The Diary of a Provincial Lady

by E M Delafield

  Just as I think we are off page-boy dashes up and says Is it Mrs Pringle, she is wanted on the telephone, and Pamela again rushes. Ten minutes later she returns and says Will I forgive her, she gave this number as a very great friend wanted to ring her up at lunch-time, and in Sloane Street flat the telephone is often so difficult, not that there’s anything to conceal, but people get such queer ideas, and Pamela has a perfect horror of things being misunderstood. I say that I can quite believe it, then think this sounds unkind, but on the whole do not regret having said it.

  Obscure street in Soho is reached, taxi dismissed after receiving vast sum from Pamela, who insists on paying, and we ascend extraordinarily dirty stairs to second floor, where strong smell of gas prevails. Pamela says Do I think it’s all right? I reply with more spirit than sincerity, that of course it is, and we enter and are received by anaemic-looking young man with curls, who takes one look at us and immediately vanishes behind green plush curtain, but reappears, and says that Madame Inez is quite ready but can only receive one client at a time. Am not surprised when Pamela compels me to go first, but give her a look which I hope she understands is not one of admiration.

  Interview with unpleasant-looking sibyl follows. She gazes into large glass ball and says that I have known grief – (should like to ask her who hasn’t) – and that I am a wife and a mother. Juxtaposition of these statements no doubt unintentional. Long and apparently inspired monologue follows, but little of practical value emerges except that: (a) There is trouble in the near future (If another change of cook, this is definitely unnerving.), (b) I have a child whose name will one day be famous (Reference here almost certainly to dear Vicky.), (c) In three years’ time I am to cut loose from my moorings, break new ground and throw my cap over the windmill.

  None of it sounds to me probable, and I thank her and make way for Pamela. Lengthy wait ensues, and I distinctly hear Pamela scream at least three times from behind curtain. Finally she emerges in great agitation, throws pound notes about, and tells me to Come away quickly – which we both do, like murderers, and hurl ourselves into first available taxi quite breathless.

  Pamela shows disposition to clutch me and weep, and says that Madame Inez has told her she is a reincarnation of Helen of Troy and that there will never be peace in her life. (Could have told her the last part myself, without requiring fee for doing so.) She also adds that Madame Inez predicts that Love will shortly enter into her life on hitherto unprecedented scale, and alter it completely – at which I am aghast, and suggest that we should both go and have tea somewhere at once.

  We do so, and it further transpires that Pamela did not like what Madame Inez told her about the past. This I can well believe.

  We part in Sloane Street, and I go back to flat and spend much time packing.

  November 7th. – Doughty Street left behind, yellow-and-white dust-sheets amply sufficing for entire flat, and Robert meets me at station. He seems pleased to see me but says little until seated in drawing-room after dinner, when he suddenly remarks that He has Missed Me. Am astonished and delighted, and should like him to enlarge on theme, but this he does not do, and we revert to wireless and The Times.

  April 13th. – Immense and inexplicable lapse of time since diary last received my attention, but on reviewing past five months, can trace no unusual activities, excepting arrears of calls – worked off between January and March on fine afternoons, when there appears to be reasonable chance of finding everybody out – and unsuccessful endeavour to learn cooking by correspondence in twelve lessons.

  Financial situation definitely tense, and inopportune arrival of Rates casts a gloom, but Robert points out that they are not due until May 28th, and am unreasonably relieved. Query: Why? Reply suggests, not for the first time, analogy with Mr Micawber.

  April 15th. – Felicity Fairmead writes that she could come for a few days’ visit, if we can have her, and may she let me know exact train later, and it will be either the 18th or the 19th, but, if inconvenient, she could make it the 27th, only in that case, she would have to come by Southern Railway and not G. W. R. I write back five pages to say that this would be delightful, only not the 27th, as Robert has to take the car to Crediton that day, and any train that suits her best, of course, but Southern easiest for us.

  Have foreboding that this is only the beginning of lengthy correspondence and number of extremely involved arrangements. This fear confirmed by telegram received at midday from Felicity: Cancel letter posted yesterday could after all come on twenty-first if convenient writing suggestions to-night.

  Say nothing to Robert about this, but unfortunately fresh telegram arrives over the telephone, and is taken down by him to the effect that Felicity is So sorry but plans altered Writing.

  Robert makes no comment, but goes off at seven o’clock to a British Legion Meeting, and does not return till midnight. Casabianca and I have dinner tête-à-tête, and talk about dog-breeding, the novels of E. F. Benson, and the Church of England, about which he holds to my mind optimistic views. Just as we retire to the drawing-room and wireless, Robin appears in pyjamas, and says that he has distinctly heard a burglar outside his window.

  I give him an orange – but avoid Casabianca’s eye, which is disapproving – and after short sessions by the fire, Robin departs and no more is heard about burglar. Drawing-room, in the most extraordinary way, smells of orange for the rest of the evening to uttermost corners of the room.

  April 19th. – Felicity not yet here, but correspondence continues briskly, and have given up telling Robert anything about which train he will be required to meet.

  Receive agreeable letter from well-known woman writer, personally unknown to me, who says that We have Many Friends in Common, and will I come over to lunch next week and bring anyone I like with me? Am flattered, and accept for self and Felicity. (Mem.: Notify Felicity on postcard of privilege in store for her, as this may help her to decide plans.) Further correspondence consists of Account Rendered from Messrs Frippy and Coleman, very curtly worded, and far more elaborate epistle, which fears that it has escaped my memory, and ventures to draw my attention to enclosed, also typewritten notice concerning approaching Jumble Sale – (about which I know a good deal already, having contributed two hats, three suspender-belts, disintegrating fire-guard, and a foot-stool with Moth) – and request for reference of last cook but two.

  Weather very cold and rainy, and daily discussion takes place between Casabianca and children as to desirability or otherwise of A Walk. Compromise finally reached with Robin and Vicky each wheeling a bicycle uphill, and riding it down, whilst Casabianca, shrouded in mackintosh to the eyebrows, walks gloomily in the rear, in unrelieved solitude. Am distressed at viewing this unnatural state of affairs from the window, and meditate appeal to Robin’s better feelings, if any, but shall waste no eloquence upon Vicky.

  Stray number of weekly Illustrated Paper appears in hall – cannot say why or how – and Robert asks where this rag came from? and then spends an hour after lunch glued to its pages. Paper subsequently reaches the hands of Vicky, who says Oh, look at that picture of a naked lady, and screams with laughter. Ascertain later that this description, not wholly libellous, applies to full-page photograph of Pamela Pringle – wearing enormous feathered headdress, jewelled breast-plates, one garter, and a short gauze skirt – representing Chastity at recent Pageant of Virtue through the Ages organised by Society women for the benefit of Zenana Mission.

  I ask Robert with satirical intent, if he would like me to take in Illustrated Weekly regularly, to which he disconcerts me by replying Yes, but not that one. He wants the one that Marsh writes in. Marsh? I say. Yes, Marsh. Marsh is a sound fellow, and knows about books. That, says Robert, should appeal to me. I agree that it does, but cannot, for the moment, trace Marsh. Quite brisk discussion ensues, Robert affirming that I know all about Marsh – everyone does – fellow who writes regularly once a week about books. Illumination suddenly descends upon me, and I exclaim, Oh, Richard King! Rob
ert signifies assent, and adds that he knew very well that I knew about the fellow, everyone does – and goes into the garden.

  (Mem.: Wifely intuition very peculiar and interesting, and apparently subject to laws at present quite unapprehended by finite mind. Material here for very deep, possibly scientific, article. Should like to make preliminary notes, but laundry calls, and concentrate instead on total omission of everything except thirty-four handkerchiefs and one face-towel from clothes-basket. Decide to postpone article until after the holidays.)

  Ethel’s afternoon out, and customary fatality of callers ensues, who are shown in by Cook with unsuitable formula: Someone to see you, ’m. Someone turns out to be unknown Mrs Poppington, returning call with quite unholy promptitude, and newly grown-up daughter, referred to as My Girl. Mrs Poppington sits on window-seat – from which I hastily remove Teddy-bear, plasticine, and two pieces of bitten chocolate – and My Girl leans back in armchair and reads Punch from start to finish of visit.

  Mrs P. and I talk about servants, cold East Winds and clipped yew hedges. She also says hopefully that she thinks I know Yorkshire, but to this I have to reply that I don’t, which leads us nowhere. Am unfortunately inspired to add feebly – Except, of course, the Brontës – at which Mrs P. looks alarmed, and at once takes her leave. My Girl throws Punch away disdainfully, and we exchange good-byes, Mrs P. saying fondly that she is sure she does not know what I must think of My Girl’s manners. Could easily inform her, and am much tempted to do so, but My Girl at once starts engine of car, and drives herself and parent away.

  April 21st. – Final spate of letters, two postcards, and a telegram, herald arrival of Felicity – not, however, by train that she has indicated, and minus luggage, for which Robert is obliged to return to station later. Am gratified to observe that in spite of this, Robert appears pleased to see her, and make mental note to the effect that a Breath of Air from the Great World is of advantage to those living in the country.

  April 22nd. – Singular reaction of Felicity to announcement that I am taking her to lunch with novelist, famous in two continents for numerous and brilliant contributions to literature. It is very kind of me, says Felicity, in very unconvincing accents, but should I mind if she stayed at home with the children? I should, I reply, mind very much indeed. At this we glare at one another for some moments in silence, after which Felicity – spirit evidently quailing – mutters successively that: (a) She has no clothes, (b) She won’t know what to talk about, (c) She doesn’t want to be put into a book.

  I treat (a) and (b) with silent contempt, and tell her that (c) is quite out of the question, to which she retorts sharply that she doesn’t know what I mean.

  Deadlock is again reached.

  Discussion finally closed by my declaring that Casabianca and the children are going to Plymouth to see the dentist, and that Robert will be out, and I have told the maids that there will be no dining-room lunch. Felicity submits, I at once offer to relinquish expedition altogether, she protests violently, and we separate to go and dress.

  Query, at this point, suggests itself: Why does my wardrobe never contain anything except heavy garments suitable for arctic regions, or else extraordinarily flimsy ones suggestive of the tropics? Golden mean apparently non-existent.

  Am obliged to do the best I can with brown tweed coat and skirt, yellow wool jumper – sleeves extremely uncomfortable underneath coat sleeves – yellow handkerchief tied in artistic sailor’s knot at throat, and brown straw hat with ciré ribbon, that looks too summery for remainder of outfit. Felicity achieves better results with charming black-and-white check, short pony-skin jacket, and becoming black felt hat.

  Car, which has been washed for the occasion, is obligingly brought to the door by Casabianca, who informs me that he does not think the self-starter is working, but she will probably go on a slope, only he doesn’t advise me to try and wind her, as she kicked badly just now. General impression diffused by this speech is to the effect that we are dealing with a dangerous wild beast rather than a decrepit motor-car.

  I say Thank you to Casabianca, Good-bye to the children, start the car, and immediately stop the engine. Not a very good beginning, is it? says Felicity, quite unnecessarily.

  Casabianca, Robin and Vicky, with better feeling, push car vigorously, and eventually get it into the lane, when engine starts again. Quarter of a mile further on, Felicity informs me that she thinks one of the children is hanging on to the back of the car. I stop, investigate, and discover Robin, to whom I speak severely. He looks abashed. I relent, and say, Well, never mind this time, at which he recovers immediately, and waves us off with many smiles from the top of a hedge.

  Conversation is brisk for the first ten miles. Felicity enquires after That odious woman – cannot remember her name – but she wore a ridiculous cape, and read books, from which description I immediately, and correctly, deduce Miss Pankerton, and reply that I have not, Thank Heaven, come across her for weeks. We also discuss summer clothes, Felicity’s married sister’s children, Lady B. – now yachting in the Mediterranean – and distant days when Felicity and I were at school together.

  Pause presently ensues, and Felicity – in totally different voice – wishes to know if we are nearly there? We are; I stop the car before the turning so that we can powder our noses, and we attain small and beautiful Queen Anne house in silence.

  Am by this time almost as paralysed as Felicity, and cannot understand why I ever undertook expedition at all. Leave car in most remote corner of exquisite courtyard – where it presents peculiarly sordid and degraded appearance – and permit elegant parlourmaid – mauve-and-white dress and mob cap – to conduct us through panelled hall to sitting-room evidently designed and furnished entirely regardless of cost.

  Madam is in the garden, says parlourmaid, and departs in search of her. Felicity says to me, in French – (Why not English?) – Dites que je ne suis pas literary du tout, and I nod violently just as celebrated hostess makes her appearance.

  She is kind and voluble; Felicity and I gradually recover; someone in a blue dress and pince-nez appears, and is introduced as My Friend Miss Postman who Lives with Me; someone else materialises as My Cousin Miss Crump, and we all go in to lunch. I sit next to hostess, who talks competently about modern poetry, and receives brief and evasive replies from myself. Felicity has My Friend Miss Postman, whom I hear opening the conversation rather unfortunately with amiable remark that she has so much enjoyed Felicity’s book. Should like to hear with exactly what energetic turn of phrase Felicity disclaims having had anything to do with any book ever, but cannot achieve this, being under necessity of myself saying something reasonably convincing about Masefield, about whose work I can remember nothing at all.

  Hostess then talks about her own books, My Friend Miss Postman supplies intelligent and laudatory comments, seconded by myself, and Felicity and the cousin remain silent, but wear interested expressions.

  This carries us on safely to coffee in the loggia, where Felicity suddenly blossoms into brilliancy owing to knowing names, both Latin and English, of every shrub and plant within sight.

  She is then taken round the garden at great length by our hostess, with whom she talks gardening. Miss P. and I follow, but ignore flora, and Miss P. tells me that Carina – (reference, evidently, to hostess, whose name is Charlotte Volley) – is Perfectly Wonderful. Her Work is Wonderful, and so are her Methods, her Personality, her Vitality and her Charm.

  I say Yes, a great many times, and feel that I can quite understand why Carina has Miss P. to live with her. (Am only too certain that neither Felicity nor dear Rose would dream of presenting me to visitors in similar light, should occasion for doing so ever arise.)

  Carina and herself, continues Miss P., have been friends for many years now. She has nursed Carina through illness – Carina is not at all strong, and never, never rests. If only she would sometimes spare herself, says Miss P. despairingly – but, no, she has to be Giving Out all the time. People make deman
ds upon her. If it isn’t one, it’s another.

  At this, I feel guilty, and suggest departure. Miss P. protests, but faintly, and is evidently in favour of scheme. Carina is approached, but says, No, no, we must stay to tea, we are expected. Miss P. murmurs energetically, and is told, No, no, that doesn’t matter, and Felicity and I feign absorption in small and unpleasant-looking yellow plant at our feet. Later, Miss P. admits to me that Carina ought to relax absolutely for at least an hour every afternoon, but that it is terribly, terribly difficult to get her to do it. To-day’s failure evidently lies at our door, and Miss P. remains dejected, and faintly resentful, until we finally depart.

  Carina is cordial to the last, sees us into car, has to be told that that door won’t open, will she try the other side, does so, shuts it briskly, and says that we must come again soon. Final view of her is with her arm round Miss P.’s shoulder, waving vigorously. What, I immediately enquire, did Felicity think of her? to which Felicity replies with some bitterness that it is not a very good moment for her to give an opinion, as Carina has just energetically slammed door of the car upon her foot.

  Condolences follow, and we discuss Carina, Miss P., cousin, house, garden, food and conversation, all the way home. Should be quite prepared to do so all over again for benefit of Robert in the evening, but he shows no interest, after enquiring whether there wasn’t a man anywhere about the place, and being told Only the Gardener.

  April 23rd. – Felicity and I fetch as many of Carina’s works as we can collect from Boots’, and read them industriously. Great excitement on discovering that one of them – the best-known – is dedicated to Carina’s Beloved Friend, D. P., whom we immediately identify as Miss Postman, Felicity maintaining that D. stands for Daisy, whilst I hold out for Doris. Discussion closes with ribald reference to Well of Loneliness.