The Diary of a Provincial Lady

by E M Delafield

  July 24th. – Arrival of Robin at Charing Cross, where I go to meet him and see customary collection of waiting parents, and think how depressing they all look, and feel certain they think exactly the same about me. Train is late, as usual, and I talk to pale mother in beige coat and skirt and agree that the boys all come back looking very well, and that schools nowadays are quite different, and children really adore being there. After that she tells me that her Peter hates games and is no good at lessons, and I say that my Robin has never really settled down at school at all, and we agree that boys are much more difficult than girls. (Shall not, however, be surprised, if I find occasion to reverse this dictum after a few days of dear Vicky’s society at home.)

  Train comes in, and parents, including myself, hurry madly up and down platform amongst shoals of little boys in red caps. Finally discover Robin, who has grown enormously, and is struggling under immensely heavy bag.

  We get into a taxi, and dash to Poland Street, where Green Line ’bus deposits Vicky with suit-case – handle broken, and it has to be dragged – bulging hat-box, untidy-looking brown-paper parcel, two books – Mickey Mouse Annual and David Copperfield, which I think odd mixture – and half-eaten packet of milk chocolate.

  She screams and is excited, and says she is hungry, and Robin supports her with assertion that he is absolutely starving, and we leave luggage at depot and go and eat ices at establishment in Oxford Street.

  Remainder of the day divided between shopping, eating and making as much use as possible of Underground moving stairway, for which R. and V. have a passion.

  July 25th. – Telephone appeal from Caroline Concannon saying can she move into Doughty Street flat immediately, as this is the best day for the van. Am alarmed by the sound of the van, and ask if she has realised that the flat is furnished already, and there isn’t much room to spare. Yes, she knows all that, and it’s only one or two odds and ends, and if she may come round with a tape-measure, she can soon tell. Feel that this is reasonable and must be acceded to, and suggest to the children that they should play quietly with bricks in the bedroom. They agree to this very readily, and shortly afterwards I hear them playing, not quietly at all, with a cricket-ball in the kitchen.

  Caroline Concannon arrives soon afterwards – velocity of tiny car, in relation to its size, quite overwhelming – and rushes into the flat. No sign of tape-measure, but the van, she says, will be here directly. This proves to be only too true, and the van shortly afterwards appears, and unloads a small black wardrobe, a quantity of pictures – some of these very, very modern indeed and experience fleeting hope that the children will not insist on detailed examination, but this probably old-fashioned and not to be encouraged – two chairs, at least seventeen cushions, little raffia footstool that I do not care about, plush dog with green eyes that I care about still less, – two packing-cases, probably china? – a purple quilt which is obviously rolled round a large number of miscellaneous objects, and a portmanteau that C. C. says is full of books. I ask What about her clothes, and she says, Oh, those will all come later with the luggage.

  Am rather stunned by this, and take no action at all. C. C. is active and rushes about, and shortly afterwards Robin and Vicky emerge from the kitchen and become active too. Small man materialises and staggers up and down stairs, carrying things, and appeals to me – as well he may – about where they are to go. I say Here, and What about that corner, as hopefully as possible, and presently find that all my own belongings are huddled together in the middle of the sitting-room, like survivors of a wreck clinging to a raft, while all C. C.’s goods and chattels are lined in rows against the walls.

  C. C. – must remember to call her Caroline – is apologetic, and offers rather recklessly to take all her things away again if I like, but this is surely purely rhetorical, and I take little notice of it. At twelve o’clock she suddenly suggests that the children would like an ice, and rushes them away, and I am left feeling partly relieved at getting rid of them and partly agitated because it is getting so near lunch-time.

  Make a few tentative efforts about furniture and succeed in clearing a gangway down the middle of sitting-room – this a definite improvement – but find increasing tendency to move everything that seems to be occupying too much space, into kitchen. Caroline has evidently had same inspiration, as I find small armchair there, unknown to me hitherto, standing on its head, two waste-paper baskets (something tells me these are likely to be very much used in the near future), large saucepan, Oriental-looking drapery that might be a bed-spread, and folded oak table that will not, to my certain knowledge, fit into any single room when extended.

  Telephone bell interrupts me – just as well, as I am growing rather agitated – and Rose’s voice enquires if I have done anything yet about my clothes for America. Well, no, not so far, but I am really going to see about it in a day or two. Rose is, not unjustifiably, cynical about this, and says that she will herself make an appointment for me to-morrow afternoon. Can see no way of getting out of this, as Felicity Fairmead has offered to take children for the day, so as to set me free, and therefore can only acquiesce. Unescapable conviction comes over me that I shan’t be able to find a complete set of undergarments that match, for when I have to be tried on – but perhaps this will only take place at a later stage? Must remember to bear the question in mind when dealing with laundry, but am aware that I have been defeated on the point before, and almost certainly shall be again.

  Caroline Concannon returns with children, we all go out together and have inexpensive lunch of fried fish, chipped potatoes and meringues at adjacent Lyons, after which there seems to be a general feeling that C. C. is one of ourselves, and both the children address her by her Christian name.

  Am much struck by all of this, and decide that the Modern Girl has been maligned. Possible material here for interesting little article on Preconceived Opinions in regard to Unfamiliar Types? Have vague idea of making a few notes on these lines, but this finally resolves itself into a list of minor articles required by Robin and Vicky, headed, as usual, by Tooth-Paste.

  (Query: Do all schools possess a number of pupils whose parents are unable or unwilling to supply them with tooth-paste, and are they accordingly invited to share that of the better-equipped? Can think of no other explanation for the permanently depleted state of tubes belonging to Robin and Vicky.)

  August 15th. – Holidays rush by, with customary dizzying speed and extremely unusual number of fine days. We go for picnics – sugar is forgotten once, and salt twice – drive immense distances in order to bathe for ten minutes in sea which always turns out cold – and Robin takes up tennis. Felicity Fairmead comes to stay, is as popular as ever with children, and more so than ever with Robert as she has begun to play the piano again, and does so whenever we ask her. This leads to successful musical evenings, except when I undertake to sing solo part of ‘Alouette’ and break down rather badly. Make up for it – or so I think – by restrained, but at the same time moving interpretation of ‘In the Gloaming’. Felicity, however, says that it reminds her of her great-grandmother, and Robert enquires if that is What’s-his-name’s Funeral March? and I decide to sing no more for the present.

  Caroline Concannon also honours us by week-end visit, and proves incredibly lively. Am led to ask myself at exactly what stage youth, in my own case, gave way to middle-age, and become melancholy and introspective. C. C., however, insists on playing singles with me at eleven o’clock in the morning, and showers extravagant praise on what she rightly describes as my one shot, and soon afterwards she suggests that we should all go in the car to the nearest confectioner’s and get ices. Children are naturally enthusiastic, and I find myself agreeing to everything, including bathing-picnic in the afternoon.

  This leads to complete neglect of household duties hitherto viewed as unescapable, also to piles of unanswered letters, unmended clothes and total absence of fresh flowers indoors, but no cataclysmic results ensue, and am forced to the conclusion that I h
ave possibly exaggerated the importance of these claims on my time hitherto.

  Ask C. C. about the flat and she is airy, and says Oh, she hopes I won’t think it too frightfully untidy – (am perfectly certain that I shall) – and she had a new washer put on the kitchen tap the other day, which she evidently thinks constitutes conclusive evidence as to her being solid and reliable tenant. She also adds that there is now a kitten in Doughty Street, practically next door, and that the chandelier needs cleaning but can only be done by A Man. Am struck, not for the first time, by the number of contingencies, most of a purely domestic character, that can apparently only be dealt with by A Man.

  August 31st. – Imperatively worded postcard from Mrs Tressider informs me that I am to write instantly to offices of the Holland – Amerika Line, and book passage in S. S. Rotterdam, sailing September 30th. If I do this, says postcard, very illegibly indeed, I shall be privileged to travel with perfectly delightful American, wife of well-known financier, and great friend of Mrs T.’s. Details will follow, but there is not a moment to be lost. Am infected by this spirit of urgency, write madly to the Holland – Amerika Line, and then wonder – too late – whether I really want to thrust my companionship on perfectly delightful unknown American and – still more – whether she will see any reason to thank me for having done so. Letter, however, arrives from shipping offices, enclosing enormous plan, entirely unintelligible to me, over which Robert spends a good deal of time with his spectacles on, and quantities of information from which I extract tonnage of ship – which leaves me cold – and price of single fare, which is less than I expected, and reassures me. Robert says that he supposes this will do as well as anything else – not at all enthusiastically – and Vicky quite irrationally says that I must go in that ship and no other. (Disquieting thought: Will Vicky grow up into a second Mrs T.? Should not be in the very least surprised if she did.)

  Second postcard from Mrs T. arrives: She has seen her American friend – (How?) – and the friend is absolutely delighted at the idea of travelling with me, and will do everything she can to help me. Idle impulse assails me to write back on another postcard and say that it would really help me more than anything if she would pay my passage for me – but this, naturally, dismissed at once. Further inspection of postcard, which is extensively blotted, reveals something written in extreme right-hand corner, of which I am unable to make out a word. Robert is appealed to, and says that he thinks it has something to do with luggage, but am quite unable to subscribe to this, and refer to Our Vicar’s Wife, who has called in about morris-dancing. She says Yes, yes, where are her glasses, and takes a good many things out of her bag and puts them all back again and finally discovers glasses in a little case in her bicycle basket, and studies postcard from a distance of at least a yard away.

  Result of it all is that It Might be Anything, and Our Vicar’s Wife always has said, and always will say, that plain sewing is a great deal more important than all this higher education. As for Our Vicar, says Our Vicar’s Wife, he makes an absolute point of seeing that the Infant School is taught its multiplication-table in the good old-fashioned way.

  We all agree that this is indeed essential, and conversation drifts off to Harvest Festival, drought in Cheshire – Our Vicar’s married sister in despair about her french beans – tennis at Wimbledon, and increasing rarity of the buzzard-hawk.

  Hours later, Robin picks up Mrs T.’s postcard, and reads the whole of it from end to end, including postscript, to the effect that I must be prepared to pay duty on every single thing I take to America, especially anything new in the way of clothes. Am so much impressed by dear Robin’s skill that I quite forget to point out utter undesirability of reading postcards addressed to other people till long after he has gone to bed.

  Am much disturbed at the idea of paying duty on all my clothes, and lie awake for some time wondering if I can possibly evade obligations already incurred towards Rose’s friend – the coming Molyneux – but decide that this cannot honourably be done.

  Sept. 1st. – Call upon aged neighbour, Mrs Blenkinsop, to meet married daughter Barbara Carruthers, newly returned from India with baby. Find large party assembled, eight females and one very young man – said to be nephew of local doctor – who never speaks at all but hands tea about very politely and offers me dish containing swiss-roll no less than five times.

  Barbara proves to have altered little, is eloquent about India, and talks a good deal about tiffin, also Hot Weather and Going up to the Hills. We are all impressed, and enquire after husband. He is, says Barbara, well, but he works too hard. Far too hard. She thinks that he will kill himself, and is always telling him so.

  Temporary gloom cast by the thought of Crosbie Carruthers killing himself is dissipated by the baby, who crawls about on the floor, and is said to be like his father. At this, however, old Mrs Blenkinsop suddenly rebels, and announces that dear Baby is the image of herself as a tiny, and demands the immediate production of her portrait at four years old to prove her words. Portrait is produced, turns out to be a silhouette, showing pitch-black little profile with ringlets and necklace, on white background, and we all say Yes, we quite see what she means.

  Baby very soon afterwards begins to cry – can this be cause and effect? – and is taken away by Barbara.

  Mrs B. tells us that it is a great joy to have them with her, she has given up the whole of the top floor to them, and it means engaging an extra girl, and of course dear Baby’s routine has to come before everything, so that her little house is upside-down – but that, after all, is nothing. She is old, her life is over, nothing now matters to her, except the welfare and happiness of her loved ones.

  Everybody rather dejected at these sentiments, and I seek to make a diversion by referring to approaching departure for America.

  Several pieces of information are then offered to me:

  The Americans are very hospitable.

  The Americans are so hospitable that they work one to death. (Analogy here with Barbara’s husband?)

  The Americans like the English.

  The Americans do not like the English at all.

  It is not safe to go out anywhere in Chicago without a revolver. (To this I might well reply that, so far as I am concerned, it would be even less safe to go out with one.)

  Whatever happens I must visit Hollywood, eat waffles, see a baseball match, lunch at a Women’s Club, go up to the top of the Woolworth Building, and get invited to the house of a millionaire so as to see what it’s like.

  All alcohol in America is wood-alcohol and if I touch it I shall die, or become blind or go raving mad.

  It is quite impossible to refuse to drink alcohol in America, because the Americans are so hospitable.

  Decide after this to go home, and consult Robert as to advisability of cancelling proposed visit to America altogether.

  Sept. 7th. – Instructions from America reach me to the effect that I am to stay at Essex House, in New York. Why Essex? Should much have preferred distinctive American name, such as Alabama or Connecticut House. Am consoled by enclosure, which gives photograph of superb skyscraper, and informs me that, if I choose, I shall be able to dine in the Persian Coffee Shop, under the direction of a French chef, graduate of the Escoffier School.

  The English Molyneux sends home my clothes in instalments, am delighted with flowered red silk which is – I hope – to give me self-confidence in mounting any platform on which I may have the misfortune to find myself – also evening dress, more or less devoid of back, in very attractive pale brocade. Show red silk to Our Vicar’s Wife, who says Marvellous, dear, but do not produce backless evening frock.

  Sept. 20th. – Letter arrives from complete stranger – signature seems to be Ella B. Chickhyde, which I think odd – informing me that she is so disappointed that the sailing of the Rotterdam has been cancelled, and we must sail instead by the Statendam, on October 7th, unless we like to make a dash for the previous boat, which means going on board the day after to-morro
w, and will I be so kind as to telegraph? Am thrown into confusion by the whole thing, and feel that Robert will think it is all my fault – which he does, and says that Women Never Stick to Anything for Five Minutes Together – which is wholly unjust, but makes me feel guilty all the same. He also clears up identity of Ella B. Chickhyde, by saying that she must be the friend of that woman who came in a car on her way to Wales, and talked. This at once recalls Mrs Tressider, and I telegraph to Ella B. Chickhyde to say that I hope to sail on the Statendam.

  Last day of the holidays then takes its usual course. I pack frantically in the intervals of reading Vice Versa aloud, playing Corinthian Bagatelle, sanctioning an expedition to the village to buy sweets, and helping Vicky over her holiday task, about which she has suddenly become acutely anxious, after weeks of brassy indifference.

  Sept. 21st. – Take children to London, and general dispersal ensues. Vicky drops large glass bottle of sweets on platform at Waterloo, with resultant breakage, amiable porter rushes up and tells her not to cry, as he can arrange it all. This he does by laboriously separating broken glass from sweets, with coal-black hands, and placing salvage in a piece of newspaper. Present him with a florin, and am not sufficiently strong-minded to prevent Vicky from going off with newspaper parcel bulging in coat pocket.

  Robin and I proceed to Charing Cross – he breaks lengthy silence by saying that to him it only seems one second ago that I was meeting him here, instead of seeing him off – and this moves me so much that I am quite unable to answer, and we walk down Platform Six – Special School-train – without exchanging a syllable. The place is, as usual, crowded with parents and boys, including minute creature who can scarcely be seen under grey wide-awake hat, and who I suggest must be a new boy. Robin, however, says Oh no, that’s quite an old boy, and seems slightly amused.

  Parting, thanks to this blunder on my part, is slightly less painful than usual, and I immediately go and have my hair washed and set, in order to distract my thoughts, before proceeding to Doughty Street. Caroline awaits me there, together with lavish display of flowers that she has arranged in my honour, which touches me, and entirely compensates for strange disorder that prevails all over flat. Moreover, C. C. extraordinarily sweet-tempered and acquiesces with apologies when I suggest the removal of tiny green hat, two glass vases and a saucepan, from the bathroom.