As we heard all this it seemed that the sacred beauty of the Weihnachten must still exist; but alas, it is now a thing of the past.
These little parties were our apprenticeship in the art of entertaining strangers, but bigger things were to follow. The village made friends with the men of a Yeomanry regiment from an adjoining county who had been sent here for training, and we decided to organise a weekly dance for them. One difficulty faced us at the start—how should we find partners in the village to balance this large influx of the male sex? One of the organisers explained to me in some anxiety.
“We haven’t got nearly enough loose girls, we must import some.”
I am a life member of all the local Moral Improvement Societies for the benefit of the young, and in the name of them all I rose to protest against this importation. I then learnt that the word “loose” related to the proportion of women to men in our village, and had no moral significance. I withdrew my opposition.
We accordingly invited a bus-load of girls from a neighbouring place to give the required balance to our dance, and I watched, with some interest, the arrival of the “loose girls”.
They entered in the huddled and close formation of a swarm of bees, and in that formation they seated themselves well apart from the men. Here they murmured together, like the bees which they resembled in appearance. I could not think how we could effect the desired fusion between the two sections of our guests. But I had counted without our Master of the Ceremonies. He was a sergeant-major, with the winged feet of Mercury, the social tact of Beau Nash, and the gift of imparting to the lumpiest partner something of his own grace of movement. With an airy tread he now floated to the middle of the ballroom and called on the gentlemen to Take their Partners. If any gentlemen seemed laggard (and many did) he led them to the now well awake and buzzing swarm of loose girls, and made personal introductions. The most alert and attractive of the girls were soon paired off, but there remained a substantial residue who looked heavy. Our Mercury was not deterred. He swung himself into the fray, and danced a few rounds with each of the unpartnered girls. They at once seemed to be the most graceful dancers of all, and as the M. C. relinquished each one in turn, she was at once snapped up by a fresh partner. This mercurial man made all our dances the most brilliant successes.
These dances were interspersed with first-rate concerts which were particularly enjoyable to us amateur landladies for, besides hearing some very good music, we were asked to put up the distinguished artistes who came from London. The first of these concerts might be described as an “All Star” one, and for us country people, it was a new experience to have in our houses those well-known favourites of London audiences. We were extremely proud. Beatrice Lillie proved to be, both on the stage and off, as gay as a lark and most wilfully charming. I had feared that her very sophisticated talent might not go down with these country yeomen, but I could not have been more mistaken. When she stepped on to the stage, and threw round the room one of her most demure glances, she captured the audience without singing or saying a word. They would hardly allow her to begin, much less to leave off, once she had begun. In fact it seemed that she was on the stage for the night. But not even this situation was beyond her. She suddenly spied, in the audience, Miss Gwendoline Brogden, who, in the last war, made a famous hit with her song, On Sunday I walk out with a Soldier. Then followed this dialogue:
“What are you doing here, Gwennie?”
“Listening to you, my dear.”
“Come on the stage and give us a song.”
“I have given up that sort of thing.”
There was a little more of this kind of talk, called, I believe, “back-chat’’, and then Beatrice addressed the room:
“Won’t some of you help Miss Brogden up?”
The army rushed into the breach, and Miss Brogden was carried to the platform. Then came a little playing about with the accompanist, and she broke into her Succès fou of twenty years back. It went like wildfire.
After the concert, the visiting artistes, with their hosts and hostesses, met some of the officers at a supper party, and, for those of us who were lucky enough to be invited, this was quite as amusing as the entertainment itself. It was like those suppers on the stage which we read of in the days of Beerbohm Tree. And now we were there. No real supper on the stage could have been more enjoyable. The company included opera singers, concert singers, jazz musicians, classical pianists and violin soloists. Amusing speeches were made, and both Beatrice Lillie and Olga Lynn gave some of their Imitations. Everyone was happy.
We were not late in getting home, as these parties for soldiers must always end early; and when we were back in my house, I had an interesting talk with one of my guests, who had been singing English songs at the concert. In peace-time, he was a partner in a firm famous in the world of books, and had music as his recreation. Now he was a private soldier and had carried his love for music into the ranks. I enjoyed hearing him talk about his comrades. He had made many real friends and liked particularly mechanics and the men who practised trades. He said that he found the true yokel was, as a rule, a man without either ambition or ideas; but I believe he would change his mind if he saw these men, as we see them, in their own milieu, on the farms and among the animals. I feel that no industrial worker in these mechanised days can know so much of real life or can see its purpose so clearly as the agriculturalists who, all through the year, work with Nature and watch her processes. Such men probably feel homesick in the army.
Our next concert was given by an A. A. regiment which offered to travel half-way across the South of England to entertain the soldiers in our village. They were practically all professional musicians. The condition was that we should give them beds, and this was rather difficult, as the company was a large one. The Colonel of our regiment said he could arrange it, provided that I could find out beforehand the ranks of the various performers. The list came. It included no less than eighteen “B.diers”. I was thoroughly frightened. Was it possible to deal with eighteen musical Brigadiers? The thing was beyond us. I was much consoled to find that the Colonel was not in the least disturbed and said he could easily find beds for the Sergeants, Corporals and Bombardiers. Their Colonel stayed with me and acted as accompanist, and this partly explains the musical prowess of the regiment. He was in it heart and soul. The company performed a revue, written, composed and produced by themselves.
Certainly in that first autumn of the war, we could hardly believe that a war was actually going on. The country was doing what it ought to have done before, training troops for what seemed to be some future war; and our only responsibility was to provide comforts and pleasures for these troops.
About Christmas-time we embarked on our most ambitious attempt in military entertainment. This was a pantomime written, produced and played by local amateurs with a little professional help. It turned out a great success, which was surprising, as it fell a victim, in succession, to every contretemps which is supposed to befall amateur theatricals.
First of all, the company looked on rehearsals as rather an amusing way of spending an hour or two, if there was nothing better to do. The accompanist alone never failed. She accompanied with a complete efficiency, whether or not there was anyone to accompany. Those members of the cast who did sometimes appear, immediately settled themselves in remote corners of the room, there to finish the secret conversations which had begun outside. When the producer succeeded in luring them from these retreats, nearly everyone had first of all to explain, that he or she was not that day playing his or her own part, but was “ reading” for an absentee. The patience of the producer proved that this virtue is a supernatural gift of the spirit; but on the one occaasion when it did break down, the terror he spread among his flock, and their subsequent good behaviour (which lasted more than one day) proved that he ought really to have been in a fury all the time.
Even when the first night arrived, we found that the whole company had never before met on the stage. And on
that occasion, our Pantomime Queen was “ down” with an attack of laryngitis which eventually seized, in turns, practically the whole company.
Terrific quarrels developed behind the scenes. Some of the performers had to be coaxed on to the stage in a manner which I believe is sometimes adopted with performing dogs—by holding out a biscuit to create the dramatic bound from the wings. Our “biscuits” were extremely complimentary remarks which we said we had overheard in the audience about the acting of this or that player who had considered himself slighted on the stage. The feuds which now began, were declared by the participators to be eternally incurable, though I believe they were forgotten as soon as the pantomime ended.
Yet none of this drama was guessed at by the spectators; and from the other side of the footlights the whole thing looked rollicking fun. But during those strenuous weeks I saw why it was that one of the most successful theatrical entertainments of my youth had been called “ A Pantomime Rehearsal”.
Our pantomime was not only played for our own regiment, but it travelled to all the neighbouring camps, and then was played under the patronage of the mayors of several seaside resorts, at last actually reaching London. Indeed its run lasted until nearly Easter. I did not go with it on tour, as my part was a small one and a substitute could easily be found.
As time went on, we found that the troops were far more capable of entertaining themselves than we were of entertaining them. It transpired that among the men quartered in our neighbourhood were members of some of England’s most famous orchestras, and also a member of the Committee of the London Philharmonic Society. He set the ball rolling and there began a series of brilliant symphony concerts, some of which were held in a gymnasium capable of holding over two thousand people. This was far too small for the crowds of music lovers in the army who pressed to hear the programmes put before them by the artistes. Remembering this, it is irritating to be told that the very inferior music often produced in the B.B. C. Forces’ Programme, is chosen because this second-rate music is the only kind which soldiers will tolerate. I should like those who say this, to have been compelled to stand among the hundreds of disappointed music lovers, time after time, who were left outside in one of the coldest camps in the country when the “House Full” notice was posted over the Symphony Concert Hall. But no doubt these programme makers would not have thought our concerts worth queueing up for, especially with the chance of being left out in the cold after all.
After these concerts, we natives were always asked again to show hospitality to the soloists who had been good enough to come from London to take part. Virtue was indeed its own reward. For one thing, being a hostess, I was allowed a seat in the concert hall, which was practically impossible for the ordinary civilian. And then, the music over, we always had in my house a small supper party for the visiting musicians and the concert organisers. As I looked round the table, it always seemed to me like some very grand supper party on the stage at Covent Garden, and I am sure that its gaiety and spirit equalled those. Among my guests on various occasions were Dame Myra Hess, Dr. Malcolm Sargent, Jelly d’Aranyi, Adila Fachiri, Harriet Cohen, May Harrison, Dennis Noble, Edythe Baker, Cyril Smith, Denise Lassimonne, Nancy Loder and many more. These famous musicians were always ready to offer their gifts to help in concerts for the troops, and they made us feel that the whole thing was a festive occasion for themselves as well as for their audiences. They certainly were festive occasions for the landlady who had the pleasure of entertaining them.
At this time, rationing was not as yet very stringent; though, as the months passed, it became more and more difficult to put before our guests the good food they deserved. But they themselves always brought “ the feast of reason and the flow of soul’’, and these delicacies have not even yet been rationed by Lord Woolton.
Chapter IV
NO MORE QUIET NIGHTS
My London visitors have always remarked that this is a very quiet house. From their point of view, I am sure they are right, for I look upon London as distinctly a noisy place. But they go on saying this even now, since the war began; and when they arrive out of the world, they do not at first perceive how much the house has changed in the past two or three years. I expect we are still quieter than an engine-room in an aircraft factory; but from my point of view, the nights now are full of unaccustomed noises. I hear many sounds from my bedroom which I did not hear before.
In the past, there were certain night sounds to which I was completely accustomed, and which I loved very much. There was the perpetual murmur of the water streaming through the weir, a few hundred feet away. It is the place where old Mrs. Andrews, who drove the carrier’s cart, was drowned about sixty years ago; and since that long-distant night, no other unexpected sound has been recorded, as breaking the peace of the river, flowing under the bridge on its way to the sea. Another almost continuous sound was made by the wind in the trees, but this was not often disturbing, for we have few storms in our valley, and the rustle was seldom more than “a little noiseless noise amidst the leaves”. Then there were the intermittent noises—the cries of the water birds, the hoots of the white owls, and sometimes the harsh voice of a startled pheasant, though nowadays that familiar voice brings a new message, for if a bomb falls within many miles of us, the pheasants feel the earth’s vibrations long before any sound reaches us. The first we know of it, is the clamour that the pheasants make, as they argue with one another about it. Then we used to hear a cow mooing for her calf, carried away that morning to market; and quite seldom a wandering cat called outside.
Now we think that our nights are distinctly noisy, and they remind us that even here, in the depths of the country, we are at war.
When the Germans raided the Midlands—Coventry, Birmingham, and other industrial towns—all through the night, we were being taught (as we never had been taught before) that, geographically, we were on the direct air route from Berlin to the English Black Country. Then came nights when the Royal Air Force was, in its turn, on the way to Germany or to Northern France. A like roar was over us till morning. Sometimes again the planes we heard were flying round about to protect us, but I have never been able to discriminate between the sounds made by our own aeroplanes and those of the enemy. To me they sound equally diabolical.
On other nights, a convoy of tanks or military lorries passes through the lane. These convoys can truly be said to make night hideous, and it is quite impossible to sleep while they go by. Between me and the road are a lawn, a shrubbery, and a high wall, but these cannot deaden the noise of the convoy; and the din of battle made by totalitarian war even penetrates, night after night, into this remote and peaceful park. I believe that the word “Park” and “Paradise” have the same origin, and this was formerly easy to believe. Now it seems that our paradise has been invaded, not by one devil in the silent slippery disguise of a serpent; but by the whole Hosts of Satan for
“Clamour such as heard in heav’n till now
Was never; arms on armour clashing bray’d
Horrible discord, and the madding wheels
Of brazen chariots rag’d; dire was the noise.”
That is what a tank regiment sounds like as it passes down a country lane.
Beside these, my bedroom is now invaded by lesser, and less horrible sounds; though equally unfamiliar. They also are due to the war, and they are made by my lodgers. To me they are often most extraordinary.
Till now, I have preserved a virginal innocence as to the noises men make at night, and now they strike on my ear as surprising. In all my homes, I have succeeded in securing for myself a bedroom cut off from the rest of the house, and this is the case to-day. There is a dressing-room between me and the stairs and passage, and through this space, no sound can pass. A guest going late to bed has never disturbed me. Then, when I agreed to have an officer billeted on me, I gave him the ground-floor room directly beneath my own. So for the first time, I have had a succession of near neighbours, and masculine ones at that. I find that men c
ough, sneeze, and clear their throats, more than women do. Many snore, though this is not so universal as I imagined. They also throw their weight about till the bed creaks beneath them. They open and shut boxes, drawers, and cupboards. Over and above these general male tricks, each man has his own idiosyncracies; and these are magnified at night, when everybody, man or woman, thinks that solitude sets him free to behave as he likes. By day, I have grown very fond of each of my lodgers in turn; but at night, as I hear them hurling themselves about their room, I am glad that they are not my husbands.
An early tenant was a famous fisherman; and during the summer, when our clock time was two hours ahead of the sun, he seemed to copy the Twelve Apostles and to “toil all the night’’, though, unlike them, he did not end by “taking nothing”. Some time after midnight, when we had been long in bed, I used to hear him returning in his waders—squish-squash—squish-squash—over the lawn and under the colonnade. When he reached this point, he tugged off his boots, and dropped them one by one on the pavement. Then to the kitchen, to collect the largest dish in the house, which was to hold the largest fish ever seen. When as children, we learnt to read in our spelling books about “A Fish on a Dish’’, we never imagined anything so enormous as this. So thought the lodger. And he felt that we ought to know more of fishes on dishes than we had learnt at the infants’ school. Now he walked round the house, like “Wee Willie Winkie’’, tapping on the doors and crying at the locks to ask if he might come in to show us his catch. We sprang from our slumbers to see him holding before our sleep-ridden eyes, eight or nine enormous trout or grayling, dripping with silver water from the chalk stream, and gazing at us with their blank, dead, opaque eyes. It always seemed that this must be a dream, until these fish appeared again next morning, grilled for breakfast, or lurking in lettuce as a mayonnaise for luncheon.
Night Thoughts of a Country Landlady Page 4