E. Delafield - The Collected Works of E. M. Delafield (Illustrated Edition)

Robert, after dinner, is unwontedly talkative--about hay--and do not like to discourage him, so bed-time is reached with Mademoiselle still unaware of impending doom.

July 21st. --Interview two cooks, results wholly unfavourable. Return home in deep depression, and Mademoiselle offers to make me a tisane--but substitutes tea at my urgent request--and shows so much kindness that I once more postpone painful task of enlightening her as to immediate future.

July 22nd. --Return of Robin, who is facetious about jaundice case--supposed to be a friend of his--and looks well. He eats enormous tea and complains of starvation at school. Mademoiselle says Le pauvre gosse! and produces packet of Menier chocolate, which Robin accepts with gratitude--but am only too well aware that this alliance is of highly ephemeral character.

I tell Robin about Doughty Street flat and he is most interested and sympathetic, and offers to make me a box for shoes, or a hanging bookshelf, whichever I prefer. We then adjourn to garden and all play cricket, Mademoiselle's plea for une balle de caoutchouc being, rightly, ignored by all. Robin kindly allows me to keep wicket, as being post which I regard as least dangerous, and Vicky is left to bowl, which she does very slowly, and with many wides. Helen Wills puts in customary appearance, but abandons us on receiving cricket-ball on front paws. After what feels like several hours of this, Robert appears, and game at once takes on entirely different--and much brisker--aspect. Mademoiselle immediately says firmly Moi, je ne joue plus and walks indoors. Cannot feel that this is altogether a sporting spirit, but have private inner conviction that nothing but moral cowardice prevents my following her example. However, I remain at my post--analogy with Casabianca indicated here--and go so far as to stop a couple of balls and miss one or two catches, after which I am told to bat, and succeed in scoring two before Robin bowls me.

Cricket decidedly not my game, but this reflection closely followed by unavoidable enquiry: What is? Answer comes there none.

July 23rd. --Take the bull by the horns, although belatedly, and seek Mademoiselle at two o'clock in the afternoon--Vicky resting, and Robin reading Sherlock Holmes on front stairs, which he prefers to more orthodox sitting-rooms--May I, say I feebly, sit down for a moment?

Mademoiselle at once advances her own armchair and says Ah, ça me fait du bien de recevoir madame dans mon petit domaine --which makes me feel worse than ever.

Extremely painful half-hour follows. We go over ground that we have traversed many times before, and reach conclusions only to unreach them again, and the whole ends, as usual, in floods of tears and mutual professions of esteem. Emerge from it all with only two solid facts to hold on to--that Mademoiselle is to return to her native land at an early date, and that Vicky goes to school at Mickleham in September.

( N.B. When announcing this to Vicky, must put it to her in such a way: that she is neither indecently joyful at emancipation, nor stonily indifferent to Mademoiselle's departure. Can foresee difficult situation arising here, and say so to Robert, who tells me not to cross my bridges before I get to them--which I consider aggravating.)

Spend a great deal of time writing to Principal of Vicky's school, to dentist for appointments, and to Army and Navy Stores for groceries. Am quite unable to say why this should leave me entirely exhausted in mind and body--but it does.

July 25th. --Go to Exeter in order to interview yet another cook, and spend exactly two hours and twenty minute in Registry Office waiting for her to turn up--which she never does. At intervals, I ask offenive-looking woman in orange béret , who sits at desk, What she thinks can have Happened, and she replies that she couldn't say, she's sure, and such a thing has never happened in the office before, never--which makes me feel that it is all my fault.

Harassed-looking lady in transparent pink mackintosh trails in, and asks for a cook-general, but is curtly dismissed by orange béret with assurance that cooks-general for the country are not to be found. If they were, adds the orange béret cynically, her fortune would have been made long ago. The pink mackintosh, like Queen Victoria, is not amused, and goes out again. She is succeeded by a long interval, during which the orange béret leaves the room and returns with a cup of tea, and I look--for the fourteenth time--at only available literature, which consists of ridiculous little periodical called "Do the Dead Speak?" and disembowelled copy of the Sphere for February 1929.

Orange béret drinks tea, and has long and entirely mysterious conversation conducted in whispers with client who looks like a charwoman.

Paralysis gradually invades me, and feel that I shall never move again--but eventually, of course, do so, and find that I have very nearly missed bus home again. Evolve scheme for selling house and going to live in hotel, preferably in South of France, and thus disposing for ever of servant question. Am aware that this is not wholly practicable idea, and would almost certainly lead to very serious trouble with Robert.

( Query: Is not theory mistaken, which attributes idle and profitless day-dreaming to youth? Should be much more inclined to add it to many other unsuitable and unprofitable weaknesses of middle-age.)

Spend the evening with children, who are extraordinarily energetic, and seem surprised when I refuse invitation to play tip-and-run, but agree, very agreeably, to sit still instead and listen to Vice Versa for third time of reading.

July 26th. --Spirited discussion at breakfast concerning annual problem of a summer holiday. I hold out for Brittany, and produce little leaflet obtained from Exeter Travel Agency, recklessly promising unlimited sunshine, bathing and extreme cheapness of living. Am supported by Robin--who adds a stipulation that he is not to be asked to eat frogs. Mademoiselle groans, and says that the crossing will assuredly be fatal to us all and this year is one notable for naufrages . At this stage Vicky confuses the issue by urging travel by air, and further assures us that in France all the little boys have their hair cut exactly like convicts. Mademoiselle becomes froissée , and says Ah non, par exemple, je ne m' offense pas, moi, mais ça tout de même --and makes a long speech, the outcome of which is that Vicky has neither heart nor common sense, at which Vicky howls, and Robert says My God and cuts ham.

Discussion then starts again on a fresh basis, with Vicky outside the door where she can be heard shrieking at intervals--but this mechanical, rather than indicative of serious distress--and Mademoiselle showing a tendency to fold her lips tightly and repeat that nobody is to pay any attention to her wishes about anything whatever.

I begin all over again about Brittany, heavily backed by Robin, who says It is well known that all foreigners live on snails. (At this I look apprehensively at Mademoiselle, but fortunately she has not heard.)

Robert's sole contribution to discussion is that England is quite good enough for him.

(Could easily remind Robert of many occasions, connected with Labour Government activities in particular, when England has been far from good enough for him--but refrain.)

Would it not, I urge, be an excellent plan to shut up the house for a month, and have thorough change, beneficial to mind and body alike? (Should also, in this way, gain additional time in which to install new cook, but do not put forward this rather prosaic consideration.)

Just as I think my eloquence is making headway, Robert pushes back his chair and says Well, all this is great waste of time, and he wants to get the calf off to market--which he proceeds to do.