Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  September 23rd. — Installed in Buckingham Street top-floor flat, very nicely furnished and Rose’s cousin’s taste in pictures — reproductions of Frith’s Derby Day, Ramsgate Sands and Paddington Station — delight me and provide ideal escape from present-day surroundings. Foresee that much time will be spent sitting at writing-table looking at them, instead of writing. (Query: Should this be viewed as sheer waste of time, or reasonable relaxation? Answer: Reminiscent of Robert — can only be that It Depends.)

  This thought takes me straight to telephone, so as to put through trunk call home. Operator tells me austerely that full fee of half a crown will be charged for three minutes, and I cancel call. Ring up Rose instead, at cost of twopence only, and arrange to meet her for lunch on Wednesday.

  Is she, I enquire, very busy?

  No, not at present. But she is Standing By.

  Gather from tone in which she says this that it will be useless to ask if she can think of anything for me to do, so ring off.

  Ministry of Information will no doubt be in better position to suggest employment.

  Meanwhile, am under oath to Aunt Blanche to go down to Adelphi underworld and look up Serena Fiddlededee, and also — has said Aunt Blanche — let her know if Pussy Winter-Gammon has come to her senses yet. Just as I am departing on this errand, occupier of ground-floor offices emerges and informs me that he is owner of the house, and has never really approved of the subletting of top flat. Still, there it is, it’s done now. But he thinks it right that I should be in possession of following facts:

  This house is three hundred years old and will burn like tinder if — am not sure he didn’t say when — incendiary bomb falls on the roof.

  It is well within official danger zone.

  The basement is quite as unsafe as the rest of the house.

  The stairs are extremely steep, narrow and winding, and anyone running down them in a hurry in the night would have to do so in pitch darkness and would almost certainly end up with a broken neck at the bottom.

  If I choose to sleep in the house, I shall be quite alone there. (Can well understand this, after all he has been saying about its disadvantages.)

  Rather more hopeful note is struck when he continues to the effect that there is an air-raid shelter within two minutes’ walk, and it will accommodate a hundred and fifty people.

  I undertake to make myself instantly familiar with its whereabouts, and to go there without fail in the event of an air-raid alarm.

  Conversation concludes with the owner’s assurance that whatever I do is done on my own responsibility, in which I acquiesce, and my departure into Buckingham Street.

  Spirits rather dashed until I glance up and see entire sky peppered with huge silver balloons, which look lovely. Cannot imagine why they have never been thought of before and used for purely decorative purposes.

  Find entrance to Adelphi underground organisation strongly guarded by two pallid-looking A.R.P. officials to whom I show pass, furnished by Aunt Blanche, via — presumably — Miss Serena Fiddlededee. Perceive that I am getting into the habit of thinking of her by this name and must take firm hold of myself if I am not to make use of it when we meet face to face.

  Descend lower and lower down concrete-paved slope — classical parallel here with Proserpina’s excursion into Kingdom of Pluto — and emerge under huge vaults full of ambulances ranged in rows, with large cars sandwiched between.

  Trousered women are standing and walking about in every direction, and great number of men with armlets. Irrelevant reflection here to the effect that this preponderance of masculine society, so invaluable at any social gathering, is never to be seen on ordinary occasions.

  Rather disquieting notice written in red chalk on matchboard partitions, indicates directions to be taken by Decontaminated Women, Walking Cases, Stretcher-bearers and others — but am presently relieved by perceiving arrow with inscription: To No. 1 Canteen — where I accordingly proceed. Canteen is large room, insufficiently lit, with several long fables, a counter with urns and plates, kitchen behind, and at least one hundred and fifty people standing and sitting about, all looking exactly like the people already seen outside.

  Wireless is blaring out rather inferior witticisms, gramophone emitting raucous rendering of “We’ll Hang Out the Washing on the Siegfried Line” and very vocal game of darts proceeding merrily. Am temporarily stunned, but understand that everybody is only Standing By. Now I come to think of it, am doing so myself.

  Atmosphere thick with cigarette smoke and no apparent ventilation anywhere. Noise indescribable. Remember with some horror that Aunt Blanche said everybody was doing twenty-four-hour shifts and sleeping on camp-beds on the premises. Am deeply impressed by this devotion to duty and ask myself if I could possibly do as much. Answer probably No.

  Very pretty girl with dark curls — in slacks, like everybody else — screams into my ear, in order to make herself heard: Am I looking for anyone? Should like to ask for Serena, whom I have always thought charming, but impossible to shriek back: Have you anybody here called Serena Fiddlededee? — name still a complete blank. Am consequently obliged to enquire for my only other acquaintance in the underworld, old Mrs. Winter-Gammon — not charming at all.

  Very pretty girl giggles and says Oh, do I mean Granny Bo-Peep? which immediately strikes me as most brilliant nickname ever invented and entirely suited to Mrs. Winter-Gammon. She is at once pointed out, buying Gold Flake cigarettes at Canteen counter, and I look at her with considerable disfavour. Cannot possibly be less than sixty-six, but has put herself into diminutive pair of blue trousers, short-sleeved wool jumper, and wears her hair, which is snow-white, in roguish mop of curls bolt upright all over her head. Old Mrs. W.-G. stands about five foot high, and is very slim and active, and now chatting away merrily to about a dozen ambulance men.

  Pretty girl informs me very gloomily that Granny Bo-Peep is the Sunbeam of the Adelphi.

  Am filled with horror and say that I made a mistake, I don’t really want to see her after all. Mrs. W.-G. has, however, seen me and withdrawal becomes impossible. She positively dances up to me, and carols out her astonishment and delight at my presence. Am disgusted at hearing myself replying with cordiality amounting to enthusiasm.

  She enquires affectionately after Aunt Blanche, and I say that she sent her love — cannot be absolutely certain that she didn’t really say something of the kind — and Mrs. W.-G. smiles indulgently and says Poor dear old Blanche, she’ll be better and happier out of it all in the country, and offers to show me round.

  We proceed to inspect ambulances — ready day and night — motor cars, all numbered and marked Stretcher Parties — Red Cross Station — fully equipped and seems thoroughly well organised, which is more than can be said for Women’s Rest-room, packed with uncomfortable-looking little camp-beds of varying designs, tin helmets slung on hooks round matchboarded walls, two upright wooden chairs and large printed sheet giving Instructions in the event of an Air-raid Warning. Several women — still in trousers and jumpers — huddle exhaustedly on the camp-beds, and atmosphere blue with cigarette smoke.

  Noise is, if possible, greater in Rest-room than anywhere else in the building as it is situated between Canteen and ambulance station, where every now and then all engines are started up and run for five minutes. Canteen wireless and gramophone both clearly audible, also rather amateurish rendering of “South of the Border” on unlocated, but not distant, piano.

  Screech out enquiry as to whether anyone can ever manage to sleep in here, and Mrs. W.-G. replies Yes, indeed, it is a comfort to have Winston in the Cabinet. This takes me outside the door, and am able to repeat enquiry which is, this time, audible.

  Mrs. W.-G. — very sunny — assures me that the young ones sleep through everything. As for old campaigners like herself, what does it matter? She went through the last war practically side by side with Our Boys behind the lines, as near to the trenches as she could get. Lord Kitchener on more than one occasion said to her:
Mrs. Winter-Gammon, if only the regulations allowed me to do so, you are the person whom I should recommend for the Victoria Cross. That, of course, says Mrs. W.-G. modestly, was nonsense — (should think so indeed) but Lord K. had ridiculous weakness for her. Personally, she never could understand what people meant by calling him a woman-hater. Still, there it was. She supposes that she was rather a privileged person in the war.

  Have strong inclination to ask if she means the Crimean War, but enquire instead what work she is engaged on here and now. Well, at the moment, she is Standing By, affirms Mrs. W.-G. lighting cigarette and sticking it into one corner of her mouth at rakish angle. She will, when the emergency arises, drive a car. She had originally volunteered to drive an ambulance but proved — hee-hee-hee — to be too tiny. Her feet wouldn’t reach the pedals and her hands wouldn’t turn the wheel.

  Am obliged, on Mrs. W.-G.’s displayal of what look to me like four particularly frail claws, to admit the justice of this.

  She adds that, in the meantime, she doesn’t mind what she does. She just gives a hand here, there and everywhere, and tries to jolly everybody along. People sometimes say to her that she will destroy herself, she gives out so much all the time — but to this her only reply is: What does it matter if she does? Why, just nothing at all!

  Am wholly in agreement, and much inclined to say so. Ruffianly-looking man in red singlet, khaki shorts and armlet goes by and Mrs. W.-G. calls out merrily: Hoo-hoo! to which he makes no reply whatever, and she tells me that he is one of the demolition squad and a dear boy, a very special friend of hers, and she loves pulling his leg.

  Am unsympathetically silent, but old Mrs. W.-G. at once heaps coals of fire on my head by offering me coffee and a cigarette from the Canteen, and we sit down at comparatively empty table to strains of “The Siegfried Line” from gramophone and “In the Shadows” from the wireless. Coffee is unexpectedly good and serves to support me through merry chatter of Granny Bo-Peep, who has more to say of her own war service, past and present.

  Coma comes on, partly due to airless and smoke-laden atmosphere, partly to mental exhaustion, and am by no means clear whether Mrs. W.-G.’s reminiscences are not now taking us back to Peninsular War or possibly even Wars of the Roses.

  Am sharply roused by series of shrill blasts from powerful whistle: Mrs. W.-G. leaps up like a (small) chamois and says, It’s a mock Air-raid alarm, only for practice — I’m not to be frightened — which I wasn’t, and shouldn’t dream of being, and anyhow shouldn’t show it if I was — and she must be off to her post. She then scampers away, tossing her curls as she goes, darts out at one door and darts in again at another — curls now extinguished under tin-hat — pulling on leather jacket as she runs. Quantities of other people all do the same, though with less celerity.

  Can hear engines, presumably of ambulances, being started and temporarily displacing gramophone and wireless.

  Spirited game of darts going on in one corner amongst group already pointed out to me by old Mrs. W.-G. as those dear, jolly boys of the Demolition Squad, comes to an abrupt end, and only Canteen workers remain, conversing earnestly behind plates of buns, bananas and chocolate biscuits. Can plainly hear one of them telling another that practically every organisation in London is turning voluntary workers away by the hundred, as there is nothing for them to do. At present, she adds darkly. Friend returns that it is the same story all over the country. Land Army alone has had to choke off several thousand applicants — and as for civil aviation —

  Before I can learn what is happening about civil aviation — but am prepared to bet that it’s being told to Stand By — I am accosted by Aunt Blanche’s friend, Serena Fiddlededee. She is young and rather pretty, with enormous round eyes, and looks as if she might — at outside estimate — weigh seven and a half stone. Trousers brown, which is a relief after so much navy blue, jumper scarlet and leather jacket orange. General effect gay and decorative. Quite idle fancy flits through my mind of adopting similar attire and achieving similar result whilst at the selfsame moment the voice of common sense informs me that a considerable number of years separates me from Serena and the wearing of bright colours alike. (Opening here for interesting speculation: Do not all women think of themselves as still looking exactly as they did at twenty-five, whilst perfectly aware that as many years again have passed over their heads?)

  Serena astonishes me by expressing delight at seeing me, and asks eagerly if I have come to join up. Can only say that I have and I haven’t. Am more than anxious to take up work for King and Country but admit that, so far, every attempt to do so has been met with discouragement.

  Serena says Yes, yes-. — she knows it’s like that — and she herself wouldn’t be here now if she hadn’t dashed round to the Commandant two days before war was declared at all and offered to scrub all the floors with disinfectant. After that, they said she might drive one of the cars.

  And has she?

  Serena sighs, and rolls her enormous eyes, and admits that she was once sent to fetch the Commandant’s laundry from Streatham. All the other drivers were most fearfully jealous, because none of them have done anything at all except Stand By.

  I enquire why Serena isn’t taking part in the mock air-raid, and she says negligently that she’s off duty just now but hasn’t yet summoned up energy to go all the way to Belsize Park where she inconveniently lives. She adds that she is rather sorry, in a way, to miss the test, because the last one they had was quite exciting. A girl called Moffat or Muffet was the first driver in the line and had, Serena thinks, only just passed her “L” test and God alone knows how she’d done that. And instead of driving up the ramp, round the corner and out into the Adelphi, she’d shot straight forward, missed the Commandant by millimetres, knocked down part of the structure of Gentlemen and reversed onto the bumpers of the car behind. You could, avers Serena, absolutely see the battle-bowlers rising from the heads of the four stretcher-bearers inside the car. Moffat or Muffet, shortly after this dramatic performance, was sacked.

  Serena then offers me coffee and a cigarette. I reply, though gratefully, that I have already had both and she assures me that this war is really being won on coffee and cigarettes, by women in trousers. Speaking of trousers, have I seen Granny Bo-Peep. Yes, I have. Serena goes off into fits of laughter, and says Really, this war is terribly funny in its own way, isn’t it? Reply that I see what she means — which I do — and that, so far, it’s quite unlike any other war. One keeps on wondering when something is going to happen. Yes, agrees Serena mournfully, and when one says that, everybody looks horrified and asks if one wants to be bombed by the Germans and see the Nelson Column go crashing into Trafalgar Square. They never, says Serena in a rather resentful tone, suggest the Albert Hall crashing into Kensington, which for her part could view with equanimity.

  We then refer to Aunt Blanche — how she stood Granny Bo-Peep as long as she did is a mystery to Serena — the evacuees at home — how lucky I am to have really nice ones. No lice? interpolates Serena, sounding astonished. Certainly no lice. They’re not in the least like that. Charming children, very well brought-up — sometimes I am inclined to think, better brought-up than Robin and Vicky — to which Serena civilly ejaculates Impossible!

  Canteen comes under discussion — very well run and no skin on the cocoa, which Serena thinks is the test. Open day and night because workers are on twenty-four-hour shift. Enquire of Serena whether she ever gets any sleep in the Rest-room, and she replies rather doubtfully that she thinks she does, sometimes. On the whole most of her sleeping is done at home. She has four Jewish Refugees in her flat — very, very nice ones, but too many of them — and they cook her the most excellent Viennese dishes. Originally she had only one refugee, but gradually a mother, a cousin, and a little boy have joined the party, Serena doesn’t know how. They all fit into one bedroom and the kitchen and she herself has remaining bedroom and sitting-room, only she’s never there.

  Suggest that she should make use of Buckingham
Street flat whenever convenient, and she accepts and says may she go there immediately and have a bath?

  Certainly.

  We proceed at once to Rest-room for Serena to collect her things, and she shows me horrible-looking little canvas affair about three inches off the floor, swung on poles like inferior sort of hammock. Is that her bed?

  Yes, says Serena, and she has shown it to a doctor friend who has condemned it at sight, with rather strangely-worded observation that any bed of that shape is always more or less fatal in the long run, as it throws the kidneys on the bum.

  Conduct Serena to top-story flat, present her with spare latchkey and beg her to come in when she likes and rest on properly constructed divan, which presumably is not open to similar objection.

  Am touched when she assures me that I am an angel and have probably saved her life.

  Wish I could remember whether I have ever heard her surname, and if so, what it is.

  September 23rd. — Postcard from Our Vicar who writes because he feels he ought, in view of recent conversation, to let me know that he has had a letter from a friend in Northumberland on whom two evacuated teachers are billeted, both of whom are very nice indeed. Make beds, and play with children, and have offered to dig potatoes. It is a satisfaction, adds Our Vicar across one corner, to know that we were mistaken in saying that everyone complained of the teachers. There are evidently exceptions.

  Think well of Our Vicar for this, and wonder if anyone will ever say that mothers, in some cases, are also satisfactory inmates.

  Should doubt it.

  Spend large part of the day asking practically everybody I can think of, by telephone or letter, if they can suggest a war job for me.

  Most of them reply that they are engaged in similar quest on their own account.