7 May
Arrived home to find Daphne literally sitting on the steps of the house waiting for me. My heart sank. She was the last person I wanted to see after a hard day, devoted though I am to her. She is so tiring these days, never listens to anything I say, interrupts all the time, never finishes sentences, it drives me to distraction. She claims to want to hear about my work but then when I begin to describe it she switches off. She comes to talk about herself and what she is doing, and to ask my advice, but without any intention of heeding it. In fact, she does not value my opinion, or so it would seem. It is all politics with Daphne. She would like to be a Member of Parliament. Well, I am impressed, but I know nothing about it. Percy would know more about the process of becoming one, but when I said so she made a face and said Percy was boring even if he had the right ideas. I suppose that is true. Percy is rather staid and dull though I don’t find him boring. But he cares about the Labour Party and its advancement just as much as Daphne and far more selflessly. Daphne says there will be an election soon. She wishes she could stand for a seat somewhere, but has no hope even though she says she has worked tirelessly for the local Labour Party and attended all the meetings and paid her own expenses to go to conferences. On and on she went until I was quite sick of her and wished she would leave. When she did, I was so tired I have come straight to bed.
8 May
Slept so badly last night and have been exhausted all day as a consequence. All Daphne’s fault. She made me start wondering about Percy, and then about Frank, and the difference between them, and what each of them meant to me. With Frank I am what people would call wicked, wanton, and other offensive words. Frank means pleasure to me, and pleasure of a secret sort. I was trying to calculate how often I see him and for how long and came to the conclusion that over the eighteen months or so that I have known him I have not spent as much time in his company as I have in Percy’s, which seems strange given the nature of our relationship. I realise that I see Percy for whole days at a time, and that when we spend these days together we simply walk and talk and that is all. Whereas when I am with Frank we are going to the theatre or the pictures, or eating in restaurants, or dancing, or, of course, being lovers. It is as if I am two people, or rather need to be with two different people to satisfy conflicting sides of myself. I am never keyed-up with Percy. He is so comfortable to be with. Even when all his talk is of politics he is not like Daphne, he makes it all interesting and understandable. So I slept dreadfully badly, and today felt ashamed that I had wasted so much time on introspection, especially when during my working day I witnessed scenes of such misery, enough to make my tossing and turning over petty problems seem so trivial. Mr Messenger asked me this morning, in a most sarcastic manner, if I was in any way aware of the problem of unemployment. I was furious and said of course I was, but when he asked me if I knew how many people were currently unemployed, and how much dole money was, I knew the answer to neither question. He took pleasure in informing me that the unemployment figure touched three million, and that the Labour Party had failed to do much about it; and that unemployment pay stood at 17 shillings per man with an allowance of 9 shillings for his wife and 2 shillings for each child. He told me all this because I had speculated, after one visit we made, as to why the woman of the family did not manage her husband’s money better, and suggested she needed lessons on how to do so. He obviously thought I needed a lesson on the realities of finance for a family where the wage earner is unemployed. I was silent after he’d finished. He said nothing more, but at the end of today said, quite kindly for him, that I would never make a social worker until I learned to be objective. He said a social worker had to be like a doctor and distance himself or herself from the person they were dealing with so that they could deal with the problem. I thought about arguing that surely he was mistaken to compare social work with medicine, because for a social worker the person is, quite often, part, and a big part, of the problem, whereas for the doctor the disease is mostly nothing to do with what the person is like. But I knew I would get in a muddle, so I said nothing. I will practise on Percy first.
*
By the autumn of this year, 1931, Millicent is well into her new career and out from under Mr Messenger’s supervision. She acquires a heavy case-load and becomes an expert on rules pertaining to grants and allowances but is not inured to the distress she feels about the plight of some of the families she visits. Sometimes she is so depressed she hasn’t the heart, she comments, to write much in her diary and it begins to read a bit like a list, a mere timetable of her day. She is so worn out she has no energy for good times with Frank and sex with him begins to lose its attraction. Frank, perhaps realising this, tries to do something about it just as the New Year begins.
*
6 January 1932
Frank had planned to take me to a Twelfth Night party, but I was much too tired to want to go, and said so. I thought he might be annoyed, or very disappointed and show it, but he accepted my decision calmly and was sympathetic. Instead we went for a quiet supper, and he was attentive and considerate. He saw me home, and though I had told him I was not in the mood for him to stay, he came in and had a night-cap. I should have known what was coming. In that manner of his which I find so off-putting, he began with his one, two and three, analysing what he called ‘our predicament’. At the bottom of it all, he said, was my constant exhaustion which was not just physical but emotional, too, because I was always fretting about my clients. My job had taken over my life in a way teaching had never done, and there was no longer much room in it for us as a couple. He said he worked hard too, and was devoted to his career, but he wasn’t drained by it. I interrupted to comment that I hoped he was not going to suggest I give up my job, because however tired it makes me I love it.
No, he said, he was not. What he was going to suggest was that we marry. I wish he hadn’t said that. I wish I had managed to stop him before that point, as I have done before. I think I even groaned aloud. I asked how being married would change anything even had I wanted to marry. He said he could look after me, and that I would be more secure. Since security isn’t the problem, this did not make sense, and I said so. But then he changed tack and, instead of being sensible and analytical, became sentimental and told me how much he loved me and how he wanted to be with me all the time. There was a lot more, about what an unusual girl I was and so on. I know it cost him a lot to say all this, and he was very tender and I do love him, in a way, and feel upset that I don’t love him enough to do what he wants and marry him.
We ended up kissing, and he would have liked to end up in bed but I wouldn’t. I said I couldn’t, it would be wrong and not fair to him when I had just declined his proposal. And then he became exasperated and jumped up and paced about and almost shouted, Why don’t you want to marry me? How could I explain when I do not know the answer myself? Frank would be most girls’ dream. He is attractive, has a good career, is well off, a good lover, kind, generous, fun to be with, cultured, the right age. And I have already slept with him and some might think therefore pledged myself to him. I don’t know what it is. But I know I don’t want to marry him. He asked me, very abruptly, if there was anyone else. I said of course not, he was, is, my one and only lover, which is true. That seemed to help. He sighed and said very well, he would leave, and he supposed we would just go on as before. I dared to say perhaps that would not be such a good idea when I was not much fun to be with and always tired and maybe we shouldn’t see each other for a while and he should see other girls. That seemed to frighten him. He looked stricken, and said was I giving him the boot, and I stupidly said no when I should have said I didn’t know, maybe I was. He said I was driving him mad and he didn’t know if he could stand it and I said that was why I thought we both needed a rest. He looked very sad, and shrugged, and said very well. I’ll leave you to call me when you’re ready. He trailed off, looking utterly dejected and unlike himself, and I felt awful – but also relieved. I still feel relieved
now.
*
During the next six months she sees Frank only four times and says very little in her diary about how these meetings go, except to describe outings to the theatre, with no mention of his coming back to spend the night. There is an intriguing mention, in May, of Frank having written a letter to her which impressed her, but intimacy does not appear to have been restored. Frank fades out of her life, though not entirely. She writes at one point that she is glad he and she can remain good friends.
Her diary then concentrates on her work, with very many descriptions of the state of the families she is concerned with. She feels she does so little to make any real difference and has to struggle not to become depressed by her failure. Percy, who continues to be her closest male friend though never a lover, urges her to see that it is the system which is failing the poor, not any fault of hers. Society must be reformed, Percy is quoted as telling her, and with the Labour Party ousted in the October election the previous year, he can’t see where the necessary reform is going to come from. He is worried about the rise of Mosley’s party, and about the rise of Fascism in Europe in general and warns a sceptical Millicent that another war might be on the way.
*
22 January 1933
Percy called this evening, unexpectedly. I made him a sandwich and cocoa because as usual he hadn’t had time to eat. Poor Percy. Now he is worried because Adolf Hitler has been made Chancellor of Germany and Percy says this is ominous. I have heard about Hitler of course, but I don’t really know why his rise to power is such a bad thing. Sometimes when Percy is so pessimistic and gloomy he makes me long for Frank again. I don’t think there could possibly be another war. It is only fifteen years since the last one and those who had to fight then would not allow it to happen again, surely. I asked Percy if he would join up if war did come and he surprised me by saying, of course. I cannot imagine Percy as a soldier. He is much too gentle, but then I suppose there were lots of men like Percy who fought and were killed in the last war. I couldn’t bear Percy to be killed. He has got me feeling as fearful as himself.
4 February
Esther has had another baby, another boy, to be called Harry. I expect she wanted a girl but it is so long since Stephen was born that perhaps she was just glad to have another baby at all. Mother wants me to go and visit to see the new baby. She says it is ages since I visited, and she is right. If Esther and George were not in the same house with Mother I convince myself I would go to visit her more often.
20 February
Just back from a weekend in Brighton. The new baby, Harry, has red hair, which has pleased Mother because of course Father was a red-head when he was young and I am auburn too, and she likes family resemblance. Esther is vast and looking even more unattractive than usual. I know she has just had a baby but even so she is grossly fat. Grace can’t bear her. It must be hard for Esther to have her in the house. Grace really is beautiful now, quite the best-looking in our family. Father would have been so proud of her. I can see him in my mind’s eye walking the promenade with Grace on his arm and everyone admiring her. I keep forgetting she is 16 and not a child any more. She leaves school this year and wants to train to be a dressmaker. It seems a lowly calling to me for such an intelligent girl, though who am I to talk, but Mother says all she thinks about is clothes and that she loves to make her own and is good at it, so I suppose it is all right. Grace was certainly very critical of my dress. She looked me up and down, and told me to turn round, so I gave her a little twirl to show how beautifully my skirt swirled, but she sighed and looked as solemn as a judge and pronounced the skirt of my dress impossible, because it is not cut on the bias! I burst out laughing to see her so serious about such a nothing. She also informed me that my dress was too long and that today the mid-calf length is more fashionable. She even got out a tape measure and measured the distance between my hem and the ground and declared eight inches shocking! There should, she declared, be a ten-inch gap. I let her do it to amuse Mother. She offered to make me a dress for the summer if I paid for the material, and I agreed. She went off to sketch what she thought my dress should look like, muttering some nonsense about butterfly sleeves, whatever they are. Before I left, George cornered me. He said Esther wondered if I had realised it is Mother’s 60th birthday in April. Well, of course, I had. I do not need Esther to remind me. The point was, Esther thinks we should give her a party with all the family present. I was so annoyed this suggestion had to come from her when I, or Tilda, should have made it. I just managed to murmur that it was a good idea but then George capped it all by saying that as Esther had just had a baby she would not be able to organise the party and hoped I would. The cheek! I said, naturally I would, and would speak to Tilda, and he could tell his wife she had nothing to worry about. The truth is, I was angry with myself for not having thought ahead and pre-empted Esther’s insufferable virtue.
1 March
I am distracted with trying to fix a date to celebrate Mother’s birthday. It cannot be on the day itself because that is midweek and we are all at work and dare not ask for time off. Then it is so difficult getting Alfred to agree to anything. He is vague about his movements. I don’t understand why, or indeed what he actually does these days beside ‘travel’, but where, and for what company? He seems to fancy himself as some kind of Scarlet Pimpernel instead of a low-class commercial traveller. I wonder what he tries to sell. Hair oil, maybe. He uses plenty himself. But we seem finally to have fixed on a family luncheon on the Sunday before the actual birthday. I think before is better than after. George will take Mother out for a drive in the morning and when they return we will all be there to surprise her, including Alfred, I hope. I am going to engage caterers. How else can it be done? I expect Esther will think I should go down and spend a week somehow secretly cooking, but I am not going to. Caterers are costly, especially on a Sunday, but there is no choice. Tilda says she will share the cost and perhaps the twins will contribute a little something. The meal will be simple. Salmon, Mother’s favourite, and lots of puddings, which she loves.
15 March
Phone call from Esther. She wonders if she is expected to lay and decorate the table before the caterers come. I told her, very coolly, that she is not expected to do anything, but that if she had the energy and time – and I knew she was a very busy wife and mother – it would be kind of her to look out the big white linen table-cloth Mother used for special occasions and the napkins that go with it. She sighed and said she supposed she would manage to make time, and then asked if she was expected to do the flowers. I took pleasure in saying certainly not. I dread to think what Esther’s idea of floral arrangements would be like. She once told me her favourite flower was the dahlia.
20 March
A cake. I have forgotten to order a cake. It was Florence who asked if Grandma’s cake would be iced. How Esther would’ve crowed if there had been no cake. I will order a sponge cake, not a fruit one. Mother finds fruit cake too heavy, and besides the children will enjoy sponge more. Sponge, and pink icing, with sugar roses all round, and sixty candles. I am quite getting into the swing of this.
27 March
Oh Lord, only a week to go and I haven’t bought Mother a present yet or myself something to wear. Tilda has bought Florence the prettiest of dresses and Jack has a sailor suit. He looks so adorable in it, and is very proud of his hat. Tilda herself has a dress she got only last month for a wedding and very smart it is. I am sure Grace will find the shoulders very fashionable. I must go shopping.
30 March
I must be crazy. I have spent far too much on a dress and bolero I am never likely to wear again and now I am not even sure I care for it. It is white, or rather off-white. Perfectly stupid. Esther will ask if I am thinking of getting married. It was the only outfit I liked and without being vain, I think it is very flattering. It gives me curves I have not got, and the colour – or rather lack of it – makes my hair look gorgeously flamelike and my eyes strikingly blue. I can’t help but
feel satisfied. I wish all the same that women could wear trousers. Some do, but not many and never as formal attire. Even Daphne only wears her slacks at home, though she constantly threatens to be bold and wear them all the time. At least this dress indicates that I have made an effort. My family will never have seen me so dressed up and I will have to put up with a great deal of teasing. It suddenly occurs to me that Mother will not be dressed up as she would wish for a party, with it being a surprise. I don’t know what can be done about that.
8 April
I am trying to remember when we were all last together and think it must be as long ago as Tilda’s wedding – I missed Esther’s and George’s, and Tilda could not come to Alfred’s and Albert’s 18th birthday party. I think today’s gathering was more of a family reunion to cherish because there was only family present. How splendid the big table looked with us all around it and Mother at the head, beaming. I had thought she might be overcome, and weep, but not a bit of it, she was happy and delighted and looked better than I have ever seen her for years, positively radiant. She even managed a little speech, in praise of her family, and it was we who shed a tear, or at least Tilda and I did. But coming home afterwards was a dismal business. I could not stay the night, with so much work to do tomorrow, and now, sitting up in bed here, I feel not only desperately tired but a trifle depressed. Mother’s age depresses me and makes me feel old too, though I am only 31. It is something to do with that, I expect.
Diary of an Ordinary Woman Page 19