The Diary of a Provincial Lady

by E M Delafield

  Reach Mrs Peacock, who is behind Canteen counter, sitting on a box, and looks kind but harassed.

  She has a bad leg. Not a permanent bad leg but it gets in the way, and she will be glad of extra help.

  Feel much encouraged by this. Nobody else has made faintest suggestion of being glad of extra help – on the contrary.

  Raise my voice so as to be audible above gramophone (‘Little Sir Echo’) and wireless (… And so, bairns, we bid Good-bye to Bonnie Scotland) – roarings and bellowings of Darts Finals being played in a corner, and clatter of dishes from the kitchen – and announce that I am Come to Help – which I think sounds as if I were one of the Ministering Children Forty Years After.

  Mrs Peacock, evidently too dejected even to summon up customary formula that there is nothing for me to do except Stand By as she is turning helpers away by the hundred every hour, smiles rather wanly and says I am very kind.

  What, I enquire, can I do?

  At the moment nothing. (Can this be a recrudescence of Stand By theme?)

  The five o’clock rush is over, and the seven o’clock rush hasn’t begun. Mrs Peacock is taking the opportunity of sitting for a moment. She heroically makes rather half-hearted attempt at offering me half packing-case, which I at once decline, and ask about her leg.

  Mrs P. displays it, swathed in bandages beneath her stocking, and tells me how her husband had two boxes of sand, shovel and bucket prepared for emergency use – (this evidently euphemism for incendiary bombs) – and gave full instructions to household as to use of them, demonstrating in back garden. Mrs P. herself took part in this, she adds impressively. I say Yes, yes, to encourage her, and she goes on. Telephone call then obliged her to leave the scene – interpolation here about nature of the call involving explanation as to young married niece – husband a sailor, dear little baby with beautiful big blue eyes – from whom call emanated.

  Ninth pip-pip-pip compelled Mrs P. to ring off and, in retracing her steps, she crossed first-floor landing on which husband, without a word of warning, had meanwhile caused boxes of sand, shovel and bucket to be ranged, with a view to permanent instalment there. Mrs P. – not expecting any of them – unfortunately caught her foot in the shovel, crashed into the sand-boxes, and was cut to the bone by edge of the bucket.

  She concludes by telling me that it really was a lesson. Am not clear of what nature, or to whom, but sympathise very much and say I shall hope to save her as much as possible.

  Hope this proceeds from unmixed benevolence, but am inclined to think it is largely actuated by desire to establish myself definitely as canteen worker – in which it meets with success.

  Return to Buckingham Street flat again coincides with exit of owner, who at once enquires whether I have ascertained whereabouts of nearest air-raid shelter.

  Well, yes, I have in a way. That is to say, the ARP establishment in Adelphi is within three minutes’ walk, and I could go there. Owner returns severely that that is Not Good Enough. He must beg of me to take this question seriously, and pace the distance between bedroom and shelter and find out how long it would take to get there in the event of an emergency. Moreover, he declares there is a shelter nearer than the Adelphi, and proceeds to indicate it.

  Undertake, reluctantly, to conduct a brief rehearsal of my own exodus under stimulus of air-raid alarm, and subsequently do so.

  This takes the form of rather interesting little experiment in which I lay out warm clothes, heavy coat, Our Mutual Friend – Shakespeare much more impressive but cannot rise to it – small bottle of boiled sweets – sugar said to increase energy and restore impaired morale – and electric torch. Undress and get into bed, then sound imaginary tocsin, look at my watch, and leap up.

  Dressing is accomplished without mishap and proceed downstairs and into street with Our Mutual Friend, boiled sweets and electric torch. Am shocked to find myself strongly inclined to run like a lamplighter, in spite of repeated instructions issued to the contrary. If this is the case when no raid at all is taking place, ask myself what it would be like with bombers overhead – and do not care to contemplate reply.

  Street seems very dark, and am twice in collision with other pedestrians. Reaction to this is merry laughter on both sides. (Effect of black-out on national hilarity quite excellent.)

  Turn briskly down side street and up to entrance of air-raid shelter, which turns out to be locked. Masculine voice enquires where I think I am going, and I say, Is it the police? No, it is the Air-raid Warden. Explain entire situation; he commends my forethought and says that on the first sound of siren alarm He Will be There. Assure him in return that in that case we shall meet, as I shall also Be There, with equal celerity, and we part – cannot say whether temporarily or for ever.

  Wrist-watch, in pocket of coat, reveals that entire performance has occupied four and a half minutes only.

  Am much impressed, and walk back reflecting on my own efficiency and wondering how best to ensure that it shall be appreciated by Robert, to whom I propose to write spirited account.

  Return to flat reveals that I have left all the electric lights burning – though behind blue shades – and forgotten gas-mask, still lying in readiness on table.

  Decide to put off writing account to Robert.

  Undress and get into bed again, leaving clothes and other properties ready as before – gas-mask in prominent position on shoes – but realise that if I have to go through whole performance all over again to-night, shall be very angry indeed.

  October 2nd. – No alarm takes place. Wake at two o’clock and hear something which I think may be a warbling note from a siren – which we have been told to expect – but if so, warbler very poor and indeterminate performer, and come to the conclusion that it is not worth my attention and go to sleep again.

  Post – now very late every day – does not arrive until after breakfast.

  Short note from Robert informs me that all is well, he does not care about the way the Russians are behaving – (he never has) – his ARP office has more volunteers than he knows what to do with – and young Cramp from the garage, who offered to learn method of dealing with unexploded bombs, has withdrawn after ten minutes’ instruction on the grounds that he thinks it seems rather dangerous.

  Robert hopes I am enjoying the black-out – which I think is satirical – and has not forwarded joint letter received from Robin as there is nothing much in it. (Could willingly strangle him for this.)

  Vicky’s letter, addressed to me, makes some amends, as she writes ecstatically about heavenly new dormitory, divine concert and utterly twee air-raid shelter newly constructed (towards which parents will no doubt be asked to contribute). Vicky’s only complaint is to the effect that no air-raid has yet occurred, which is very dull.

  Also receive immensely long and chatty letter from Aunt Blanche. Marigold and Margery are well, Doreen Fitzgerald and Cook have failed to reach identity of views regarding question of the children’s supper but this has now been adjusted by Aunt Blanche and I am not to worry, and Robert seems quite all right, though not saying much.

  Our Vicar’s Wife has been to tea – worn to a thread and looking like death – but has declared that she is getting on splendidly and the evacuees are settling down, and a nephew of a friend of hers, in the Militia, has told his mother, who has written it to his aunt, who has passed it on to Our Vicar’s Wife, that all Berlin is seething with discontent, and a revolution in Germany is scheduled for the first Monday in November.

  Is this, asks Aunt Blanche rhetorically, what the Press calls Wishful Thinking?

  She concludes with affectionate enquiries as to my well-being, begs me to go and see old Uncle A. when I have time, and is longing to hear what post I have been offered by the Ministry of Information. P.S.: What about the Sweep? Cook has been asking.

  Have never yet either left home, or got back to it, without being told that Cook is asking about the Sweep.

  Large proportion of mail consists of letters, full of eloquence, f
rom tradespeople who say that they are now faced with a difficult situation which will, however, be improved on receipt of my esteemed cheque.

  Irresistible conviction comes over me that my situation is even more difficult than theirs, and, moreover, no cheques are in the least likely to come and improve it.

  Turn, in hopes of consolation, to remainder of mail and am confronted with Felicity Fairmead’s writing – very spidery – on envelope, and typewritten letter within, which she has forgotten to sign. Tells me that she is using typewriter with a view to training for war work, and adds candidly that she can’t help hoping war may be over before she finds it. This, says Felicity, is awful, she knows very well, but she can’t help it. She is deeply ashamed of her utter uselessness, as she is doing nothing whatever except staying as Paying Guest in the country with delicate friend whose husband is in France, and who has three small children, also delicate, and one maid who isn’t any use, so that Felicity and friend make the beds, look after the children, do most of the cooking and keep the garden in order. Both feel how wrong it is not to be doing real work for the country, and this has driven Felicity to the typewriter and friend to the knitting of socks and Balaclava helmets.

  Felicity concludes with wistful supposition that I am doing something splendid.

  Should be very sorry to enlighten her on this point, and shall feel constrained to leave letter unanswered until reality of my position corresponds rather more to Felicity’s ideas.

  Meanwhile, have serious thoughts of sending copies of her letter to numerous domestic helpers of my acquaintance who have seen fit to leave their posts at a moment’s notice in order to seek more spectacular jobs elsewhere.

  Remaining item in the post is letter-card – which I have customary difficulty in tearing open and only succeed at the expense of one corner – and proves to be from Barbara Carruthers née Blenkinsop, now living in Midlands. She informs me that this war is upsetting her very much: it really is dreadful for her, she says, because she has children, and situation may get very difficult later on and they may have to do without things and she has always taken so much trouble to see that they have everything. They are at present in Westmorland, but this is a considerable expense and moreover petrol regulations make it impossible to go and see them, and train-service – about which Barbara is indignant and says it is very hard on her – most unsatisfactory. How long do I think war is going on? She had arranged for her elder boys to go to excellent Preparatory School near London this autumn, but school has moved to Wales, which isn’t at all the same thing, and Barbara does feel it’s rather too bad. And what do I think about food shortage? It is most unfair if her children are to be rationed, and she would even be prepared to pay extra for them to have additional supplies. She concludes by sending me her love and enquiring casually whether Robin has been sent to France yet, or is he just too young?

  Am so disgusted at Barbara’s whole attitude that I dramatically tear up letter into fragments and cast it from me, but realise later that it should have been kept in order that I might send suitable reply.

  Draft this in my own mind several times in course of the day, until positively vitriolic indictment is evolved which will undoubtedly never see the light of day, and would probably land me in the Old Bailey on a charge of defamatory libel if it did.

  Purchase overall for use in Canteen, debate the question of trousers and decide that I must be strong-minded enough to remain in customary clothing which is perfectly adequate to work behind the counter. Find myself almost immediately afterwards trying on very nice pair of navy-blue slacks, thinking that I look well in them and buying them.

  Am prepared to take any bet that I shall wear them every time I go on duty.

  As this is not to happen till nine o’clock to-night, determine to look up the Weatherbys, who might possibly be able to suggest whole-time National Service job – and old Uncle A. about whom Aunt Blanche evidently feels anxious.

  Ring up Uncle A. – his housekeeper says he will be delighted to see me at tea-time – and also Mrs Weatherby, living in Chelsea, who invites me to lunch and says her husband, distinguished Civil Servant, will be in and would much like to meet me. Imagination instantly suggests that he has heard of me (in what connection cannot possibly conceive), and, on learning that he is to be privileged to see me at his table, will at once realise that Civil Service would be the better for my assistance in some highly authoritative capacity.

  Spend hours wondering what clothes would make me look most efficient, but am quite clear not slacks for the Civil Service. Finally decide on black coat and skirt, white blouse with frill of austere, not frilly, type, and cone-shaped black hat. Find that I look like inferior witch in third-rate pantomime in the latter, and take it off again. Only alternative is powder-blue with rainbow-like swathings, quite out of the question. Feel myself obliged to go out and buy small black hat, with brim like a jockey-cap and red edging. Have no idea whether this is in accordance with Civil Service tastes or not, but feel that I look nice in it.

  Walk to Chelsea, and on looking into small mirror in handbag realise that I don’t after all. Can do nothing about it, and simply ask hall-porter for Mrs Weatherby, and am taken up in lift to sixth-floor flat, very modern and austere, colouring entirely neutral and statuette – to me wholly revolting – of misshapen green cat occupying top of bookcase, dominating whole of the room.

  Hostess comes in – cannot remember if we are on Christian-name terms or not, but inclined to think not and do not risk it – greets me very kindly and again repeats that her husband wishes to meet me.

  (Civil Service appointment definitely in sight, and decide to offer Serena job as my private secretary.)

  Discuss view of the river from window – Mrs Weatherby says block of flats would be an excellent target from the air, at which we both laugh agreeably – extraordinary behaviour of the Ministry of Information, and delightful autumnal colouring in neighbourhood of Bovey Tracy, which Mrs Weatherby says she knows well.

  Entrance of Mr Weatherby puts an end to this interchange, and we are introduced. Mr W. very tall and cadaverous, and has a beard, which makes me think of Agrippa.

  He says that he has been wishing to meet me, but does not add why. Produces sherry and we talk about black-out, President Roosevelt – I say that his behaviour throughout entire crisis has been magnificent and moves me beyond measure – Mrs Weatherby agrees, but Agrippa seems surprised and I feel would like to contradict me but politeness forbids – and we pass on to cocker spaniels, do not know how or why.

  Admirable parlourmaid – uniform, demeanour and manner all equally superior to those of Winnie, or even departed May – announces that Luncheon is served, madam, and just as I prepare to swallow remainder of sherry rapidly, pallid elderly gentleman crawls in, leaning on stick and awakening in me instant conviction that he is not long for this world.

  Impression turns out to be not without foundation as it transpires that he is Agrippa’s uncle, and has recently undergone major operation at London Nursing Home but was desired to leave it at five minutes’ notice in order that bed should be available if and when required. Uncle asserts that he met this – as well he might – with protests but was unfortunately too feeble to enforce them and accordingly found himself, so he declares, on the pavement while still unable to stand. From this fearful plight he has been retrieved by Agrippa, and given hospitality of which he cannot speak gratefully enough.

  Story concludes with examples of other, similar cases, of which we all seem to know several, and Mrs Weatherby’s solemn assurance that all the beds of all the Hospitals and Nursing Homes in England are standing empty, and that no civilian person is to be allowed to be ill until the war is over.

  Agrippa’s uncle shakes his head, and looks worse than ever, and soon after he has pecked at chicken soufflé, waved away sweet omelette and turned his head from the sight of Camembert cheese, he is compelled by united efforts of the Weatherbys to drink a glass of excellent port and retire from the room
.

  They tell me how very ill he has been – can well believe it – and that there was another patient even more ill, in room next to his at Nursing Home, who was likewise desired to leave. She, however, defeated the authorities by dying before they had time to get her packing done.

  Find myself exclaiming ‘Well done!’ in enthusiastic tone before I have time to stop myself, and am shocked. So, I think, are the Weatherbys – rightly.

  Agrippa changes the conversation and asks my opinion about the value of the natural resources of Moravia. Fortunately answers his own question, at considerable length.

  Cannot see that any of this, however interesting, is leading in the direction of war work for me.

  On returning to drawing-room and superb coffee which recalls Cook’s efforts at home rather sadly to my mind – I myself turn conversation forcibly into desired channel.

  What an extraordinary thing it is, I say, that so many intelligent and experienced people are not, so far as one can tell, being utilised by the Government in any way!

  Mrs Weatherby replies that she thinks most people who are really trained for anything worth while have found no difficulty whatever in getting jobs, and Agrippa declares that it is largely a question of Standing By, and will continue to be so for many months to come.

  Does he, then, think that this will be a long war?

  Agrippa, assuming expression of preternatural discretion, replies that he must not, naturally, commit himself. Government officials, nowadays, have to be exceedingly careful in what they say as I shall, he has no doubt, readily understand.

  Mrs Weatherby strikes in to the effect that it is difficult to see how the war can be a very short one, and yet it seems unlikely to be a very long one.

  I enquire whether she thinks it is going to be a middling one, and then feel I have spoken flippantly and that both disapprove of me.