Temporary respite follows, as Serena, after pressing her nose against glass panel of office window, reports Commandant to be engaged in tearing two little Red Cross nurses limb from limb.
Cannot feel that this bodes well for me, but remind myself vigorously that I am old enough to be Commandant’s mother and that, if necessary, shall have no hesitation in telling her so.
(Query: Would it impress her if I did? Answer: No.)
Office door flies open and Red Cross nurse comes out, but leaves fellow victim within.
Serena and I, with one voice, enquire what is happening, and are told in reply that Her Highness is gone off of the deep end, that’s what. Long and very involved story follows of which nothing is clear to me except that Red Cross nurse declares that she isn’t going to be told by anyone that she doesn’t know her job, and have we any of us ever heard of Lord Horder?
Yes, we not unnaturally have.
Then who was it, do we suppose, who told her himself that he never wished to see better work in the ward than what hers was?
Office door, just as she is about to reply to this rhetorical question, flies open once more and second white veil emerges, which throws first one into still more agitation and they walk away arm-in-arm, but original informant suddenly turns her head over her shoulder and finishes up reference to Lord Horder with very distinctly-enunciated monosyllable: E.
Serena and I giggle and Commandant, from within the office, calls out to someone unseen to shut that door at once, there’s far too much noise going on and is this a girls’ school, or an Organisation of national importance?
Should like to reply that it’s neither.
Rather draughty pause ensues, and I ask Serena if she knows how the underworld manages to be chilly and stuffy at one and the same time — but she doesn’t.
Suggests that I had better knock at the door, which I do, and get no reply.
Harder, says Serena.
I make fresh attempt, again unsuccessful, and am again urged to violence by Serena. Third effort is much harder than I meant it to be and sounds like onslaught from a battering-ram. It produces a very angry command to Come In! and I do so.
Commandant is, as usual, smoking and writing her head off at one and the same time, and continues her activities without so much as a glance in my direction.
I contemplate the back of her head — coat collar wants brushing — and reflect that I could (a) throw something at her — nearest available missile is cardboard gas-mask container, which I don’t think heavy enough; (b) walk out again; (c) tell her clearly and coldly that I have No Time to Waste.
Am bracing myself for rather modified form of (c) when she snaps out enquiry as to what I want.
I want to leave London for a week or ten days.
Commandant snaps again. This time it is Why.
Because my presence is required in my own house in Devonshire.
Devonshire? replies Commandant in offensively incredulous manner. What do I mean by Devonshire?
Cannot exactly explain why, but at this precise moment am suddenly possessed by spirit of defiance and hear myself replying in superbly detached tones that I am not here to waste either her time or my own and should be much obliged if she would merely note that I shall not be giving my services at Canteen for the next ten days.
Am by no means certain that thunderbolt from Heaven will not strike me where I stand, but it is withheld, and sensation of great exhilaration descends upon me instead.
Commandant looks at me — first time she has ever done so in the whole of our association — and says in tones of ice that I am wasting her time, as the Canteen Time-Sheet is entirely in the hands of Mrs. Peacock and I ought to have made my application for leave through her.
She then slams rubber stamp violently onto inoffensive piece of paper and turns her back again.
I rejoin Serena, to whom I give full account of entire episode — probably too full, as Serena — after highly commending me — says that I couldn’t have made half such a long speech in the time. Realise that I couldn’t, and that imagination has led me astray, and withdraw about half of what I have told her, but the other half accurate and much applauded by Serena and subsequently by Mrs. Peacock.
Mrs. P. also says that Of course I must go home, and Devonshire sounds lovely, and she wishes she lived there herself. Do I know Ilfracombe? Yes, quite well. Does Mrs. Peacock? No, but she’s always heard that it’s lovely. I agree that it is, and conversation turns to macaroni-and-tomato, again on the menu to-night, bacon now off, and necessity of holding back the brown bread as it will be wanted for to-morrow’s breakfast.
Serena orders coffee and stands drinking it, and says that there is to be a lecture on Fractures at midnight. I ask why midnight, and she replies vaguely, Oh, because they think it’ll be dark then.
Am unable to follow this, and do not attempt to do so.
News percolates through Canteen — cannot at all say how — that I am going to Devonshire for ten days and fellow workers tell me how fortunate I am, and enquire whether I know Moretonhampstead, Plymouth Hoe, and the road between Axminster and Charmouth.
Old Granny Bo-Peep appears as usual — have strong suspicion that she never leaves the underworld at all, but stays there all day and all night — and romps up to me with customary air of roguish enjoyment.
What is this, she asks, that a little bird has just told her? That one of our very latest recruits is looking back from the plough already? But that’s only her fun — she’s delighted, really, to hear that I’m to have a nice holiday in the country. All the way down to Devon, too! Right away from the war, and hard work, and a lovely rest amongst the birds and the flowers.
Explain without any enthusiasm that my presence is required at home and that I am obliged to take long and probably crowded journey in order to look into various domestic problems, put them in order, and then return to London as soon as I possibly can.
Old Mrs. W.-G. says she quite understands, in highly incredulous tones, and proceeds to a long speech concerning her own ability to work for days and nights at a stretch without ever requiring any rest at all. As for taking a holiday — well, such a thing never occurs to her. It just simply doesn’t ever cross her mind. It isn’t that she’s exactly stronger than anybody else — on the contrary, she’s always been supposed to be rather fragile — but while there’s work to be done, she just has to do it, and the thought of rest never occurs to her.
Beloved Edgar used to say to her: One day you’ll break down. You must break down. You cannot possibly go on like this and not break down. But she only laughed and went on just the same. She’s always been like that, and she hopes she always will be.
Feel sure that hope will probably be realised
Evening proceeds as usual. Mock air-raid alarm is given at ten o’clock, and have the gratification of seeing Serena race for her tin hat and fly back with it on her head, looking very affairée indeed.
Canteen workers, who are not expected to take any part in manoeuvres, remain at their posts and seize opportunity to drink coffee, clear the table, and tell one another that we are all to be disbanded quite soon and placed under the Home Office — that we are all to be given the sack — that we are all to be put into blue dungarees at a cost of eleven shillings per head — and similar pieces of intelligence.
Stretcher-bearers presently reappear and story goes round that imaginary casualty having been placed on stretcher and left there with feet higher than his head, has been taken off to First Aid Post in a dead faint and hasn’t come round yet.
Rather sharp words pass between one of the cooks and young Canteen voluntary helper in flowered cretonne overall, who declares that her orders are not receiving proper attention. Cook asserts that all orders are taken in rotation and Flowered Cretonne replies No, hers aren’t. Deadlock appears to have been reached and they glare at one another through the hatch.
Two more cooks in background of kitchen come nearer in support of colleague, or else in ho
pes of excitement, but Cretonne Overall contents. herself with repeating that she must say it seems rather extraordinary, and then retiring to tea-urn, which I think feeble.
She asks for a cup of tea — very strong and plenty of sugar — which I give her and tells me that she doesn’t think this place is properly run, just look how the floor wants sweeping, and I am impelled to point out that there is nothing to prevent her from taking a broom and putting this right at once.
Cretonne Overall gives me a look of concentrated hatred, snatches up her cup of tea and walks away with it to furthest table in the room. Can see her throwing occasional glances of acute dislike in my direction throughout remainder of the night.
Serena returns — tells me that the feature of the practice has been piled-up bodies and that these have amused themselves by hooking their legs and arms together quite inextricably and giving the first-aid men a good deal of trouble, but everyone has seen the funny side of it and it’s been a very merry evening altogether.
Better, she adds gloomily, than the concert which we are promised for next week is likely to be.
She then drinks two cups of coffee, eats half a bar of chocolate and a banana, and announces that she is going to bed.
Presently my relief arrives: tiny little creature with bobbed brown hair, who has taken duty from 10 P.M. to 10 A.M. every night since war started. I express admiration at her self-sacrifice, and she says No, it’s nothing, because she isn’t a voluntary worker at all — she gets paid.
As this no doubt means that she is working part of the day as well, can only feel that grounds for admiration are, if anything, redoubled and tell her so, but produce no effect whatever, as she merely replies that there’s nothing to praise her for, she gets paid.
She adds, however, that it is a satisfaction to her to be doing something Against that Man. She said to Dad at the very beginning: Dad, I want to do something against him. So she took this job, and she put herself down at the Hospital for blood-transfusion, and they’ve took some from her already and will be wanting more later. In this way, she repeats, she can feel she’s doing something Against Him — which is what she wants.
Am much struck by contrast between her appearance — tiny little thing, with very pretty smile — and extreme ferocity of her sentiments.
We exchange Good-nights and I collect my coat from Women’s Rest-room where it hangs on a peg, in the midst of camp-beds.
On one of them, under mountain of coverings, huge mop of curls is just visible — no doubt belonging to Muriel.
Serena is sitting bolt-upright on adjacent bed, legs straight out in front of her in surely very uncomfortable position, writing letters. This seems to me most unnatural hour at which to conduct her correspondence, which apparently consists largely of picture postcards.
Wireless outside is emitting jazz with tremendous violence, engines are running, and a group of persons with surely very loud voices are exchanging views about the Archbishop of York. They are of opinion, after listening to His Grace’s broadcast the other night, that Where a Man like that is wanted is In the Cabinet.
Agree with them, and should like to go out and say so, adding suggestion that he would make first-class Prime Minister — but Serena intervenes with plaintive observation that, as they all agree with one another and keep on saying That’s Right, she can’t imagine why they must go on discussing it instead of letting her get a little sleep.
At this I feel the moment has come for speech which I have long wished to deliver, and I suggest to Serena that she has undertaken a form of war service which is undoubtedly going to result in her speedy collapse from want of sleep, fresh air, and properly-regulated existence generally. Wouldn’t it be advisable to do something more rational?
There isn’t anything, says Serena positively. Nobody wants anybody to do anything, and yet if they do nothing they go mad.
Can see that it will take very little to send Serena into floods of tears, and have no wish to achieve this result, or to emulate Darling’s methods with Commandant, so simply tell her that I suppose she knows her own business best — (not that I do, for one minute) — and depart from the underworld.
October 13th. — Countryside bears out all that Aunt Blanche has written of its peaceful appearance, autumn colouring, and profusion of scarlet berries prematurely decorating the holly-trees.
Train very crowded and arrives thirty-five minutes late, and I note that my feelings entirely resemble those of excited small child returning home for the holidays. Robert has said that he cannot meet me owing to A.R.P. duties but is there at the station, and seems pleased by my return, though saying nothing openly to that effect.
We drive home — everything looks lovely and young colt in Home Farm field has miraculously turned into quite tall black horse. Tell Robert that I feel as if I had been away for years, and he replies that it is two and a half weeks since I left.
I ask after the evacuees, the puppy, Aunt Blanche, Cook and the garden and tell Robert about Serena, the Canteen, the Blowfields and their cosmopolitan friend — Robert of opinion that he ought to be interned at once — and unresponsive attitude of the Ministry of Information.
What does Robert think about Finland? Envoy now in Moscow. Robert, in reply, tells me what he thinks, not about Finland, but about Stalin. Am interested, but not in any way surprised, having heard it all before a great many times.
As we drive in at the gate Marigold and Margery dart round the house — and I have brief, extraordinary hallucination of having returned to childish days of Robin and Vicky. Cannot possibly afford to dwell on this illusion for even one second, and get out of the car with such haste that suit-case falls with me and most of its contents are scattered on the gravel, owing to defective lock.
Robert not very pleased.
Marigold and Margery look pink and cheerful, Miss Doreen Fitzgerald comes up from garden, knitting, and says I’m Very Welcome, certainly I am. (Should never be surprised if she offered to show me my room.)
Winnie appears at hall door, at which I exclaim, Oh, are you back, Winnie? and then feel it would be no more than I deserve if she answered No, she’s in Moscow with the Finnish Envoy at the Kremlin — but this flight of satire fortunately does not occur to her, and she smiles very cheerfully and says, Yes, Mum thought it might be a long job with Bessie, and if she found she couldn’t manage, she’d send for Winnie again later on.
Can think of no more unsatisfactory arrangement, from domestic point of view, but hear myself assuring Winnie cordially that that’ll be quite all right.
We all collect various properties from the gravel, and Benjy achieves succès fou with evacuees and myself by snatching up bedroom slipper and prancing away with it under remotest of the lilac bushes, from whence he looks out at us with small growls, whilst shaking slipper between his teeth.
Marigold and Margery scream with laughter and applaud him heartily under pretence of rescuing slipper, and Aunt Blanche comes downstairs and picks up my sponge and then greets me most affectionately.
Am still pursuing scattered belongings, rolled to distant points of the compass, when small car dashes in at the gate and I have only time to tell Aunt Blanche to get rid of them whoever it is, and hasten into the house.
(They cannot possibly have failed to see me, but could they perhaps think, owing to unfamiliar London clothes, that I am newly-arrived visitor with eccentric preference for unpacking just outside the hall door? Can only hope so, without very much confidence.)
Hasten upstairs — rapturously delighted at familiar bedroom once more — and am moved at finding particularly undesirable green glass vase with knobs, that I have never liked, placed on dressing-table and containing two yellow dahlias, one branch of pallid Michaelmas daisies, and some belated sprigs of catmint — undoubted effort of Marigold and Margery.
Snatch off hat and coat — can hear Aunt Blanche under the window haranguing unknown arrivals — and resort to looking-glass, brush and comb, lipstick and powder-puff, but find mys
elf breaking off all operations to straighten favourite Cézanne reproduction hanging on the wall, and also restoring small clock to left-hand corner of table where I left it, and from which it has been moved to the right.
(Query: Does this denote unusually orderly mind and therefore rank as an asset, or is it merely quality vulgarly — and often inaccurately — known to my youth as old-maidishness?)
Sounds of car driving away again — look out of the window, but am none the wiser except for seeing number on the rear-plate, which conveys nothing, and Benjy now openly chewing up slipper-remains.
Ejaculate infatuatedly that he is a little lamb, and go downstairs to tea.
This laid in dining-room and strikes me as being astonishingly profuse, and am rendered speechless when Aunt Blanche says Dear, dear, they’ve forgotten the honey, and despatches Marigold to fetch it. She also apologises for scarcity of butter — can only say that it hadn’t struck me, as there must be about a quarter of a pound per head in the dish — but adds that at least we can have as much clotted cream as we like, and we shall have to make the best of that.
We do.
She asks after Serena Fiddlededee — am able to respond enthusiastically and say we’ve made great friends and that Serena is so amusing — and then mentions Pussy Winter-Gammon. Totally different atmosphere at once becomes noticeable, and although I only reply that she seems to be very well indeed and full of energy, Aunt Blanche makes deprecatory sort of sound with her tongue, frowns heavily and exclaims that Pussy — not that she wants to say anything against her — really is a perfect fool, and enough to try the patience of a saint. What on earth she wants to behave in that senseless way for, at her time of life, Aunt Blanche doesn’t pretend to understand, but there it is — Pussy Winter-Gammon always has been inclined to be thoroughly tiresome. Aunt Blanche is, if I know what she means, devoted to Pussy but, at the same time, able to recognise her faults.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 474