Collected works of e m d.., p.411
Collected Works of E M Delafield, page 411
Look round flat, which has suddenly assumed entirely degraded appearance, feel certain that she will despise both me and it, and hastily powder my nose and apply lipstick. Fleeting fancy crosses my mind that it would look rather dashing, and perhaps impress C. C., if I put on last year’s beach-pyjamas — red linen, with coffee-coloured top — but courage fails me, and I remain as I am, in blue delaine, thirty-five shillings off the peg from Exeter High Street establishment.
Car is audible outside, I look from behind curtains and see smallest baby Austin in the world — (I should imagine) — draw up with terrific verve outside the door. Incredibly slim and smart young creature steps out — black-and-white frock with frills, tiny little white hat well over one ear, and perfectly scarlet mouth. She is unfortunately inspired to look up at window just as I crane my neck from behind curtain, and am convinced that she has seen me perfectly well, and is — rightly — disgusted at exhibition of vulgar and undignified curiosity.
Bell rings — very autocratic touch, surely? — I open the door and Miss C. comes in. Should be very sorry to think that I am dismayed solely because she is younger, smarter and better-looking than I am myself.
Agreeable conversation ensues, C. C. proves easy and ready to talk, we meet on the subject of Mrs. Tressider — boy looks browbeaten, Mrs. T. altogether too breezy and bracing — and further discover that we both know, and rather admire, Pamela Pringle. What, I ask, is the latest about Pamela, of whom I have heard nothing for ages? Oh, don’t I know? says Miss C. Not about the Stock-Exchange man, and how he put Pamela on to a perfectly good thing, and it went up and up, and Pamela sold out and went to Antibes on the proceeds, and had a most thrilling affair with a gigolo, and the Stock Exchange nearly went mad? At this I naturally scream for details, which C. C. gives me with immense enthusiasm.
We remain utterly absorbed for some time, until at last I remember that the flat still has to be inspected, and offer to show Miss C. round. (This a complete farce, as she could perfectly well show herself, in something under five minutes.)
She says How lovely to everything, but pauses in the bathroom, and I feel convinced that she has a prejudice against the geyser. (It would be even stronger if she knew as much about this one as I do.) Silence continues until I become unnerved, and decide that I must offer to take something off the rent. Just as I am getting ready to say so, C. C. suddenly utters: to the effect that she would like me to call her Caroline.
Am surprised, relieved and rather gratified, and at once agree. Request, moreover, seems to imply that we are to see something of one another in the future, which I take it means that she is prepared to rent the flat. Further conversation reveals that this is so, and that she is to move in next week, on the understanding that I may claim use of sofa-bed in sitting-room if I wish to do so. C. C. handsomely offers to let me have the bedroom, and take sofa herself, I say No, No, and we part with mutual esteem and liking.
Am much relieved, and feel that the least I can do is to write and thank Mrs. Tressider, to whom the whole thing is owing, but unaccountable reluctance invades me, and day comes to an end without my having done so.
July 22nd. — Ring up dear Rose and consult her about clothes for America. She says at once that she knows the very person. A young man who will one day be a second Molyneux. I mustn’t dream of going to anybody else. She will send me the address on a postcard. She also knows of a woman who makes hats, a remedy for seasickness and a new kind of hair-slide. I say Yes, and Thank you very much, to everything, and engage to meet Rose for lunch to-morrow at place in Charlotte Street where she says elliptically that you can eat on the pavement.
Just as I have hung up receiver, telephone bell rings again and I find myself listening to Mrs. Tressider. She has, she says, left The Boy in Wales with his father — (never knew he had one, and am startled) — and dashed up on business for one night, but is dashing back again to-morrow. She just wanted to say how glad she was that Caroline and I have settled about the flat. She always knew it was the ideal arrangement for us both.
Experience instant desire to cancel deal with Caroline C. on the spot, but do not give way to it, and conversation ends harmoniously, with promise from myself to let Mrs. T. know when and in what ship I am sailing, as she thinks she may be able to Do Something about it.
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 have 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.
