Hello there,
It's Mandy here.
Welcome back to Diary of a Provincial Lady by E.
M.
Delafield.
Thanks so much for joining me tonight.
It's interesting to note that there are no fewer than nine portraits of E.
M.
Delafield in the National Portrait Gallery in London.
So if you're ever visiting and you'd like to see them,
They're there.
They are all bromide prints and were taken during the 1930s.
And in the description E.
M.
Delafield 1890 to 1943 is described as novelist,
Wife of Paul Dashwood,
Daughter of Lord and Lady Clifford.
So we've reached Chapter 22 and before we go ahead,
Please feel free to make yourself really comfortable.
Relax your hands,
Soften your shoulders and release any tension that you're feeling in your jaw.
That's wonderful.
So if you're ready,
Then I shall begin.
May the 30th.
Constrained by conscience and recollection of promise to Barbara to go and call on old Mrs.
Blankensop,
Received many kind inquiries in village as to my complete recovery from measles,
But observed singular tendency on part of everybody else to treat this very serious affliction as a joke.
Find old Mrs.
B's cottage in unheard-of condition and hygienic ventilation,
No doubt attributable to Cousin Maud.
Windows all wide open,
Encasement curtains flapping in every direction,
Very cold east wind more than noticeable.
Mrs.
B,
Surely fewer shawls than formerly,
Sitting quite close to open window and not far from equally open door,
Seems to have turned curious shade of pale blue and shows tendency to shiver.
Room smells strongly of furniture polish and black lead.
Fireplace indeed exhibits recent handsome application of the latter and has evidently not held fire for days past.
Old Mrs.
B more silent than of old and makes no reference to silver linings and the like.
Can spirit of optimism have been blown away by living in continual severe draught?
Cousin Maud comes in almost immediately,
Have met her once before and say so,
But she makes it clear that this encounter left no impression and has entirely escaped her memory.
I'm convinced that Cousin Maud is one of those people who pride themselves on always speaking the truth.
She is wearing brick red sweater,
Feel sure she knitted it herself,
Tweed skirt longer at the back than in front and large row of pearl beads,
Has very hearty and emphatic manner and uses many slang expressions.
I ask for news of Barbara and Mrs.
B,
Voice a mere bleat by comparison with Cousin Maud's,
Says that the dear child will be coming down once more before she sails and that continued partings are the lot of the aged and to be expected.
I begin to hope that she is approaching her old form but all is stopped by Cousin Maud who shouts out that we're not to talk rot and it's a jolly good thing Barbara has got off the hooks at last poor old girl.
We then talk about golf handicaps,
Cousin Maud's dear old school and the baby Austin.
More accurate statement would perhaps be that Cousin Maud talks and we listen.
No sign of life of Disraeli or any other literary activities such as old Mrs.
B used to be surrounded by and do not like to inquire what she now does with her time,
Disquieting suspicion that this is probably settled for her without reference to her wishes.
Take my leave feeling depressed,
Old Mrs.
B rolls her eyes at me as I say goodbye and mutters something about not being here much longer but this is drowned by hearty laughter from Cousin Maud who declares that she is nothing but an old humbug and will see us all out.
I'm escorted to the front gate by Cousin Maud who tells me what a topping thing it is for old Mrs.
B to be taken out of herself a bit and asks if it isn't good to be alive on a bracing day like this.
She'd like to reply that it would be far better for some of us to be dead in my opinion but spirit for this repartee fails me and I weakly reply that I know what she means.
I go away before she has time to slap me on the back which I feel certain will be the next thing.
Had had in mind amiable scheme for writing to Barbara tonight to tell her that old Mrs.
B is quite wonderful and showing no signs of depression but this cannot now be done and after much thought do not write at all but instead spend the evening trying to reconcile grave discrepancy between account book,
Counterfoils of checkbook and rather unsympathetically worded communication from the bank.
June the 1st.
Sunday lunch with the Frobishers and four guests staying in the house with them introduced as apparently Colonel and Mrs.
Bright Pie which seems impossible,
Sir William Ready or Ready R-E-A-D-Y or Ready R-E-D-D-Y or perhaps even Ready R-E-D-D-E-I-G-H and my sister Violet latter quite astonishingly pretty and wearing admirable flowered to sore that I as usual mentally try upon myself only to realise that it would undoubtedly suggest melancholy saying concerning mutton dressed as lamb.
The Colonel sits next to me at lunch and we talk about fishing which I have never attempted and look upon as cruelty to animals but this with undoubted hypocrisy and moral cowardice I conceal.
Robert has my sister Violet and I hear him at intervals telling her about the pigs which seems odd but she looks pleased so perhaps is interested.
Conversation suddenly becomes general as topic of present-day dentistry is introduced by Lady F.
We all except Robert who eats bread have much to say.
Memo remember to direct conversation into similar channel when customary periodical deathly silence descends upon guests at my own table.
Weather is wet and cold and had confidently hoped to escape tour of the garden but this is not to be and directly lunch is over we rush out into the damp.
Bows drip onto our heads and water squelches beneath our feet but rhododendrons and lupins undoubtedly very magnificent and references to Ruth Draper not more numerous than usual.
I find myself walking with Mrs Bright Pie who evidently knows all that can be known about a garden.
Fortunately she is prepared to originate all the comments herself and I need only say yes isn't that an attractive variety and so on.
She inquires once if I have ever succeeded in making the dear blue grandiflora magnifica superbiensis or something like that feel really happy and at home in this climate to which I am able to reply with absolute truth by a simple negative at which I fancy she looks rather relieved.
Is her own life perhaps one long struggle to acclimatise the GMS and what would she have replied if I had said that in my garden the dear thing grew like a weed.
Memo must beware of growing tendency to indulge in similar idle speculations which lead nowhere and probably often give me the appearance of being absent-minded in the society of my fellow creatures.
After a prolonged inspection we retrace steps and this time I find myself with Sir William R and Lady F talking about grass.
Realise with horror that we are now making our way toward the stables.
Nothing whatever to be done about it except keep as far away from the horses as possible and refrain from any comment whatever in hopes of concealing that I know nothing about horses except that they frighten me.
Robert I notice looks sorry for me and places himself between me and terrifying looking animal that glares out at me from loose box and curls up its lip.
Feel grateful to him and eventually leave stables with shattered nerves and soaking wet shoes.
Exchange customary graceful farewells with host and hostess saying how much I have enjoyed coming.
Query here suggests itself as often before.
Is it utterly impossible to combine the amenities of civilisation with even the minimum of honesty required to satisfy the voice of conscience?
Answer still in abeyance at present.
Robert goes to evening service and I play Halma with Vicky.
She says she wants to go to school and produces a string of excellent reasons why she should do so.
I say I will think it over but I'm aware by previous experience that Vicky has almost miraculous aptitude for getting her own way and will probably succeed in this instance as in others.
Rather depressing Sunday supper,
Cold beef,
Baked potatoes,
Salad and depleted cold tart after which I write to Rose,
The cleaners,
The army and navy stores and the county secretary of the Women's Institute and Robert goes to sleep over the Sunday pictorial.
To be continued.
To be continued.
