October 19th. – Vagaries of Fate very curious and inexplicable. Why should severe cold in the head assail me exactly when due to lunch with Pamela Pringle in character of reasonably successful authoress, in order to meet unknown gathering of smart Society Women? Answer remains impenetrably mysterious.
Take endless trouble with appearance, decide to wear my Blue, then take it all off again and revert to my Check, but find that this makes me look like a Swiss nursery governess, and return once more to Blue. Regret, not for the first time that Fur Coat, which constitutes my highest claim to distinction of appearance, will necessarily have to be discarded in hall.
Sloane Street achieved, as usual, via bus No. 19, and I again confront splendours of Pamela’s purple front door. Am shown into empty drawing-room, where I meditate in silence on unpleasant, but all-too-applicable, maxim that It is Provincial to Arrive too Early. Presently strange woman in black, with colossal emerald brooch pinned in expensive-looking frills of lace, is shown in, and says How d’y do, very amiably, and we talk about the weather, Gandhi and French poodles. (Why? There are none in the room, and can trace no association of ideas whatsoever.)
Two more strange women in black appear, and I feel that my Blue is becoming conspicuous. All appear to know one another well, and to have met last week at lunch, yesterday evening at Bridge, and this morning at an Art Exhibition: No one makes any reference to Pamela, and grave and unreasonable panic suddenly assails me that I am in wrong flat altogether. Look madly round to see if I can recognise any of the furniture, and woman with osprey and ropes of pearl enquires if I am missing that precious horse. I say No, not really – which is purest truth – and wonder if she has gone off her head. Subsequent conversation reveals that horse was made of soapstone.
(Query: What is soapstone? Association here with Lord Darling, but cannot work out in full.)
More and more anxious about non-appearance of Pamela P., especially when three more guests arrive – black two-piece, black coat-and-skirt, and black crêpe-de-chine with orange-varnished nails. (My Blue now definitely revealed as inferior imitation of Joseph’s coat, no less, and of very nearly equal antiquity.)
They all call one another by Christian names, and have much to say about mutual friends, none of whom I have ever heard of before. Someone called Goo-goo has had influenza, and while this is being discussed I am impelled to violent sneezing fit. Everybody looks at me in horror, and conversation suffers severe check.
(Note: Optimistic conviction that two handkerchiefs will last out through one luncheon party utterly unjustified in present circumstances. Never forget this again.)
Door flies open and Pamela Pringle, of whom I have now given up all hope, rushes in, kisses everybody, falls over little dog – which has mysteriously appeared out of the blue and vanishes again after being fallen over – and says Oh, do we all know one another, and isn’t she a fearfully bad hostess but she simply could not get away from Amédé, who really is a Pet. (Just as I have decided that Amédé is another little dog, it turns out that he is a Hairdresser.)
Lunch is announced, and we all show customary reluctance to walking out of the room in simple and straightforward fashion, and cluster round the threshold with self-depreciating expressions until herded out by Pamela. I find myself sitting next to her – quite undeserved position of distinction, and probably intended for somebody else – with extraordinarily elegant black crêpe-de-chine on other side.
Black crêpe-de-chine says that she adored my book, and so did her husband, and her sister-in-law, who is Clever and never says Anything unless she really Means It, thought it quite marvellous. Having got this off her chest, she immediately begins to talk about recent visit of her own to Paris, and am forced to the conclusion that her standards of sincerity must fall definitely below those of unknown sister-in-law.
Try to pretend that I know Paris as well as she does, but can see that she is not in the least taken in by this.
Pamela says Oh, did she see Georges in Paris, and what are the new models like? but crêpe-de-chine shakes her head and says Not out yet, and Georges never will show any Spring things before December, at very earliest – which to me sounds reasonable, but everybody else appears to feel injured about it, and Pamela announces that she sometimes thinks seriously about letting Gaston make for her instead of Georges – which causes frightful sensation. Try my best to look as much startled and horrified as everybody else, which is easy as am certain that I am about to sneeze again – which I do.
(Both handkerchiefs now definitely soaked through and through, and sore will be out on upper lip before day is over.)
Conversation veers about between Paris, weight-reduction – (quite unnecessary, none of them can possibly weigh more than seven stone, if that) – and annexation by someone called Diana of second husband of someone else called Tetsie, which everyone agrees was utterly justified, but no reason definitely given for this, except that Tetsie is a perfect darling, we all know, but no one on earth could possibly call her smartly turned-out.
(Feel that Tetsie and I would have at least one thing in common, which is more than I can say about anybody else in the room – but this frame of mind verging on the sardonic, and not to be encouraged.)
Pamela turns to me just as we embark on entirely admirable coupe Jacques, and talks about books, none of which have been published for more than five minutes and none of which, in consequence, I have as yet read – but feel that I am expected to be on my own ground here, and must – like Mrs Dombey – make an effort, which I do by the help of remembering Literary Criticisms in Time and Tide’s issue of yesterday.
Interesting little problem hovers on threshold of consciousness here: How on earth do Pamela and her friends achieve conversation about books which I am perfectly certain they have none of them read? Answer, at the moment, baffles me completely.
Return to drawing-room ensues; I sneeze again, but discover that extreme left-hand corner of second pocket handkerchief is still comparatively dry, which affords temporary, but distinct, consolation.
On the whole, am definitely relieved when emerald-brooch owner says that It is too, too sad, but she must fly, as she really is responsible for the whole thing, and it can’t begin without her – which might mean a new Permanent Wave, or a command performance at Buckingham Palace, but shall never know now which, as she departs without further explanation.
Make very inferior exit of my own, being quite unable to think of any reason for going except that I have been wanting to almost ever since I arrived, – which cannot, naturally, be produced. Pamela declares that having me has been Quite Wonderful, and we part.
Go straight home and to bed, and Housekeeper from upstairs most kindly brings me hot tea and cinnamon, which are far too welcome for me to make enquiry that conscience prompts, as to their rightful ownership.
October 23rd. – Telephone bell rings at extraordinary hour of eleven-eighteen p.m., and extremely agitated voice says Oh is that me, to which I return affirmative answer and rather curt rider to the effect that I have been in bed for some little while. Voice then reveals itself as belonging to Pamela P. – which doesn’t surprise me in the least – who is, she says, in great, great trouble, which she cannot possibly explain. (Should much like to ask whether it was worth while getting me out of bed in order to hear that no explanation is available.) But, Pamela asks, will I, whatever happens, swear that she has spent the evening with me, in my flat? If I will not do this, then it is – once more – perfectly impossible to say what will happen. But Pamela knows that I will – I always was a darling – and I couldn’t refuse such a tiny, tiny thing, which is simply a question of life and death.
Am utterly stunned by all this, and try to gain time by enquiring weakly if Pamela can by any chance tell me where she really has spent the evening. Realise as soon as I have spoken that this is not a tactful question, and am not surprised when muffled scream vibrates down receiver into my ear. Well, never mind that, then, I say, but just give me some id
ea as to who is likely to ask me what Pamela’s movements have been, and why. Oh, replies Pamela, she is the most absolutely misunderstood woman on earth, and don’t I feel that men are simply brutes? There isn’t one of them – not one – whom one can trust to be really tolerant and broad-minded and understanding. They only want One Thing.
Feel quite unable to cope with this over telephone wire, and am, moreover, getting cold, and find attention straying towards possibility of reaching switch of electric fire with one hand whilst holding receiver with the other. Flexibility of the human frame very remarkable, but cannot altogether achieve this and very nearly overbalance, but recover in time to hear Pamela saying that if I will do this one thing for her, she will never, never forget it. There isn’t anyone else, she adds, whom she could ask. (Am not at all sure if this is any compliment.) Very well, I reply, if asked, I am prepared to say that Pamela spent the evening with me here, but I hope that no one will ask and Pamela must distinctly understand that this is the first and last time I shall ever do anything of the kind. Pamela begins to be effusive, but austere voice from the unseen says that Three Minutes is Up, will we have another Three, to which we both say No simultaneously, and silence abruptly supervenes.
Crawl into bed again feeling exactly as if I had been lashed to an iceberg and then dragged at the cart’s tail. Very singular and unpleasant sensation. Spend disturbed and uncomfortable night, evolving distressing chain of circumstances by which I may yet find myself at the Old Bailey committing perjury and – still worse – being found out – and, alternatively, imagining that I hear rings and knocks at front door, heralding arrival of Pamela P.’s husband bent on extracting information concerning his wife’s whereabouts.
Wake up, after uneasy dozings, with bad headache, impaired complexion and strong sensation of guilt. Latter affects me to such a degree that am quite startled and conscience-stricken at receiving innocent and child-like letters from Robin and Vicky, and am inclined to write back and say that they ought not to associate with me – but breakfast restores balance, and I resolve to relegate entire episode to oblivion. (Mem.: Vanity of human resolutions exemplified here, as I find myself going over and over telephone conversation all day long, and continually inventing admirable exhortations from myself to Pamela P.)
Robert writes briefly, but adds P. S. Isn’t it time that I thought about coming home again? which I think means that he is missing me, and feel slightly exhilarated.
October 25th. – Am taken out to lunch by Literary Agent, which makes me feel important, and celebrated writers are pointed out to me – mostly very disappointing, but must on no account judge by appearances. Literary Agent says Oh, by the way, he has a small cheque for me at the office, shall he send it along? Try to emulate this casualness, and reply Yes, he may as well, and shortly afterwards rush home and write to inform Bank Manager that, reference our recent conversation, he may shortly expect to receive a Remittance – which I think sounds well, and commits me to nothing definite.
October 27th. – Am chilled by reply from Bank Manager, who has merely Received my letter and Noted Contents. This lack of abandon very discouraging, moreover very different degree of eloquence prevails when subject under discussion is deficit, instead of credit, and have serious thoughts of writing to point this out.
Receive curious and unexpected tribute from total stranger in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, where I have negotiated crossing with success, but pause on refuge, when voice says in my ear that owner has been following me ever since we left the pavement – which does, indeed, seem like hours ago – and would like to do so until Haymarket is safely reached. Look round at battered-looking lady carrying three parcels, two library books, small umbrella and one glove, and say Yes, yes, certainly, at the same time wondering if she realises extraordinarily insecure foundations on which she has built so much trust. Shortly afterwards I plunge, Look Right, Look Left, and execute other manoeuvres, and find myself safe on opposite side. Battered-looking lady has, rather to my horror, disappeared completely, and I see her no more. Must add this to life’s many other unsolved mysteries.
Meanwhile, select new coat and skirt – off the peg, but excellent fit, with attractive black suede belt – try on at least eighteen hats – very, very aggravating assistant who tells me that I look Marvellous in each, which we both know very well that I don’t – and finally select one with a brim – which is not, says the assistant being worn at all now, but after all, there’s no telling when they may come in again – and send Robert small jar of pâté de foie gras from Jackson’s in Piccadilly.
October 31st. – Letters again give me serious cause for reflection. Robert definitely commits himself to wishing that I would come home again, and says – rather touchingly – that he finds one can see the house from a hill near Plymouth, and he would like me to have a look at it. Shall never wholly understand advantages to be derived from seeing any place from immense distance instead of close at hand, as could so easily be done from the tennis lawn without any exertion at all – but quite realise that masculine point of view on this question, as on so many others, differs from my own, and am deeply gratified by dear Robert’s thought of me.
Our Vicar’s Wife sends postcard of Lincoln Cathedral, and hopes on the back of it that I have not forgotten our Monthly Meeting on Thursday week, and it seems a long time since I left home, but she hopes I am enjoying myself and has no time for more as post just going, and if I am anywhere near St Paul’s Churchyard, I might just pop into a little bookseller’s at the corner of a little courtyard somewhere quite near the Cathedral, and see if they are doing anything about Our Vicar’s little pamphlet, of which they had several copies in the summer. But I am not to take any trouble about this, on any account. Also, across the top of postcard, could I just look in at John Barker’s, when I happen to be anywhere near, and ask the price of filet lace there? But not to put myself out, in any way. Robert, she adds across top of address, seems very lonely, underlined, also three exclamation marks, which presumably denote astonishment. Why?
November 2nd. – Regretfully observe in myself cynical absence of surprise when interesting invitations pour in on me just as I definitely decide to leave London and return home. Shall not, however, permit anything to interfere with date appointed and undertaking already given by Robert on half-sheet of note-paper, to meet 4.18 train at local station next Tuesday.
Buy two dust-sheets – yellow-and-white check, very cheap – with which to swathe furniture of flat during my absence. Shop-man looks doubtful and says Will two be all I require, and I say Yes, I have plenty of others. Absolute and gratuitous lie, which covers me with shame when I think of it afterwards.
November 3rd. – Further telephone communication from Pamela. P., but this time of a less sensational character, as she merely says that the fog makes her feel too, too suicidal, and she’s had a fearful run of bad luck at Bridge and lost twenty-three pounds in two afternoons, and don’t I feel that when things have got to that stage there’s nothing for it but a complete change? To this I return with great conviction Oh, absolutely nothing, and mentally frame witty addition to the effect that after finding myself unplaced in annual whist-drive in our village, I always make a point of dashing over the Somerset border. This quip, however, joins so many others in limbo of the unspoken.
I ask Pamela where she is going for complete change and she astonishes me by replying Oh, the Bahamas. That is, if Waddell agrees, but so far he is being difficult, and urging the Pyrenees. I say weakly Well, wouldn’t the Pyrenees be very nice in their own way? – but Pamela, to this, exclaims My dear! in shocked accents, and evidently thinks less than nothing of the Pyrenees. The fact is, she adds, that she has a very great friend in the Bahamas, and he terribly wants her to come out there, and really things are so dreadfully complicated in London that she sometimes feels the only thing to do is to GO. (This I can well believe, but still think the Bahamas excessive.) Meanwhile, however, have I a free afternoon because Pamela has heard of a real
ly marvellous clairvoyante, and she wants someone she can really trust to go there with her, only not one word about it to Waddell, ever. Should like to reply to this that I now take it for granted that any activity of Pamela’s is subject to similar condition – but instead say that I should like to come to marvellous clairvoyante, and am prepared to consult her on my own account. All is accordingly arranged, including invitation from myself to Pamela to lunch with me at my Club beforehand, which she effusively agrees to do.
Spend the rest of the afternoon wishing that I hadn’t asked her.
November 6th. – Altogether unprecedented afternoon, with Pamela Pringle. Lunch at my Club not an unmitigated success, as it turns out that Pamela is slimming and can eat nothing that is on menu and drink only orangeade, but she is amiable whilst I deal with chicken casserole and pineapple flan, and tells me about a really wonderful man – (who knows about wild beasts) – who has adored her for years and years, absolutely without a thought of self. Exactly like something in a book, says Pamela. She had a letter from him this morning, and do I think it’s fair to go on writing to him? If there is one thing that Pamela never has been, never possibly could be, it is the kind of woman who Leads a Man On. Lead, kindly Light, I say absently, and then feel I have been profane as well as unsympathetic, but Pamela evidently not hurt by this as she pays no attention to it whatever and goes on to tell me about brilliant man-friend in the Diplomatic Service, who telephoned from the Hague this morning and is coming over next week by air apparently entirely in order that he may take Pamela out to dine and dance at the Berkeley.
Anti-climax supervenes here whilst I pay for lunch and conduct Pamela to small and crowded dressing-room, where she applies orange lipstick and leaves her rings on wash-stand and has to go back for them after taxi has been called and is waiting outside.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 25