*
The Horse Thief seemed embarrassed when he arrived in the office and shuffled into his little room after saying a hasty ‘dobar dun’. He explained later that he had come round to the flat just before midnight to find the door shut. I told him a policeman had shut it. An unsatisfactory day. Bought two very pretty scarves at luncheon. Did mending when I got home. Cotterill arrived at nine just when I was about to fry some fish and potatoes. He was two hours late but offered no explanation. After placing his hat on the kitchen table he stood by the sink and gazed at me. Miss Morris appeared. I told them both I was retiring to my room. They trooped up after me carrying trays. We sat in oppressive silence. Cotterill departed. Miss Morris then produced her poems and with a pretence of coyness asked me if I could bear her to read them as I lay in the bath. I thought of other things. Cotterill reappeared penitent and forlorn. So we parted friends.
*
Peter telephoned at eleven to say he was back. Why only one letter from me while he was away? We arranged to meet in the evening. Cotterill rang. The Horse Thief presented me with two packets of Players. Arrived home in the evening to find the flat in chaos. Cold Veal came to see me. He just sat staring into space. I left him and rushed off to have a fitting for my coat; and a re-varnish at Antoine’s. There is a new Tony at the office. His name is Sveto and he is very willing, proud and pretty. Italy and Germany declared war on America. No one seems either surprised or indignant.
*
What a messy existence! What chaos! What indecision! I feel depressed and unsettled. What to do? Mixed feelings about Peter Q, though he gets a habit. I like to have him for a feeling of security and Feliks for his company. There will have to be a choice sooner or later. At lunchtime I went to Carlos Place and had a fitting for the check material. The dress designer Jo Mattli told me he had seen Feliks dining at the Café Royal with a very lovely girl. The description sounded like the left-wing Janetta.† It’s glamorous to be left-wing these days. Lunchtime, I ate fish and chips at a snack bar and worried a great deal. Arranged to dine with Cotterill. Peter telephoned to say he would come to the flat at eleven. Feliks rang to suggest he did the same thing.
*
Today I woke up at eight o’clock feeling rested. It was still dark outside. There was nothing to eat in the kitchen so I searched Miss Morris’s room for the biscuit tin where I knew she had a store of leftovers from her party. Judging by the disappearance of soap and toothpaste, she had gone away. Peter read Cotterill’s little book What No Butter? while I ran the bath. He thought the descriptions of routine family life sounded too grim and was amused by the endless tea-drinking. I asked him to get my meat ration from Cooper’s, but he said he didn’t think he could appear at MEW with a parcel of meat. I said who would know it was meat?
*
Friday night I was taken by a girlfriend, Freeny, to have drinks with some of her old Putney friends who had risen in life and were now installed in Berkeley Square. They all seemed to have made their fortunes in the coal trade. Cases of bourbon whisky and gin were produced. A lot of them were called Charlie; one of them was referred to as Brassy Reynolds, another Ronnie Batter and another Lex Busby. I took Cotterill with me and we dined afterwards at the Berkeley on minced chicken and water ices. Then so as to avoid Feliks who was coming round at ten we went to the pub next door where I had a large brandy and a pork pie as I still felt hungry. Feliks had brought me a copy of Scoop. Peter arrived at the flat at eleven, tipsy as ever but very gay; Cotterill seemed rather put out but took it well. I hope I have not lost a new slave, he is so sweet and reminds me of a Disney faun with his funny sticking-out ears and enormous dimples.
*
Miss Morris has a slight cold and has decided to remain in bed. I went in to see her and found her heavily pinked and mascaraed, wearing a most elaborate peach nightdress, with bracelets jangling to the elbow. Peter Q’s frequent visits last week produced such sulks that I thought I might have to leave. But to appease and impress her we presented her with a copy of his new book. Persistent charming on his part had no effect, so now whenever he sees her he breaks into forced hysterical giggles, ‘You are rather sweet, aren’t you? …’ Feliks on the other hand she likes; he ignores her affectedness and makes no attempt to play up to her. A terrible cafard today. Feliks has just phoned to say that bitch Louise is on her way to see him on the pretext of collecting a coat. This morning Peter was intolerably grumpy and complained he felt ill and sick; the kitchen smelt so appalling, he said if it was not cleaned out plague would set in. Cotterill and Cold Veal telephoned. All Sunday it poured with rain. Peter came round at twelve with the Sunday papers; he told me that, with the aid of a policeman, he had been ringing my bell at four in the morning, then being very tipsy had fallen over twice before finding his way home. We lunched at the Queen’s with some friends of his called Rayner. Then we went back to the plague centre and I read Scum. Dined on hare and salad at the Café Royal on the balcony, and were quite surprised not to find Connolly on the same bus when we went home. Cold Veal told me that I am so preoccupied with pleasing my vanity that I have no thought for anything else and then I wonder why I am so dissatisfied and that, if I want to make anything of my life, I must change my values. Feliks phoned to tell me he is the best of friends with Louise and that they spent the afternoon comparing funny anecdotes about me. I really am sick to death of both of them.
*
A very messy day. Tidied up the plague spot. Peter came round at teatime and later took me to have drinks with Mrs Bainbridge. Her flat was furnished style poule de luxe with pieces of black net draped round the bed and sparkling tropical butterflies sewn onto the curtains. I left early and took a taxi to Kingston House to collect the Horse Thief. We saw a Russian film and dined at the Cigale. My fixation about him is wearing off.
*
It seems that every three months I go through a period of bad conscience and remorse when everything appears to go wrong and everyone is against me. Cotterill and Cold Veal telephoned. PQ grumpy still. Cotterill persevering still and Cold Veal still working on his recovery campaign; trying to make me feel unworthy. After adopting a solicitous attitude, condescendingly pointing out my faults, he then sits smugly back to see the reaction. Having made the mistake of loving someone as worthless as myself, I am not going to be allowed to get away with it scot free.
*
Feliks and I had a delicious dinner of boiled beef cut in thick slices with spinach and then some heavenly spiced cakes at the Esplanade Hotel run by a Russian Jew, full of rich German refugees. When we arrived back at the house there was Feliks’s stooge Anthony. Feliks and Anthony together are a tiresome pair. I resented their attitude in trying to keep me quiet in a corner with a book. In spite of my arriving with a basket full of face creams I decided to go home, and anyway Peter Q was calling at eleven. I walked with Anthony through the blackout. It was a lovely night, very warm and foggy. We crossed over the bridge towards Paddington Station where we halted to peer over the top of the wall and saw the station below, hazy in the fog, looking as though lit by luminous balloons. We cried out for a taxi several times but there were none about, so we wandered on through the station yard; there were rows of carts covered by canvas tarpaulins lined up for the night, cobblestones underfoot and horsey smells about. When we reached the station it was nearly midnight, the platforms were infested with gnomey porters unloading and piling up trucks. Anthony came back to the flat and had some tea. When he had gone I sorted out some papers. Peter accused me of being a gerontophile. The flat gets more and more sordid. I arrived at work late and found no one there but the secretary, Mr Litvinne. A very Christmassy atmosphere, especially yesterday when Mr Fish rushed backwards and forwards carrying hampers, crates of whisky and tinned food. Mr Fish is a Jewish Czech black-marketeer. He can produce anything from a six pound ham to a case of sardines out of his briefcase at a moment’s notice. ‘The Food and Supply Ministry owes its existence to the inexhaustible energy of Mr Fish. It is the great f
estival day of the Greek Orthodox Church and after the ceremony a feast is being provided at the apartment of the Minister of Food and Supply. Lunchtime I went home and reheated the stew of the night before last. After reading Scum rushed off to Harrods. Swarms of people shopping. Queues in the tobacco department. Buying, buying, buying. I made for the tie counter. Orgies of ties. The assistant did her best to be helpful; she produced box after box; Peter has a taste for dowdy ties so I eventually decided on a hideously dim one with a diamond pattern in blue. All the way back to work I kept holding it up and decided to change it. One pair of stockings arrived from Sidney. What meanness when I had handed over ten coupons. Early this morning when I was still in bed Becher came round clutching a minute bottle of scent in one hand and a shiny cane in the other. He thrust the scent into my hand and, after apologising for its shape and size, told me not to mind the odd bottle but it was actually Chanel bought from a black-marketeer. It looked to me as though he had pinched it from his girlfriend.
*
PQ appeared this morning half a second after the exit of the Horse Thief. Had they met on the stairs or on the doorstep? Or just missed each other? At first I thought it was the Horse Thief returning, that he had forgotten something. The footsteps drew nearer and eventually halted outside the bedroom door, stamped into the bathroom, stamped out again, paused on the landing and then someone switched on the light in the hall; my door was flung open and I was face to face with a puce Quennell. Searching glances round the room in quest of clues. What an insufferably suspicious nature! I must say the bed was in rather a pickle with the bedclothes in disorder and dirty towels strewn about the floor. My pyjama bottom was flung across the room. ‘Why was I not wearing them?’ ‘Why hadn’t I telephoned the day before?’ ‘What did I do?’ ‘And who with?’ I tried to change the subject by pointing to the wine but all he was interested in was to know who had given it to me. He eventually went away apologising.
The Horse Thief’s English has improved. Starting with the alphabet I was given a Serbian lesson. We lunched at Prince’s and had some excellent meat and then saw a Russian film. Then we went home and drank some tea.
*
I should have met Becher at the Ritz at five. When I got there he had gone. There were masses of people sitting under the palms and I was looking very shabby; stockings full of holes and woollen socks over them. Becher was waiting on my doorstep, so we had tea at the Hyde Park. I dined there later wearing my new suit, with Peter. Both in good humour. Went home and polished off the Horse Thief’s white wine. I knew it would not be around for long.
*
Today cleaned up the flat. Scrubbed bath, swept rooms, prepared a stew, ate it with PQ, followed by a blackcurrant tart and a pot of tea. Read books until midnight. It was just like the second year of a marriage.
*
Next day felt depressed. Lunched Becher Ritz. Felt shabby. Oh! To be smart and rich or something. A party of Yugoslav ministers appeared from behind the palms, we got swept up in their wake. Becher very taken with them. Drinks Ritz; full of homosexuals. Dinner PQ and Becher. The latter laborious and facetious, the former unaccommodating. Home by tube. It was very depressing to see all the homeless lying about in pitiful huddles. Hideous Christmas cards pouring in. Jo Mattli helped me choose two more ties, one for Feliks and one for PQ. Goodness knows why I bother, they will certainly not give me anything. Anyway I am sick to death of both of them.
*
Arrived at office late and sleepy. Was having an interview at Victoria Labour Exchange. Set telephone in Vlajcic room and proceeded to Victoria. Changed buses several times, then, thinking it unwise to get there late, took a taxi on the last lap. Got to the women’s section 11.10 punctually. About ten other women were waiting, factory girls mostly, sitting resignedly on the kitchen chairs. After fifteen minutes I was led into a back room by an examiner, a woman of about fifty. She took me into a corner where I was questioned behind a screen about my schooling and various occupations. As I became more vague she became more official and asked what secretarial qualifications I possessed. ‘Did I type?’ ‘What speed?’ ‘Did I do shorthand?’ In desperation she handed me a list of services to choose from. ‘Well, what have you decided?’ She looked at her watch. I looked sulkily down at the list and asked if I might think about it. She said for the present she would exempt me, but I was liable to be called again in a few months. The same day I bought some brightly coloured celanese stockings to the knee from Harrods and changed the red tie that I had bought for Peter. I presented the new one to Feliks and he seemed pleased.
*
On Christmas Eve Peter took me to dine with Cyril Connolly. Cyril always manages to create a strained atmosphere, which was a pity, as Joan and John Rayner were there, and Mamaine Paget. They were all nice. But it was another of those occasions when I found myself either incapable of speaking or else only in whispers. Self-consciousness being caused by the infrequency of my remarks so that when I felt like saying something was prevented by shyness, thinking everyone would stare. We were given some delicious ham and drank lots of very good wine followed by rum. The other guest, Arthur Waley, was a funny man who talked in high-pitched squeaks as though he were addressing himself. He had tiny rabbity front teeth with dents in them. Whenever he spoke, he had a sneer on his face accompanied by a half-smile, as though to apologise for his malice. On Christmas Day Cyril’s girl, Lys,‡ came round to put us off for lunch. I had to talk to her as Peter was in the bath. She makes me feel unnatural and uneasy, but she is really quite sweet. Jo Mattli brought my suit round. Very depressed. I went to have tea with the family. My sister’s future husband, the fat boy, was there. A cake for tea. I took them all a present. Brenda a hat Miss Morris had given me! Mummy some face-powder that I couldn’t use! And Daddy a tie that I had bought for Peter!
*
Last night Peter and I dined with Cyril Connolly and Augustus. Cyril seemed more human, as he was not being a host at one of his own dinner parties. He was very sweet with Lys, who was being as tiresome as ever, trying to make the apt reply to everything. Augustus became very drunk; he praised Feliks’s talent and described him as being a brilliant draughtsman, but Connolly looked doubtful and said Horizon wouldn’t print any of his drawings at any price. Augustus swayed a lot and made sweeping gestures with his hands. We ate some very stiff veal which looked as though it had been flattened by a roller, drank whisky, wine, and rum in large quantities, while Lys fussed and flattered Augustus as though he were her property; he asked Cyril, editor of Horizon, why the magazine didn’t print paintings done by real artists like Rembrandt. Cyril said that they preferred, on the whole, to give contemporary artists a chance to make some money, especially now in wartime, and also to give them a chance of making a name. After considerable coaxing, Lys managed to cart Augustus away, although he would obviously have preferred to remain drinking with us in the bar. We couldn’t get a taxi so trailed home by tube with me lagging behind all the time grumbling. When we were preparing to go to bed, the front-door bell rang. I sent Peter to see who it was; I heard Feliks’s voice booming up the stairs saying, ‘May I come in? Is Barbara there?’ Back in the bedroom Peter broke into a rage and, picking up a large empty flower vase that was lying beside the bed, held it poised in mid-air, then dramatically and self-consciously let it drop to the ground, having given us ample time to remonstrate with him and prevent the breakage.
*
What a hideous New Year! What exhaustion, what depression! Peter’s idea of affection in an endeavour to cheer one up: ‘Oh! Poor thing. Oh! You pretty little thing. You poor dainty pretty.’ Ugh!
Mr Cubrilovic, Minister of Food and Supply to the Yugoslav Government in exile, has just come in and wrung me by the hand saying ‘Happy New Years’. I went to work in a taxi as I have been arriving so late the last few days. It is so cold getting out of bed that I wait for Peter to get up first and turn on the bath, so that one can dash straight into it. He doesn’t have to be at MEW until ten, so it makes
me late. Last night we dined with some other Ministry people at the Ritz. The food was quite good, but the waiters seemed terribly clumsy and kept spilling soup down John Rayner’s neck. Peter was in a tiresome broody mood. I felt quite sorry for him; he appeared so battered and uninterested in everything, and hopeless generally. There were ghastly lapses at dinner, and long drinkless periods when we all stared gloomily before us. The host insisted on being very difficult over the brandy. He was set on having a certain brand of a certain year which was unprocurable. Each time the waiter produced an alternative, he was sent away with a flea in his ear, and we all became sobered and subdued, restlessly fingering our empty glasses. When the brandy did arrive, the glass contained two sips and even furthered everyone’s depression. We eventually crept out into the night undecided and dispirited, and then, after several attempts at getting a taxi, resignedly walked to the Gargoyle. The streets were crowded with drunken revellers, swaying about the pavement or leaning against lamp posts trying to vomit. Sober and bored, we reached the Gargoyle expecting to find scenes of abandoned gaiety, only to see a few dismal drunks propped against the hatstand – Cold Veal among them – and everyone else on the verge of leaving. Augustus John prancing about the dance floor trying to pinch all the women’s breasts. John Strachey swayed drunkenly in my direction, but could make no close approach as Peter planted himself between us. John was wearing a corduroy suit similar to my trousers, and was very puce and pocked. Peter and I finished off a bottle of red wine on the table, and sat back hopefully waiting for it to be replaced. There were no cigarettes and no more wine. Augustus’s girlfriend Mavis appeared suddenly and drove all the men into a frenzy of excitement. Ivan Moffat§ and David Tennant rose from their seats in unison and chased her round the floor. After fifteen minutes the band stopped and brought the evening to a close with the National Anthem; everyone staggered to their feet. David rose and, tottering for one second, collapsed head-first across the table, splintering glasses; Ivan reached forward to haul him back, but lost his balance and toppled too. We decided to go home. Still sober and bitterly cold we walked silently through the empty streets back to Brompton Road.
'Tears Before Bedtime' and 'Weep No More' Page 5