Hello there,
It's Mandy here.
Thanks for joining me tonight and welcome back to Diary of a Provincial Lady by E.
M.
Delafield.
The critic Rachel Ferguson said in 1939 that Delafield's humour and super sensitive observation should make of her one of the best and most significant writers we possess.
A comforting and timeless writer whose comments will delight a hundred years hence.
J.
B.
Priestley called her the equal of the best English female humorists including Jane Austen.
We've reached chapter 20 and before I go ahead please feel free to make yourself really comfortable.
Settle down into your chair or your bed,
Relax your hands,
Soften your shoulders and release your jaw.
That's great.
So if you're feeling comfortable then I shall begin.
May the 13th.
Regrettable but undeniable ray of amusement lightens the General Merck on hearing the report through Robert that Cousin Maud Blenkinsop possesses a baby Austen and has been seen running it all round the parish with old Mrs B,
Shawls and all,
Beside her.
It is many years since Mrs B gave us all to understand that if she so much as walked across the room unaided she would certainly fall down dead.
Cousin Maud,
Adds Robert thoughtfully,
Is not his idea of a good driver.
He says no more but I at once have dramatic visions of old Mrs B flying over the nearest hedge,
Shawls waving in every direction,
While Cousin Maud and the baby Austen charge a steamroller in a narrow lane.
I'm sorry to record that this leads to hearty laughter on my part after which I feel better than for weeks past.
The doctor comes to see me,
Says he thinks my eyelashes will grow again,
Should have preferred something much more emphatic,
But I'm too much afraid of further reference to my age to insist,
And agrees to my joining children at Bude next week.
He also reluctantly and with an air of suspicion says that I may use my eyes for an hour every day unless pain ensues.
May the 15th,
Our vicar's wife hearing that I'm no longer in quarantine comes to enliven me,
Greet her with an enthusiasm to which she must I fear be unaccustomed as it appears to startle her,
Endeavour to explain it,
Perhaps a little tactlessly,
By saying I've been alone so long,
Robert out all day,
Children at Bude,
And end up with quotation to the effect that I never hear the sweet music of speech and start at the sound of my own.
Can see by the way our vicar's wife receives this that she doesn't recognise it as a quotation and believes the measles to have affected my brain.
Queery,
Perhaps she is right.
More normal atmosphere established by a plea from our vicar's wife that kitchen cat may be put out of the room.
It is,
She knows,
Very foolish of her,
But the presence of a cat makes her feel faint.
Her grandmother was exactly the same.
Put a cat into the same room as her grandmother,
Hidden under the sofa if you liked,
And in two minutes the grandmother would say,
I believe there's a cat in this room,
And at once turn queasy.
I hastily put kitchen cat out of the window and we agree that heredity is very odd.
And now,
Says our vicar's wife,
How am I?
Before I can reply,
She does so for me and says she knows just how I feel.
Weak as a rat,
Legs like cotton wool,
No spine whatever,
And head like a boiled owl.
I'm depressed by this diagnosis and begin to feel it must be correct.
However,
She adds,
All will be different after a blow in the wind at Bude,
And meanwhile she must tell me all the news.
She does so.
Incredible number of births,
Marriages and deaths appear to have taken place in the parish in the last four weeks.
Also,
Mrs W has dismissed her cook and cannot get another one.
Our vicar has written a letter about drains to the local paper and it has been put in,
And Lady B has been seen in a new car.
To this,
Our vicar's wife adds rhetorically,
Why not an aeroplane,
She would like to know.
Why not indeed?
Finally,
A committee meeting has been held at which she interpolates hastily,
I was much missed,
And a garden fete arranged in aid of funds for village hall.
It would be so nice,
She adds optimistically,
If the fete could be held here.
I agree that it would,
And stifle a misgiving that Robert may not agree.
In any case,
He knows and I know,
And our vicar's wife knows,
That fete will have to take place here as there isn't anywhere else.
Tea is brought in,
Superior temper is afternoon out,
And cook has,
As usual,
Carried out favourite labour-saving device of three sponge cakes and one bun,
Jostling one another on the same plate,
And we talk about Barbara and Crosby Carruthers beekeeping,
Modern youth,
And difficulty of removing oil stains from carpets.
Have I,
Asks our vicar's wife,
Read A Brass Hat in No Man's Land?
No,
I have not.
Then she says,
Don't,
On any account.
There are so many sad and shocking things in life as it is,
That writers should confine themselves to the bright,
The happy,
And the beautiful.
This,
The author of A Brass Hat,
Has entirely failed to do.
It subsequently turns out that our vicar's wife has not read the book herself,
But that our vicar has skimmed it and declared it to be very painful and unnecessary.
Memo,
Put Brass Hat down for Times Book Club list,
If not already there.
Our vicar's wife suddenly discovers that it is six o'clock,
Exclaims that she is shocked,
And attempts faux sauté,
Only to return with urgent recommendation to me to try Valentine's meat juice,
Which once practically,
Under Providence,
Saved our vicar's uncle's life.
Story of the uncle's illness,
Convalescence,
Recovery,
And subsequent death at the age of 81,
Follows.
I'm unable to resist telling her,
In return,
About wonderful effect of BMAX on Mary Kelway's youngest,
And this leads,
Curiously enough,
To the novels of Anthony Trollope,
Death of the Bigam of Bhopal,
And Scenery in the Lake Country.
At 20 minutes to seven,
Our vicar's wife is again shocked,
And rushes out of the house.
She meets Robert on the doorstep,
And stops to tell him that I am thin as a rake,
And a very bad colour,
And the eyes after measles often give rise to serious trouble.
Robert,
So far as I can hear,
Makes no answer to any of it,
And our vicar's wife finally departs.
Query here suggests itself.
Is not silence frequently more efficacious than the utmost eloquence?
Answer,
Probably yes.
Must try to remember this more often than I do.
Second post brings a long letter from Mademoiselle,
Recuperating with friends at Clacton-on-Sea,
Written,
Apparently,
With a pinpoint dipped in violet ink on thinnest imaginable paper,
And crossed in every direction.
Decipher portents of it with great difficulty,
But I'm relieved to find that I am still bien cher madame,
And that recent mysterious affront has been condoned.
Memo,
If cook sends up jelly even once again as being suitable diet for convalescence,
Shall send it straight back to the kitchen.
May the 16th.
But for disappointing children,
Should be much tempted to abandon scheme for my complete restoration to health at Bude.
Whether icy,
Cold,
Self-feeble,
And more than inclined to feverishness,
A mademoiselle,
Who was to have come with me and helped with children,
Now writes she is sorry,
But she has une angine.
Do not know what this is,
And have alarming thoughts about angina pectoris,
But dictionary reassures me.
I say to Robert,
After all,
Shouldn't I get well just as quickly at home?
He replies briefly,
Better go,
And I perceive that his mind is made up.
After a moment,
He suggests,
But without real conviction,
That I might like to invite our vicar's wife to come with me.
I reply with a look only,
And suggestion falls to the ground.
A letter from Lady B,
Saying she has only just heard about measles.
Why only just when news has been all over parish for weeks,
And is so sorry,
Especially as measles are no joke at my age.
Can she be in league with doctor,
Who also used identical objectionable expression.
She cannot come herself to inquire,
As with so many visitors always coming and going,
It wouldn't be wise.
But if I want anything from the house,
I am to telephone without hesitation.
She has given her people orders,
That anything I ask for is to be sent up.
Have a very good mind to telephone,
And ask for a pound of tea,
And Lady B's pearl necklace.
Could Cleopatra be quoted as precedent here,
And see what happens.
Further demand for the rates arrives,
And Cook sends up jelly once more for lunch.
I offer it to Helen Wills,
Who gives one heave,
Then turns away.
Feel that this would more than justify me in sending down entire dish untouched.
But Cook will certainly give notice if I do,
And cannot face that possibility.
Interesting to note,
That although by this time all Cook's jellies take away at sight,
What appetite measles have left me,
I'm more wholly revolted by emerald green variety,
Than by yellow or red.
Should like to work out possible Freudian significance of this,
But find myself unable to concentrate.
Go to sleep in the afternoon,
And awake sufficiently restored,
To do what I have long contemplated,
And go through my clothes.
Result so depressing,
That I wish I'd never done it.
Have nothing fit to wear,
And if I had,
Should look like a scarecrow in it at present.
Send off parcel,
With knitted red cardigan,
Two evening dresses,
Much too short for present mode,
Three out-of-date hats,
And tweed skirt that bags at the knees,
To Mary Colway's jumble sale,
Where she declares that anything will be welcome.
Make out a list of all the new clothes I require,
Get pleasantly excited about them,
I'm again confronted with the rates,
And put the list in the fire.
To be continued.
