Hello there,
It's Mandy here.
Thanks for joining me tonight and welcome back to The Diary of a Provincial Lady by E.
M.
Dallefield.
Part of the charm of the diaries is that there's always something happening.
Children's parties,
Literary soirees,
Disastrous rain-drenched picnics,
Hilarious parish meetings.
Visitors flow through the house.
Some come from London and are maddeningly patronising about life in the provinces and the necessity of broadening one's outlook,
But the majority are local.
We've reached chapter seven and before I go ahead,
Please feel free to make yourself really comfortable.
Settling down into your chair or your bed,
Relaxing your hands,
Softening your shoulders and loosening your jaw.
That's great.
So,
If you're ready,
Then I'll begin.
January the 1st,
1930.
We give a children's party ourselves.
Very,
Very exhausting performance,
Greatly complicated by stormy weather,
Which keeps half the guests away and causes grave fears as to the arrival of the conjurer.
Decide to have children's tea in the dining room,
Grown-ups in the study and clear the drawing room for games and conjurer.
Minor articles of drawing room furniture moved up to my bedroom,
Where I continually knock myself against them.
Bulb bowls greatly in everybody's way and are put on window ledges in passage.
The children from neighbouring rectory arrive too early and are shown into completely empty drawing room.
Entrance of Vicky in new green party frock with four balloons saves situation.
Query,
What is the reason that clerical households are always unpunctual,
Invariably arriving either first or last at any gathering to which bidden.
I'm struck at variety of behaviour amongst mothers,
Some so helpful in organising games and making suggestions,
Others merely sitting about.
NB,
For sake of honesty,
Should rather say standing about as supply of chairs fails early.
Resolve always to send Robin and Vicky to parties without me,
If possible,
As children without parents infinitely preferable from point of view of hostess.
Find it difficult to get oranges and lemons going whilst at the same time appearing to give intelligent attention to remarks from visiting mother concerning exhibition of Italian pictures at Burlington House.
Find myself telling her how marvellous I think them,
Though in actual fact have not yet seen them at all.
Realise that this misstatement should be corrected at once,
But admit to do so and later find myself involved in entirely unintentional web of falsehood.
Should like to work out how far morally to blame for this state of things,
But have not time.
Tea goes off well,
Mademoiselle presides in dining room,
I in study.
Robert and solitary elderly father looks more like a grandfather,
Stand in doorway and talk about big game shooting and the last general election in intervals of handing tea.
Conjurer arrives late,
But is a success with the children,
Ends up with presents from a brand tub in which more brown is spilt on carpet,
Children's clothes and house generally,
Than could ever have been got into tub originally.
Think this odd,
But have noticed similar phenomenon before.
Guests depart between seven and half past and Helen Wills and the dog are let out by Robin,
Having been shut up on account of crackers,
Which they dislike.
Robert and I spend evening helping servants to restore order and trying to remember where ashtrays,
Clock,
Ornaments and ink were put for safety.
January the 3rd,
Hounds meet in the village.
Robert agrees to take Vicky on the pony.
Robin,
Mademoiselle and I walk to the post office to see the start and Robin talks about Oliver Twist,
Making no reference whatever to hunt from start to finish and viewing horses,
Hounds and huntsmen with equal detachment.
I'm impressed at his non-suggestibility,
But feel that some deep Freudian significance may lie behind it all.
Feel also that Robert would take very different view of it.
Meet quantities of hunting neighbours who say to Robin,
Aren't you riding too?
Which strikes one as lacking in intelligence and ask me if we have lost many trees lately,
But do not wait for answer,
As what they really want to talk about is the number of trees they have lost themselves.
Mademoiselle looks at hounds and says,
Ah,
C'est bon chien.
Also admires horses,
But prudently keeps well away from all,
In which I follow her example.
Vicky looks nice on pony and I receive compliments about her,
Which I accept in an offhand manner,
Tinged with incredulity,
In order to show that I am a modern mother and should scorn to be foolish about my children.
Hunt moves off.
Mademoiselle remarking,
Voila,
Bien le sport anglais.
Robin says,
Now can we go home,
And eats milk chocolate.
We return to the house and I write order to the stores,
Postcard to the butcher,
Two letters about women's institutes,
One about girl guides,
Note to the dentist asking for appointment next week,
And make memorandum in engagement book that I must call on Mrs.
Summers at the Grange.
I'm horrified and incredulous at discovery that these occupations have filled the entire morning.
Robert and Vicky return late.
Vicky plastered with mud from head to foot,
But unharmed.
Mademoiselle removes her and says no more about le sport anglais.
January the 4th.
A beautiful day,
Very mild.
Makes me feel that with any reasonable luck,
Mrs.
Summers will be out,
And I therefore call at the Grange.
She is,
On the contrary,
In.
Find her in the drawing room,
Wearing printed velvet frock that I immediately think would look nice on me.
No sign anywhere of bees,
But I'm getting ready to inquire about them intelligently when Mrs.
Summers suddenly says that her mother is here and knows my old school friend Sissy Crabb,
Who says that I am so amusing.
The mother comes in.
Very elegant,
Marcelle wave.
Cannot imagine where she got it unless she has this moment come from London,
And general air of knowing how to dress in the country.
She is introduced to me.
Name sounds exactly like egg chalk,
But do not think this is possible,
And says she knows my old school friend Miss Crabb at Norwich and has heard all about how very,
Very amusing I am.
Become completely paralyzed and can think of nothing whatever to say except that it has been very stormy lately.
Leave as soon as possible.
January the 5th.
Rose,
In the kindest way,
Offers to take me as her guest to special dinner,
A famous literary club,
If I will come up to London for the night.
Celebrated editor of literary weekly paper in the chair.
Spectacularly successful author,
A famous play as guest of honour.
Principal authors,
Poets and artists from,
Says Rose,
All over the world expected to be present.
Spend much of the evening talking to Robert about this.
Put it to him,
A,
That no expense is involved beyond third class return ticket to London.
B,
That in another 12 years Vicky will be coming out and it is therefore incumbent on me to keep in touch with people.
C,
That this is an opportunity that will never occur again.
D,
That it isn't as if I were asking him to come too.
Robert says nothing to A or B and only,
I should hope not,
To C.
But he appears slightly moved by D.
Finally says he supposes I must do as I like and very likely I shall meet some old friends of my bohemian days when living with Rose in Hampstead.
I'm touched by this and experience passing wonder if Robert could be feeling slightly jealous.
This fugitive idea dispelled by his immediately beginning to speak about failure of hot water this morning.
To be continued.
