Lowest level seems to me to be reached by one which features exposé, doubtless apocryphal, of Hitler’s sex life — but am not pleased with another which enquires — idiotically — Why Not Send Eden to Russia?
Could suggest hundreds of reasons why not, and none in favour.
Remaining posters all display ingenious statements, implying that tremendous advance has been made somewhere by Allies, none of whom have suffered any casualties at all, with enormous losses to enemy.
Evolve magnificent piece of rhetoric, designed to make clear once and for all what does, and what does not, constitute good propaganda, and this takes me to Mansions in Kensington at the very top of which dwell Uncle A. and housekeeper, whose peculiar name is Mrs. Mouse.
Sensation quite distinctly resembling small trickle of ice-cold water running down spine assails me, at the thought that rhetoric on propaganda will all be wasted, since no Government Department wishes for my assistance — but must banish this discouraging reflection and remind myself that at least I am to be allowed a few hours’ work in Canteen.
Hall-porter — old friend — is unfortunately inspired to greet me with expressions of surprise and disappointment that I am not in uniform. Most ladies are, nowadays, he says. His circle of acquaintances evidently more fortunate than mine. Reply that I have been trying to join something — but can see he doesn’t believe it.
We go up very slowly and jerkily in aged Victorian lift — pitch dark and smells of horse-hair — and porter informs me that nearly all the flats are empty, but he doubts whether ‘Itler himself could move the old gentleman. Adds conversationally that, in his view, it is a funny war. Very funny indeed. He supposes we might say that it hasn’t hardly begun yet, has it? Agree, though reluctantly, that we might.
Still, says the hall-porter as lift comes to an abrupt stop, we couldn’t very well have allowed ‘im to carry on as he was doing, could we, and will I please mind the step.
I do mind the step — which is about three feet higher than the landing — and ring Uncle A.’s bell.
Can distinctly see Mrs. Mouse applying one eye to ground-glass panel at top of door before she opens it and welcomes my arrival. In reply to enquiry she tells me that Uncle A. is remarkably well and has been all along, and that you’d never give him seventy, let alone eighty-one. She adds philosophically that nothing isn’t going to make him stir and she supposes, with hearty laughter, that he’ll never be satisfied until he’s had the both of them smothered in poison gas, set fire to, blown sky-high and buried under the whole of the buildings.
Point out that this is surely excessive and enquire whether they have a shelter in the basement. Oh yes, replies Mrs. M., but she had the work of the world to get him down there when the early-morning alarm was given, at the very beginning of the war, as he refused to move until fully dressed and with his teeth in. The only thing that has disturbed him at all, she adds, is the thought that he is taking no active part in the war.
She then conducts me down familiar narrow passage carpeted in red, with chocolate-and-gilt wallpaper, and into rather musty but agreeable drawing-room crammed with large pieces of furniture, potted palm, family portraits in gilt frames, glass-fronted cupboards, china, books, hundreds of newspapers and old copies of Blackwood’s Magazine, and grand piano on which nobody has played for about twenty-seven years.
Uncle A. rises alertly from mahogany kneehole writing-table — very upright and distinguished-looking typical Diplomatic Service — (quite misleading, Uncle A. retired stockbroker) — and receives me most affectionately.
He tells me that I look tired — so I probably do, compared with Uncle A. himself — commands Mrs. M. to bring tea, and wheels up an armchair for me in front of magnificent old-fashioned coal fire. Can only accept it gratefully and gaze in admiration at Uncle A.’s slim figure, abundant white hair and general appearance of jauntiness.
He enquires after Robert, the children and his sister — whom he refers to as poor dear old Blanche — (about fifteen years his junior) — and tells me that he has offered his services to the War Office and has had a very civil letter in acknowledgment, but they have not, as yet, actually found a niche for him. No doubt, however, of their doing so in time.
The Government is, in Uncle A.’s opinion, underrating the German strength, and as he himself knew Germany well in his student days at Heidelberg, he is writing a letter to The Times in order to make the position better understood.
He asks about evacuees — has heard all about them from Blanche — and tells me about his great-niece in Shropshire. She is sitting in her manor-house waiting for seven evacuated children whom she has been told to expect; beds are already made, everything waiting, but children haven’t turned up. I suggest that this is reminiscent of Snow White and seven little dwarfs, only no little dwarfs.
Uncle A. appears to be immeasurably amused and repeats at intervals: Snow White and no little dwarfs. Capital, capital!
Tea is brought in by Mrs. M., and Uncle A. declines my offer of pouring out and does it himself, and plies me with hot scones, apricot jam and home-made gingerbread. All is the work of Mrs. M. and I tell Uncle A. that she is a treasure, at which he looks rather surprised and says she’s a good gel enough and does what she’s told.
Can only remember, in awe-stricken silence, that Mrs. M. has been in Uncle A.’s service for the past forty-six years.
Take my leave very soon afterwards and make a point of stating that I have presently to go on duty at A.R.P. Canteen, to which Uncle A. replies solicitously that I mustn’t go overdoing it.
He then escorts me to the lift, commands the hall-porter to look after me and call a cab should I require one, and remains waving a hand while lift, in a series of irregular leaps, bears me downstairs.
No cab is required — hall-porter does not so much as refer to it — and take a bus back to the Strand.
Bathroom has now familiar notice pinned on door— “Occupied” — which I assume to be Serena, especially on finding large bunch of pink gladioli in sitting-room, one empty sherry-glass, and several biscuit crumbs on rug. Moreover, black-out has been achieved and customary sheets of paper pinned up, and also customary number of drawing-pins strewn over the floor.
Serena emerges from bathroom, very pink, and says she hopes it’s All Right, and I say it is, and thank her for gladioli, to which she replies candidly that flowers are so cheap nowadays they’re being practically given away.
She asks what I have been doing, and I relate my experiences — Serena carries sympathy so far as to declare that Mr. Weatherby ought to be taken out and shot and that Mrs. W. doesn’t sound much of a one either, but Uncle A. too adorable for words.
She then reveals that she came round on purpose to suggest we should have supper at Canteen together before going on duty.
Am delighted to agree, and change into trousers and overall. Greatly relieved when Serena ecstatically admires both.
Extraordinary thought that she is still only known to me as Serena Fiddlededee.
1.30 A.M. — Return from Canteen after evening of activity which has given me agreeable illusion that I am now wholly indispensable to the Allies in the conduct of the war.
Canteen responsibilities, so far as I am concerned, involve much skipping about with orders, memorising prices of different brands of cigarettes — which mostly have tiresome halfpenny tacked on to round sum, making calculation difficult — and fetching of fried eggs, rashers, sausages-and-mashed and Welsh rarebits from kitchen.
Mrs. Peacock — leg still giving trouble — very kind, and fellow workers pleasant; old Mrs. Winter-Gammon only to be seen in the distance, and Serena not at all.
Am much struck by continuous pandemonium of noise in Canteen, but become more accustomed to it every moment, and feel that air-raid warning, by comparison, would pass over my head quite unnoticed.
October 3rd. — Old Mrs. Winter-Gammon develops tendency, rapidly becoming fixed habit, of propping herself against Canteen counter, smoking cigare
ttes and chattering merrily. She asserts that she can do without sleep, without rest, without food and without fresh air. Am reluctantly forced to the conclusion that she can.
Conversation of Mrs. W.-G. is wholly addressed to me, since Mrs. Peacock — leg in no way improved — remains glued to her box from which she can manipulate Cash-register — and leaves Débutante to do one end of the counter, Colonial young creature with blue eyes in the middle, and myself at the other end.
Custom goes entirely to Débutante, who is prettyish, and talks out of one corner of tightly-shut mouth in quite unintelligible mutter, and Colonial, who is amusing. Am consequently left to company of Granny Bo-Peep.
She says roguishly that we old ones must be content to put up with one another and before I have time to think out civil formula in which to tell her that I disagree, goes on to add that, really, it’s quite ridiculous the way all the boys come flocking round her. They like, she thinks, being mothered — and yet, at the same time, she somehow finds she can keep them laughing. It isn’t that she’s specially witty, whatever some of her clever men friends — such as W. B. Yeats, Rudyard Kipling and Lord Oxford and Asquith — may have said in the past. It’s just that she was born, she supposes, under a dancing star. Like Beatrice.
(If Granny Bo-Peep thinks that I am going to ask her who Beatrice was, she is under a mistake. Would willingly submit to torture rather than do so, even if I didn’t know, which I do.)
She has the audacity to ask, after suitable pause, if I know my Shakespeare.
Reply No, not particularly, very curtly, and take an order for two Welsh rarebits and one Bacon-and-sausage to the kitchen. Have barely returned before Granny Bo-Peep is informing me that her quotation was from that lovely comedy Much Ado About Nothing. Do I know Much Ado About Nothing?
Yes, I do — and take another order for Sausages-and-mashed. Recollection comes before me, quite unnecessarily, of slight confusion which has always been liable to occur in my mind, as to which of Shakespeare’s comedies is called As You Like It and which Much Ado About Nothing. Should be delighted to tell old Mrs. W.-G. that she has made a mistake, but am not sufficiently positive myself.
Moreover, she gives me no opportunity.
Have I heard, she wants to know, from poor Blanche? I ask Why poor? and try to smile pleasantly so as to show that I am not being disagreeable — which I am. Well, says Granny Bo-Peep indulgently, she always thinks that poor Blanche — perfect dear though she is — is a wee bit lacking in fun. Granny Bo-Peep herself has such a keen sense of the ridiculous that it has enabled her to bear all her troubles where others, less fortunately endowed, would almost certainly have gone to pieces. Many, many years ago her doctor — one of the best-known men in Harley Street — said to her: Mrs. Winter-Gammon, by rights you ought not to be alive to-day. You ought to be dead. Your health, your sorrows, your life of hard work for others, all should have killed you long, long ago. What has kept you alive? Nothing but your wonderful spirits.
And I am not, says Mrs. W.-G., to think for one instant that she is telling me this in a boastful spirit. Far from it. Her vitality, her gaiety, her youthfulness and her great sense of humour have all been bestowed upon her from Above. She has had nothing to do but rejoice in the possession of these attributes and do her best to make others rejoice in them too.
Could well reply to this that if she has succeeded with others no better than she has with me, all has been wasted — but do not do so.
Shortly afterwards Commandant comes in, at which Mrs. Peacock rises from her box, blue-eyed young Colonial drops a Beans-on-Toast on the floor, and Society Deb. pays no attention whatever.
Granny Bo-Peep nods at me very brightly, lights her fourteenth cigarette and retires to trestle-table on which she perches swinging her legs, and is instantly surrounded — to my fury — by crowd of men, all obviously delighted with her company.
Commandant asks what we have for supper — averting eyes from me as she speaks — and on being handed list goes through items in tones of utmost contempt.
She then orders two tomatoes on toast. Friend — known to me only as Darling — materialises behind her, and cries out that Surely, surely, darling, she’s going to have more than that. She must. She isn’t going to be allowed to make her supper on tomatoes — it isn’t enough.
Commandant makes slight snarling sound but no other answer, and I retire to kitchen with order, leaving Darling still expostulating.
Previously ordered Sausages-and-mashed, Welsh rarebit, Bacon-and-sausages are now ready, and I distribute them, nearly falling over distressed young Colonial who is scraping up baked beans off the floor. She asks madly what she is to do with them and I reply briefly: Dustbin.
Commandant asks me sharply where her tomatoes are and I reply, I hope equally sharply, In the frying-pan. She instantly takes the wind out of my sails by replying that she didn’t say she wanted them fried. She wants the bread fried, and the tomatoes uncooked. Darling breaks out into fresh objections and I revise order given to kitchen.
Cook is not pleased.
Previous orders now paid for over counter, and Mrs. Peacock, who has conducted cash transactions with perfect accuracy hitherto, asserts that nine-pence from half a crown leaves one and sixpence change. Ambulance driver to whom she hands this sum naturally demands an explanation, and the whole affair comes to the notice of the Commandant, who addresses a withering rebuke to poor Mrs. P. Am very sorry for her indeed and should like to help her if I could, but this a vain aspiration at the moment and can only seek to distract attention of Commandant by thrusting at her plate of fried bread and un-fried tomatoes. She takes no notice whatever and finishes what she has to say, and Darling makes imperative signs to me that I am guilty of lèse-majesté in interrupting. Compose short but very pungent little essay on Women in Authority. (Query: Could not leaflets be dropped by our own Air Force, in their spare moments, on Women’s Organisations all over the British Isles?)
Sound like a sharp bark recalls me, and is nothing less than Commandant asking if that is her supper.
Yes, it is.
Then will I take it back at once and have it put into the oven. It’s stone cold.
Debate flinging the whole thing at her head, which I should enjoy doing, but instincts of civilisation unfortunately prevail and I decide — probable rationalising process here — that it will impress her more to display perfect good-breeding.
Accordingly reply Certainly in tones of icy composure — but am not sure they don’t sound as though I were consciously trying to be refined, and wish I’d let it alone. Moreover Commandant, obviously not in the least ashamed of herself, merely tells me to be quick about it, please, in insufferably authoritative manner.
Cook angrier than ever.
Very pretty girl with curls all over her head and waist measurement apparently eighteen-inch, comes and leans up against the counter and asks me to advise her in choice between Milk Chocolate Bar and Plain Chocolate Biscuit.
Deb. addresses something to her which sounds like Hay-o Mule! and which I realise, minutes later, may have been Hallo, Muriel. Am much flattered when Muriel merely shakes her curls in reply and continues to talk to me. Am unfortunately compelled to leave her, still undecided, in order to collect Commandant’s supper once more.
Cook hands it to me with curtly expressed, but evidently heart-felt, hope that it may choke her. Pretend I haven’t heard, but find myself exchanging very eloquent look with Cook all the same.
Plate, I am glad to say unpleasantly hot, is snatched from me by Darling and passed on to Commandant, who in her turn snatches it and goes off without so much as a Thank you.
Rumour spreads all round the underworld — cannot say why or from where — that the German bombers are going to raid London to-night. They are, it is said, expected. Think this sounds very odd, and quite as though we had invited them. Nobody seems seriously depressed, and Society Deb. is more nearly enthusiastic than I have ever heard her and remarks Ra way baw way, out of one corne
r of her mouth. Cannot interpret this, and make very little attempt to do so. Have probably not missed much.
Night wears on; Mrs. Peacock looks pale green and evidently almost incapable of stirring from packing-case at all, but leg is not this time to blame, all is due to Commandant, and Mrs. P.’s failure in assessing change correctly. Feel very sorry for her indeed.
Customary pandemonium of noise fills the Canteen: We Hang up our Washing on the Siegfried Line and bellow aloud requests that our friends should Wish us Luck when they Wave us Good-bye: old Mrs. Winter-Gammon sits surrounded by a crowd of ambulance men, stretcher-bearers and demolition workers talk far into the night, and sound of voices from Women’s Rest-room goes on steadily and ceaselessly.
I become involved with sandwich-cutting and think I am doing well until austere woman who came on duty at midnight confronts me with a desiccated-looking slice of bread and asks coldly if I cut that?
Yes, I did.
Do I realise that one of those long loaves ought to cut up into thirty-two slices, and that, at the rate I’m doing it, not more than twenty-four could possibly be achieved?
Can only apologise and undertake — rashly, as I subsequently discover — to do better in future.
A lull occurs between twelve and one, and Mrs. Peacock — greener than ever — asks Do I think I can manage, if she goes home now? Her leg is paining her. Assure her that I can, but austere woman intervenes and declares that both of us can go. She is here now, and will see to everything.
Take her at her word and depart with Mrs. P.
Street pitch-dark but very quiet, peaceful and refreshing after the underworld. Starlight night, and am meditating a reference to Mars — hope it is Mars — when Mrs. Peacock abruptly enquires if I can tell her a book to read. She has an idea — cannot say why, or whence derived — that I know something about books.
Find myself denying it as though confronted with highly scandalous accusation, and am further confounded by finding myself unable to think of any book whatever except Grimm’s Fairy Tales, which is obviously absurd. What, I enquire in order to gain time, does Mrs. Peacock like in the way of books?
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 471