Collected Works of E M Delafield

by E M Delafield

  IV

  Clarion Vox at the microphone, everybody, and we are taking you over once again to No. 74 Floral Crescent, Highgate, for further glimpses of home life.... Clarion Vox speaking....

  Now this morning I’m going to begin by reminding listeners of the dear old familiar quotation, so peculiarly applicable to the daily round as lived in the family circle:

  In every life some rain must fall,

  Some days be dark and dreary.

  This, I am sorry to say, is rather markedly the case at No. 74 Floral Crescent just now, both literally and figuratively. A depression off the Hebrides, which listeners will remember from recent weather forecasts, is making itself felt in a very inopportune manner, as to-day happens to be Father’s birthday.... Perhaps I’d better say that again. This is Father’s birthday, and his birthday treat is to be a day in the country ... the rain is falling very steadily indeed and the barometer in the hall ... In point of fact the barometer in the hall is not working, but if it were it would certainly be falling rapidly. The children have their faces pressed to the window-pane.... Mother is cutting sandwiches without very much enthusiasm....

  I can see Father’s presents on the dining-room table ... there is a penwiper, cut out in red flannel and shaped like a cat’s head ... and a small brass ash-tray ... and something that looks rather like a drawing of a steam-roller, that I fancy must be Baby’s effort.... Now Father is examining these offerings ... he is saying Thank you ... he is listening to an explanation about the steam-roller, which turns out to be a lion.... I’m sorry, everybody ... it is, definitely, a lion and not a steam-roller.

  Now there is a discussion going on ... well, perhaps it’s rather too one-sided to be called a discussion. Father has just said that when once he’s made up his mind, he’s not the sort of man to alter it again.... I’m sure listeners will hardly require to be told what Mother’s reply is.... Yes, she’s said it, just as I thought.... “I know, dear” ... just that traditional note of resignation, too.... It’s the wives and mothers of dear old England who’ve helped to make her fathers and husbands what they are, as we all know.

  The position now is that Father has said he’s going to take them all to spend a day in the country, and he’s going to stick to that, whatever happens.... Mother is obviously very much against it, and keeps on referring to wet feet and Baby’s catching cold.... Dickie and Doris are saying very little, but each is standing first on one leg and then on the other, which I think denotes anxiety.... Baby, I’m afraid, is making it rather difficult for me to ascertain exactly what his point of view may be, because there are things in his mouth, but I think on the whole I can safely say that he’s backing up Father ... yes, I’m sure he is.... Not that Father really requires any support, because, as he says himself, when once he’s made up his mind ... Yes, he’s just said it again.

  Now Norah has burst into the room.... I’m sorry, everybody, but that really is the only way to describe the way that girl comes in and out. ... Norah, as I say, has just joined the party, and says she supposes they’ll want dinner as usual and there’s nothing, only the mutton, in the house. ... Listeners will, I know, be glad to hear that it is being made clear to Norah that this sort of discussion must be conducted in the kitchen.... Father has perhaps put this a little more forcibly than I should have done myself ... but I daresay it’s ...

  In any case, the main issue is still entirely unchanged, and I can assure listeners quite definitely that Father is sticking to his original programme of an expedition into unknown Hertfordshire. In fact, he is, at the moment, going to fetch the car round.

  Now Mother is in the room again ... she is talking to the children, and the word “goloshes” is plainly audible ... it’s coming almost regularly. ... I think she’s finished with it now.... Doris and Dickie are going off to get ready, and Mother is shaking moth-balls out of all the warm wraps she can find in the chest in the hall....

  The rain, I’m very, very sorry to say, is coming down harder than ever, and the wind, which is blowing from the north-east, is unusually piercing.... Father has just brought the car round ... it looks a little as though the hood might be blown inside out by the wind, but I hope not.... Now he’s coming up the path, and whilst I can see his lips moving, I am not able to hear exactly what the words ... Of course, listeners will realize, as I do myself, that the situation is, under certain aspects, rather a trying one. Here we have Father, nothing if not a man of his word, committed to a certain course of action, and the elements, as it were, attempting to defy him.... Mother, whilst not going quite so far as the elements, is yet making a final effort to dissuade him.... Listeners will hardly require to be told that this is not a success....

  Here come the children ... Doris is protecting a picnic-basket under her waterproof, and Dickie is holding an umbrella over Baby.... Now Doris and Dickie are on the little back-seat, where listeners will, I know, be sorry to hear that they have no shelter whatever except that of the umbrella, which they will almost certainly be unable to keep open.... Mother is in front, beside Father, and Baby is on her knee ... they’re just off.... No, there’s a hitch somewhere ... Mother and Baby have had to get out again, so that Father can leave the driving-seat.... Yes, I see what it is: he’s forgotten the waterproof rug.... Now we’re all right, though I’m afraid everybody is very wet already.... Father’s stopped the engine, but he’s started it again almost directly.... Now they really are off.... I daresay listeners can hear the splashing of the rain for themselves.... The very last words I can hear from Father are that he’s not the kind of man who changes his mind....

  Good-bye, everybody — good-bye.

  V

  This is Clarion Vox, everybody, calling you from one of our great London termini, where various scenes are being enacted that are very closely connected with our usual running commentary on home life ... for instance, there is a little party from No. 74 Floral Crescent, Highgate, and I can actually see Grandmama ... listeners will remember Grandmama, from the Laurels ... making her way towards them....

  Now Grandpapa can be heard. I can’t see him, as yet, but I can hear him distinctly.... He is saying things about seeing other people off and ... But perhaps it is hardly fair to follow Grandpapa too closely at the moment. The crowd is very dense indeed, and he is finding a difficulty in keeping up with Grandmama.... Now he’s drawing level ... he’ll catch up in another minute.... No, no, he won’t ... there’s a paper-boy in the way ... Grandpapa has dodged him very skilfully ... but I’m afraid it’s only to find himself rather badly mixed up with a lady who has a little dog on a chain.... Things would, I’m sure, be simplified if Grandmama would only look round ... but no ... she’s forging ahead steadily. I think her objective is Platform 1 ... she’s asking a porter where the boat-train starts from.... As I thought, he says No. 1. Now Grandmama is asking a second porter ... she has received the same answer. Grandpapa has cleared the lady with the dog and is making slow but steady progress.... Grandmama has caught sight of a ticket-collector ... she’s making straight for him.... Now she’s asking him which platform ...

  Listeners would perhaps like to turn now to another aspect of the situation.... Clarion Vox speaking, as I said before, from one of our great London termini. The boat-train is due to start in another eight and a half minutes.... I can see our friends from No. 74 Floral Crescent, Highgate, just taking their places ... that is to say, Mother has taken hers, and Baby is on her lap ... Dickie has been told to keep a look-out for Grandmama and Grandpapa, and he is certainly at the carriage window, though I am inclined to think that he is giving the greater part of his attention to a neighbouring engine. One of the most active figures in this scene of activity is undoubtedly Father. Just now he is engaged in a rather sharp altercation with a French gentleman who has appropriated a corner seat to which Father feels that he has a prior claim. It is a little difficult for me to give listeners quite as clear an impression as I should like, of this rather unique little episode, as things are moving rather quickly
... the French gentleman is difficult to follow ... he is getting more difficult to follow.... Now Mother is intervening, and begging Father to give over, dear.... Father is taking little or no notice of this, but the French gentleman is lifting his hat and bowing.... I only wish that listeners could see for themselves this very typical example of the famous Gallic courtesy ... toujours la politesse.... Now he and Father are at it again ... the guard is approaching ... I feel very nearly certain that he will be called upon to adjudicate.... Yes, I thought so.... The guard is hearing both sides ... still hearing them ... still. ... Now he’s breaking in.... I think it’s going in Father’s favour.... Yes, everything seems to be tending that way ... the French gentleman is out of it ... definitely ... he’s leaving the carriage altogether ... his voice is dying away in the distance ... Father’s, on the other hand, is just as audible as ever ... though I don’t actually know that anyone is paying very much attention to it at the moment, as Grandpapa and Grandmama have just joined the party.... I am sorry to say that Grandmama is predicting a bad crossing ... she says that a gale is blowing up.... Several people in the vicinity are looking at her with evident resentment and dismay, but it has no effect on her.... I don’t think I’ve mentioned Doris, yet. She is here in navy-blue serge, and just at the moment seems to be absorbed in a paper with coloured illustrations and very inferior print, but no doubt as the moment of departure draws near ... Yes, she’s roused herself now, and is being warned by Grandpapa not to drink a drop of water anywhere in France before it’s been boiled and filtered.

  Well, I think they’ll be off in a moment or two now. Listeners will very probably realize, from experience, that few people are quite at their best in a scene of this kind, and that a certain amount of rather stale repetition becomes almost inevitable. This is the fourth time that Mother has said they won’t be long now.... Grandpapa has said it twice, and now Grandmama is saying it. The children have each said it once. Now a green flag is being produced by the guard, and everyone is looking distinctly relieved. However, it isn’t unfurled yet ... Grandmama will have time to put in a reminder about hoping to get a picture post-card from Boulogne. Yes, she’s said it.... Now, I really do think that in a moment or two ... Mother has sent her love to several people ... I’m afraid she’s doing this to fill in time ... the whistle has just sounded ... the train is beginning to move ... Grandpapa seems to be making a determined effort to keep pace with it ... he’s shouting a last remark ... it is to the effect that they’re really off now ... the train is gathering speed and Grandpapa is dropping behind ... Grandmama is saying a few short, sharp words as to his folly in trying to ... But really, I don’t think the B.B.C. can quite ...

  I sometimes wonder whether listeners altogether realize the strain of following home life so very, very closely as one is obliged to do for the purposes of this talk ... there seems to be something about home life ... though one doesn’t for a moment mean to imply anything in any way derogatory ... this is still Clarion Vox speaking....

  *

  There is just one S.O.S. to-night: Will the relations of Mr. Clarion Vox go at once to Hanwell Asylum, where he is lying dangerously ill.... Perhaps we’d better have that again: Mr. Clarion Vox at Hanwell A S Y L U M.... Good-bye, everybody, good-bye.

  STUDIES IN EVERYDAY LIFE

  MOVEMENTS

  Most of us, at one time or another, have been drawn into Movements, sometimes in the capacity of promoter, sometimes merely as one of the objects that the Movement is out to benefit, or suppress, or transmute into something quite different. For the great aim and object of all Movements is to alter existing conditions. The promoters do not, as a rule, say why this is so necessary: they just set to work.

  A great deal is accomplished by speaking, but this part of the good work is always done by the promoters, and never by the objects, of the Movement. Probably this is one of the reasons why hardly anybody ever knows what are the reactions of those who are the objects of a Movement’s benevolent offices.

  Speaking is done on Committees: a good deal of it, usually, by the person in the chair, some by the secretary, and still more by such of the ordinary Committee members as are determined and self-assertive by nature. There are also professional speakers.

  These usually have an address in London (though sometimes in particularly inaccessible parts of the North of England instead), but they live in railway carriages, in cars sent to meet them, or fetch them, or take them away, and in the houses of other people. A speaker, whether coming for one night or for a fortnight, carries a little bag, which apparently contains nothing whatever except papers. The present writer does not know what they do about night-attire, but female speakers usually have the kind of hair that requires, or at any rate gets, no brushing, and male speakers are frequently bald, so that the problem of a brush and comb is practically eliminated.

  It generally happens, either through the peculiarities of the railway time-table or by the apparently deliberate choice of the speaker, that he or she arrives at the house from which the Meeting is being organized, at a time which makes it almost impossible to have either tea or dinner at anything approaching a normal hour. A meal has to be arranged that is neither one thing nor the other, at which everybody usually drinks coffee and eats eggs.

  This is one reason why speakers are, for the most part, unpopular with men, especially men who are husbands and accustomed to consideration. Speakers do not consider anybody, excepting Our Chairman, concerning whom they are very loyal and hearty, and Our Secretary, whom they like much less, but against whom they wouldn’t say anything for the world.

  It might very reasonably be supposed that the Movement, its progress, aims, and objects, would be the one subject that speakers would wish to avoid, on the few occasions when they are not obliged to be mentioning them from a platform. But this is not so. They do not ever want to talk about anything else. This, of course, makes it easy to entertain them — indeed, it may be said that they entertain themselves — but on the other hand, it makes it difficult to reconcile other members of the household, or ordinary visitors, to their presence.

  Movements in general are usually associated with Meetings — Committee ones or ordinary ones. The psychology of the former kind is so strange that it requires an article to itself.

  Ordinary, or general, Meetings take place in a hall, or a drawing-room, or if in the country, in a garden. These last are very apt to finish either under umbrellas, or in a general rush to the Vicarage dining-room.

  Meetings, really, vary very little, whatever the Movement may be. Sometimes they begin with a song. The person on the platform who starts the song does not usually possess what is known as perfect pitch, and so a severe strain is put upon the Meeting at the very offset. However, half of those present do not sing the high notes at all, and others drop their voices an octave lower and hope that they are really singing seconds, and it is over quite quickly.

  The speeches, especially if political, are not over at all quickly. Very often a speaker has to go on and on at political meetings, because it is the custom of Our Member, or Our Parliamentary Candidate, as the case may be, to pledge himself to appear at two different ends of the county at one and the same time, and this naturally leads to a certain delay in his arrival at whichever place he leaves to the last.

  Meetings, unless dispersed by the police, end with Votes of Thanks. The system by which these are at present conducted, is not really a very good one. Someone on the platform proposes a vote of thanks to the speaker, for coming here to-day and giving us such an interesting address, and nobody has ever yet succeeded in restraining a meeting from, at this point, breaking into quite premature applause. Because immediately afterwards, someone else on the platform has to stand up, and say exactly the same thing, only if possible in rather different words, in order to second the vote of thanks. And then the chairman stands up, and gathers the thing together as it were, and calls for the customary demonstration — but by that time the first impulse of relief that the whole
thing is over has died away, and people are beginning to tread on other people’s feet, and look for the things they have dropped — and such applause as there is, comes as an anti-climax.

  Anti-climax, as a matter of fact, is the great danger of all Movements. It is a frightful thing for any Movement, when its object is accomplished, for such reason as it had, or felt itself to have, for existence is then gone. Providence, however, working as usual, in a mysterious way, arranges that very few Movements ever do succeed in accomplishing their object.

  LOOKING AT SCHOOLS

  Sooner or later most parents do this, but the supreme example is the mother of an eldest, or only, boy. The father comes too, but he is usually silent, and walks a few paces behind the mother and the Headmaster on the tour of inspection, although at the end of it he sometimes puts a single, shrewd question about the Drains.

  The mother, on the other hand, puts hundreds of questions, and generally answers a good many of them herself.

  She says: “Don’t you think that every boy needs absolute individual attention? I always feel that so very strongly myself. And with John, I’ve always found ...”

  It is not necessary for the Head to listen to the next bit, and indeed he never does. He knows what John’s mother has always found, with John, and if he doesn’t, it makes no difference to him. Nothing that any mother ever says makes any difference to any Headmaster — but fortunately few mothers realize this. Headmasters, naturally, conceal it, politely. They say:

  “Quite, quite. That is so true. I may say that in the experience of thirty years, with hundreds of boys passing through my hands term after term, I have never yet failed to understand each one thoroughly and individually, through and through. I wish I could show you some of the letters that I receive by every post from boys who were under my care twenty years ago....”