed in North Room, recently swathed by my own hands in dust-sheets and now rapidly disinterred, put in hot-water bottle, and make tea and cut bread-and-butter. (N.B.: State of kitchen, as to cleanliness and tidiness, gratifying. Larder less good, and why four half-loaves of stale bread standing uncovered on shelf? Also note that cat, Thompson, evidently goes to bed nightly on scullery shelf. Hope that Robert, who to my certain knowledge puts Thompson out every night, will never discover this.)

  Have agreeable sense of having dealt promptly and efficiently with war emergency — this leads to speculation as to which Ministerial Department will put me in charge of its workings, and idle vision of taking office as Cabinet Minister and Robert’s astonishment at appointment. Memory, for no known reason, at this point recalls the fact that Aunt Blanche will want hot water to wash in and that I have forgotten to provide any. Hasten to repair omission boiler fire, as I expected, practically extinct and I stoke it up and put on another kettle and fetch can from bathroom. (Brass cans all in need of polish, and enamel ones all chipped. Am discouraged.)

  Long wait ensues, and drink tea prepared for Aunt Blanche myself, and put on yet another kettle. Decide that I shall have time to dress, go upstairs, and immediately hear car approaching and dash down again. Car fails to materialise and make second excursion, which results in unpleasant discovery in front of the mirror that my hair is on end and my face pale blue with cold. Do the best I can to repair ravages of the night, though not to much avail, and put on clothes.

  On reaching dining-room, find that electric kettle has boiled over and has flooded the carpet. Abandon all idea of Ministerial appointment and devote myself to swabbing up hot water, in the midst of which car returns. Opening of front door reveals that both headlights have turned blue and it minute ray of pallid light only. This effect achieved by Robert unknown to me, and am much impressed.

  Aunt Blanche is in tears, and has brought three suit-cases, one bundle of rugs, a small wooden box, a portable typewriter, a hat-box and a trunk. She is in deep distress and says that she would have spent the night in the station willingly, but the station-master wouldn’t let her. Station-master equally adamant at her suggestion of walking to the Hotel — other end of the town — and assured her it was full of the Militia. Further offer from Aunt Blanche of walking about the streets till breakfast-time also repudiated and telephone call accomplished by strong-minded station-master without further attention to her protests.

  I tell Aunt Blanche five separate times how glad I am to have her, and that we are not in the least disturbed by nocturnal arrival, and finally lead her into the dining-room where she is restored by tea and bread-and-butter. Journey, she asserts, was terrible — train crowded, but everyone good-tempered — no food, but what can you expect in wartime? — and she hopes I won’t think she has brought too much luggage. No, not at all — because she has two large trunks, but they are waiting at the station.

  Take Aunt Blanche to the North Room, on entering which she again cries a good deal but says it is only because I am so kind and I mustn’t think her in any way unnerved because that’s the last thing she ever is — and get to bed at 3.15.

  Hot-water
bottle cold as a stone and cannot imagine why I didn’t refill it, but not worth going down again. Later on decide that it is worth going down again, but don’t do so. Remainder of the night passed in similar vacillations.

  September 12th. — Aunt Blanche settling down, and national calamity evidently bringing out best in many of us, Cook included, but exception must be made in regard to Lady Boxe, who keeps large ambulance permanently stationed in drive and says that house is to be a Hospital (Officers only) and is therefore not available for evacuees. No officers materialise, but Lady B. reported to have been seen in full Red Cross uniform with snow-white veil floating in the breeze behind her. (Undoubtedly very trying colour next to any but a youthful face; but am not proud of this reflection and keep it to myself.)

  Everybody else in neighbourhood has received evacuees, most of whom arrive without a word of warning and prove to be of age and sex diametrically opposite to those expected.

  Rectory turns its dining-room into a dormitory and Our Vicar’s Wife struggles gallantly with two mothers and three children under five, one of whom is thought to be suffering from fits. Both her maids have declared that they must find war work and immediately departed in search of it. I send Vicky up to see what she can do, and she is proved to be helpful, practical, and able to keep a firm hand over the under-fives.

  Am full of admiration for Our Vicar’s Wife and very sorry for her, but feel she is at least better off than Lady Frobisher, who rings up to ask me if I know how one gets rid of lice? Refer her to the chemist, who tells me later that if he has been asked that question once in the last week, he’s been asked it twenty times.

  Elderly neighbours, Major and Mrs. Bergery, recent arrivals at small house in the village, are given two evacuated teachers and appear in consequence to be deeply depressed. The teachers sit about and drink cups of tea and assert that the organisation at the London end was wonderful, but at this end there isn’t any organisation at all. Moreover, they are here to teach — which they do for about four hours in the day — but not for anything else. Mrs. Bergery suggests that they should collect all the evacuated children in the village and play with them, but this not well received.

  Our Vicar, appealed to by the Major, calls on the teachers and effects a slight improvement. They offer, although without much enthusiasm, to organise an hour of Recreative Education five days a week. He supposes, says Our Vicar, that this means play, and closes with the suggestion at once.

  Light relief is afforded by Miss Pankerton, who is, we all agree, having the time of her life. Miss P. — who has, for no known reason, sprung into long blue trousers and leather jerkin — strides about the village marshalling six pallid and wizened little boys from Bethnal Green in front of her. Extraordinary legend is current that she has taught them to sing “Under a spreading chestnut-tree, the village smithy stands”, and that they roar it in chorus with great docility in her presence, but have a version of their own which she has accidentally overheard from the bathroom and that this runs:

  Under a spreading chestnut-tree

  Stands the bloody A.R.P.

  So says the — ing B.B.C.

  Aunt Blanche, in telling me this, adds that: “It’s really wonderful, considering the eldest is only seven years old.” Surely a comment of rather singular leniency?

  Our own evacuees make extraordinarily brief appearance, coming — as usual — on day and at hour when least expected, and consisting of menacing-looking woman with twins of three and baby said to be eighteen months old but looking more like ten weeks. Mother comes into the open from the very beginning, saying that she doesn’t fancy the country, and it will upset the children, and none of it is what she’s accustomed to. Do my best for them with cups of tea, cakes, toys for the children and flowers in bedroom. Only the cups of tea afford even moderate satisfaction, and mother leaves the house at dawn next day to find Humphrey Holloway and inform him that he is to telegraph to Dad to come and fetch them away immediately — which he does twenty-four hours later. Feel much cast-down, and apologise to H. H., who informs me in reply that evacuees from all parts of the country are hastening back to danger zone as rapidly as possible, as being infinitely preferable to rural hospitality. Where this isn’t happening, adds Humphrey in tones of deepest gloom, it is the country hostesses who are proving inadequate and clamouring for the removal of their guests.

  Cannot believe this to be an accurate summary of the situation, and feel that Humphrey is unduly pessimistic owing to overwork as Billeting Officer. He admits this may be so, and further says that, now he comes to think of it, some of the families in village are quite pleased with the London children. Adds — as usual — that the real difficulty is the mothers.

  Are we, I ask, to have other evacuees in place of departed failures? Try to sound as though I hope we are — but am only too well aware that effort is poor and could convince nobody. H. H. says that he will see what he can do, which I think equal, as a reply, to anything ever perpetrated by Roman oracle.

  September 13th. — Question of evacuees solved by Aunt Blanche, who proposes that we should receive two children of Coventry clergyman and his wife, personally known to her, and their nurse. Children are charming, says Aunt Blanche — girls aged six and four — and nurse young Irishwoman about whom she knows nothing but that she is not a Romanist and is called Doreen Fitzgerald. Send cordial invitation to all three.

  September 17th. — Installation of Doreen Fitzgerald, Marigold and Margery. Children pretty and apparently good. D. Fitzgerald has bright red hair but plain face and to all suggestions simply replies: Certainly I shall.

  House and bedrooms once more reorganised, schoolroom temporarily reverts to being a nursery again — am inwardly delighted by this but refrain from saying so — and D. Fitzgerald, asked if she will look after rooms herself, again repeats: Certainly I shall. Effect of this is one of slight patronage, combined with willing spirit.

  Weather continues lovely, garden all Michaelmas daisies, dahlias and nasturtiums — autumn roses a failure, but cannot expect everything — and Aunt Blanche and I walk about under the apple-trees and round the tennis-court and ask one another who could ever believe that England is at war? Answer is, alas, only too evident — but neither of us makes it aloud.

  Petrol rationing, which was to have started yesterday, postponed for a week. (Query: Is this an ingenious device for giving the whole country agreeable surprise, thereby improving public morale?) Robin and Vicky immediately point out that it is Vicky’s last day at home, and ask if they couldn’t go to a film and have tea at the café? Agree to this at once and am much moved by their delighted expressions of gratitude.

  Long talk with Aunt Blanche occupies most of the afternoon. She has much to say about Pussy — old Mrs. Winter-Gammon. Pussy, declares Aunt Blanche, has behaved neither wisely, considerately nor even with common decency. She may look many years younger than her age, but sixty-six is sixty-six and is not the proper time of life for driving a heavy ambulance. Pussy might easily be a grandmother. She isn’t a grandmother, as it happens, because Providence has — wisely, thinks Aunt Blanche — withheld from her the blessing of children, but so far as age goes, she could very well be a grandmother ten times over.

  Where, I enquire, are Mrs. Winter-Gammon and the ambulance in action?

  Nowhere, cries Aunt Blanche. Mrs. W.-G. has pranced off in this irresponsible way to an A.R.P. Station in the Adelphi — extraordinary place, all underground, somewhere underneath the Savoy — and so far has done nothing whatever except Stand By with crowds and crowds of others. She is on a twenty-four-hour shift and supposed to sleep on a camp-bed in a Women’s Rest-room without any ventilation whatever in a pandemonium of noise. Suggest that if this goes on long enough old Mrs. W.-G. will almost certainly become a nervous wreck before very long and be sent home incapacitated.

  Aunt Blanche answers, rather curtly, that I don’t know Pussy and that in any case the flat has now been given up and she herself has no intention of resuming life with
Pussy. She has had more to put up with than people realise and it has now come to the parting of the ways. Opening here afforded leads me to discussion of plans with Aunt Blanche. Can she, and will she, remain on here in charge of household if I go to London and take up a job, preferably in the nature of speaking or writing, so that I can return home for, say, one week in every four? Cook — really pivot on whom the whole thing turns has already expressed approval of the scheme.

  Aunt Blanche — usually perhaps inclined to err on the side of indecisiveness — rises to the occasion magnificently and declares firmly that Of Course she will. She adds, in apt imitation of D. Fitzgerald, Certainly I shall — and we both laugh. Am startle d beyond measure when she adds that it doesn’t seem right that my abilities should be wasted down here, when they might be made use of in wider spheres by the Government. Can only hope that Government will take view similar to Aunt Blanche’s.

  Practical discussion follows, and I explain that dear Rose has asked me on a postcard, days ago, if I know anyone who might take over tiny two-roomed furnished flat in Buckingham Street, Strand, belonging to unknown cousin of her own, gone with R.N.V.R. to East Africa. Have informed her, by telephone, that I might consider doing so myself, and will make definite pronouncement shortly.

  Go! says Aunt Blanche dramatically. This is no time for making two bites at a cherry, and she herself will remain at the helm here and regard the welfare of Robert and the evacuated children as her form of national service. It seems to her more suited to the elderly, she adds rather caustically, than jumping into a pair of trousers and muddling about in an ambulance.

  Think better to ignore this reference and content myself with thanking Aunt Blanche warmly. Suggest writing to Rose at once, securing flat, but Aunt Blanche boldly advocates a trunk call and says that this is a case of Vital Importance and in no way contrary to the spirit of national economy or Government’s request to refrain from unnecessary telephoning.