He is, however, prepared to let us see the communication if we should care to do so.
Oui, oui, replies Lady Blowfield in great agitation – evidently under the impression that this cryptic answer will wholly defeat the butler, now handing coffee and cigarettes.
(Take a good look at butler, to see what he thinks of it all, but he remains impassive.)
Coffee is finished hastily – regret this, as should much have preferred to linger – and we retreat to drawing-room and Gitnik produces from a pocket-book several newspaper cuttings – which he replaces – envelope with a foreign stamp but only looks like ordinary French one – and postcard of which he displays one side on which is written: ‘Je crois que Monsieur Hitler a les jitters’.
The rest of the card, says Gitnik, tells nothing – nothing at all. But that one phrase – coming as it does from a man who is probably better informed on the whole situation than almost anybody in Europe – that one phrase seems to him quite startlingly significant Non è vero?
Everybody looks very serious, and Lady Blowfield shakes her head several times and only hopes that it’s true. We all agree that we only hope it’s true, and postcard is carefully replaced in pocket-book again by Monsieur Gitnik.
Shortly afterwards he evidently feels that he has shot his bolt and departs, asserting that the Ministry of Information has sent for him, but that they will not like what he feels himself obliged to say to them.
Lady Blowfield – rather wistful tone, as though not absolutely certain of her ground – enquires whether we don’t think that that really is a most interesting man, and I find myself unable to emulate the Weatherbys, who maintain a brassy silence, but make indeterminate sounds as though agreeing with her.
Take my departure at the same moment as Weatherbys, and once outside the front door Mr W. pronounces that the wretched fellow is a complete fraud, and knows, if anything, rather less than anybody else.
Mrs W. and I join in, and I feel more drawn towards them than I should ever have believed possible. Am sorry to note that abuse and condemnation of a common acquaintance often constitutes very strong bond of union between otherwise uncongenial spirits.
Part from them at Hyde Park Corner: Mr W. must on no account be late – Home Office awaits him – and springs into a taxi, Mrs W. elects to walk across the park and view dahlias, and I proceed by bus to large Oxford Street shop, where I find myself the only customer, and buy two pairs of lisle stockings to be despatched to Vicky at school.
October 6th. – Wireless reports Hitler’s speech to the Reich, setting forth utterly ridiculous peace proposals. Nobody in the least interested, and wireless is switched off half-way through by Serena who says that Even the Londonderry Air, of which the BBC seems so fond, would be more amusing.
Agree with her in principle, and express the hope that Mr Chamberlain will be in no hurry to reply to Adolf’s nonsense. Serena thinks that he won’t, and that it’ll be quite fun to see what America says as their newspapers always express themselves so candidly, and asks me to serve her with a cup of coffee, a packet of cigarettes and two apples.
We then discuss at great length rumour that WVS is to be disbanded and started again on quite a new basis, with blue uniforms.
Mrs Peacock asks if I would like to take over Cash Register, and I agree to do so subject to instruction, and feel important.
She also suggests that I should take duty on Sunday for an hour or two, as this always a difficult day on which to get help, and I light-heartedly say Yes, yes, any time she likes – I live just over the way and nothing can be easier than to step across. She can put me down for whatever hour is most difficult to fill. She immediately puts me down for 6 a.m.
October 8th. – Inclined to wish I hadn’t been so obliging. Six a.m. very un-inspiring hour indeed.
Granny Bo-Peep enters Canteen at half-past seven – looks as fresh as a daisy – and tells me roguishly that my eyes are full of sleepy-dust and she thinks the sand-man isn’t far away, and orders breakfast – a pot of tea, buttered toast and scrambled eggs.
Colonial fellow-worker hands them to her and ejaculates – to my great annoyance – that she thinks Mrs Winter-Gammon is just wonderful. Always cheerful, always on her feet, always thinking of others.
Granny Bo-Peep – must have preternaturally acute hearing – manages to intercept this and enquires what nonsense is that? What is there wonderful about a good-for-nothing old lady doing her bit, as the boys in brave little Belgium used to call it? Why, she’s proud to do what she can, and if the aeroplanes do come and a bomb drops on her – why, it just isn’t going to matter. Should like, for the first time in our association, to tell old Mrs W.-G. that I entirely agree with her. Young Colonial – evidently nicer nature than mine – expresses suitable horror at suggested calamity, and Mrs W.-G. is thereby encouraged to ruffle up her curls with one claw and embark on story concerning one of the stretcher-bearers who has – she alleges – attached himself to her and follows her about everywhere like a shadow. Why, she just can’t imagine. (Neither can I.)
Order for Two Sausages from elderly and exhausted-looking Special Constable who has been on duty in the street all night takes me to the kitchen, where Cook expresses horror and incredulity at message and says I must have made a mistake, as nobody could order just sausages. He must have meant with fried bread, or mashed, or even tomatoes.
Special Constable says No, he didn’t. He said sausages and he meant sausages.
Can only report this adamant spirit to Cook, who seems unable to credit it even now, and takes surreptitious look through the hatch at Special Constable, now leaning limply against the counter. He shakes his head at my suggestions of coffee, bread-and-butter or a nice cup of tea, and removes his sausages to corner of table, and Cook says it beats her how anybody can eat a sausage all on its own, let alone two of them, but she supposes it’ll take all sorts to win this war.
Lull has set in and sit down on Mrs Peacock’s box and think of nineteen hundred and fourteen and myself as a V.A.D. and tell myself solemnly that a quarter of a century makes a difference to one in many ways.
This leads on to thoughts of Robin and Vicky and I have mentally put one into khaki and the other into blue slacks, suede jacket and tin hat, when Granny Bo-Peep’s voice breaks in with the assertion that she knows just what I’m thinking about: she can read it in my face. I’m thinking about my children.
Have scarcely ever been so near committing murder in my life.
Young Colonial – could wish she had either more discrimination or less kindliness – is encouraging old Mrs W.-G. – who isn’t in the least in need of encouraging – by respectful questions as to her own family circle, and Mrs W.-G. replies that she is alone, except for the many, many dear friends who are good enough to say that she means something in their lives. She has never had children, which she implies is an error on the part of Providence as she knows she ought to have been the mother of sons. She has a natural affinity with boys and they with her.
When she was living with her dear Edgar in his East End parish, many years ago, she invariably asked him to let her teach the boys. Not the girls. The boys. Just the boys. And Edgar used to reply: These boys are the Roughest of the Rough. They are beyond a gentlewoman’s control. But Mrs W.-G. would simply repeat: Give me the boys, Edgar. And Edgar – her beloved could never hold out against her – eventually gave her the boys. And what was the result?
The result was that the boys – though still the Roughest of the Rough – became tamed. A lady’s influence, was the verdict of Edgar, in less than a month. One dear lad – a scallywag from the dockside if ever there was one, says Mrs W.-G. musingly – once made use of Bad Language in her presence. And the other poor lads almost tore him to pieces, dear fellows. Chivalry. Just chivalry. The Beloved always said that she seemed to call it out.
She herself – ha-ha-ha – thinks it was because she was such A Tiny – it made them feel protective. Little Mother Sunshine they sometimes called her – but th
at might have been because in those days her curlywig was gold, not silver.
Even the young Colonial is looking rather stunned by this time, and only ejaculates very feebly when Mrs W.-G. stops for breath. As for myself, a kind of coma has overtaken me and I find myself singing in an undertone ‘South of the Border, down Mexico Way’ – to distant gramophone accompaniment.
Am relieved at Cash Register what seems like weeks later – but is really only two hours – and retire to Buckingham Street.
Curious sense of unreality pervades everything – cannot decide if this is due to extraordinary and unnatural way in which the war is being conducted, without any of the developments we were all led to expect, or to lack of sleep, or merely to prolonged dose of old Mrs Winter-Gammon’s conversation.
Debate the question lying in hot bath, wake up with fearful start although am practically positive that I haven’t been asleep, and think how easily I might have drowned – recollections of George Joseph Smith and Brides in the Bath follow – crawl into bed and immediately become mentally alert and completely wide awake.
This state of things endures until I get up and dress and make myself tea and hot buttered toast.
Timid tap at flat door interrupts me, and, to my great surprise, find Muriel – curls and all – outside. She explains that Serena has said that I have a bathroom and that I am very kind and that there is no doubt whatever of my allowing her to have a bath. Is this all right?
Am touched and flattered by this trusting spirit, and assure her that it is.
(Query: Are my services to the Empire in the present world-war to take the form of supplying hot baths to those engaged in more responsible activities? Answer: At present, apparently, yes.)
Muriel comes out from bathroom more decorative than ever – curls evidently natural ones – and we have agreeable chat concerning all our fellow workers, about whom our opinions tally. She then drifts quietly out again, saying that she is going to have a really marvellous time this afternoon, because she and a friend of hers have been saving up all their petrol and they are actually going to drive out to Richmond Park. Remembrance assails me, after she has gone, that Serena has said that Muriel’s parents own a Rolls-Royce and are fabulously wealthy. Have dim idea of writing short, yet brilliant, article on New Values in War-Time – but nothing comes of it.
Instead, write a letter to Robert – not short, but not brilliant either. Also instructions to Aunt Blanche about letting Cook have the Sweep, if that’s what she wants, and suggesting blackberry jelly if sugar will run to it, and not allowing her, on any account, to make pounds and pounds of marrow jam which she is certain to suggest and which everybody hates and refuses to touch.
P.S.: I have seen Mrs Winter-Gammon quite a lot, and she seems very energetic indeed and has sent Aunt Blanche her love. Can quite understand why Aunt Blanche has said that she will not agree to share a flat with her again when the war is over. Mrs W.-G. has dynamic personality and is inclined to have a devitalising effect on her surroundings.
Re-read postscript and am not at all sure that it wouldn’t have been better to say in plain English that old Mrs W.-G. is more aggravating than ever, and Aunt Blanche is well out of sharing a flat with her.
Ring up Rose later on and enquire whether she has yet got a job.
No, nothing like that. Rose has sent in her name and qualifications to the British Medical Association, and has twice been round to see them, and she has received and filled in several forms, and has also had a letter asking if she is prepared to serve with His Majesty’s Forces abroad with the rank of Major, and has humorously replied Yes, certainly, if HM Forces don’t mind about her being a woman, and there the question, at present, remains.
All Rose’s medical colleagues are equally unoccupied and she adds that the position of the Harley Street obstetricians is particularly painful, as all their prospective patients have evacuated themselves from London and the prospect of their talents being utilised by the Services is naturally non-existent.
What, asks Rose, about myself?
Make the best show I can with the Canteen – position on Cash Register obviously quite a responsible one in its way – but Rose simply replies that it’s too frightful the way we’re all hanging about wasting our time and doing nothing whatever.
Retire from this conversation deeply depressed.
October 9th. – Mrs Peacock electrifies entire Canteen by saying that she has met a man who says that the British Government is going to accept Hitler’s peace terms.
Can only reply that he must be the only man in England to have adopted this view – and this is supported by everyone within hearing, Serena going so far as to assert that man must be a Nazi propaganda-agent as nobody else could have thought of anything so absurd.
Mrs P. looks rather crushed, but is not at all resentful, only declaring that man is not a Nazi propaganda-agent, but she thinks perhaps he just said it so as to be unlike anybody else – in which he has succeeded.
Man forthwith dismissed from the conversation by everybody.
No further incident marks the day until supper-time, when customary uproar of radio, gramophone, darts contest and newly imported piano (situated just outside Women’s Rest-room) has reached its climax.
Ginger-headed stretcher-bearer then comes up to order two fried eggs, two rashers, one sausage-roll and a suet dumpling, and asks me if I’ve heard the latest.
Prepare to be told that Dr Goebbels has been executed at the behest of his Führer at the very least, but news turns out to be less sensational. It is to the effect that the underworld has now been issued with shrouds, to be kept in the back of each car. Am dreadfully inclined to laugh at this, but stretcher-bearer is gloom personified, and I feel that my reaction is most unsuitable and immediately stifle it.
Stretcher-bearer then reveals that his chief feeling at this innovation is one of resentment. He was, he declares, in the last war, and nobody had shrouds then, but he supposes that this is to be a regular Gentleman’s Business.
Condole with him as best I can, and he takes his supper and walks away with it, still muttering very angrily about shrouds.
October 10th. – Letter received from extremely distinguished woman, retired from important Civil Service post less than a year ago, and with whom I am only in a position to claim acquaintance at all because she is friend of Rose’s. She enquires – very dignified phraseology – if I can by any chance tell her of suitable war work.
Can understand use of the word suitable when she adds, though without apparent rancour, entire story of recent attempts to serve her country through the medium of local ARP where she lives. She has filled up numbers of forms, and been twice interviewed by very refined young person of about nineteen, and finally summoned to nearest Council Offices for work alleged to be in need of experienced assistance.
Work takes the form of sitting in very chilly entrance-hall of Council Offices directing enquirers to go Upstairs and to the Right for information about Fuel Control, and Downstairs and Straight Through for Food Regulations.
Adds – language still entirely moderate – that she can only suppose the hall-porter employed by Council Offices has just been called up.
Am shocked and regretful, but in no position to offer any constructive suggestion.
Letter also reaches me from Cook – first time we have ever corresponded – saying that Winnie’s mother has sent a message that Winnie’s young sister came back from school with earache which has now gone to her foot and they think it may be rheumatic fever and can Winnie be spared for a bit to help. Cook adds that she supposes the girl had better go, and adds PS: The Butcher has took Winnie and dropped her the best part of the way. PPS.: Madam, what about the Sweep?
Am incredibly disturbed by this communication on several counts. Winnie’s absence more than inconvenient, and Cook herself will be the first person to complain of it bitterly. Have no security that Winnie’s mother’s idea of ‘a bit’ will correspond with mine.
Cann
ot understand why no letter from Aunt Blanche. Can Cook have made entire arrangement without reference to her? Allusion to Sweep also utterly distracting. Why so soon again? Or, alternatively, did Aunt Blanche omit to summon him at Cook’s original request, made almost immediately after my departure? If so, for what reason, and why have I been told nothing?
Can think of nothing else throughout very unsatisfactory breakfast, prepared by myself, in which electric toaster alternately burns the bread or produces no impression on it whatever except for three pitch-black perpendicular lines.
Tell myself that I am being foolish, and that all will be cleared up in the course of a post or two, and settle down resolutely to Inside Information column of favourite daily paper, which I read through five times only to find myself pursuing long, imaginary conversation with Cook at the end of it all.
Decide that the only thing to do is to telephone to Aunt Blanche this morning and clear up entire situation.
Resume Inside Information.
Decide that telephoning is not only expensive, but often unsatisfactory as well, and letter will serve the purpose better.
Begin Inside Information all over again.
Imaginary conversation resumed, this time with Aunt Blanche.
Decide to telephone, and immediately afterwards decide not to telephone.
Telephone bell rings and strong intuitional flash comes over me that decision has been taken out of my hands. (Just as well.)
Yes?
Am I Covent Garden? says masculine voice.
No, I am not.
Masculine voice ejaculates – tone expressive of annoyance, rather than regret for having disturbed me – and conversation closes.
Mysterious unseen compulsion causes me to dial TRU and ask for home number.
Die now cast.
After customary buzzing and clicking, Robert’s voice says Yes? and is told by Exchange to go ahead.
The Diary of a Provincial Lady Page 56