'Tears Before Bedtime' and 'Weep No More'

by Barbara Skelton

  *

  Slept until ten o’clock. Terribly late. I am immediately called into Dimy’s office to be reprimanded on behalf of the Finance Minister for being consistently late every day for the last month. I looked penitent. Then a succession of phone calls for me, while the ministers walked disapprovingly through to their rooms. Last night met Monsieur Boris for a drink; he gave me two pounds for a Christmas present. I have no particular feeling for him now.

  *

  Great activity at the office. People came and went. Telephone rang nonstop. Peter and Feliks telephoned. Which to choose for the evening? Last night dined at the Normandie with the Horse Thief. Saw Jo Mattli there and Lee Millar looking very slim and well corseted. She swept majestically across the room as though she were balancing a plate. She was very friendly and said how pretty I was looking. The Horse Thief told me of his various professions; said at one time he had taught ballroom dancing and even used to act. I left the office early and taxied to the studio with my basket. Wore red stockings and new bootees. Feliks was distressed when he saw bootees, said the whole effect too Christmassy. At eight I met Peter in the pub. He was sitting in a corner in his black trilby, brooding with a large whisky. I told him Miss Morris was departing from Brompton Road so that the flat would be free. He showed no interest. Went to bed with no dinner after drinking three large whiskies. On the last one I remarked cynically and bitterly that, after all, what were we but a pair of opportunists huddling together in a vain attempt to ward off the blows of life.

  *

  The Yugoslavs’ Christmas Day. Felt dejected and self-pitying. Rang Feliks and arranged to go round to the studio. Went home first, changed into corduroys and collected rations. The previous evening Feliks had inspected my basket and, seeing the liver and leeks that I had intended to cook for Peter, said, ‘Lucky man who eats that liver.’ He had then hurried away to the Café Royal to meet a woman with one eye. So that, when I reappeared with the same piece of liver and leeks and a bottle of white wine the Horse Thief had given me, he was very pleased, as he is extremely fond of liver. Then, his neighbour, the painter Marik, appeared with the blackout men. Marik drew Feliks, Feliks drew the blackout men and I read Balzac.

  A bearded Commander and his wife came to tea. There was a long discussion on beards; the wife said she liked them clipped, and the Commander said he preferred them bushy. She looked a beastly nagger and became increasingly tight-lipped at the mention of the word ‘bushy’. They all left after tea, but another Commander came round for drinks with a woman called Mrs Haldane.¶ They were both war-effort conscious and seemed of great national importance. The Commander had just returned from Russia where he had been to tell the Russians about submarines, but he had not been allowed near one the whole time he was there. We all dined at the Ivy. There were many familiar faces. I was particularly silent as I had taken an immense dislike to Mrs Haldane; so when Feliks turned to me and asked what I was brooding about I replied ‘Mink coats’ as I hoped it would shock her. We went home by bus. It was impossible to find a taxi.

  *

  Feliks having said to me for days, ‘You poor thing you have no shoes; let me buy you a pair,’ telephoned today and told me to meet him in the shoe department of Lillywhites. He arrived there at three o’clock and found me already trying on several pairs, but he pulled a face when he saw the ones I had chosen and asked the salesman to bring us the heaviest leather brogues in the shop. We were shown a very pretty pair in tan leather with tongues and yellow lacing. I liked them so much that we decided on them straight away. ‘Have you got your coupons?’ Feliks said to me. ‘Certainly not,’ I told him, thinking that was a fine way to give a present. ‘Well, take them off,’ he said. But, after a considerable fuss, he eventually produced his coupons, at the same time stating that anyway I owed him twelve shillings for Dimy’s present, and why should he have to pay for a present for Dimy? Also he thought Peter ought to pay for half the shoes. That meant they each paid twenty-five shillings. Twelve shillings from twenty-five added up to thirteen. So in the end I was paying the whole lot. A jolly nice present. Peter breezed in at eight with the news that he had found a lodger for Brompton Road. Anna Maclaren. I said ‘No!’ Told him I am determined to move into a bedsitting room. This will be sheer masochism, but I seem to like to manoeuvre myself into unpleasant situations. I resented Peter’s attitude. He wants me to be the one to take on any responsibility. ‘Baby takes flat on and has lodgers.’ When I didn’t agree, he said then he might take it on himself. I would have been very pleased if he had offered from the beginning, but not now when it is obviously the only solution. What a hateful pair of responsibility shirkers! Peter is now demanding his typewriter back. We dined at the Speranza bickering. Two large rums at the pub and we went to bed.

  *

  Depression and despair. Wore yellow stockings and new shoes. The stockings wrinkled and the shoes slipped up and down. Peter said I looked like a frog and should have been wearing a yellow stomach. Larzo brought me some coffee which made me feel better. Perhaps everything is not as bad as I like to make out. Took shoes back to Lillywhites. Had a fitting for the blue overcoat. The material is going to rub. I trailed out to Warwick Avenue by tube at six and collected my basket. Later met Peter at the pub. Both gloomy. Had a very bad night. The worst nightmare of all. The falling-out-teeth one. Peter said there were bells ringing all night. It was probably Miss Morris locked out again. The night before last we were suddenly awoken at four in the morning by the sound of voices and scuffling noises on the landing; then the door was flung open and a torch flashed round the room. ‘Sorry,’ said the apologetic voice of a police officer. ‘Your door’s been broken in.’ It took some time to convince him we had done it ourselves. A new coffee brewer has arrived at the office. His name is pronounced Marmoy and spelt Mzehwkov. Mr Litvinne told me that I look a fragile type that needs to be looked after. I told him men are sissies these days and don’t wish to look after anybody.

  *

  This morning I walked to work in the snow. I should go to see my family, as yesterday the rate demand for Oak Cottage arrived; it had been forwarded on from Cranmer Court with a slip of paper from Mummy saying ‘Daddy very ill’. Sidney telephoned and asked me to lunch. Mr Angelinovic shuffled in and fumbled about on my desk looking for any letters. ‘Nishta. Nishta,’ I told him. A man arrived with the soundproof boarding which is to be put up outside Mr Budisavljic’s room. Mr B kept asking me if I felt cold. ‘No fire? You cold?’ When I said no, he asked ‘Why sneeze you?’

  *

  The officious BBC woman who came yesterday was Rebecca West. Same type as Mrs Haldane. She wanted material for a broadcast. That pretentious little Chopin came to see me. Sat smoking that beastly pipe in a silly self-conscious way, with a supercilious expression on his face. Peter said he was probably trying to be what the French call ‘digne’. We drank two bottles of wine and then went across to the pub and had some rum. Peter lit a match and showed me the two lions that he had fallen over in the blackout the other night. Jolly sweet they were too, resting their heads on their great paws. Peter’s black eye is better. I was awoken in the middle of the night by gurgling noises coming from the tank. Discovered in the morning that there was no water. Both hot and cold taps frozen. This is final. Must move. Especially as the lavatory is blocked. Miss Morris has been ramming brown paper down it. Peter’s only comment being ‘How like my sister.’

  *

  Took my washbag to the office and had a bath there. Felt very depressed. Bitter cold. Where to move to now is the question. Luba’s sister Lukey has sent me some raffle tickets at two-shillings-and-sixpence each in aid of comforts for the Russians. She said would I try and dispose of the lot. I have already sold nine but the trouble is the Yugoslavs seem to think I am thrown in with the ticket. Mr Anjelinovic bought two, then whipped out his engagement book and said ‘You me dinner?’ Everyone screamed for Turkish coffee but Larzo was not to be found. The Minister of Supply called louder than anyone. When I tol
d him ‘No Larzo,’ he said ‘This is pity.’ A photographer arrived to take his picture for the Illustrated London News. ‘Why he take my picture?’ he demanded angrily. ‘I little man.’

  *

  I found the green baize soundproof screen has been put up outside the Minister’s door. We experimented by shouting to see if it worked. Saturday Peter took me to see a Veronica Lake film. We dined at the Queen’s with Connolly and Lys, joined by the Penroses. Delicious wine and liqueurs tasting of TCP. Then back to the black sheets. The kitchen infested with rats. Found half a Hovis gnawed away with nothing left but the outside crust. Sunday Peter helped me take suitcases home. Find Daddy in bed ill with bronchitis, bolstered up on four mattresses. Felt very sorry for himself and wished to appear half-dead. Got furious with Mummy for saying he was getting much better. Didn’t want to get better. Liked to think it would lead to pneumonia. And everybody would say ‘Your poor Daddy!’ How badly we had treated him and now he is dying like a hero. Later in the evening he crept out of bed and sat huddled in a corner in his dressing-gown.

  *

  Was so sleepy this morning, could hardly get out of bed. Wore my new navy coat, a stuffy affair and tight under the arms. Terrible bedlam today. Cables arrived, telephone pealed, doorbells rang. The Ministers shouted and noisily cleared their throats. The Horse Thief arrived carrying three volumes of gramophone records, behind him Larzo with a friend, both balancing trays on their heads laden with platefuls of sliced onion and sardines and chunks of brown bread. Minister of Food and Supply suddenly rushed out of his room brandishing a cable and crying ‘From family in America’. I opened the bathroom door and found the Minister of Social Welfare bending over the seat. I apologised. ‘But please, all right,’ he said, beckoning me in. None of them are great plug-pullers, the lavatory is invariably full of bubbles or communiqués. Met Freeny in Harrods, she had just bought a large pot of caviar. We went into the restaurant, ordered toast and coffee and opened the caviar. Walked back to work in the snow. The Horse Thief was interviewing some newspaper men; he gave me four onions and a smacking kiss on the cheek, and handing me a pound told me to pay for a couple of fowls that were arriving. He left early with the fowls in a carrier bag and a magnum under each arm.

  *

  A lot of snow fell in the night. I sat on top of the bus on my way to work. Everyone stood busily sweeping their doorsteps and soldiers with shovels loitered outside their depots talking in groups. They all looked very hunched up and pink with the cold. The park looked lovely with no railings and everywhere thick snow, in contrast to Park Lane where it had already gone to slush. Had terrible trouble with my eyelashes, the eyeblack refusing to stay on. Shopped at Harrods for the Horse Thief. He annoyed me today strutting about the office like a self-satisfied bull. Miss Morris has now dyed her eyebrows orange. There is something quite obscene about her appearance. With that thin gash of a mouth with lipstick smeared over the edges.

  *

  Felt beastly today. Cried last night. Sore eyes. I typed with gloves on this morning it was so cold. The char complained of communiqués stuffed down the lavatory, causing ‘blockades’. I am doing very well with the raffle tickets.

  *

  Got up without washing. A quiet morning at the office as everyone had gone to a meeting. The Horse Thief came in wearing a new blue pinstripe as he was lunching with Amery. He gave me a lift to Mattli’s where I had a fitting for a red dress. Went to Brompton Road and packed. What a day! Moving! Found suitcase not big enough, so crammed the rest of my belongings into paper carriers. Noticed that my last pair of silk stockings had disappeared. Took everything to Cranmer Court in the rain and slush. Have had wet feet for three days. Daddy had risen and was doing the washing up. But, resented it very much. Told me that his doctor had diagnosed his case as bronchial pneumonia. Well! Homeless again! Living out of suitcases! Shall I ever settle? Peter irritating beyond belief. The cold weather makes him terribly snappy. In fact, any time now that his life doesn’t run absolutely smoothly he behaves petulantly. And, if it wasn’t the ‘silly creature’ record, it was ‘poor little thing’. Now I can see how annoying I must have been when I kept calling Becher a ‘goat’.

  *

  Had a reconciliation scene with Louise at the Queen’s the other night. She kept walking through the restaurant and passing our table to get upstairs to the cloakroom. Each time I said to Peter, ‘I hope she doesn’t stop and talk.’ But, of course, she did, and announced that she was married. ‘Whatever made you do it?’ I asked. And we laughed about Schoolboy being best man.

  *

  Friday night I dined with Peter. Went home first. The family quite bewildered by my frequent visits round six o’clock when I make a quick dash in and out of the bathroom carrying a douche can, and then disappear into the night. Met Peter at the Spanish restaurant. He was already on his second course and seemed to be in one of his grumpy good humours. Several of his friends kept coming over and exchanging gossip. Stephen Spender sat with us for a bit. At first he gave the impression of being very casual, vague and untidy, but after a little while even his ill-fitting clothes struck one as having been thought-out. Went back to Drayton Gardens. Cyril was away at Brighton trying to get his voice back and Koestler was installed in the big bedroom. He asked us to have a drink, but then yawned a great deal. He seemed terribly anxious to create a good impression and made a point of letting us know that he rose before eight every morning. I don’t think he had much use for Peter, who took him in an early morning cup of tea and found him sitting up in bed wearing a black hairnet. Four times Koestler repeated that he’d cleaned out the bath for us to show what a noble fellow he was.

  *

  Met Peter at the Belle Meunière and waited for Feliks who was taking us to a party. In the middle of dinner Videck, Feliks’s nephew, appeared in sailor kit with a message from Feliks to say would we join him at a party. We asked Videck what it was like. He heaved a great sigh, sank onto the banquette and promptly ordered a coquille St Jacques and a partridge. Peter generously plied him with red wine to encourage him to give us an account of it. We gazed at Videck expectantly as he attacked the food. He adopted the attitude of an experienced man-of-the-world by sitting with his palms on his hips and his elbows out, while he appraised each dish as it arrived with a knowing air. But, half way through the partridge, forgot himself and, rolling up his sleeves, attacked it with his hands.

  While we were on the third carafe, Feliks strutted in wearing a raincoat which he removed and collapsed next to Videck. Rather discouraged by their combined exhaustion, Peter and I cautiously said that we would just look in on the party for a second, and then go home. Feliks ordered another partridge while Videck started fretting about his mother, who had been left behind. So one more bird was ordered to take away, which the waiter brought to us wrapped in a brown paper bag. Then everybody seemed content, even Peter when he found he was not responsible for the sailor’s appetite. We arrived at the party far too frivolous, as it was trying to be a very intellectual affair. We were given a choice of wine or beer. Several deadly people were there including Rodney Phillips and John Chandos, and a tiresome hostess with a running nose, who hung about the icy studio hopping from one foot to the other, clutching her stomach and complaining of the cold. She was wearing a horrible pair of blue rayon pyjamas, which were much too short in the leg, but evidently she fancied herself in them, as, when I suggested that she put on something warmer, she bridled and left me to talk to someone else. Peter and I could be heard at regular intervals clamouring loudly for more wine but, no notice having been taken, we then thrust ourselves on Rodney with our empty glasses. He explained the wine had run out and there was only beer. And, then, a fearful scene was caused by Feliks showing me the way to the lavatory on the fourth floor. I was accused of leaving the room for too long and was led back into the studio by Peter, who immediately attracted attention by screeching at the top of his voice and grabbing hold of my hair. Feliks was then drawn aside by the hostess and asked
to take us away. On reaching the street, the sailor walked ahead determined to find someone to fight. But fortunately the streets were deserted. So, pretty disgruntled, we all took a tube. Peter tried to invite himself back to Warwick Avenue, but Feliks was not forthcoming. When we got out at Paddington Station, Peter suggested we put up for the night at the Terminus Hotel, but it looked grey and depressing. He then disappeared into the public lavatory, telling me to wait for him on the surface. When he was out of sight, I walked away. It was very black outside the station and I found myself in a cobbled courtyard full of wagons. I became frightened, imagining an encounter with a slasher, and ran panting across the yard until I knocked against a policeman, who asked me where I was going. Still running, I continued over the bridge until I reached Warwick Avenue. Feliks and the sailor were calmly sitting downstairs reading Harper’s magazine. I telephoned Peter next day and attacked him for deserting me. He was very apologetic. We arranged to meet later and all was well.