Well — Amontillado is now very, very difficult to obtain — (knew perfectly well he was going to say this) — but he thinks he can supply me. That is, if I do not require it in any very great quantity.
Had actually only considered purchasing a single bottle but have not now got the face to say so, and reply that two bottles will satisfy me for the moment. (Distinct implication here that I shall be back in about an hour’s time for several more.)
Ah, then in that case — says wine merchant with quite unabated suavity of manner, for which I think highly of him.
We hold very brief discussion as to the degree of dryness required in sherry, in which I hope I produce an effect of knowing the subject à fond — and I pay for my two bottles and am told that they will be delivered within a few moments at my door — which in fact they are.
Proceed to purchase of small cheese biscuits, and hope that Serena will think I have done her credit.
Canteen duty follows — very uneventful interlude. Serena not on duty, and Granny Bo-Peep visible only in the distance where she is — apparently — relating the story of her life to group of Decontamination men who seem, unaccountably, to find it interesting.
Mrs. Peacock tells me that Old Moore predicted the war and said that it would come to an end in 1940. Did he, whilst about it, say in what month? Mrs. Peacock thinks he said November, but is not sure, and I suggest that he was mixing it up with the Great War, at which she seems hurt.
Shift comes to an end at six o’clock, and I leave underworld thinking how best to arrange seating for three people in flat sitting-room, which is scarcely large enough to contain two with any comfort, when folding-table is extended to receive Amontillado and glasses.
Find flat door wide open, curtains drawn — (no brown paper) — lamp and fire burning merrily, and Serena entertaining J. L., Muriel and unknown young man of film-star appearance. Table has been set up, Amontillado opened, and agreeable haze of cigarette-smoke fills the air.
Serena says It’s lovely that I’ve come at last, and she hopes it’s all right, she thought I should wish them to have a drink, and couldn’t she pour one out for me?
Agree that she could, and congratulate myself inwardly on having dealt with lipstick, powder and pocket comb on the stairs.
Ensuing party proves gay and amusing, and I enter into conversation with film-star young man, who tells me that he has been reading J. L.’s novel in typescript and thinks it very good. Have I seen it?
No, I’ve only heard about it from Serena. What is it called? It is called Poached Eggs to the Marble Arch.
At this I bend my head appreciatively as if to say that’s exactly the sort of name I should have expected from a really good modern novelist, and then have the wind taken out of my sails when young film-star observes thoughtfully that he thinks it’s an utterly vague and off-putting title. But, he adds candidly, he isn’t absolutely sure he’s got it right. It might be Poached Eggs ON the Marble Arch, or even Poached Eggs AT the Marble Arch.
Conversation then becomes general, and Serena and Muriel talk about their war service and I say nothing about mine — not from modesty but because Canteen work very unimpressive — and film-star young man reveals that he has just joined the Air Force Reserve, and isn’t a film-star at all but a psychiatrist, and that ever since war started he has had no patients at all as most of the ones he had before were children who have been sent away from London.
Enquire at once whether he knows Rose, in very similar position to his own, and he says he knows her well by name. This does not, really, get us very much further.
J. L. looks, as before, intelligent and melancholy and latter expression seems to be merely deepened by Amontillado. Curiously opposite effect is produced on myself and I become unusually articulate and — I think — very witty about the Ministry of Information.
This conviction deepened every moment by shrieks of laughter from Serena and Muriel, definite appearance of amusement on face which still seems to me that of a film-star, and even faint smiles from J. L.
Am regretful when S. and M. declare that duty now calls them to the Adelphi. (It must, to be accurate, have been calling for rather more than an hour, as both were due there at seven o’clock.)
They take some time to make their farewells, and are escorted away by pseudo film-star, who thanks me very earnestly for having invited him. Do not, naturally, point out to him that I didn’t do so and have, in fact, no idea who did.
J. L. to my astonishment enquires whether I am, by any possible chance, free for dinner this evening?
Am entirely free, and say so instantly, and J. L. invites me to come and dine somewhere with him at once and go on afterwards to Arts Club of which he is a member, and listen to Ridgeway’s Late Joys. They sing Victorian songs and the audience joins in the choruses.
Am entranced at this prospect and only hope that effect of Amontillado will not have worn off by the time we get there, as should certainly join in choruses, Victorian or otherwise, far better if still under its influence.
J. L. and I depart forthwith into the black-out, and are compelled to cling to one another as we go, and even so do not escape minor collisions with sandbags and kindly expressed, but firm, rebuke from the police for displaying electric-torch beams too freely.
J. L. takes me to nice little restaurant and orders excellent dinner, and then talks to me about Serena.
He is, he admits, practically in despair about Serena. She has charm, she has intelligence, she has brains, she has looks — but would marriage with her be a hundred per cent success?
Can only tell him that I really have no idea, and that very few marriages are a hundred per cent success, but that on the other hand most people would think even seventy-five per cent quite handsome. Is he, if I may ask, engaged to Serena?
Oh dear, no.
Has he — if he doesn’t mind my asking — asked Serena to be engaged to him?
Well, yes and no.
Can only look at him in despair, and reflect with no originality whatever that Things have Changed in the last twenty years.
J. L. continues to maunder, but breaks off to ask what I would like to drink, and to hold quite animated discussion about Alsatian wine with the wine-waiter — then relapses into distress and refers to Serena as being at once the Worst and the Best Thing in his life.
Can see that nothing I say will make the slightest impression on him and that I may just as well save myself exertion of thinking by merely looking interested and sympathetic.
This succeeds well until J. L. suddenly bends forward and enquires earnestly whether I don’t feel that Serena is too highly-strung to be the ideal wife for a writer. I inform him in return, without hesitation, that the point seems to me quite insignificant and that what really disturbs me is the conviction that writers are too egotistical to make ideal husbands for anybody.
J. L. instantly agrees with me but is evidently quite fatalistic about it and has no intention whatever of reforming.
Can only suggest to him that perhaps we had better start for Late Joys or we shall be late.
He agrees amiably and cheers up more and more as evening progresses — just as well, as I am perfectly enraptured by beautifully-produced performance of the Joys and too much absorbed to pay any attention to him even if suicidal tendencies should develop.
Instead, however, J. L. joins in chorus to “See me Dance the Polka” and “Her Golden Hair was Hanging Down her Back” in unexpectedly powerful baritone, and we drink beer and become gayer and gayer until reluctantly compelled to leave theatre.
November 9th. — Bomb Explosion in Munich Beer-hall reported, apparently timed to coincide with speech by Hitler and to destroy him and numerous Nazi leaders seated immediately beneath spot where bomb was placed. Hitler said to have finished speech twenty minutes earlier than usual, and left Hall just — (from his point of view) — in time.
Hear all this from wireless at 8 A.M. and rush out into the Strand where posters tell me that Hess w
as amongst those killed, and I buy three newspapers and see that Hess is only reported killed. Can only say that instincts of Christianity and civilisation alike are severely tried, and am by no means prepared to state that they emerge victorious.
Have invited Lady Blowfield to lunch at Club as small return for past hospitality and also with faint hope of her eventually inducing Sir Archibald to suggest war job for me, and proceed there by bus, which fails to materialise for at least twenty minutes and is then boarded by about five hundred more people than it can possibly accommodate.
Situation very reminiscent of 1914 and succeeding years.
Hess resurrected on posters.
Reach Club just before one, am told by hall-porter that my guest has not yet arrived and go to upstairs drawing-room, which is filled with very, very old ladies in purple wool cardigans, and exceedingly young ones in slacks. No golden mean achieved between youth and age, excepting myself.
Small room off drawing-room contains wireless, to which I hasten, and find fearfully distraught-looking member — grey hair all over the place and spectacles on the floor — who glances at me and tells me imperatively to Hush!
I do Hush, to the extent of not daring even to sit down on a chair, and One O’clock News repeats the information that Hitler left Munich Beer-hall exactly fifteen minutes before bomb exploded.
At this, grey-haired member astounds me by wringing her hands — have never seen this done before in real earnest — and emits a sort of frantic wail to the effect that it’s dreadful — dreadful! That he should just have missed it by quarter of an hour! Why, oh, why couldn’t they have timed it better?
Moral conflict assails me once more at this, since I am undeniably in sympathy with her, but at the same time rather shattered by her unusual outspokenness. No comment fortunately necessary, or even possible, as she desperately increases volume of wireless to bellowing-point, then extinguishes it with equal lack of moderation.
Can see that she is in totally irresponsible frame of mind and feel very sorry for her.
Try to convey this by a look when News is over, and am only to successful as she at once pours out a torrent of rather disconnected phrases, and ends up by asking what my views are.
There will, I assure her, be a revolution in Germany very soon.
She receives this not-very-novel theory with starting eyes and enquires further whether It will come from the top, or from the bottom.
Both, I reply without hesitation, and leave the room before she has time to say more.
Lady Blowfield awaits me — hat with a black feather, very good-looking fur cape, and customary air of permanent anxiety — and we exchange greetings and references — moderate at least in tone — to Munich explosion, Hess being authoritatively declared alive and unhurt on the strength of responsible newspapers seen by Lady Blowfield.
Offer her sherry which she declines — am rather sorry, as I should have liked some myself but feel it now quite out of the question — and we proceed to dining-room.
Has she, I ask, any news about the war other than that which is officially handed out to all of us?
Lady Blowfield at once replies that Gitnik, whom I shall remember meeting, has flown to Paris and that therefore she has not seen him. He is, I shall naturally understand, her chief authority on world affairs — but failing him, Archibald has a certain amount of inside information — in a comparatively small way — and he has said that, in his opinion, the war will begin very soon now.
Am much dejected by this implication, although I — like everybody else — have frequently said myself that It hasn’t yet Started.
Has Sir Archibald given any intimation of the place or time selected for the opening of hostilities?
Lady Blowfield shakes her head and says that Holland is in great danger, so is Belgium, so are Finland and Sweden. At the same time it is perfectly certain that Hitler’s real objective is England, and he is likely to launch a tremendous air-attack against not only London, but the whole of the country. It is nonsense — wishful thinking, in fact — to suggest that winter will make any difference. Weather will have nothing to do with it. Modern aircraft can afford to ignore all weather conditions.
Has Lady Blowfield any information at all as to when this attack may be expected?
Lady Blowfield — not unreasonably — says that it won’t be expected at all.
Conversation, to my relief, is here interrupted by prosaic enquiry from waitress as to our requirements and I urge grapefruit and braised chicken on Lady Blowfield and again suggest drink. Would willingly stand her entire bottle of anything at all, in the hope of cheering her up. She rejects all intoxicants, however, and sips cold water.
What, she wishes to know, am I doing with my time? Am I writing anything? Archibald, no later than the day before yesterday, wished to know whether I was writing anything in particular, and whether I realised how useful I could be in placing before the public points which it was desirable for them to know.
Feel more hopeful at this, and ask what points?
There is, replies Lady Blowfield, the question of Root Vegetables. English housewives do not make the best use of these, in cooking. An attractive pamphlet on the subject of Root Vegetables might do a lot just now.
Can only suppose that I look as unenthusiastic as I feel, since she adds, with rather disappointed expression, that if I don’t care about that, there is a real need, at the moment, for literature that shall be informative, helpful, and at the same time amusing, about National Economy. How to avoid waste in the small household, for instance.
Tell her that if I knew how to avoid waste in the small household, I should find myself in a very different position financially from that in which I am at present, and Lady Blowfield then shifts her ground completely and suggests that I should Read It Up.
She will send me one or two little booklets, if I like. I have the honesty to admit in reply that I have, in the past, obtained numbers of little booklets, mostly at Women’s Institutes, and have even read some of them, but cannot feel that the contents have ever altered the course of my days.
Ah, says Lady Blowfield darkly, perhaps not now, but when the war is over — though heaven alone knows when that may be — then I shall realise how difficult mere existence is going to be, and that all life will have to be reorganised into something very, very different from anything we have ever known before. Have frequently thought and said the same thing myself, but am nevertheless depressed when I hear it from Lady Blowfield. (This quite unreasonable, especially as I hold definite opinion that entire readjustment of present social system is desirable from every point of view.)
Shall we, I next suggest with an air of originality, try and forget about the war and talk about something entirely different? Lady Blowfield, though seeming astonished, agrees and at once asks me if by any chance I know of a really good kitchen-maid — she believes they are easier to find now — as hers is leaving to be married.
(If this is part of Lady Blowfield’s idea of preparing for entirely reorganised scheme of life, can only say that it fails to coincide with mine.)
Am compelled to admit that I am a broken reed indeed as regards kitchen-maids, and enquire whether Lady Blowfield has seen George and Margaret.
No, she says, who are George and Margaret? Do I mean Daisy Herrick-Delaney and poor dear Lord George?
Explain what I do mean.
She has not seen George and Margaret and does not sound, even after I have assured her that it is very amusing, as if she either wished or intended to do so.
Fortunately recollect at this stage that the Blowfields are friends of Robert’s married sister in Kenya — whom I have only met twice and scarcely know — and we discuss her and her children — whom I have never met at all — for the remainder of luncheon.
Coffee subsequently served in library is excellent and Lady Blowfield compliments me on it, and says how rare it is to find good coffee, and I agree whole-heartedly and feel that some sort of rapprochement may yet
take place between us.
If so, however, it must be deferred to another occasion, as Lady Blowfield looks at her watch, screams faintly, and asserts that her Committee will be expecting her at this very moment and she must Fly.
She does fly — though not rapidly — and I retire to Silence Room with every intention of writing out brief, but at the same time complete, synopsis of new novel.
Two members are already seated in Silence Room, hissing quietly at one another, but lapse into frustrated silence at my entrance.
Sit down at writing-table with my back to them but can feel waves of resentment still emanating towards me.
Tell myself quite firmly that this is Great Nonsense, and that anyway they can perfectly well go and talk somewhere which isn’t a Silence Room, and that I really must give my mind to proposed synopsis.
Do so, for what seems like three weeks.
Customary pen-and-ink drawings result and lead me to wonder, without much conviction, whether I have perhaps mistaken my vocation and should have done better as black-and-white artist. Brief dream ensues of myself in trousers, smock and large black bow, figuring in Bohemian life on the rive gauche at the age of twenty-two. Have just been escorted by group of enthusiastic fellow students to see several of my own works of art exhibited at the Salon, when recollections of Robert and the children — cannot say why or how — suddenly come before me, and I realise that all are quite unsuitable figures in scene that Fancy has depicted.
Revert once more to synopsis.
Cannot imagine why concentration should prove next door to impossible, until instinct tells me that psychic atmosphere is again distinctly hostile, and that the hissing members are probably wishing I would drop down dead.
Look cautiously round for them, and see that one is sleeping heavily and the other has completely disappeared.
(How? Have not heard door either open or shut. Have evidently concentrated better than I supposed. But on what? Answer comes there none.)
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 480