Inspiration, without a word of warning, descends upon me and I evolve short and rather flippant topical article which may reasonably be expected to bring me in a small sum of money, fortunately payable in guineas, not pounds.
Am highly elated — frame of mind which will undoubtedly undergo total eclipse on re-reading article in type — and return to Buckingham Street. Remember quite a long while afterwards that projected synopsis is still non-existent.
Find flat occupied, on my arrival, by Serena — face a curious shade of green — who says that she feels rather like death and has leave of absence for an hour in order to get into the fresh air. This she has evidently elected to do by putting on electric fire, shutting the window, boiling the kettle and drinking quantities of very strong tea.
Commiserate with her, and suggest that conditions under which she is serving the country are both very strenuous and extremely unhygienic and that she may shortly be expected to break down under them.
Serena says Yes, she quite agrees.
Then what about trying something else?
Yes, replies Serena, but what? Everybody she knows, practically, is trying to Get Into Something, and everybody is being told that, whilst everybody is urgently needed, nobody can be given any work at the moment. Quite highly qualified persons are, she asserts, begging and imploring to be allowed to scrub floors and wash dishes without pay, but nobody will have them.
Am obliged to admit that this is only too true.
And there is another thing, says Serena. The moment — the very moment — that she leaves her A.R.P., there will be an air-raid over London. Then she will have had all these weeks and weeks of waiting about for nothing, and will just have to cower in a basement like everybody else while old Granny Bo-Peep is getting all the bombs.
Assure Serena that while I know what she means — which I do — it seems to me an absolute certainty that Granny Bo-Peep will succeed in getting well into the middle of whatever calamity may occur, and in getting out of it again with unimpaired spirits and increased prestige.
I therefore suggest that Serena may put her out of her calculations altogether.
Serena — surely rather exasperatingly? — declares that she wasn’t really thinking what she was saying, and Granny Bo-Peep doesn’t come into it at all.
Then what does?
Serena’s only reply is to weep.
Am very sorry for her, tell her so, give her a kiss, suggest brandy, all to no avail. Remember Spartan theory many times met with both in literature and in life, that hysterical tendencies can be instantly checked by short, sharp word of command or, in extreme cases, severe slap. Do not feel inclined for second alternative, but apply the first — with the sole result that Serena cries much harder than before.
Spartan theory definitely discredited.
Electric bell is heard from below, and Serena says Oh, good heavens, is someone coming! and rushes into the bedroom.
Someone turns out to be The Times Book Club, usually content to leave books in hall but opportunely inspired on this occasion to come up the stairs and demand threepence.
This I bestow on him and we exchange brief phrases about the weather — wet — the war — not yet really begun — and Hitler’s recent escape from assassination — better luck next time. (This last contribution from Times Book Club, but endorsed by myself.)
Times Book Club clatters away again, and I look at what he has brought — murder story by Nicholas Blake, which I am delighted to see, and historical novel by author unknown but well spoken of in reviews.
Serena emerges again — nose powdered until analogy with Monte Rosa in a snowstorm is irresistibly suggested, but naturally keep it to myself — and says she is very sorry indeed, she’s quite all right now and she can’t imagine what made her so idiotic.
Could it, I hint, by any possible chance be over-fatigue and lack of adequate sleep and fresh air?
Serena says that has nothing to do with it, and I think it inadvisable to dispute the point.
She again consults me about J. L. (who has so recently consulted me about her) and I again find it wiser to remain silent while she explains how difficult it all is and admits to conviction that whatever they decide, both are certain to be wretched.
She then becomes much more cheerful, tells me how kind and helpful I have been, and takes affectionate farewell.
Indulge in philosophical reflections on general feminine inability to endure prolonged strain without emotional collapse.
November 11th. — Armistice Day, giving rise to a good many thoughts regarding both past and present. Future, to my mind, better left to itself, but this view evidently not universally held, as letters pour out from daily and weekly Press full of suggestions as to eventual peace terms and reorganisation of the world in general.
Telephone to Robert, who says nothing in particular but seems pleased to hear my voice.
Interesting, but rather academic, letter from Robin full of references to New Ideology but omitting any reply to really very urgent enquiry from myself regarding new winter vests.
November 12th. — Take afternoon duty instead of evening at Canteen and learn that Society Deb. has developed signs of approaching nervous breakdown and been taken away by her mother. Girl with curls — Muriel — has disappeared, unnoticed by anybody at all, until she is required to take a car to Liverpool Street station, when hue and cry begins and Serena finally admits that Muriel has a fearful cold and went home to bed three days ago without notifying anybody at all.
Defence offered by Serena is to the effect that Muriel thought, as she wasn’t doing anything, she could easily go and come back again unperceived.
Various members of personnel are likewise wilting, and Serena looks greener than ever.
Commandant can be heard raging at Darling behind closed door of office, and is said to have uttered to the effect that if there’s any more of this rank insubordination she is going to hand in her resignation. In fact she would do so at once, if she didn’t happen to realise, as nobody else appears to do, that England Is At War.
Have serious thoughts of asking her whether she hasn’t heard anybody say that It Hasn’t yet Started? If not, this establishes a record.
Afternoon very slack and principal activities consist in recommending the bread-and-butter and toast, which can honestly be done, to all enquirers — saying as little as possible about the buns — and discouraging all approaches to jam tarts.
Mrs. Peacock offers me half-seat on her box, which I accept, and we look at new copy of very modern illustrated weekly, full of excellent photographs. Also read with passionate interest Correspondence Column almost entirely devoted to discussion of recent issue which apparently featured pictures considered by two-thirds of its readers to be highly improper, and by the remainder, artistic in the extreme.
Mrs. P. and I are at one in our regret that neither of us saw this deplorable contribution, and go so far as to wonder if it is too late to get hold of a copy.
Not, says Mrs. P., that she likes that kind of thing — very far from it — but one can’t help wondering how far the Press will go nowadays, and she hadn’t realised that there was anything left which would shock anybody.
Am less pessimistic than she is about this, but acknowledge that, although not particularly interested on my own account, I feel that one might as well see what is being put before the younger generation.
Having delivered ourselves of these creditable sentiments, Mrs. P. and I look at one another, both begin to laugh, and admit candidly distressing fact that both of us are definitely curious.
Mrs. P. then recklessly advocates two cups of tea, which we forthwith obtain and prepare to drink whilst seated on upended sugar-box, but intense activity at counter instantly surges into being and requirements of hitherto non-existent clients rise rapidly to peak height.
By the time these have been dealt with, and used cups, plates and saucers collected and delivered to kitchen, cups of tea have grown cold and all desire for
refreshment passed, and Mrs. P. says That’s life all over, isn’t it?
Return to Buckingham Street and find telephone message kindly taken down by caretaker, asking if I can lunch with Mr. Pearman to-morrow at one o’clock, and the house is No. 501 Sloane Street and can be found in the telephone book under name of Zonal.
Am utterly bewildered by entire transaction, having never, to my certain knowledge, heard either of Mr. Pearman or anyone called Zonal in my life, and Sloane Street address — Cadwallader House — conveying nothing whatever to me.
Enquire further details of caretaker.
She says apologetically that the line was very bad — she thinks the war has made a difference — and she asked for the name three times, but didn’t like to go on.
Then she isn’t quite certain that it was Pearman?
Well, no, she isn’t. It sounded like that, the first time, but after that she didn’t feel so sure, but she didn’t like to go on bothering the lady.
Then was Mr. Pearman a lady? I enquire,
This perhaps not very intelligently worded but entirely comprehensible to caretaker, who replies at once that he was, and said that I should know who it was.
Adopt new line of enquiry and suggest that Zonal not very probable in spite of being in telephone book.
But at this caretaker takes up definite stand. Zonal, Z for zebra, and she particularly asked to have it spelt because it seemed so funny but it’s in the book all right — Brigadier A. B. Zonal — and Cadwallader House is that new block of flats up at the end.
Decide that the only thing to do is ring up Cadwallader House and ask for either Pearman or Zonal.
Line proves to be engaged.
I say that The Stars in their Courses are Fighting against Me, and caretaker, whom I have forgotten, looks extremely startled and suggests that perhaps I could ring up again later — which seems reasonable and obvious solution.
Make fresh attempt, am told that I am speaking to the hall-porter and enquire if there is anyone in the house of the name of Pearman — or, I add weakly, anything like that.
Will I spell the name?
I do.
No, the hall-porter is very sorry, but he doesn’t know of anybody of that name. I don’t mean old Mrs. Wain, by any chance, do I?
Decline old Mrs. Wain, and suggest Zonal, of whom I am unable to give any other particulars than that he is a Brigadier.
Brigadier Zonal, says the porter, lives on the second floor, and his niece and her friend are staying there. The niece is Miss Armitage, and the other lady is Miss Fairmead.
Everything, I tell the porter, is explained. It is Miss Fairmead, of course, and would he ask her to speak to me? Porter — evidently man of imperturbable calm — replies Very good, madam, and I assure the caretaker — still hovering — that the name may have sounded like Mr. Pearman but was in reality Miss Fairmead. She replies that she did think of its being that at one time, but it didn’t seem likely, somehow.
Consider this highly debatable point, but decide to let it drop and thank her instead for her trouble. (Trouble, actually, has been entirely mine.)
Explanation with Felicity Fairmead ensues. She is in London for two nights only, staying with Veronica Armitage, whom I don’t know, in her turn staying with her uncle Brigadier Zonal, who has kindly offered hospitality to Felicity as well.
She and Veronica are leaving London the day after to-morrow, will I come and lunch to-morrow and meet Veronica? Also, naturally, the uncle — who will be my host.
Agree to all and say how glad I am to think of seeing Felicity, and should like to meet Veronica, of whom I have heard much. And, of course, the uncle.
November 13th. — Lunch — at Brigadier Zonal’s expense — with Felicity, who is looking particularly nice in dark red with hair very well set. Veronica turns out pretty, with attractive manners, but is shrouded in blue woollen hood, attributable to violent neuralgia from which she is only just recovering.
Uncle not present after all, detained at War Office on urgent business.
Felicity asks respectfully after my war work — am obliged to disclaim anything of national significance — and immediately adds solicitous enquiry as to the state of my overdraft.
Can only reply that it is much what it always was — certainly no better — and my one idea is to economise in every possible way, and what about Felicity herself?
Nothing, declares Felicity, is paying any dividends at all. The last one she received was about twenty-five pounds less than it should have been and she paid it into the Bank and it was completely and immediately swallowed up by her overdraft. It just didn’t exist any more. And the extraordinary thing is, she adds thoughtfully, that although this invariably happens whenever she pays anything into her Bank, the overdraft never gets any smaller. On the contrary.
She has asked her brother to explain this to her, and he has done so, but Felicity has failed to understand the explanation.
Perhaps, I suggest, the brother wasn’t very clear?
Oh yes he was, absolutely. He knows a great deal about finance. It was just that Felicity hasn’t got that kind of a mind.
Sympathise with her once more, admit — what she has known perfectly well ever since long-ago schooldays — that I haven’t got that kind of mind either, and enquire what Veronica feels about it all.
Veronica thinks it’s dreadful, and most depressing, and wouldn’t it cheer us both up to go out shopping?
Personally, she has always found that shopping, even on a tiny scale, does one a great deal of good. She also feels that Trade ought to be encouraged.
Felicity and I readily agree to encourage Trade on a tiny scale. It is, I feel, imperative that I should get myself some stockings, and send Vicky a cake, and Felicity is prepared to encourage Trade to the extent of envelopes and a hair-net.
Veronica, in the absence of the uncle, presides over a most excellent lunch, concluding with coffee, chocolates and cigarettes, and gratifies me by taking it for granted that we are on Christian-name terms.
Felicity looks at me across the table and enquires with her eyebrows What I think of Veronica? to which I reply, like Lord Burleigh, with a nod.
We discuss air-raids — Germany does not mean to attack London for fear of reprisals — she does mean to attack London but not till the spring — she hasn’t yet decided whether to attack London or not. This war, in Felicity’s brother’s opinion, is just as beastly as the last one but will be shorter.
Enquire of Veronica what the uncle thinks, and she answers that, being in the War Office, he practically never tells one anything at all. Whether from discretion, or because he doesn’t know, Veronica isn’t sure — but inclines to the latter theory.
Shortly afterwards Felicity puts on her hat and extremely well-cut coat — which has the effect of making me feel that mine isn’t cut at all but just hangs on me — and we say goodbye to Veronica and her blue hood.
Agreeable hour is spent in Harrods Stores, and I get Vicky’s cake but substitute black felt hat and a check scarf for stockings. Felicity, who has recently had every opportunity of inspecting woollen hoods at close quarters, becomes passionately absorbed in specimens on counter and wishes to know if I think crochet or knitted would suit Veronica best. Do not hesitate to tell her that to me they look exactly alike and that, anyway, Veronica has a very nice one already.
Felicity agrees, but continues to inspect hoods none the less, and finally embarks on discussion with amiable shop-girl as to relative merits of knitting and crochet. She eventually admits that she is thinking of making a hood herself as friend with whom she is living as P.G. in the country does a great deal of knitting and Felicity does not like to be behindhand. Anyway, she adds, she isn’t of any use to anybody, or doing anything to win the war.
Point out to her that very few of us are of any use, unless we can have babies or cook, and that none of us — so far as I can see — are doing anything to win the war. I also explain how different it will all be with Vicky’s generat
ion, and how competent they all are, able to cook and do housework and make their own clothes. Felicity and I then find ourselves, cannot say how, sitting on green sofa in large paved black-and-white hall in the middle of Harrods, exchanging the most extraordinary reminiscences.
Felicity reminds me that she was never, in early youth, allowed to travel by herself, that she shared a lady’s-maid with her sister, that she was never taught cooking, and never mended her own clothes.
Inform her in return that my mother’s maid always used to do my hair for me, that I was considered industrious if I practised the piano for an hour in the morning, that nobody expected me to lift a finger on behalf of anybody else, except to write an occasional note of invitation, and that I had no idea how to make a bed or boil an egg until long after my twenty-first year.
We look at one another in the deepest dismay at these revelations of our past incompetence, and I say that it’s no wonder the world is in the mess it’s in to-day.
Felicity goes yet further, and tells me that, in a Revolution, our heads would be the first to go — and quite right too. But at this I jib and say that, although perhaps not really important assets to the community, we are, at least, able and willing to mend our ways and have in fact been learning to do so for years and years and years.
Felicity shakes her head and asserts that it’s different for me, I’ve had two children and I write books. She herself is nothing but a cumberer of the ground and often contemplates her own utter uselessness without seeing any way of putting it right. She isn’t intellectual, she isn’t mechanically-minded, she isn’t artistic, she isn’t domesticated, she isn’t particularly practical and she isn’t even strong.
Can see, by Felicity’s enormous eyes and distressed expression, that she would, in the event of the Revolution she predicts, betake herself to the scaffold almost as a matter of course.
Can only assure her, with the most absolute truth, that she possesses the inestimable advantages of being sympathetic, lovable and kind, and what the devil does she want more? Her friends, I add very crossly, would hate to do without her, and are nothing if not grateful for the way in which she always cheers them up.
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 481