The Diary of a Provincial Lady

by E M Delafield

  Find myself at dinner between elderly man with quantities of hair, and much younger man who looks nice and smiles at me. Make frantic endeavours, without success, to read names on little cards in front of them, and wish violently that I ever had sufficient presence of mind to listen to people’s names when introduced – which I never do.

  Try the elderly man with Hipps. He does not respond. Switch over to thinking he knows a friend of mine. Mrs Pringle? No, he doesn’t think so. Silence follows, and I feel it is his turn to say something, but as he doesn’t, and as my other neighbour is talking hard to pretty woman in black, I launch into Trade Depression and Slump in America, and make a good deal of use of all the more intelligent things said by Rose and Felicity this afternoon. Elderly neighbour still remains torpid except for rather caustic observation concerning Mr Hoover. Do not feel competent to defend Mr Hoover, otherwise should certainly do so, as by this time am filled with desire to contradict everything elderly neighbour may ever say. He gives me, however, very little opportunity for doing so, as he utters hardly at all and absorbs himself in perfectly admirable lobster Thermidor. Final effort on my part is to tell him the incident of the window-cleaner, which I embroider very considerably in rather unsuccessful endeavour to make it amusing, and this at last unseals his lips and he talks quite long and eloquently about Employers’ Liability, which he views as an outrage. Consume lobster silently, in my turn, and disagree with him root and branch, but feel that it would be waste of time to say so and accordingly confine myself to invaluable phrase: I See What He Means.

  We abandon mutual entertainment with great relief shortly afterwards, and my other neighbour talks to me about books, says that he has read mine and proves it by a quotation, and I decide that he must be distinguished critic spoken of by H. de L. de la P. Tell him the story of window-cleaner, introducing several quite new variations, and he is most encouraging, laughs heartily, and makes me feel that I am a witty and successful raconteuse – which in saner moments I know very well that I am not.

  (Query: Has this anything to do with the champagne? Answer, almost certainly, Yes, everything.)

  Amusing neighbour and myself continue to address one another exclusively – fleeting wonder as to what young creature in black feels about me – and am sorry when obliged to ascend to drawing-room for customary withdrawal. Have a feeling that H. de L. de la P. – who eyes me anxiously – is thinking that I am Rather A Mistake amongst people who all know one another very well indeed. Try to tell myself that this is imagination, and all will be easier when drinking coffee, which will not only give me occupation – always a help – but clear my head, which seems to be buzzing slightly.

  H. de L. de la P. refers to Pamela – everybody in the room evidently an intimate friend of Pamela’s, and general galvanisation ensues. Isn’t she adorable? says very smart black-and-white woman, and Doesn’t that new platinum hair suit her too divinely? asks somebody else, and we all cry Yes, quite hysterically, to both. H. de L. de la P. then points me out and proclaims – having evidently found a raison d’être for me at last – that I have known Pamela for years and years – longer than any of them. I instantly become focus of attention, and everyone questions me excitedly.

  Do I know what became of the second husband? – Templer-Something was his name. No explanation ever forthcoming of his disappearance, and immediate replacement by somebody else. Have I any idea of Pamela’s real age? Of course she looks too, too marvellous, but it is an absolute fact that her eldest child can’t possibly be less than fifteen, and it was the child of the second marriage, not the first.

  Do I know anything about that Pole who used to follow her about everywhere, and was supposed to have been shot by his wife in Paris on account of P. P.?

  Is it true that Pringle – unfortunate man – isn’t going to stand it any longer and has threatened to take Pamela out to Alaska to live?

  And is she – poor darling – still going about with the second husband of that woman she’s such friends with?

  Supply as many answers as I can think of to all this, and am not perturbed as to their effect, feeling perfectly certain that whatever I say Pamela’s dear friends have every intention of believing, and repeating, whatever they think most sensational and nothing else.

  This conviction intensified when they, in their turn, overwhelm me with information.

  Do I realise, says phenomenally slim creature with shaven eyebrows, that Pamela will really get herself into difficulties one of these days, if she isn’t more careful? That, says the eyebrows – impressively, but surely inaccurately – is Pamela’s trouble. She isn’t careful. Look at the way she behaved with that South American millionaire at Le Touquet!

  Look, says somebody else, at her affair with the Prince. Reckless – no other word for it.

  Finally H. de L. de la P. – who has been quietly applying lipstick throughout the conversation – begs us all to Look at the type of man that falls for Pamela. She knows that Pamela is attractive, of course – sex-appeal, and all that – but after all, that can’t go on for ever, and then what will be left? Nothing whatever. Pamela’s men aren’t the kind to go on being devoted. They simply have this brief flare-up, and then drift off to something younger and newer. Every time. Always.

  Everybody except myself agrees, and several people look rather relieved about it. Conversation closes, as men are heard upon the stairs, with H. de L. de la P. assuring us all that Pamela is one of her very dearest friends, and she simply adores her – which is supported by assurances of similar devotion from everyone else. Remain for some time afterwards in rather stunned condition, thinking about Friendship, and replying quite mechanically, and no doubt unintelligently, to thin man who stands near me – (wish he would sit, am getting crick in my neck) – and talks about a drawing in Punch of which he thought very highly, but cannot remember if it was Raven Hill or Bernard Partridge, nor what it was about, except that it had something to do with Geneva.

  Evening provides no further sensation, and am exceedingly sleepy long before somebody in emeralds and platinum makes a move. Pleasant man who sat next me at dinner has hoped, in agreeable accents, that we shall meet again – I have echoed the hope, but am aware that it has no foundation in probability – and H. de L. de la P. has said, at parting, that she is so glad I have had an opportunity of meeting her cousin, very well-known critic. Do not like to tell her that I have never identified this distinguished littérateur at all, and leave the house still uninformed as to whether he was, or was not, either of my neighbours at dinner. Shall probably now never know.

  July 1st. – Once more prepare to leave London, and am haunted by words of out-of-date song once popular: How’re you Going to Keep ’em Down on the Farm, Now that they’ve seen Paree? Answer comes there none.

  Day filled with various activities, including packing, which I dislike beyond anything on earth and do very badly – write civil letter to H. de L. de la P. to say that I enjoyed her dinner-party, and ring up Rose in order to exchange good-byes. Rose, as usual, is out – extraordinary gadabout dear Rose is – and I leave rather resentful message with housekeeper, and return to uncongenial task of folding garments in sheets of tissue paper that are always either much too large or a great deal too small.

  Suit-case is reluctant to close, I struggle for some time and get very hot, success at last, and am then confronted by neatly folded dressing-gown which I have omitted to put in.

  Telephone rings and turns out to be Emma Hay, who is very, very excited about satire which she says she has just written and which will set the whole of London talking. If I care to come round at once, says Emma, she is reading it aloud to a few Really Important People, and inviting free discussion and criticism afterwards.

  I express necessary regrets, and explain that I am returning to the country in a few hours’ time.

  What, shrieks Emma, leaving London? Am I mad? Do I intend to spend the whole of the rest of my life pottering about the kitchen, and seeing that Robert gets his
meals punctually, and that the children don’t bring muddy boots into the house? Reply quite curtly and sharply: Yes, I Do, and ring off – which seems to me, on the whole, the quickest and most rational method of dealing with Emma.

  July 4th. – Return home has much to recommend it, country looks lovely, everything more or less in bloom, except strawberries, which have unaccountably failed, Robert gives me interesting information regarding recent sale of heifer, and suspected case of sclerosis of the liver amongst neighbouring poultry, and Helen Wills claws at me demonstratively under the table as I sit down to dinner. Even slight faux pas on my own part, when I exclaim joyfully that the children will be home in a very short time now, fails to create really serious disturbance of harmonious domestic atmosphere.

  Shall certainly not, in view of all this, permit spirits to be daunted by rather large pile of letters almost all concerned with Accounts Rendered, that I find on my writing-table. Could have dispensed, however, with the Milk-book, the Baker’s Bill, and the Grocer’s Total for the Month, all of them handed to me by Cook with rider to the effect that There was twelve-and-sixpence had to be given to the sweep, and twopence to pay on a letter last Monday week, and she hopes she did right in taking it in.

  Robert enquires very amiably what I have been writing lately, and I say lightly, Oh, an article on Modern Freedom in Marriage, and then remember that I haven’t done a word of it, and ask Robert to give me some ideas. He does so, and they are mostly to the effect that People talk a great deal of Rubbish nowadays, and that Divorce may be All Very Well in America, and the Trouble with most women is that they haven’t got nearly Enough to Do. At this I thank Robert very much and say that will do splendidly – which is true in the spirit, though not the letter – but he appears to be completely wound up and unable to stop, and goes on for quite a long time, telling me to Look at Russia, and wishing to know How I should like to see the children whisked off to Siberia – which I think forceful but irrelevant.

  Become surprisingly sleepy at ten o’clock – although this never happened to me in London – and go up to bed.

  Extraordinary and wholly undesirable tendency displays itself to sit upon window-seat and think about Myself – but am well aware that this kind of thing never a real success, and that it will be part of wisdom to get up briskly instead and look for shoe-trees to insert in evening-shoes – which I accordingly do; and shortly afterwards find myself in bed and ready to go to sleep.

  July 8th. – Short, but rather poignant article on Day-Dreaming which appears in to-day’s Time and Tide over signature of L. A. G. Strong, strangely bears out entry in my diary previous to this one. Am particularly struck – not altogether agreeably, either – by Mr Strong’s assertion that: ‘Day-dreaming is only harmful when it constitutes a mental rebellion against the circumstances of our life, which does not tend to any effort to improve them’.

  This phrase, quite definitely, exactly epitomises mental exercise in which a large proportion of my life is passed. Have serious thoughts of writing to Mr Strong, and asking him what, if anything, can be done about it – but morning passes in telephone conversation with the Fish – middle-cut too expensive, what about a nice sole? – postcard to Cissie Crabbe, in return for view of Scarborough with detached enquiry on the back as to How I am and How the children are – other postcards to tradespeople, cheque to the laundry, cheque to Registry Office, and cheque to local newsagent – and Mr Strong is superseded. Nevertheless am haunted for remainder of the day by recollection surging up at unexpected moments, of the harmfulness of daydreams. Foresee plainly that this will continue to happen to me at intervals throughout the rest of life.

  Just before lunch Our Vicar’s Wife calls, and says that It’s too bad to disturb me, and she only just popped in for one moment and has to nip off to the school at once, but she did so want to talk to me about the concert, and hear all about London. Rather tedious and unnecessary argument follows as to whether she will or will not stay to lunch, and ends – as I always knew it would – in my ringing bell and saying Please lay an extra place for lunch, at the same time trying to send silent telepathic message to Cook that meat-pie alone will now not be enough, and she must do something with eggs or cheese as first course.

  (Cook’s interpretation of this subsequently turns out to be sardines, faintly grilled, lying on toast, which I think a mistake, but shall probably not say so, as intentions good.)

  Our Vicar’s Wife and I then plunge into the concert, now only separated from us by twenty-four hours. What, says Our Vicar’s Wife hopefully, am I giving them? Well – how would it be if I gave them ‘John Gilpin’? (Know it already and shall not have to learn anything new.) Splendid, perfectly splendid, Our Vicar’s Wife asserts in rather unconvinced accents. The only thing is, Didn’t I give it to them at Christmas, and two years ago at the Church Organ Fête, and unless she is mistaken, the winter before that again when we got up that entertainment for St Dunstan’s?

  If this is indeed fact, obviously scheme requires revision. What about ‘An Austrian Army’? ‘An Austrian Army?’ says Our Vicar’s Wife. Is that the League of Nations?

  (Extraordinary frequency with which the unfamiliar is always labelled the League of Nations appals me.)

  I explain that it is very, very interesting example of Alliterative Poetry, and add thoughtfully: ‘Apt Alliteration’s Artful Aid’, at which Our Vicar’s Wife looks astounded, and mutters something to the effect that I mustn’t be too clever for the rest of the world.

  Conversation temporarily checked, and I feel discouraged, and am relieved when gong rings. This, however, produces sudden spate of protests from Our Vicar’s Wife, who says she really must be off, she couldn’t dream of staying to lunch, and what can she have been thinking of all this time?

  Entrance of Robert – whose impassive expression on being unexpectedly confronted with a guest I admire – gives fresh turn to entire situation, and we all find ourselves in dining-room quite automatically.

  Conversation circles round the concert, recent arrivals at neighbouring bungalow, on whom we all say that we must call, and distressing affair in the village which has unhappily ended by Mrs A. of Jubilee Cottages being summoned for assault by her neighbour Mrs H. Am whole-heartedly thrilled by this, and pump Our Vicar’s Wife for details, which she gives spasmodically, but has to switch off into French, or remarks about the weather, whenever parlour-maid is in the room.

  Cook omits to provide coffee – in spite of definite instructions always to do so when we have a guest – and have to do the best I can with cigarettes, although perfectly well aware that Our Vicar’s Wife does not smoke, and never has smoked.

  Concert appears on the tapis once more, and Robert is induced to promise that he will announce the items. Our Vicar’s Wife, rather nicely, says that everyone would love it if dear little Vicky could dance for us, and I reply that she will still be away at school, and Our Vicar’s Wife replies that she knows that, she only meant how nice it would be if she hadn’t been away at school, and could have danced for us. Am ungrateful enough to reflect that this is as singularly pointless an observation as ever I heard.

  What, asks Our Vicar’s Wife, am I doing this afternoon? Why not come with her and call on the new people at the bungalow and get it over? In this cordial frame of mind we accordingly set out, and I drive Standard car, Our Vicar’s Wife observing – rather unnecessarily – that it really is wonderful how that car goes on and on and on.

  Conversation continues, covering much ground that has been traversed before, and only diversified by hopes from me that the bungalow inhabitants may all be out, and modification from Our Vicar’s Wife to the effect that she is hoping to get them to take tickets for the concert.

  Aspirations as to absence of new arrivals dashed on the instant of drawing up at their gate, as girl in cretonne overall, older woman – probably mother – with spectacles, and man in tweeds, are all gardening like mad at the top of the steps. They all raise themselves from stooping postures, and
all wipe their hands on their clothes – freakish resemblance here to not very well co-ordinated revue chorus – and make polite pretence of being delighted to see us. Talk passionately about rock-gardens for some time, then are invited to come indoors, which we do, but cretonne overall and man in tweeds – turns out to be visiting uncle – sensibly remain behind and pursue their gardening activities.

  We talk about the concert – two one-and-sixpenny tickets disposed of successfully – hostess reveals that she thinks sparrows have been building in one of the water-pipes, and I say Yes, they do do that, and Our Vicar’s Wife backs me up, and shortly afterwards we take our leave.

  On passing through village, Our Vicar’s Wife says that we may just as well look in on Miss Pankerton, as she wants to speak to her about the concert. I protest, but to no avail, and we walk up Miss P.’s garden-path and hear her practising the violin indoors, and presently she puts her head out of ground-floor window and shrieks – still practising – that we are to walk straight in, which we do, upon which she throws violin rather recklessly on to the sofa – which is already piled with books, music, newspapers, appliances for raffia-work, garden-hat, hammer, chisel, sample tin of biscuits, and several baskets – and shakes us by both hands. She also tells me that she sees I have taken her advice, and released a good many of my inhibitions in that book of mine. Should like to deny violently having ever taken any advice of Miss P.’s at all, or even noticed that she’d given it, but she goes on to say that I ought to pay more attention to Style – and I diverge into wondering inwardly whether she means prose, or clothes.

  (If the latter, this is incredible audacity, as Miss P.’s own costume – on broiling summer’s day – consists of brick-red cloth dress, peppered with glass knobs, and surmounted by abominable little brick-red three-tiered cape, closely fastened under her chin.)