The Diary of a Provincial Lady

by E M Delafield

  Sports take place, and are a great success. Robin murmurs to me that he thinks, he isn’t at all sure, but he thinks, he may have a chance in the High Jump. I reply, with complete untruth, that I shan’t mind a bit if he doesn’t win and he mustn’t be disappointed – and then suffer agonies when event actually takes place and he and another boy out-jump everybody else and are at last declared to have tied. (Vicky has to be rebuked by Robert for saying that this is Unjust and Robin jumped by far the best – which is not only an unsporting attitude, but entirely unsupported by fact.) Later in the afternoon Robin comes in a good second in Hurdling, and Vicky is invited to take part in a three-legged race, which she does with boundless enthusiasm and no skill at all.

  Tea and ices follow – boys disappear, and are said to be changing – and I exchange remarks with various parents, mostly about the weather being glorious, the sports well organised, and the boys a healthy-looking lot.

  Trophies are distributed – inclination to tears, of which I am violently ashamed, assails me when Robin goes up to receive two little silver cups – various people cheer various other people, and we depart for the Hotel, with Robin. Evening entirely satisfactory, and comes to an end at nine o’clock, with bed for Vicky and Robin’s return to School.

  June 27th. – Return to London, departure of Vicky by green bus and under care of the conductor, and of Robert from Paddington. I have assured him that I shall be home in a very few days now, and he has again reminded me about the concert, and we part. Am rung up by Pamela in the afternoon, to ask if I can bring Robert to tea, and have great satisfaction in informing her that he has returned to Devonshire. Pamela then completely takes the wind out of my sails by saying that she will be motoring through Devonshire quite soon, and would simply love to look us up. A really very interesting man who Rows will be with her, and she thinks that we should like to know him. Social exigencies compel me to reply that of course we should, and I hope she will bring her rowing friend to lunch or tea whenever she is in the neighbourhood.

  After this, permit myself to enquire why P. P. never turned up at Cygnet Galleries on recent painful occasion; to which she answers, in voice of extreme distress, that I simply can’t imagine how complicated life is, and men give one no peace at all, and it’s so difficult when one friend hates another friend and threatens to shoot him if Pamela goes out with him again.

  Am obliged to admit that attitude of this kind does probably lead to very involved situations, and Pamela says that I am so sweet and understanding, always, and I must give that angel Robert her love – and rings off.

  June 29th. – Am filled with frantic desire to make the most of few remaining days in London, and recklessly buy two pairs of silk stockings, for no other reason than that they catch my eye when on my way to purchase sponge-bag and tooth-paste for Vicky.

  (Query: Does sponge-bag exist anywhere in civilised world which is positively water-proof and will not sooner or later exude large, damp patches from sponge that apparently went into it perfectly dry? Secondary, but still important, Query: Is it possible to reconcile hostile attitude invariably exhibited by all children towards process of teeth-cleaning with phenomenal rapidity with which they demolish tube after tube of tooth-paste?)

  Proceed later to small and newly established Registry Office, which has been recommended to me by Felicity, and am interviewed by lady in white satin blouse, who tells me that maids for the country are almost impossible to find – which I know very well already – but that she will do what she can for me, and I mustn’t mind if it’s only an inexperienced girl. I agree not to mind, provided the inexperienced girl is willing to learn, and not expensive, and white-satin blouse says Oh dear yes, to the first part, and Oh dear no, to the second, and then turns out to have twenty-five shillings a week in mind, at which I protest, and we are obliged to begin all over again, on totally different basis. She finally dismisses me, with pessimistic hopes that I may hear from her in the next few days, and demand for a booking-fee, which I pay.

  Return to Doughty Street, where I am rung up by quite important daily paper and asked If I would care to write an Article about Modern Freedom in Marriage. First impulse is to reply that they must have made a mistake, and think me more celebrated than I am – but curb this, and ask how long article would have to be – really meaning what is the shortest they will take – and how much they are prepared to pay? They – represented by brisk and rather unpleasant voice – suggest fifteen hundred words, and a surprisingly handsome fee. Very well then, I will do it – how soon do they want it? Voice replies that early next week will be quite all right, and we exchange good-byes. Am highly exhilarated, decide to give a dinner-party, pay several bills, get presents for the children, take them abroad in the summer holidays, send Robert a cheque towards pacifying the Bank, and buy myself a hat. Realise, however, that article is not yet written, far less paid for, and that the sooner I collect my ideas about Modern Freedom in Marriage, the better.

  Just as I have got ready to do so, interruption comes in the person of Housekeeper from upstairs, who Thinks that I would like to see the laundry-book. I do see it, realise with slight shock that it has been going on briskly for some weeks unperceived by myself, and produce the necessary sum. Almost immediately afterwards a Man comes to the door, and tells me that I have no doubt often been distressed by the dirty and unhygienic condition of my telephone. Do not like to say that I have never thought about it, so permit him to come in, shake his head at the telephone, and say Look at that, now, and embark on long and alarming monologue about Germs. By the time he has finished, realise that I am lucky to be alive at all in midst of numerous and insidious perils, and agree to telephone’s being officially disinfected at stated intervals. Form, as usual, has to be filled up, Man then delivers parting speech to the effect that he is very glad I’ve decided to do this – there’s so many ladies don’t realise, and if they knew what they was exposing themselves to, they’d be the first to shudder at it – which sounds like White Slave Traffic, but is, I think, still Germs. I say Well, Good morning, and he replies rebukefully – and correctly – Good afternoon, which I feel bound to accept by repeating it after him and he goes downstairs.

  I return to Modern Freedom in Marriage and get ready to deal with it by sharpening a pencil and breaking the lead three times. Extremely violent knock at flat door causes me to drop it altogether – (fourth and absolutely final break) – and admit very powerful-looking window-cleaner with pair of steps, mop, bucket and other appliances, all of which he hurls into the room with great abandon. I say Will he begin with the bedroom, and he replies that it’s all one to him, and is temporarily lost to sight in next room, but can be heard singing: I Don’t Know Why I Love You Like I Do. (Remaining lines of this idyll evidently unknown to him as he repeats this one over and over again, but must in justice add that he sings rather well.)

  Settle down in earnest to Modern Freedom in Marriage. Draw a windmill on blotting-paper. Tell myself that a really striking opening sentence is important. Nothing else matters. Really striking sentence is certainly hovering somewhere about, although at the moment elusive. (Query: Something about double standard of morality? Or is this unoriginal? Thread temporarily lost, owing to absorption in shading really admirable little sketch of Cottage Loaf drawn from Memory …)

  Frightful crash from bedroom, and abrupt cessation of not Knowing Why He Loves Me Like He Does, recalls window-cleaner with great suddenness to my mind, and I open door that separates us and perceive that he has put very stalwart arm clean through window-pane and is bleeding vigorously, although, with great good feeling, entirely avoiding carpet or furniture.

  Look at him in some dismay, and enquire – not intelligently – if he is hurt, and he answers No, the cords were wore clean through, it happens sometimes with them old-fashioned sashes. Rather singular duet follows, in which I urge him to come and wash his arm in the kitchen, and he completely ignores the suggestion and continues to repeat that the cords were wore clean throug
h. After a good deal of this, I yield temporarily, look at the cords and agree that they do seem to be wore clean through, and finally hypnotise window-cleaner – still talking about the cords – into following me to the sink, where he holds his arm under cold water and informs me that the liability of his company is strictly limited, so far as the householder is concerned, and in my case the trouble was due to them cords being practically wore right through.

  I enquire if his arm hurts him – at which he looks blankly astonished – inspect the cut, produce iodine and apply it, and finally return to Modern Freedom in Marriage, distinctly shattered, whilst window-cleaner resumes work, but this time without song.

  Literary inspiration more and more evasive every moment, and can think of nothing whatever about Modern Freedom except that it doesn’t exist in the provinces. Ideas as to Marriage not lacking, but these would certainly not be printed by any newspaper on earth, and should myself be deeply averse from recording them in any way.

  Telephone rings and I instantly decide that: (a) Robert has died suddenly, (b) Literary Agent has effected a sale of my film-rights, recent publication, for sum running into five figures, pounds not dollars, (c) Robin has met with serious accident at school, (d) Pamela Pringle wishes me once more to cover her tracks whilst engaged in pursuing illicit amour of one kind or another.

  (Note: Swiftness of human (female) imagination surpasses that of comet’s trail across the heavens quite easily. Could not this idea be embodied in short poem? Am convinced, at the moment, that some such form of expression would prove infinitely easier than projected article about Modern Freedom, etc.)

  I say Yes? into the telephone – entire flight of fancy has taken place between two rings – and unknown contralto voice says that I shan’t remember her – which is true – but that she is Helen de Liman de la Pelouse and we met at Pamela Pringle’s at lunch one day last October. To this I naturally have to reply Oh yes, yes – indeed we did – as if it all came back to me – which it does, in a way, only cannot possibly remember anything except collection of women all very much better dressed and more socially competent than myself and am perfectly certain that H. de L. de la P. was never introduce by name at all. (Would probably have taken too long, in crowded rush of modern life.)

  Will I forgive last-minute invitation and come and dine to-night and meet one or two people, all interested in Books, and H. de la P.’s cousin, noted literary critic whom I may like to know? Disturbing implication here that literary critics allow their judgement to be influenced by considerations other than aesthetic and academic ones – but cannot unravel at the moment, and merely accept with pleasure and say What time and Where? Address in large and expensive Square is offered me, time quarter to nine if that isn’t too late? (Query: What would happen, if I said Yes, it is too late? Would entire scheme be reorganised?)

  Am recalled from this rather idle speculation by window-cleaner – whose very existence I have completely forgotten – taking his departure noisily, but with quite unresentful salutation, and warning – evidently kindly intended – that them cords are wore through and need seeing to. I make a note on the blotting-paper to this effect, and am again confronted with perfectly blank sheet of paper waiting to receive masterpiece of prose concerning Modern Freedom in Marriage. Decide that this is definitely not the moment to deal with it, and concentrate instead on urgent and personal questions concerned with to-night’s festivity. Have practically no alternative as to frock – recently acquired silver brocade – and hair has fortunately been shampoo’d and set within the last three days so still looks its best – evening cloak looks well when on, and as it will remain either in hall or hostess’s bedroom, condition of the lining need concern no one but myself and servant in attendance – who will be obliged to keep any views on the subject concealed. Shoes will have to be reclaimed immediately from the cleaners, but this easily done. More serious consideration is that of taxi-fare, absolutely necessitated by situation of large and expensive Square, widely removed from bus or tube routes. Am averse from cashing cheque, for very sound reason that balance is at lowest possible ebb and recent passages between Bank and myself give me no reason to suppose that they will view even minor overdraft with indulgence – and am only too well aware that shopping expedition and laundry-book between them have left me with exactly fivepence in hand.

  Have recourse, not for the first time, to perhaps rather infantile, but by no means unsuccessful, stratagem of unearthing small hoards of coin distributed by myself, in more affluent moments, amongst all the handbags I possess in the world.

  Two sixpences, some halfpence, one florin and a half-crown are thus brought to light, and will see me handsomely through the evening, and breakfast at Lyons’ next morning into the bargain.

  Am unreasonably elated by this and go so far as to tell myself that very likely I shall collect some ideas for Modern Freedom article in general conversation to-night and needn’t bother about it just now.

  Rose comes in unexpectedly, and is immediately followed by Felicity Fairmead, but they do not like one another and atmosphere lacks entrain altogether. Make rather spasmodic conversation about the children, The Miracle – which we all three of us remember perfectly well in the old days at Olympia, but all declare severally that we were more or less children at the time and too young to appreciate it – and State of Affairs in America, which we agree is far worse than it is here. This is openly regretted by Rose (because she knows New York well and enjoyed being there) and by me (because I have recently met distinguished American publisher and liked him very much) and rejoiced in by Felicity (because she thinks Prohibition is absurd). Feminine mentality rather curiously and perhaps not altogether creditably illustrated here. Have often wondered on exactly what grounds I am a Feminist, and am sorry to say that no adequate reply whatever presents itself. Make note to think entire question out dispassionately when time permits – if it ever does.

  Rose and Felicity both refuse my offer of tea and mixed biscuits – just as well, as am nearly sure there is no milk – and show strong inclination to look at one another expectantly in hopes of an immediate departure. Rose gives in first, and goes, and directly she has left Felicity asks me what on earth I see in her, but does not press for an answer. We talk about clothes, mutual friends, and utter impossibility of keeping out of debt. Felicity – who is, and always has been, completely unworldly, generous and utterly childlike – looks at me with enormous brown eyes, and says solemnly that nothing in this world – NOTHING – matters except Money, and on this she takes her departure. I empty cigarette-ash out of all the ash-trays – Felicity doesn’t smoke at all and Rose and I only had one cigarette each, but results out of all proportion – and go through customary far-sighted procedure of turning down bed, drawing curtains and filling kettle for hot-water bottle, before grappling with geyser, of which I am still mortally terrified, and getting ready for party. During these operations I several times encounter sheet of paper destined to record my views about Modern Freedom in Marriage, but do nothing whatever about it, except decide again how I shall spend the money.

  Am firmly resolved against arriving too early, and do not telephone for taxi until half-past eight, then find number engaged, and operator – in case of difficulty dial 0 – entirely deaf to any appeal. Accordingly rush out into the street – arrangement of hair suffers rather severely – find that I have forgotten keys and have to go back again – make a second attack on telephone, this time with success, rearrange coiffure and observe with horror that three short minutes in the open air are enough to remove every trace of powder from me, repair this, and depart at last.

  After all this, am, as usual, first person to arrive. Highly finished product of modern civilisation, in white satin with no back and very little front, greets me, and I perceive her to be extremely beautiful, and possessed of superb diamonds and pearls. Evidently Helen de Liman de la Pelouse. This conjecture confirmed when she tells me, in really very effective drawl, that we sat opposite to one an
other at Pamela Pringle’s luncheon party, and may she introduce her husband? Husband is apparently Jewish – why de Liman de la Pelouse? – and looks at me in a rather lifeless and exhausted way and then gives me a glass of sherry, evidently in the hope of keeping me quiet. H. de L. de la P. talks about the weather – May very wet, June very hot, English climate very uncertain – and husband presently joins in and says all the same things in slightly different words. We then all three look at one another in despair, until I am suddenly inspired to remark that I have just paid a most interesting visit to the studio of a rather interesting young man whose work I find interesting, called Hipps. (Should be hard put to it to say whether construction of this sentence, or implication that it conveys, is the more entirely alien to my better principles.) Experiment proves immediately successful, host and hostess become animated, and H. de L. de la P. says that Hipps is quite the most mordant of the younger set of young present-day satirists, don’t I think, and that last thing of his definitely had patine. I recklessly agree, but am saved from further perjury by arrival of more guests. All are unknown to me, and fill me with terror, but pretty and harmless creature in black comes and stands next me, and we talk about 1066 and All That and I say that if I’d known in time that the authors were schoolmasters I should have sent my son to them at all costs, and she says Oh, have I children? – but does not, as I faintly hope, express any surprise at their being old enough to go to school at all – and I say Yes, two, and then change the subject rather curtly for fear of becoming involved in purely domestic conversation.