Mr. M. groans, but pushes valiantly on, and this bulldog spirit is rewarded by totally unexpected appearance — evidently the very last thing he has expected — of Captain S.-T.’s name on the door of Room 4978. He accordingly takes me in and introduces me, assures me that I shall be absolutely all right with Jerry, hopes — I think untruthfully — that we may meet again, and goes.
Jerry — looks about my own age, wears rather defiant aspect and spectacles with preternaturally convex lenses — favours direct method of approach and says instantly that he understands that I write.
Yes, I do.
Then the one thing that those whom he designates as “All You People” have got to realise is that we must all go on exactly as usual. If we are novelists, we must go on writing novels; if poets, write poetry just as before; if our line happens to be light journalism, then let it still be light journalism. But keep away from war topics. Not a word about war.
And what about lecturing, I enquire?
Lecture by all means, replies Jerry benevolently.
Read up something about the past — not history, better keep away from history — but what about such things as Conchology, Philately, the position of Woman in the Ice Age, and so on. Anything, in fact, which may suggest itself to us that has no bearing whatever on the present international situation.
I feel obliged to point out to Jerry that the present international situation is what most people, at the moment, wish to know about.
Jerry taps on his writing-desk very imperatively indeed and tells me that All You People are the same. All anxious to do something about the war. Well, we mustn’t. We must keep right out of it. Forget about it. Go on writing just as though it didn’t exist.
Cannot, at this, do less than point out to Jerry that most of us are writing with a view to earning our living and those of our dependents, and this is difficult enough already without deliberately avoiding the only topic which is likely, at the present juncture, to lead to selling our works.
It won’t do, says Jerry, shaking his head, it won’t do at all. Authors, poets, artists — (can see that the word he really has in mind is riff-raff) — and All You People must really come into line and be content to carry on exactly as usual. Otherwise, simply doing more harm than good.
Am by this time more than convinced that Jerry has no work of national significance to offer me, and that I had better take my leave. Final flicker of spirit leads me to ask whether he realises that it is very difficult indeed to find a market for any writings just now, and Jerry replies off-handedly that, of course, the paper shortage is very severe and will get much worse — much, much worse.
At the same time it is quite on the cards that people will take to reading when they find there’s absolutely nothing else to do. Old ladies, for instance, or women who are too idle and incompetent to do any war work. They may quite likely take to reading light novels in the long evenings, so as to help kill time. So long as I remember to carry on just exactly as I should if we weren’t at war at all, Jerry feels sure that I shall be quite all right.
Can only get up and say Goodbye without informing him that I differ from this conclusion root and branch, and Jerry shakes hands with me with the utmost heartiness, driving ring inherited from great-aunt Julia into my finger with extremely painful violence.
Goodbye, he says, he is only too glad to have been of any help to me, and if I want advice on any other point I am not to hesitate for one moment to come and see him again.
Walk out completely dazed, with result that I pay no heed to my direction and find myself almost at once on ground floor, opposite entrance, without the slightest idea of how I got there.
(Note: Promptings of the unconscious, when it comes to questions of direction, incomparably superior to those of the conscious mind. Have serious thoughts of working this up into interesting article for any publication specialising in Psychology Made Easy.)
Rain pours down; I have no umbrella and am reluctantly compelled to seek shelter in a tea-shop where I ask for coffee and get some with skin on it. Tell myself in a fury that this could never happen in America, or any other country except England.
In spite of this, am deeply dejected at the thought that the chances of my serving my country are apparently non-existent.
November 2nd. — Tremendous outbreak of knitting overtakes the underworld — cannot say why or how. Society Deb. works exclusively in Air-Force blue, and Muriel — who alone can understand her muttered utterances — reports that Jennifer has never done any knitting before and isn’t really any good at it, but her maid undoes it all when she has a night at home and knits it up again before Jennifer wakes.
Muriel is herself at work on a Balaclava helmet, elderly Messenger very busy with navy-blue which it is thought will turn into socks sooner or later, and everybody compares stitches, needles and patterns. Mrs. Peacock (reappeared, leg now well again but she still has tendency to retire to upturned box as often as possible) knits very rapidly and continuously but says nothing, until she privately reveals to me that she is merely engaged on shawl for prospective grandchild but does not like to talk about it as it seems unpatriotic.
Am sympathetic about grandchild, but inwardly rather overcome as Mrs. P. is obviously contemporary of my own and have not hitherto viewed myself as potential grandmother, but quite see that better accustom myself to this idea as soon as possible.
(Have not yet succeeded in doing so, all the same.)
Serena, also knitting — stout khaki muffler, which she says is all she can manage, and even so, broader at one end than at the other — comes and leans against Canteen counter at slack moments and tells me that she doesn’t know what to do about J. L. If his novel had been accepted by publishers, she declares, it would all be quite easy because she wouldn’t mind hurting his feelings, but with publishers proving discouraging and poor J. L. in deepest depression, it is, says Serena, practically impossible to say No.
Is she, then, engaged to him?
Oh no, says Serena, looking horrified.
But is she going to marry him?
Serena doesn’t know. Probably not.
Remind myself that standards have changed and that I must be modern-minded, and enquire boldly whether Serena is considering having An Affair with J. L.
Serena looks unspeakably shocked and assures me that she isn’t like that at all. She is very old-fashioned, and so are all her friends, and nowadays it’s a wedding ring or nothing.
Am completely taken aback and realise that I have, once again, entirely failed to keep abreast of the times.
Apologise to Serena, who replies that of course it’s all right and she knows that in post-last-war and pre-this-war days, people had some rather odd ideas, but they all went out with the nineteen-twenties.
Can see that, if not literally a grandmother, am definitely so in spiritual sense.
Serena then presents further, and totally unrelated, problem for my consideration. It appears that Commandant of Stretcher-party has recently resigned position in order to take up service abroad and those to whom he has given series of excellent and practical lectures have made him presentation of fountain-pen and pencil in red morocco case.
Farewell speeches have been exchanged, and red morocco case appreciatively acknowledged.
Now, however, Stretcher-party Commandant has suddenly reappeared, having been medically rejected for service abroad, and Serena feels that morocco case is probably a source of embarrassment to him.
Can make no constructive comments about this whatever, and simply tell her that next move — if any — rests entirely with Commandant of Stretcher-party.
Interruption occurs in the person of old Mrs. Winter-Gammon who comes up and asks me what I can suggest for an old lady’s supper.
Steak-pudding, sausages-and-mashed or spaghetti? Mrs. W.-G. shakes her curls and screws up her eyes and says gaily, No, no, no — it’s very naughty of her to say so, but none of it sounds attractive. She will have a teeny drop of soup and so
me brown bread-and-butter.
Collect this slender meal and place it before her, and she says that will last her until breakfast-time next morning. Her dear Edgar used to get quite worried sometimes, and tell her that she didn’t eat more than a sparrow, but to this she had only one answer: Dearest one, you forget how tiny I am. I don’t need more than a sparrow would. All I ask is that what I do have shall be daintily cooked and served. A vase of flowers on the table, a fringed doily or two, and I’m every bit as happy with a crust of bread and an apple as I could be with a banquet. In fact, happier.
Cannot think of any reply whatever to all this and merely look blankly at Granny Bo-peep, who smiles roguishly and informs me that she believes I’m only half-awake. (Feel that she might just as well have said half-witted.)
Can quite understand why Serena, who has also listened to Mrs. W.-G., now abruptly declares that she wants cold beef, pickles and toasted cheese for her supper.
Mrs. W.-G. — still immovable at counter — asks how I found Devonshire, and what poor Blanche is doing, and whether my husband doesn’t miss me dreadfully. She herself, so long as beloved Edgar was with her, was always beside him. He often said that she knew more about his work than he did himself. That, of course, was nonsense — her talents, if she had any at all, were just the little humble domestic ones. She made their home as cosy as she could — a touch here, another one there — a few little artistic contrivances — and above all, a smile. Whatever happened, she was determined that Edgar should always see a smiling face. With that end in view, Mrs. W.-G. used to have a small mirror hanging up over her desk so that every time she raised her eyes she could see herself and make sure that the smile was there. If it wasn’t, she just said to herself, Now, Pussy, what are you about? and went on looking, until the smile was there.
Am suddenly inspired to enquire of old Mrs. W.-G. what first occasioned her to share a flat with Aunt Blanche. Can never remember receiving any explanation on the point from Aunt Blanche herself, and am totally at a loss to understand why anyone should ever have wished to pursue joint existence with Granny Bo-Peep and her smile.
Ah, says Mrs. W.-G., a dear mutual friend — now Passed On — came to her, some years ago, and suggested the whole idea. Poor Blanche, in the opinion of the mutual friend, needed Taking Out of Herself. Why the friend thought that Mrs. W.-G. was the right person to accomplish this, she cannot pretend to guess — but so it was. And somehow or other — and it’s no use my asking Mrs. W.-G. to explain, because she just doesn’t know how it’s done herself — but somehow or other, dear old Blanche did seem to grow brighter and to realise something of the sheer fun of thinking about other people, instead of about one’s own little troubles. She must just have caught it, like the measles, cries Granny Bo-Peep merrily. People have always told her that she has such an infectious chuckle, and she simply can’t help seeing the funny side of things. So she can only suppose that Blanche — bless her — somehow took the infection.
Then came the war, and Mrs. W.-G. instantly decided that she was nothing but a worthless old woman and must go and offer her services, and the Commandant to whom she offered them — not this one, but quite another one, now doing something entirely different in another part of England altogether — simply replied: Pussy, I only wish I was as plucky, as efficient, as cheery, and as magnificent as you are. Will you drive an ambulance?
I will, replied Mrs. W.-G., drive anything, anywhere and at any time whatsoever.
Feel that any comment I could make on this would only be in the nature of an anti-climax and am immensely relieved when Scottish voice in my ear asks would I not take over the tea-pot for a wee while?
I would, and I do.
Mysterious behaviour of tea, which is alternately black as ink and strong as death, or revoltingly pallid and with tea-leaves floating about unsymmetrically on the surface of the cup. Can see that more intelligent management of hot-water supply would remedy both states of affairs, but all experiments produce unsatisfactory results and am again compelled to recognise my own inefficiency, so unlike general competence of Granny Bo-Peep.
Dispense tea briskly for nearly an hour, discuss menu with cashier — rather good-looking Jewess — who agrees with me that it lacks variety.
Why not, I ask, have kippers, always popular? Or fish-cakes? Jewess agrees to kippers but says a fish-cake isn’t a thing to eat out.
Spend some minutes in wondering what she means, until it is borne in on me that she, probably rightly, feels it desirable to have some personal knowledge as to the ingredients of fish-cakes before embarking on them.
Cannot think why imagination passes from fish-cakes to Belgrave Square ballroom somewhere about the year 1912, and myself in the company of young Guardsman — lost sight of for many years, and in any case, no longer either young or in the Guards. Realise very slowly that gramophone record of “Merry Widow” waltz is now roaring through the Canteen, and accounts for all.
Am struck by paradoxical thought that youth is by no means the happiest time of life, but that most of the rest of life is tinged by regret for its passing, and wonder what old age will feel like, in this respect. (Shall no doubt discover very shortly.)
Girl with lovely red hair — name unknown — comes up for customary meal of hot milk and one digestive biscuit and tells me that I look very profound.
I say Yes, I am very profound, and was thinking about Time.
Am rather astonished and greatly impressed when she calmly returns that she often thinks about Time herself, and has read through the whole of J. W. Dunne’s book.
Did she understand it?
Well, the first two and a half pages she understood perfectly. The whole thing seemed to her so simple that she was unable to suppose that even a baby wouldn’t understand it.
Then, all of a sudden, she found she wasn’t understanding it any more. Complete impossibility of knowing at what page, paragraph, or even sentence, this inability first overtook her. It just was like that. At one minute she was understanding it all perfectly — at the next, all was incomprehensible.
Can only inform her that my own experiences with J. W. D. have been identical, except that I think I only understood the first two, not two and a half pages.
Decide — as often before — that one of these days I shall tackle Time and J. W. D. all over again.
In the meanwhile, fresh vogue for tea has overtaken denizens of the underworld, and I deal with it accordingly.
Nine O’clock News comes and goes unheard by me, and probably by most other people owing to surrounding din. Serena drifts up later and informs us that Lord Nuffield has been appointed Director General of Maintenance in Air Ministry. Have idle thoughts of asking him whether he would like capable, willing and efficient secretary, and am just receiving urgent pre-paid telegram from him begging me to accept the post at once when I discover that the milk has given out and supply ought to have been renewed from the kitchen ten minutes ago.
Go back to flat soon afterwards, write letter to Robert and tell him that nothing has as yet materialised from Ministry of Information — which I prefer to saying that repeated applications have proved quite unavailing — but that I am still serving at Canteen, and that everybody seems fairly hopeful.
Reflect, whilst going to bed, that I am thoroughly tired of all my clothes and cannot afford new ones.
November 4th. — Am rung up, rather to my astonishment, by Literary Agent, wishing to know What I Am Doing.
Well, I am in touch with the Ministry of Information, and also doing voluntary work at a Canteen every night. At the same time, if he wishes to suggest that I should use my pen for the benefit of the country...
No, he hasn’t anything of that kind to suggest. On the contrary. The best thing I can do is just carry on exactly as usual, and no doubt I am at work on a new novel at this very moment.
I urge that it’s very difficult to give one’s mind to a new novel under present conditions, and Literary Agent agrees that doubtless this is so, but i
t is my plain duty to make the attempt. He has said the same thing to all his authors.
Reflection occurs to me later, though not, unfortunately, at moment of conversation, that if all of them take his advice the literary market will be completely swamped with novels in quite a short time, and authors’ chances of making a living, already very precarious, will cease to exist at all.
Spend some time at writing-desk, under hazy impression that I am thinking out a new novel. Discover at the end of two hours that I have achieved rather spirited little drawing on cover of telephone-book of man in a fez — slightly less good representation of rustic cottage, Tudor style, front elevation, on envelope of Aunt Blanche’s last letter — also written two cheques meeting long-overdue accounts — smoked (apparently) several cigarettes, of which I have no recollection whatever, and carefully cut out newspaper advertisement of Fleecy-lined Coats with Becoming Hoods — which I have no intention whatever of purchasing.
New novel remains wholly elusive.
Telephone rings again: on raising receiver become aware of tremendous pandemonium of sound which tells me instantly that this must be the Adelphi underworld.
It is.
May Serena bring round J. L. for a drink at about 6.30 this evening? He would like to talk about his new novel. Reply mirthlessly that perhaps he would also like to hear about mine — but this cynical reference wasted, as Serena only replies What? and adds Blast this place, it’s like a rookery, only worse.
Tell her that it doesn’t matter, and I can tell her later, and she suggests that if I scream straight into the mouthpiece very loud, she’ll probably be able to hear — but I again assure her that this would be wasted energy.
We end conversation — if conversation it can be called — with reciprocal assurances that we shall look forward to meeting at my flat, 6.30. P.M., with J. L. in Serena’s train.
Go to wine merchant at corner of the street and tell him that I require an Amontillado — which is the only name I know in the sherry world — and that I hope he has some in stock.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 479