Collected works of e m d.., p.588
Collected Works of E M Delafield, page 588
“I believe it’ll help my wife to sleep, and she’s in a very nervous, highly strung mood to-night,” he said, his usually cheerful face wearing a worried look.
I held out my hand for the packet.
“If I may have the jug, and a spoon, and take some water from the kettle—” he began.
“I’ll do it, Mr. Peverelli.”
“But you’re busy,” he said.
“No,” I said, “I can do it.” And I did.
He just thanked me and took it upstairs.
The next morning was Christmas Eve.
Joan was to have a little Christmas Tree, and her mother and I dressed it in the evening after she’d gone to bed. Mr. Peverelli came into the sitting-room and he’d brought some of those coloured glass balls and little ornaments for the tree, and a lot of crackers.
“He is a kind man!” said Mrs. Gordon, after he’d gone. “Joan’ll be delighted, and don’t they make a difference to the look of the tree!”
We’d only had cotton-wool and coloured paper and a couple of gilt stars, to decorate it, besides candles.
“They’re pretty,” I agreed. “Look at that red globe — and the string of green balls. I’ve always liked this kind of thing, though I know it’s trumpery.”
We were a small party, because everyone except the Peverellis and Joan and her mother went away to spend Christmas.
It was on Boxing Day that Mr. Peverelli told me he was very much afraid they’d have to move again. His wife’s nerves were getting worse, and that always meant she wanted to try a change.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Fuller,” he said wistfully. “You’ve made us very comfortable here. But haven’t you noticed that she’s been less well lately? More — how shall I put it — more inclined to get worked up over nothing?”
He looked at me quite pleadingly.
“I think she lets herself go, Mr. Peverelli, if I may say so without unkindness. Lets herself — fancy things.”
He nodded his head.
“I thought so,” he said.
The very next day they suddenly went — Mr. Peverelli paying me the extra week in lieu of proper notice, and saying how sorry he was.
I was helping Joan to put away the things from her tree at the time, and I didn’t want to go into any of it before the child. Besides, if they’d decided to go, there really was nothing I could say.
And I was sorry for him — he seemed so distressed and helped us roll the things up in tissue paper, very kindly, before going off to his packing.
He came down later to get her a hot drink before the journey, and I told him I was sorry they were going.
“So am I,” he said. “So am I, Mrs. Fuller.”
Mrs. Peverelli, when they went off, looked worse than ever — sallower and more frightened.
She hardly said a word to anybody.
Just as the taxi moved off I remembered that he’d left no address, in case any letters came — but it was too late then.
However, he’d promised to let me hear from them.
Not that I set much store by that.
I went up to the first-floor front room, and couldn’t help remembering the night I’d gone up to Mrs. Peverelli and she’d poured out all that hysterical rubbish.
I looked round the room, and it seemed as if they’d taken everything.
Something caught my eye, gleaming in a corner, and I stooped down. It was a tiny fragment of — what was it? For a minute I couldn’t think of what the brilliant colour reminded me.
Then I remembered Joan’s tree, and the glass balls.
It seemed as though one of them had got smashed up in the Peverellis’ room, and I looked round for the other pieces to have them swept up, knowing what fine powdered glass can do.
But I never found them.
The Short Stories
Bristol, South West England — at the end of the war Delafield worked for the South-West Region of the Ministry of National Service in Bristol.
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
THE PHILISTINE
INTERLUDE IN THE LIFE OF A LADY
THE SPRAT
SQUIRREL IN A CAGE
THE OBSTACLE
OIL PAINTING —— CIRCA 1890
THE LADY FROM THE PROVINCES
COMPENSATION
THE MISTAKE
HISTORY AGAIN REPEATS ITSELF
THE BREAKING POINT
WE’RE ALL ALIKE AT HEART
THESE THINGS PASS
THE WHOLE DUTY OF WOMAN
THE GESTURE
THE INDISCRETION
TERMS OF REFERENCE
BUT IF IT HAD BEEN A FINE DAY — ?
LOVE HAS NO RESURRECTION
MOTHERS DON’T KNOW EVERYTHING
O.K. FOR STORY
IT’S ALL TOO DIFFICULT
THE YOUNG ARE IN EARNEST
BLUFF
THE GIRL WHO TOLD THE TRUTH
VICTIMS
THE OTHER POOR CHAP
I BELIEVE IN LOVE
IT ALL CAME RIGHT IN THE END
SOLILOQUY BEFORE A MIRROR
THE REASON
THE INDISPENSABLE WOMAN
OPPORTUNITY
MY SON HAD NOTHING ON HIS MIND
THEY DON’T WEAR LABELS
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER
BLUFF
BUT IF IT HAD BEEN A FINE DAY — ?
COMPENSATION
HISTORY AGAIN REPEATS ITSELF
I BELIEVE IN LOVE
INTERLUDE IN THE LIFE OF A LADY
IT ALL CAME RIGHT IN THE END
IT’S ALL TOO DIFFICULT
LOVE HAS NO RESURRECTION
MOTHERS DON’T KNOW EVERYTHING
MY SON HAD NOTHING ON HIS MIND
O.K. FOR STORY
OIL PAINTING —— CIRCA 1890
OPPORTUNITY
SOLILOQUY BEFORE A MIRROR
SQUIRREL IN A CAGE
TERMS OF REFERENCE
THE BREAKING POINT
THE GESTURE
THE GIRL WHO TOLD THE TRUTH
THE INDISCRETION
THE INDISPENSABLE WOMAN
THE LADY FROM THE PROVINCES
THE MISTAKE
THE OBSTACLE
THE OTHER POOR CHAP
THE PHILISTINE
THE REASON
THE SPRAT
THE WHOLE DUTY OF WOMAN
THE YOUNG ARE IN EARNEST
THESE THINGS PASS
THEY DON’T WEAR LABELS
VICTIMS
WE’RE ALL ALIKE AT HEART
The Play
Hong Kong Victoria Harbour — on 17 July 1919, Delafield married Colonel Arthur Paul Dashwood, OBE, an engineer who had built the massive docks at Hong Kong Harbour.
TO SEE OURSELVES
A DOMESTIC COMEDY IN THREE ACTS
CONTENTS
CHARACTERS
SCENES
ACT I
ACT II
SCENE I
SCENE II
ACT III
TO
MARGARET RHONDDA
CHARACTERS
FREDDIE ALLERTON, owner of a paper-mill in South Devon.
CAROLINE ALLERTON, his wife.
JILL CHARTERIS, Caroline’s sister.
OWEN LLEWELLYN, a visitor.
EMMA, the parlourmaid.
SCENES
ACT I
In Caroline’s drawing-room.
ACT II
SCENE I: Caroline’s drawing-room, forty minutes later.
SCENE II: Caroline’s bedroom, that night.
ACT III
Caroline’s drawing-room, three days later.
TIME: Early autumn, present day.
ACT I
Scene: The drawing-room of the Allertons’ small country house in South Devon. It is a very conventional room, with typical chintz-covered furniture, photographs in silver frames on occasional tables, vases of flowers, bad water-colour pictures on the walls, and so on. At the back of the stage is a long window, giving on to a porch, two steps above the level of the garden outside. Right of the stage is the fireplace, with mantelpiece and mirror above. Left centre, a sofa. Left, the door. There is also a cabinet-gramophone and telephone table in the room, and a grandfather clock in one corner.
Curtain goes up in silence at half-past five on an autumn afternoon. Caroline is knitting on the sofa, Freddie reading in an armchair near the fire. Freddie is about forty-eight, inclining to baldness, also to stoutness. He gives a general impression of British phlegm, and is reading the “Morning Post.” He wears the tweeds appropriate to a country gentleman at that time of year, and smokes a pipe. Caroline is some ten years younger than her husband, and does not make the most of her rather wistful prettiness. She wears the sloppy skirt and jumper of the English gentlewoman at home, and her hair is bobbed. She is knitting in a half-hearted fashion, looking across at her husband frequently. At last she speaks:
Caroline: I’m not sure I’m not starting a cold, Freddie. (Pauses for a reply which does not come.) But perhaps I’m not. (Pause as before.) Jill and Owen are late, aren’t they? (Pauses for a reply which does not come.) I must say, I should have thought they would have been back by this time. (Similar pause, with same negative result.) I can’t help wondering if Jill is engaged to Owen. Or is that Victorian of me? (Pause, and silence, as before.) Of course, even ten years ago — in our day, Freddie — bringing a young man to spend a week with one’s relations, and motoring about with him all day long, would have meant an engagement, wouldn’t it?
[Pause. Caroline raises her voice.
Wouldn’t it, Freddie?
Freddie (without looking up from the “Morning Post”): I daresay, dear.
Caroline: Or do you suppose that Jill and Owen are engaged and just haven’t said so?
Freddie (as before): No idea whatever.
Caroline: I suppose not. They’re very late. They said they’d be back by five.
[She gets up restlessly, goes to window and looks out, then moves across to the looking-glass and gazes at herself.
Freddie, I sometimes think I’ll grow my hair again.
[Pause. Freddie reads on.
Which do you think suits me best — long or like this?
Freddie: I don’t know that I’ve ever thought about it, dear.
Caroline: It takes more than two years to grow properly, and the intermediate stages are awful, of course. But I think I looked younger when it was long.
[Pause. Silence. Caroline raises her voice.
Didn’t I, Freddie?
Freddie (without looking up from the “Morning Post”): Perhaps you did, dear.
Caroline: Don’t you remember?
Freddie (with sudden animation): These Labour fellows ought to be taken out and shot. What did you say, dear?
Caroline: It doesn’t matter. (Sits down again and resumes her knitting.)
[A long pause.
(Into the silence) I wish I could hear of a housemaid. Even a temporary. (Pause.) But registry offices are all so hopeless nowadays. (Pause.) Anything in the paper, Freddie?
Freddie (still reading): Nothing whatever.
[Silence as before.
Caroline: Sometimes I wish we had a wireless. (Pause.) Don’t you think a wireless set would be rather nice, Freddie?
Freddie: I’m not keen.
Caroline: Why not?
Freddie: Oh, I don’t know. For one thing, it rather puts a stop to conversation, doesn’t it?
Caroline (ironically): That would be a pity, wouldn’t it?
[After a momentary pause she repents of this, and cries out impulsively:
Freddie, I’m sorry! I didn’t really mean that.
Freddie: What? I’m sorry, dear, I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention.
Caroline: Weren’t you? Are you worried about anything? What is it?
Freddie: Not worth talking about.
Caroline: Oh! Please tell me. Has something gone wrong at the mill?
Freddie: No, no. Not yet.
Caroline: Is it the new manager? I thought he was good.
Freddie: So he is. But it’s bound to be a bit difficult, to get Devonshire men used to having a Welsh manager.
Caroline: Perhaps there’ll be a strike.
Freddie: Might be.
Caroline: What’s happened — how far have things gone?
Freddie: The men have called a meeting for to-night. If there’s real trouble, Williams will ring me up.
Caroline: There’s never been a strike at the mill yet, has there?
Freddie: Never. But with this dam’ Labour Government, I suppose anything might happen.
Caroline: A strike would be terribly serious, of course. One’s heard of such awful things — the men getting all worked up — and then completely out of hand ——
[As she works herself up with her own imaginings, Freddie, who at first has been looking at her, returns to his newspaper with a shrug. Caroline, her eyes dilating as she gazes on an imaginary scene that to her is real, goes on slowly speaking her thoughts aloud.
It might lead to anything, of course — rioting — or lynching — many an unpopular foreman has been thrown into his own furnace before now —— Fancy if the men came up here one night! — the roar of an angry mob outside ——
[The hoot of a motor-horn sounds outside the window.
Oh, what’s that!
Freddie (matter of factly): Jill and Owen, back at last, I suppose.
Caroline (passing her hand over her eyes, as her visions are dispelled, and she gets back to earth): Oh, of course, Freddie! Owen is, too!
Freddie: Owen is what, dear?
Caroline: Welsh.
Freddie: Oh, yes! I suppose he is. You needn’t say anything about this mill trouble in front of them. They’ll know quite soon enough.
Caroline: Then you do expect a strike? Oh, Freddie!
Freddie: Nothing to get excited about, yet.
Caroline: All right, I won’t. But Jill would be thrilled ——
Freddie: I’ve just said ——
Caroline: I know, I know. I won’t say a word. I wonder if they’ve had tea. Anyway, it’s too late now.
Freddie: I can ring for some more.
Caroline (hastily): Oh, please don’t! I couldn’t possibly ask Emma to get tea all over again, at this hour. She’s rather unsettled, as it is . . . and, of course, we are short-handed until I can get a housemaid.
[Enter Jill Charteris. She is a tall, pretty girl of six-or seven-and-twenty, her modern poise, as well as her very distinctive style of dress, in sharp contrast to Caroline’s general diffidence and uncertainty.
Owen, as his name denotes, is Welsh — an intelligent, muscular young man of twenty-nine or so, quite evidently in love with Jill.
Jill: Hello!
Caroline: Here you are at last.
Jill: Hello, Freddie.
Freddie: Hello, Jill.
Caroline: You’ve had tea, haven’t you?
Jill: No. Oh, we don’t want any. (Calls off R.) You don’t want any, do you, Owen?
Owen (off R.): Any what?
Jill: Tea!
Owen: No, thanks.
Jill (throwing herself into Freddie’s chair): Lots of time to sit and talk before we need dress for dinner!
Freddie (stupefied): Talk! But you and Caroline were talking all day yesterday! And after you went upstairs at night.
Jill (carelessly): I daresay. Women are like that.
[Enter Owen.
Owen: Hello, Caroline.
Caroline: Hello, Owen.
Freddie: Would you care to see the Morning Post?
Jill: Not a bit, thanks.
Owen: I’ll have a look at it later on, thanks.
Freddie: Then I think, perhaps, if you’re all wanting to — er — talk — I’ll finish the paper in the study.
[Exit Freddie.
Jill: Our conversational powers are wasted on Freddie, I’m afraid.
Owen: Mine aren’t. We stayed down here talking about paper-making till all hours last night.
Caroline: I know you did. It was past twelve o’clock when Freddie came upstairs.
Jill: I suppose that’s nearly unheard-of. Oh, Caroline! Do you mean that every evening, all the year round, you and Freddie sit here for a couple of hours after dinner, and Freddie goes to sleep over the paper, and you sit and think about the servants, and the weekly books, and the school-bills — and, on the stroke of ten, you go to bed?
Caroline: But when people live in the country all the year round, Jill, things are like that. Especially as they get older.
Jill: For some people, perhaps, but not for you, darling. You used to have heaps of fun — I remember quite well — before I was grown-up.
Caroline: I know. But it’s different, once one’s married.
[Jill turns and looks at Owen. He speaks quickly, as though in answer to the look.
Owen: It needn’t be. I beg your pardon, Caroline. I’m afraid that sounds like frightful cheek, but I wasn’t speaking personally, of course, only carrying on an old argument with Jill.
Jill: “Never explain and never apologise,” some wise one said. Let’s all be thoroughly natural and honest for once, and say what we really think, even if it is uncivilised.
Caroline: Jill, darling, you don’t realise ——
Jill: It’s all right — the children are at school, and the servants are in the kitchen, and the Mothers’ Union will never know. Let’s talk.
Caroline (breaking into a sudden, excited laugh): All right! It’s simply marvellous to hear somebody say: “Let’s talk” — and to know they’re going to do it.
Jill: I’m going to do it all right. I’ve been dying to.
Owen: Shall I clear out? (Rises.)
Caroline:
Jill:
}
No. (simultaneously)
No. You’ve got to talk too.
[Caroline turns to Owen. Her manner is changing already. She is more interested, more animated — in a word, more alive.
Caroline: Oh, no, don’t go.
Jill: Help me to encourage Caroline.
