Debate question of clothes – wardrobe, as usual, is deficient – and finally decide on green coat and skirt if weather cool, and new flowered tussore if hot.
(Problem here concerned with head-gear, as hat suitable for flowered tussore too large and floppy for motoring, and all other smaller hats – amounting to two, and one cap – entirely wrong colour to go with tussore.)
Literary Agent takes me out to lunch – is very nice – suggests that a little work on my part would be desirable. I agree and sit and write all the evening vigorously.
June 19th. – Really very singular day, not calculated to rank amongst more successful experiences of life. Am called for by dear Rose in car, and told to hold map open on my knee, which I do, but in spite of this we get lost several times and Rose shows tendency to drive round and round various villages called Chalfont. After saying repeatedly that I expect the others will be late too, and that Anyway we have time in hand, I judge it better to introduce variations to the effect that We can’t be far off now, and What about asking? Rose reluctantly agrees, and we ask three people, two of whom are strangers in the district, and the third is sorry but could not say at all, it might be ahead of us, or on the other hand we might be coming away from it. At this Rose mutters expletives and I feel it best to be silent.
Presently three Boy Scouts are sighted, and Rose stops again and interrogates them. They prove very willing and produce a map, and giggle a good deal, and I decide that one of them is rather like Robin, and forget to listen to what they say. Rose, however, dashes on again, and I think with relief that we are now doing well, when violent exclamation breaks from her that We have passed that self-same church tower three times already. Am filled with horror – mostly at my own inferior powers of observation, as had no idea whatever that I had ever set eyes on church tower in my life before – and suggest madly that we ought to turn to the right, I think. Rose – she must indeed be desperate – follows this advice and in about three minutes we miraculously reach our destination, and find that it is two o’clock. Dining-room is discovered – entire party half-way through lunch, and obviously not in the least pleased to see us – which is perfectly natural, as eruptions of this kind destructive to continuity of conversation, always so difficult of achievement in any case. Everyone says we must be Starving, and egg-dish is recalled – eggs disagree with me and am obliged to say No and my neighbour enquires Oh, why? which is ridiculous, and great waste of time – and we speed through cold chicken and strawberries and then adjourn to garden, of which there are acres and acres, and everybody very enthusiastic except myself. Just as I select comfortable chair next to Anne – whom I have, after all, come to see – perfectly unknown couple surge up out of the blue, and are introduced as General and Mrs St Something – cannot catch what – and General immediately says Wouldn’t I like to go round the garden? Have not strength of mind enough to reply baldly No I wouldn’t, and he conducts me up and down steps and in and out of paths and at intervals we say Just look at those lupins! and That’s a good splash of colour – but mostly he tells me about Lord Rothermere. Try not to betray that I have never yet been able to distinguish between Lord R. and Lord Beaverbrook. General St? evidently thinks ill of both, and I make assenting sounds and am inwardly perfectly certain that Anne’s party is being amused at my progress. Can hear them in shrieks of laughter in different parts of garden, which I now perceive to be the size of Hampton Court, more or less.
Rose suddenly appears round a yew hedge, and I give her a look that I hope she appreciates, and we gradually work our way back via more lupins, to deck-chairs. Anne still sitting there, looking extraordinarily amused. General St Something instantly says that his wife would so like to have a talk with me about books, she materialises at his elbow, and at once declares that she must show me the garden. I demur, on the ground of having seen it already, and she assures me breezily that it will well bear seeing twice, or even more often, and that she herself could never get tired of that Blaze of Colour.
We accordingly pursue blaze of colour, while Mrs St? talks to me about poetry, which she likes and I don’t, Siamese cats, that both of us like, and the lace-making industry.
Garden now definitely acquires dimensions of the Zoo at least, and I give up all hope of ever being allowed to sit down again. Can see Anne talking to Rose in the distance, and both appear to be convulsed with mirth.
Distant clock strikes four – should not have been surprised if it had been eight – and I break in on serious revelations about lack of rear-lights on bicycles in country districts, and say that I am perfectly certain I ought to be going. Civil regrets are exchanged – entirely hypocritical on my part, and probably on hers as well – and we walk about quarter of a mile and find Rose. Mrs St Something disappears (probably going round the garden again) and I am very angry indeed and say that I have never had such a day in all my life. Everybody else laughs heartily, and appears to feel that afternoon has been highly successful and Rose hysterically thanks Anne for inviting us. Make no pretence whatever of seconding this. Drive home is very much shorter than drive out, and I do not attempt to make myself either useful or agreeable in any way.
June 23rd. – Am pleased and astonished at being taken at my word by Robert, who appears at the flat, and undertakes to conduct me, and Vicky, to half-term Sports at Robin’s school. In the meantime, he wants a hair-cut. I say that there is a place quite near Southampton Row, at which Robert looks appalled, and informs me that there is No place nearer than Bond Street. He accordingly departs to Bond Street, after telling me to meet him at twelve at his Club in St James’s. Am secretly much impressed by nonchalance with which Robert resumes these urban habits, although to my certain knowledge he has not been near Club in St James’s for years.
Reflection here on curious dissimilarity between the sexes as exemplified by self and Robert: in his place, should be definitely afraid of not being recognised by hall-porter of Club, and quite possibly challenged as to my right to be there at all. Robert, am perfectly well aware, will on the contrary ignore hall-porter from start to finish with probable result that h.-p. will crawl before him, metaphorically if not literally.
This rather interesting abstract speculation recurs to me with some violence when I actually do go to Club, and enter imposing-looking hall, presided over by still more imposing porter in uniform, to whom I am led up by compassionate-looking page, who evidently realises my state of inferiority. Am made no better by two elderly gentlemen talking together in a corner, both of whom look at me with deeply suspicious faces and evidently think I have designs on something or other – either the Club statuary, which is looming above me, or perhaps themselves? Page is despatched to look for Robert – feel as if my only friend had been taken from me – and I wait, in state of completely suspended animation, for what seems like a long week-end. This comes to an end at last, and am moved to greet Robert by extraordinary and totally unsuitable quotation: Time and the hour runs through the roughest day – which I hear myself delivering, in an inward voice, exactly as if I were talking in my sleep. Robert – on the whole wisely – takes not the faintest notice, beyond looking at me with rather an astonished expression, and receives his hat and coat, which page-boy presents as if they were Coronation robes and sceptre at the very least. We walk out of Club, and I resume customary control of my senses.
Day is one of blazing sunlight, streets thronged with people, and we walk along Piccadilly and Robert says Let’s lunch at Simpson’s in the Strand, to which I agree, and add Wouldn’t it be heavenly if we were rich? Conversation then ensues on more or less accustomed lines, and we talk about school-bills, inelastic spirit shown by the Bank, probabilities that new house-parlourmaid will be giving notice within the next few weeks, and unlikelihood of our having any strawberries worth mentioning in the garden this year. Robert’s contribution mostly consists of ejaculations about the traffic – he doesn’t know what the streets are coming to, but it can’t go on like this – and a curt assurance to the effe
ct that we shall all be in the workhouse together before so very long. After that we reach Simpson’s in the Strand, and Robert says that we may as well have a drink – which we do, and feel better.
Am impressed by Simpson’s, where I have never been before, and lunch is agreeable. In the middle of it perceive Pamela Pringle, wearing little black-and-white hat exactly like old-fashioned pill-box, and not much larger, and extraordinarily effective black frock – also what looks like, and probably is, a collection of at least nine real-diamond bracelets. She is, needless to say, escorted by young gentleman, who looks totally unsuited to his present surroundings, as he has side-whiskers, a pale green face, and general aspect that reminds me immediately of recent popular song entitled: ‘My Canary has Circles under His Eyes’.
Pamela deeply absorbed in conversation, but presently catches sight of me, and smiles – smile a very sad one, which is evidently tone of the interview – and then sees Robert, at which she looks more animated, and eventually gets up and comes towards us, leaving Canary with Circles under His Eyes throwing bits of bread about the table in highly morose and despairing fashion.
Robert is introduced; Pamela opens her eyes very widely and says she has heard so very much about him – (who from? Not me) – and they shake hands. Can see from Robert’s expression exactly what he thinks of Pamela’s finger-nails, which are vermilion. P. P. says that we must come and see her – can we dine together to-night, Waddell will be at home and one or two people are looking in afterwards? – No, we are very sorry, but this is impossible. Then Pamela will ring up this dear thing – evidently myself, but do not care about the description – and meanwhile she simply must go back. The boy she is lunching with is Hipps, the artist. Robert looks perfectly blank and I – not at all straightforwardly – assume an interested expression and say Oh really, as if I knew all about Hipps, and Pamela adds that the poor darling is all decadent and nervy, and she thought this place would do him good, but really he’s in such a state that Paris is the only possible thing for him. She gives Robert her left hand, throws me a kiss with the other, and rejoins the Canary – whose face is now buried in his arms. Robert says Good God and asks why that woman doesn’t wash that stuff off those nails. This question obviously rhetorical, and do not attempt any reply, but enquire if he thought Pamela pretty. Robert, rather strangely, makes sound which resembles Tchah! from which I deduce a negative, and am not as much distressed as I ought to be at this obvious injustice to P. P.’s face and figure. Robert follows this by further observation, this time concerning the Canary with Circles under His Eyes, which would undoubtedly lead to libel action, if not to charge of using obscene language in public, if overheard, and I say Hush, and make enquiries as to the well-being of Our Vicar and Our Vicar’s Wife, in order to change the subject.
That reminds Robert: there is to be a concert in the Village next month for most deserving local object, and he has been asked to promise my services as performer, which he has done. Definite conviction here that reference ought to be made to Married Women’s Property Act or something like that, but exact phraseology eludes me, and Robert seems so confident that heart fails me, and I weakly agree to do what I can. (This, if taken literally, will amount to extraordinarily little, as have long ceased to play piano seriously, have never at any time been able to sing, and have completely forgotten few and amateurish recitations that have occasionally been forced upon me on local platforms.)
Plans for the afternoon discussed: Robert wishes to visit Royal Academy, and adds that he need not go and see his Aunt Mary as I went there the other day – which seems to me illogical, and altogether unjust – and that we will get stalls for to-night if I will say what play I want to see. After some thought, select Musical Chairs, mainly because James Agate has written well of it in the Press, and Robert says Good, he likes a musical show, and I have to explain that I don’t think it is a musical show, at all, and we begin all over again, and finally select a revue. Debate question of Royal Academy, but have no inclination whatever to go there, and have just said so, as nicely as I can, when Pamela again appears beside us, puts her hand on Robert’s shoulder – at which he looks startled and winces slightly – and announces that we must come to Hipps’ picture-show this afternoon – it is in the Cygnet Galleries in Fitzroy Square, and if no one turns up it will break the poor pet’s heart, and as far as she can see, no one but herself has ever heard of it, and we simply must go there, and help her out. She will meet us there at five.
Before we have recovered ourselves in any way, we are more or less committed to the Cygnet Galleries at five, Pamela has told us that she adores us both – but looks exclusively at Robert as she says it – and has left us again. Shortly afterwards, observe her paying bill for herself and the Canary, who is now drinking old brandy in reckless quantities.
Robert again makes use of expletives, and we leave Simpson’s and go our several ways, but with tacit agreement to obey Pamela’s behest. I fill in the interval with prosaic purchases of soap, which I see in mountainous heaps at much reduced prices, filling an entire shop-window, sweets to take down to Robin on Saturday, and quarter-pound of tea in order that Robert may have usual early-morning cup before coming out – unwillingly – to breakfast at Lyons’.
Am obliged to return to Doughty Street, and get small jug in which to collect milk from dairy in Gray’s Inn Road, pack suit-case now in order to save time in the morning, and finally proceed to Fitzroy Square, where Cygnet Galleries are discovered, after some search, in small adjoining street which is not in Fitzroy Square at all.
Robert and the Canary are already together, in what I think really frightful juxtaposition, and very, very wild collection of pictures hangs against the walls. Robert and I walk round and round, resentfully watched by the Canary, who never stirs, and Pamela Pringle fails to materialise.
Can think of nothing whatever to say, but mutter something about It’s all being Very Interesting, from time to time, and at last come to a halt before altogether astonishing group that I think looks like a wedding – which is a clearer impression than I have managed to get of any of the other pictures. Am just wondering whether it is safe to take this for granted, when the Canary joins us, and am again stricken into silence. Robert, however, suddenly enquires If that is the League of Nations, to which the Canary, in a very hollow voice, says that he knows nothing whatever about the League of Nations, and I experience strong impulse to reply that we know nothing whatever about pictures, and that the sooner we part for ever, the better for us all.
This, however, is impossible, and feel bound to await Pamela, so go round the room all over again, as slowly as possible, only avoiding the wedding-group, to which no further reference is made by any of us. After some time of this, invisible telephone-bell rings, and the Canary – very curious writhing movement, as he walks – goes away to deal with it, and Robert says For God’s sake let’s get out of this. I ask Does he mean now this minute? and he replies Yes, before that morbid young owl comes back, and we snatch up our various possessions and rush out. The Canary, rather unfortunately, proves to be on the landing half-way downstairs, leaning against a wall and holding telephone receiver to his ear. He gives us a look of undying hatred as we go past, and the last we hear of him is his voice, repeating desperately down the telephone that Pamela can’t do a thing like that, and fail him utterly – she absolutely can’t. (Personally, am entirely convinced that she can, and no doubt will.)
Robert and I look at one another, and he says in a strange voice that he must have a drink, after that, and we accordingly go in search of it.
June 25th. – Vicky arrives by green bus from Mickleham, carrying circular hat-box of astonishing size and weight, with defective handle, so that every time I pick it up it falls down again, which necessitates a taxi. She is in great excitement, and has to be calmed with milk and two buns before we proceed to station, meet Robert, and get into the train.
Arrival, lunch at Hotel, and walk up to School follow normal lines, a
nd in due course Robin appears and is received by Vicky with terrific demonstrations of affection and enthusiasm, to which he responds handsomely. (Reflect, as often before, that Fashion in this respect has greatly altered. Brothers and sisters now almost universally deeply attached to one another, and quite prepared to admit it. O tempora! O mores!) We are conducted to the playing-fields, where hurdles and other appliances of sports are ready, and where rows and rows of chairs await us.
Parents, most of whom I have seen before and have no particular wish ever to see again, are all over the place, and am once more struck by tendency displayed by all Englishwomen to cling to most unbecoming outfit of limp coat and skirt and felt hat even when blazing summer day demands cooler, and infinitely more becoming, ensemble of silk frock and shady hat.
Crowds of little boys all look angelic in running shorts and singlets, and am able to reflect that even if Robin’s hair is perfectly straight, at least he doesn’t wear spectacles.
Headmaster speaks a few words to me – mostly about the weather, and new wing that he proposes, as usual, to put up very shortly – I accost Robin’s Form-master and demand to be told How the Boy is Getting On, and Form-master looks highly astonished at my audacity, and replies in a very off-hand way that Robin will never be a cricketer, but his football is coming on, and he has the makings of a swimmer. He then turns his back on me, but I persist, and go so far as to say that I should like to hear something about Robin’s work.
Form-master appears to be altogether overcome by this unreasonable requirement, and there is a perceptible silence, during which he evidently meditates flight. Do my best to hold him by the Power of the Human Eye, about which I have read much, not altogether believingly. However, on this occasion, it does its job, and Form-master grudgingly utters five words or so, to the effect that we needn’t worry about Robin’s Common-entrance exam, in two years’ time. Having so far committed himself he pretends to see a small boy in imminent danger on a hurdle and dashes across the grass at uttermost speed to save him, and for the remainder of the day, whenever he finds himself within yards of me, moves rapidly in opposite direction.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 30