Talking of that, would it be a good idea to practise wearing our gas-masks?
Agree, though rather reluctantly, and we accordingly put them on and sit opposite one another in respective armchairs, exchanging sepulchral-sounding remarks from behind talc-and-rubber snouts.
Serena says she wishes to time herself, as she doesn’t think she will be able to breathe for more than four minutes at the very most.
Explain that this is all nerves. Gas-masks may be rather warm — (am streaming from every pore) — and perhaps rather uncomfortable, and certainly unbecoming — but any sensible person can breathe inside them for hours.
Serena says I shall be sorry when she goes off into a dead faint.
The door opens suddenly and remaining Austrian refugees, returned early from Bromley, walk in and, at sight presented by Serena and myself, are startled nearly out of their senses and enquire in great agitation What is happening.
Remove gas-mask quickly — Serena hasn’t fainted at all but is crimson in the face, and hair very untidy — and we all bow and shake hands.
Letter-writing refugee joins us — shakes hands again — and we talk agreeably round tea-table till the letter-motif recurs — they all say they have letters to write, and — presumably final — handshaking closes séance.
Just as I prepare to leave, Serena’s bell rings and she says It’s J. L. and I’m to wait, because she wants me to meet him.
J. L. turns out to be rather distinguished-looking man, face perfectly familiar to me from Radio Times and other periodicals as he is well-known writer and broadcaster. (Wish I hadn’t been so obliging about gas-mask, as hair certainly more untidy than Serena’s and have not had the sense to powder my nose.)
J. L. is civility itself and pretends to have heard of me often — am perfectly certain he hasn’t — and even makes rather indefinite reference to my Work, which he qualifies as well known, but wisely gives conversation another turn immediately without committing himself further.
Serena produces sherry and enquires what J. L. is doing.
Well, J. L. is writing a book.
He is, as a matter of fact, going on with identical book — merely a novel — that he was writing before war began. It isn’t that he wants to do it, or that he thinks anybody else wants him to do it. But he is over military age, and the fourteen different organisations to whom he has offered his services have replied, without exception, that they have far more people already than they know what to do with.
He adds pathetically that authors, no doubt, are very useless people.
Not more so than anybody else, Serena replies. Why can’t they be used for propaganda?
J. L. and I — with one voice — assure her that every author in the United Kingdom has had exactly this idea, and has laid it before the Ministry of Information, and has been told in return to Stand By for the present.
In the case of Sir Hugh Walpole, to J. L.’s certain knowledge, a Form was returned on which he was required to state all particulars of his qualifications, where educated, and to which periodicals he has contributed, also names of any books he may ever have had published.
Serena enquires witheringly if they didn’t want to know whether the books had been published at Sir H. W.’s own expense, and we all agree that if this is official reaction to Sir H.’s offer, the rest of us need not trouble to make any.
Try to console J. L. with assurance that there is to be a boom in books, as nobody will be able to do anything amusing in the evenings, what with black-out, petrol restrictions, and limitations of theatre and cinema openings, so they will have to fall back on reading.
Realise too late that this not very happily expressed.
J. L. says Yes indeed, and tells me that he finds poetry more helpful than anything else. The Elizabethans for choice. Don’t I agree?
Reply at once that I am less familiar with the Elizabethan poets than I should like to be, and hope he may think this means that I know plenty of others. (Am quite unable to recall any poetry at all at the moment, except “How they Brought the Good News from Ghent” and cannot imagine why in the world I should have thought of that.)
Ah, says J. L. very thoughtfully, there is a lot to be said for prose. He personally finds that the Greeks provide him with escapist literature. Plato.
Should not at all wish him to know that The Fairchild Family performs the same service for me — but remember with shame that E. M. Forster, in admirable wireless talk, has told us not to be ashamed of our taste in reading.
Should like to know if he would apply this to The Fairchild Family and can only hope that he would.
Refer to Dickens — compromise here between truth and desire to sound reasonably cultured — but J. L. looks distressed, says Ah yes — really? and changes conversation at once.
Can see that I have dished myself with him for good.
Talk about black-out — Serena alleges that anonymous friend of hers goes out in the dark with extra layer of chalk-white powder on her nose, so as to be seen, and resembles Dong with the Luminous Nose.
J. L. not in the least amused and merely replies that there are little disks on sale, covered with luminous paint, or that pedestrians are now allowed electric torch if pointed downwards, and shrouded in tissue-paper. Serena makes fresh start, and enquires whether he doesn’t know Sir Archibald and Lady Blowfield — acquaintances of mine.
He does know them — had hoped that Sir A. could offer him war work — but that neither here nor there. Lady Blowfield is a charming woman.
I say Yes, isn’t she — which is quite contrary to my real opinion. Moreover, am only distressed at this lapse from truth because aware that Serena will recognise it as such. Spiritual and moral degradation well within sight, but cannot dwell on this now. (Query: Is it in any way true that war very often brings out the best in civil population? Answer: So far as I am concerned, Not at all.)
Suggestion from Serena that Sir Archibald and Lady Blowfield both take rather pessimistic view of international situation causes J. L. to state it as his considered opinion that no one, be he whom he may, no one, is in a position at this moment to predict with certainty what the Future may hold.
Do not like to point out to him that no one ever has been, and shortly afterwards J. L. departs, telling Serena that he will ring her up when he knows any more. (Any more what?)
October 1st. — Am at last introduced by Serena Fiddlededee to underworld Commandant. She is dark, rather good-looking young woman wearing out-size in slacks and leather jacket, using immensely long black cigarette-holder, and writing at wooden trestle-table piled with papers.
Serena — voice sunk to quite unnaturally timid murmur — explains that I am very anxious to make myself of use in any way whatever, while waiting to be summoned by Ministry of Information.
The Commandant — who has evidently heard this kind of thing before — utters short incredulous ejaculation, in which I very nearly join, knowing even better than she does herself how thoroughly well justified it is.
Serena — voice meeker than ever — whispers that I can drive a car if necessary, and have passed my First Aid examination — (hope she isn’t going to mention date of this achievement which would take us a long way back indeed) — and am also well used to Home Nursing. Moreover, I can write shorthand and use a typewriter.
Commandant goes on writing rapidly and utters without looking up for a moment — which I think highly offensive. Utterance is to the effect that there are no paid jobs going.
Oh, says Serena, sounding shocked, we never thought of anything like that. This is to be voluntary work, and anything in the world, and at any hour.
Commandant — still writing — strikes a bell sharply.
It has been said that the Canteen wants an extra hand, suggests Serena, now almost inaudible. She knows that I should be perfectly willing to work all through the night, or perhaps all day on Sundays, so as to relieve others. And, naturally, voluntary work. To this Commandant — gaze glued to her rapidly-m
oving pen — mutters something to the effect that voluntary work is all very well —
Have seldom met more un-endearing personality.
Bell is answered by charming-looking elderly lady wearing overall, and armlet badge inscribed Messenger, which seems to me unsuitable.
Commandant — tones very peremptory indeed — orders her to Bring the Canteen Time-Sheet. Grey-haired messenger flies away like the wind. Cannot possibly have gone more than five yards from the door before the bell is again struck, and on her reappearance Commandant says sharply that she has just asked for Canteen Time-Sheet. Why hasn’t it come?
Obvious reply is that it hasn’t come because only a pair of wings could have brought it in the time — but no one says this, and Messenger again departs and can be heard covering the ground at race-track speed.
Commandant continues to write — says Damn once, under her breath, as though attacked by sudden doubt whether war will stop exactly as and when she has ordained — and drops cigarette-ash all over the table.
Serena looks at me and profanely winks enormous eye.
Bell is once more banged — am prepared to wager it will be broken before week is out at this rate. It is this time answered by smart-looking person in blue trousers and singlet and admirable make-up. Looks about twenty-five, but has prematurely grey hair, and am conscious that this gives me distinct satisfaction.
(Not very commendable reaction.)
Am overcome with astonishment when she enquires of Commandant in brusque, official tones: Isn’t it time you had some lunch, darling?
Commandant for the first time raises her eyes and answers No, darling, she can’t possibly bother with lunch, but she wants a staff car instantly, to go out to Wimbledon for her. It’s urgent.
Serena looks hopeful but remains modestly silent while Commandant and Darling rustle through quantities of lists and swear vigorously, saying that it’s a most extraordinary thing, the Time-Sheets ought to be always available at a second’s notice, and they never are.
Darling eventually turns to Serena, just as previous — and infinitely preferable — Messenger returns breathless, and asks curtly, Who is on the Staff Car? Serena indicates that she is herself scheduled for it, is asked why she didn’t say so, and commanded to get car out instantly and dash to Wimbledon.
Am deeply impressed by this call to action, but disappointed when Commandant instructs her to go straight to No. 478 Mottisfont Road, Wimbledon, and ask for clean handkerchief, which Commandant forgot to bring this morning.
She is to come straight back, as quickly as possible, with the handkerchief. Has she, adds Commandant suspiciously, quite understood?
Serena replies that she has. Tell myself that in her place I should reply No, it’s all too complicated for me to grasp — but judging from lifelong experience, this is a complete fallacy and should in reality say nothing of the kind but merely wish, long afterwards, that I had.
Departure of Serena, in search, no doubt, of tin helmet and gas-mask, and am left, together with elderly Messenger, to be ignored by Commandant whilst she and Darling embark on earnest argument concerning Commandant’s next meal, which turns out to be lunch, although time now five o’clock in the afternoon.
She must, says Darling, absolutely must have something. She has been here since nine o’clock and during that time what has she had? One cup of coffee and a tomato. It isn’t enough on which to do a heavy day’s work.
Commandant — writing again resumed and eyes again on paper — asserts that it’s all she wants. She hasn’t time for more. Does Darling realise that there’s a war on, and not a minute to spare?
Yes, argues Darling, but she could eat something without leaving her desk for a second. Will she try some soup?
No.
Then a cup of tea and some buns?
No, no, no. Nothing.
She must take some black coffee. Absolutely and definitely must. Oh, very well, cries Commandant — at the same time striking table quite violently with her hand, which produces confusion among the papers. (Can foresee fresh trouble with mislaid Time-Sheets in immediate future.) Very well — black coffee, and she’ll have it here. Instantly.
Darling dashes from the room throwing murderous look at elderly Messenger who has temporarily obstructed the dash.
Commandant writes more frenziedly than ever and snaps out single word What, which sounds like a bark, and is evidently addressed to Messenger, who respectfully lays Canteen Time-Sheet on table. This not a success, as Commandant snatches it up again and cries Not on the table, my God, not on the table! and scans it at red-hot speed.
She then writes again, as though nothing had happened.
Decide that if I am to be here indefinitely I may as well sit down, and do so.
Elderly Messenger gives me terrified, but I think admiring, look. Evidently this display of initiative quite unusual, and am, in fact, rather struck by it myself.
Darling reappears with a tray. Black coffee has materialised and is flanked by large plate of scrambled eggs on toast, two rock-buns and a banana.
All are placed at Commandant’s elbow and she wields a fork with one hand and continues to write with the other.
Have sudden impulse to quote to her historical anecdote of British Sovereign remarking to celebrated historian: Scribble, scribble, scribble, Mr. Gibbon.
Do not, naturally, give way to it.
Darling asks me coldly If I want anything, and on my replying that I have offered my services to Canteen tells me to go at once to Mrs. Peacock. Decide to assume that this means I am to be permitted to serve my country, if only with coffee and eggs, so depart, and Elderly Messenger creeps out with me.
I ask if she will be kind enough to take me to Mrs. Peacock and she says Of course, and we proceed quietly — no rushing or dashing. (Query: Will not this dilatory spirit lose us the war? Answer: Undoubtedly, Nonsense!) Make note not to let myself be affected by aura of agitation surrounding Commandant and friend.
Messenger takes me past cars, ambulances, Rest-room, from which unholy din of feminine voices proceeds, and gives me information.
A Society Deb. is working in the Canteen. She is the only one in the whole place. A reporter came to interview her once and she was photographed kneeling on one knee beside an ambulance wheel, holding tools and things Photograph published in several papers and underneath it was printed: Débutante Jennifer Jamfather Stands By on Home Front.
Reach Mrs. Peacock, who is behind Canteen counter, sitting on a box, and looks kind but harassed.
She has a bad leg. Not a permanent bad leg but it gets in the way, and she will be glad of extra help.
Feel much encouraged by this. Nobody else has made faintest suggestion of being glad of extra help — on the contrary.
Raise my voice so as to be audible above gramophone (“Little Sir Echo”) and wireless (...And so, bairns, we bid Goodbye to Bonnie Scotland) — roarings and bellowings of Darts Finals being played in a corner, and clatter of dishes from the kitchen — and announce that I am Come to Help — which I think sounds as if I were one of the Ministering Children Forty Years After.
Mrs. Peacock, evidently too dejected even to summon up customary formula that there is nothing for me to do except Stand By as she is turning helpers away by the hundred every hour, smiles rather wanly and says I am very kind.
What, I enquire, can I do?
At the moment nothing. (Can this be a recrudescence of Stand By theme?)
The five o’clock rush is over, and the seven o’clock rush hasn’t begun. Mrs. Peacock is taking the opportunity of sitting for a moment. She heroically makes rather half-hearted attempt at offering me half packing-case, which I at once decline, and ask about her leg.
Mrs. P. displays it, swathed in bandages beneath her stocking, and tells me how her husband had two boxes of sand, shovel and bucket prepared for emergency use — (this evidently euphemism for incendiary bombs) — and gave full instructions to household as to use of them, demonstrating in back garden.
Mrs. P. herself took part in this, she adds impressively. I say Yes, yes, to encourage her, and she goes on. Telephone call then obliged her to leave the scene — interpolation here about nature of the call involving explanation as to young married niece — husband a sailor, dear little baby with beautiful big blue eyes — from whom call emanated.
Ninth pip-pip-pip compelled Mrs. P. to ring off and, in retracing her steps, she crossed first-floor landing on which husband, without a word of warning, had meanwhile caused boxes of sand, shovel and bucket to be ranged, with a view to permanent instalment there. Mrs. P. — not expecting any of them — unfortunately caught her foot in the shovel, crashed into the sand-boxes, and was cut to the bone by edge of the bucket.
She concludes by telling me that it really was a lesson. Am not clear of what nature, or to whom, but sympathise very much and say I shall hope to save her as much as possible.
Hope this proceeds from unmixed benevolence, but am inclined to think it is largely actuated by desire to establish myself definitely as canteen worker — in which it meets with success.
Return to Buckingham Street flat again coincides with exit of owner, who at once enquires whether I have ascertained whereabouts of nearest air-raid shelter.
Well, yes, I have in a way. That is to say, the A.R.P. establishment in Adelphi is within three minutes’ walk, and I could go there. Owner returns severely that that is Not Good Enough. He must beg of me to take this question seriously, and pace the distance between bedroom and shelter and find out how long it would take to get there in the event of an emergency. Moreover, he declares there is a shelter nearer than the Adelphi, and proceeds to indicate it.
Undertake, reluctantly, to conduct a brief rehearsal of my own exodus under stimulus of air-raid alarm, and subsequently do so.
This takes the form of rather interesting little experiment in which I lay out warm clothes, heavy coat, Our Mutual Friend — Shakespeare much more impressive but cannot rise to it — small bottle of boiled sweets — sugar said to increase energy and restore impaired morale — and electric torch. Undress and get into bed, then sound imaginary tocsin, look at my watch, and leap up.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 469