April 26th. – Felicity, after altering her mind three times, departs, to stay with married sister in Somersetshire. Robin and Vicky lament and I say that we shall all miss her, and she replies that she has loved being here, and it is the only house she knows where the bath-towels are really large. Am gratified by this compliment, and subsequently repeat it to Robert, adding that it proves I can’t be such a bad housekeeper. Robert looks indulgent, but asks what about that time we ran out of flour just before a Bank Holiday week-end? To which I make no reply – being unable to think of a good one.
Telephone message from Lady Frobisher, inviting us to dinner on Saturday next, as the dear Blamingtons will be with her for the week-end. I say The Blamingtons? in enquiring tones, and she says Yes, yes, he knew me very well indeed eighteen years ago, and admired me tremendously. (This seems to me to constitute excellent reason why we should not meet again, merely in order to be confronted with deplorable alterations wrought by the passage of eighteen years.)
Lady F., however, says that she has promised to produce me – and Robert, too, of course, she adds hastily – and we must come. The Blamingtons are wildly excited. (Have idle and frivolous vision of the Blamingtons standing screaming and dancing at her elbow, waiting to hear decision.)
But, says Lady F., in those days – reference as to period preceding the Stone Age at least – in those days, I probably knew him as Bill Ransom? He has only this moment come into the title. I say Oh! Bill Ransom, and lapse into shattered silence, while Lady F. goes on to tell me what an extraordinarily pretty, intelligent, attractive and wealthy woman Bill has married, and how successful the marriage is. (Am by no means disposed to credit this offhand.)
Conversation closes with renewed assurances from Lady F. of the Blamingtons’ and her own cast-iron determination that they shall not leave the neighbourhood without scene of reunion between Bill and myself, and my own enfeebled assent to this preposterous scheme.
Spend at least ten minutes sitting by the telephone, still grasping receiver, wondering what Bill and I are going to think of one another, when compelled to meet, and why on earth I ever agreed to anything so senseless.
Tell Robert about invitation, and he says Good, the Frobishers have excellent claret, but remains totally unmoved at prospect of the Blamingtons. This – perhaps unjustly – annoys me, and I answer sharply that Bill Ransom once liked me very much indeed, to which Robert absently replies that he daresays, and turns on the wireless. I raise my voice, in order to dominate Happy Returns to Patricia Trabbs of Streatham, and screech that Bill several times asked me to marry him, and Robert nods, and walks out through the window into the garden.
Helen Wills and children rush in at the door, draught causes large vase to blow over, and inundate entire room with floods of water, and incredibly numerous fragments of ribes-flower, and all is merged into frantic moppings and sweepings, and adjurations to children not to cut themselves with broken glass. Happy Families follows, immediately succeeded by Vicky’s bath, and supper for both, and far-distant indiscretions of self and Bill Ransom return to oblivion, but recrudesce much later, when children have gone to bed, Casabianca is muttering quietly to himself over crossword puzzle, and Robert absorbed in Times.
Take up a book and read several pages, but presently discover that I have no idea what it is all about, and begin all over again, with similar result. Casabianca suddenly remarks that he would so much like to know what I think of that book, to which I hastily reply Oh! very good indeed, and he says he thought so too, and I offer help with crossword puzzle in order to stem further discussion.
Spend much time in arranging how I can best get in to hairdresser’s for shampoo-and-set before Saturday, and also consider purchase of new frock, but am aware that financial situation offers no justification whatever for this.
Much later on, Robert enquires whether I am ill, and on receiving negative reply, urges that I should try and get to sleep. As I have been doing this, without success, for some time, answer appears to me to be unnecessary.
(Mem.: Self-control very, very desirable quality, especially where imagination involved, and must certainly endeavour to cultivate.)
April 30th. – Incredible quantity of household requirements immediately springs into life on my announcing intention of going into Plymouth in order to visit hairdresser. Even Casabianca suddenly says Would it be troubling me too much to ask me to get a postal-order for three shillings and tenpence-halfpenny? Reply tartly that he will find an equally acceptable one at village Post Office, and then wish I hadn’t when he meekly begs my pardon and says that, Yes, of course he can.
(NB This turning of the cheek has effect, as usual, of making me much crosser than before. Feel that doubt is being cast on Scriptural advice, and dismiss subject immediately.)
Bus takes me to Plymouth, where I struggle with Haberdashery – wholly uncongenial form of shopping, and extraordinarily exhausting – socks for Vicky, pants for Robin, short scrubbing-brush demanded by Cook, but cannot imagine what she means to do with it, or why it has to be short – also colossal list of obscure groceries declared to be unobtainable anywhere nearer than Plymouth. None of these are ever in stock at counters where I ask for them, and have to be procured either Upstairs or in the Basement, and am reminded of comic song prevalent in days of youth: The Other Department, If you please, Straight On and Up the Stairs. Quote it to grey-headed shopman, in whom I think it may rouse memories, but he only replies Just so, moddam, and we part without further advances on either side.
Rather tedious encounter follows with young gentleman presiding over Pickles, who endeavours to persuade me that I want particularly expensive brand of chutney instead of that which I have asked for, and which he cannot supply. Am well aware that I ought to cut him short with curt assurance that No Substitute will Do, but find myself mysteriously unable to do anything of the kind, and we continue to argue round and round in a circle, although without acrimony on either side. Curious and unsatisfactory conclusion is reached by my abandoning chutney motif altogether, and buying small and unknown brand of cheese in a little jar. Young gentleman then becomes conversational in lighter vein, and tells me of his preference in films, and we agree that No-one has ever come near Dear Old Charlie. Nor ever will, says the young gentleman conclusively, as he ties string into elegant bow, which will give way the moment I get into street. I say No indeed, we exchange mutual expressions of gratitude, and I perceive that I am going to be late for appointment with hairdresser.
Collect number of small parcels – including particularly degraded-looking paper-bag containing Chips for which Robin and Vicky have implored – sling them from every available finger until I look like inferior Christmas-tree, thrust library-books under one arm – (they slip continually, and have to be pushed into safety from behind by means of ungraceful acrobatics) – and emerge into street. Unendearing glimpse of myself as I pass looking-glass reveals that my hat has apparently engulfed the whole of my head and half of my face as well. (Disquieting query here: Is this perhaps all for the best?) Also that blue coat with fur collar, reasonably becoming when I left home, has now assumed aspect of something out of a second-hand clothes-shop. Encourage myself with visions of unsurpassed brilliance that is to be mine after shampoo-and-set, careful dressing to-night, and liberal application of face-powder, and – if necessary – rouge.
Just as I have, mentally, seen exquisite Paris-model gown that exactly fits me, for sale in draper’s window at improbable price of forty-nine shillings and sixpence, am recalled to reality by loud and cordial greetings of Our Vicar’s Wife, who plunges through traffic at great risk to life in order to say what a coincidence this is, considering that we met yesterday, and are sure to be meeting to-morrow. She also invites me to come and help her choose white linen buttons for pillow-cases – but this evidently leading direct to Haberdashery once more, and I refuse – I hope with convincing appearance of regret.
Am subsequently dealt with by hairdresser – who says that I
am the only lady he knows that still wears a bob – and once more achieve bus, where I meet Miss S. of the Post Office, who has also been shopping. We agree that a day’s shopping is tiring – One’s Feet, says Miss S. – and that the bus hours are inconvenient. Still, we can’t hope for everything in this world, and Miss S. admits that she is looking forward to a Nice Cup of Tea and perhaps a Lay-Down, when she gets home. Reflect, not for the first time, that there are advantages in being a spinster. Should be sorry to say exactly how long it is since I last had a Lay-Down myself, without being disturbed at least fourteen times in the course of it.
Spend much time, on reaching home, in unpacking and distributing household requirements, folding up and putting away paper and string, and condoling with Vicky, who alleges that Casabianca had made her walk miles and miles, and she has a pain in her wrist. Do not attempt to connect these two statements, but suggest the sofa and Dr Dolittle, to which Vicky agrees with air of exhaustion, which is greatly intensified every time she catches my eye.
Later on, Casabianca turns up – looking pale-green with cold and making straight for the fire – and announces that he and the children have had a Splendid Walk and are all the better for it. Since I know, and Vicky knows, that this is being said for the express benefit of Vicky, we receive it rather tepidly, and conversation lapses while I pursue elusive sum of ten shillings and threepence through shopping accounts. Robin comes in by the window – I say, too late, Oh, your boots! – and Robert, unfortunately choosing this moment to appear, enquires whether there isn’t a schoolroom in the house?
Atmosphere by this time is quite unfavourable to festivity, and I go up to dress for the Frobishers – or, more accurately, for the Blamingtons – feeling limp.
Hot bath restores me slightly – but relapse occurs when entirely vital shoulder-strap gives way and needle and thread become necessary.
Put on my Green, dislike it very much indeed, and once more survey contents of wardrobe, as though expecting to find miraculous addition to already perfectly well-known contents.
Needless to say, this does not happen, and after some contemplation of my Black – which looks rusty and entirely out of date – and my Blue – which is a candidate for the next Jumble-sale – I return to the looking-glass still in my Green, and gaze at myself earnestly.
(Query: Does this denote irrational hope of sudden and complete transformation in personal appearance? If so, can only wonder that so much faith should meet with so little reward.)
Jewel-case unfortunately rather low at present – (have every hope of restoring at least part of the contents next month, if American sales satisfactory) – but great-aunt’s diamond ring fortunately still with us, and I put it on fourth finger of left hand, and hope that Bill will think Robert gave it to me. Exact motive governing this wish far too complicated to be analysed, but shelve entire question by saying to myself that Anyway, Robert certainly would have given it to me if he could have afforded it.
Evening cloak is smarter than musquash coat; put it on. Robert says Am I off my head and do I want to arrive frozen? Brief discussion follows, but I know he is right and I am wrong, and eventually compromise by putting on fur coat, and carrying cloak, to make decent appearance with on arrival in hall.
Fausse sortie ensues – as it so frequently does in domestic surroundings – and am twice recalled on the very verge of departure, once by Ethel, with superfluous observation that she supposes she had better not lock up at ten o’clock, and once by Robin, who takes me aside and says that he is very sorry, he has broken his bedroom window. It was, he says, entirely an accident, as he was only kicking his football about. I point out briefly, but kindly, that accidents of this nature are avoidable, and we part affectionately. Robert, at the wheel, looks patient, and I feel perfectly convinced that entire evening is going to be a failure.
Nobody in drawing-room when we arrive, and butler looks disapprovingly round, as though afraid that Lady F. or Sir William may be quietly hiding under some of the furniture, but this proving groundless, he says that he will Inform Her Ladyship, and leaves us. I immediately look in the glass, which turns out to be an ancient Italian treasure, and shows me a pale yellow reflection, with one eye much higher than the other. Before I have in any way recovered, Lady F. is in the room, so is Sir William, and so are the Blamingtons. Have not the slightest idea what happens next, but can see that Bill, except that he has grown bald, is unaltered, and has kept his figure, and that I do not like the look of his wife, who has lovely hair, a Paris frock, and is elaborately made-up.
We all talk a great deal about the weather, which is – as usual – cold, and I hear myself assuring Sir W. that our rhododendrons are not yet showing a single bud. Sir W. expresses astonishment – which would be even greater if he realised that we only have one rhododendron in the world, and that I haven’t set eyes on it for weeks owing to pressure of indoor occupations – and we go in to dinner. I am placed between Sir W. and Bill, and Bill looks at me and says Well, well, and we talk about Hampstead, and mutual friends, of whom Bill says Do you ever see anything of them nowadays? to which I am invariably obliged to reply No, we haven’t met for years. Bill makes the best of this by observing civilly that I am lucky to live in such a lovely part of the world, and he supposes we have a very charming house, to which I reply captiously No, quite ordinary, and we both laugh.
Conversation after this much easier, and I learn that Bill has two children, a boy and a girl. I say that I have the same, and, before I can stop myself, have added that this is really a most extraordinary coincidence. Wish I hadn’t been so emphatic about it, and hastily begin to talk about aviation to Sir William. He has a great deal to say about this, and I ejaculate Yes at intervals, and ascertain that Bill’s wife is telling Robert that the policy of the Labour party is suicidal, to which he assents heartily, and that Lady F. and Bill are exchanging views about Norway.
Shortly after this, conversation becomes general, party-politics predominating – everyone except myself apparently holding Conservative views, and taking it for granted that none other exist in civilised circles – and I lapse into silence.
(Query: Would not a greater degree of moral courage lead me to straightforward and open declaration of precise attitude held by myself in regard to the Conservative and other parties? Answer: Indubitably, yes – but results of such candour not improbably disastrous, and would assuredly add little to social amenities of present occasion.)
Entirely admirable dinner brought to a close with South African pears, and Lady F. says Shall we have coffee in the drawing-room? – entirely rhetorical question, as decision naturally rests with herself.
Customary quarter of an hour follows, during which I look at Bill’s wife, and like her less than ever, especially when she and Lady F. discuss hairdressers, and topic of Permanent Waves being introduced – (probably on purpose) – by Bill’s wife, she says that her own is Perfectly Natural, which I feel certain, to my disgust, is the truth.
It transpires that she knows Pamela Pringle, and later on she tells Bill that Pamela P. is a great friend of mine, and adds Fancy! which I consider offensive, whatever it means.
Bridge follows – I play with Sir William, and do well, but as Robert loses heavily, exchequer will not materially benefit – and evening draws to a close.
Hold short conversation with Bill in the hall whilst Robert is getting the car. He says that Sevenoaks is all on our way to London whenever we motor up – which we never do, and it wouldn’t be even if we did – and it would be very nice if we’d stay a night or two. I say Yes, we’d love that, and we agree that It’s a Promise, and both know very well that it isn’t, and Robert reappears and everybody says good-bye.
Experience extraordinary medley of sensations as we drive away, and journey is accomplished practically in silence.
May 1st. – I ask Robert if he thought Lady Blamington good-looking, and he replies that he wouldn’t say that exactly. What would he say, then? Well, he would say striking, perhap
s. He adds that he’ll eat his hat if they have a penny less than twenty-thousand a year between them, and old Frobisher says that their place in Kent is a show place. I ask what he thought of Bill, and Robert says Oh, he seemed all right. Make final enquiry as to what I looked like last night, and whether Robert thinks that eighteen years makes much difference in one’s appearance?
Robert, perhaps rightly, ignores the last half of this, and replies to the former – after some thought – that I looked just as usual, but he doesn’t care much about that green dress. Am sufficiently unwise to press for further information, at which Robert looks worried, but finally admits that, to his mind, the green dress makes me look Tawdry.
Am completely disintegrated by this adjective, which recurs to me in the midst of whatever I am doing, for the whole of the remainder of the day.
Activities mainly concerned with school-clothes, of which vast quantities are required by both children, Robin owing to school exigencies, and Vicky to inordinately rapid growth. Effect on domestic finances utterly disastrous in either case. Robin’s trunk is brought down from the attic, and Vicky’s suit-case extracted from beneath bed. Casabianca and the gardener are obliged to deal with Casabianca’s trunk, which is of immense size and weight, and sticks on attic staircase.
(Query, of entirely private nature: Why cannot Casabianca travel about with reasonable luggage like anybody else? Is he concealing murdered body or other incriminating evidence from which he dares not be parted? Answer: Can obviously never be known.)
Second post brings unexpected and most surprising letter from Mademoiselle, announcing that she is in England and cannot wait to embrace us once again – may she have one sight of Vicky – ce petit ange – and Robin – ce gentil gosse – before they return to school? She will willingly, in order to obtain this privilege, courir nu-pieds from Essex to Devonshire. Despatch immediate telegram inviting her for two nights, and debate desirability of adding that proposed barefooted Marathon wholly unnecessary – but difficulty of including this in twelve words deters me, moreover French sense of humour always incalculable to a degree. Announce impending visit to children, who receive it much as I expected. Robin says Oh, and continues to decipher ‘John Brown’s Body’ very slowly on the piano with one finger – which he has done almost hourly every day these holidays – and Vicky looks blank and eats unholy-looking mauve lozenge alleged to be a present from Cook.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 27