The Greatest Works of E. M. Delafield (Illustrated Edition). E. M. Delafield
and icy drawing-room, and is bright. I catch Rose's eye and perceive that she is unfavourably impressed, as I am myself, and that we both know that This will Never Do--nevertheless we are obliged to waste entire morning inspecting class-rooms--very light and cold--dormitories--hideously tidy, and red blankets like an institution--and gymnasium with dangerous-looking apparatus.
Children all look healthy, except one with a bandage on leg, which Principal dismisses lightly, when I enquire, as boils--and adds that child was born in India. (This event must have taken place at least ten years ago, and cannot possibly have any bearing on the case.)
Rose, behind Principal's back, forms long sentence silently with her lips, of which I do not understand one word, and then shakes her head violently. I shake mine in reply, and we are shown Chapel--chilly and unpleasant building--and Sick-room, where forlorn-looking child with inadequate little red cardigan on over school uniform is sitting in a depressed way over deadly-looking jigsaw puzzle of extreme antiquity.
The Principal says Hallo, darling, unconvincingly, and darling replies with a petrified stare, and we go out again.
I say Poor little thing! and Principal replies, more brightly than ever, that Our children love the sick-room, they have such a good time there. (This obviously untrue--and if not, reflects extremely poorly on degree of enjoyment prevalent out of the sick-room.)
Principal, who has referred to Vicky throughout as "your daughter" in highly impersonal manner, now presses on us terrific collection of documents, which she calls All Particulars, I say that I Will Write, and we return to station.
I tell Rose that really, if that is her idea of the kind of place I want--but she is apologetic, and says the next one will be quite different, and she does, really, know exactly what I want. I accept this statement, and we entertain ourselves on journey back to London by telling one another how much we disliked the Principal, her establishment, and everything connected with it.
I even go so far as to suggest writing to parents of bandaged child with boils, but as I do not know either her name or theirs, this goes no further.
(Am occasionally made uneasy at recollection of pious axiom dating back to early childhood, to the effect that every idle word spoken will one day have to be accounted for. If this is indeed fact, can foresee a thoroughly well-filled Eternity for a good many of us.)
June 25th.--Undergo permanent wave, with customary interludes of feeling that nothing on earth can be worth it, and eventual conviction that it was.
The hairdresser tells me that he has done five heads this week, all of which came up beautifully. He also assures me that I shall not be left alone whilst the heating is on, and adds gravely that no client ever is left alone at that stage--which has a sinister sound, and terrifies me. However, I emerge safely, and my head is also declared to have come up beautifully--which it has.
I go back to Rose's flat, and display waves, and am told that I look fifteen years younger--which leaves me wondering what on earth I could have looked like before, and how long I have been looking it.
Rose and I go shopping, and look in every shop to see if my recent publication is in window, which it never is except once. Rose suggests that whenever we do not see book, we ought to go in and ask for it, with expressions of astonishment, and I agree that certainly we ought. We leave it at that.
June 26th.--Inspect another school, and think well of Headmistress, also of delightful old house and grounds. Education, however, appears to be altogether given over to Handicrafts--green raffia mats and mauve paper boxes--and Self-expression--table manners of some of the pupils far from satisfactory. Decide, once more, that this does not meet requirements, and go away again.
Rose takes me to a party, and introduces me to several writers, one male and eight females. I wear new mauve frock, purchased that afternoon, and thanks to that and permanent wave, look nice, but must remember to have evening shoes re-covered, as worn gold brocade quite unsuitable.
Tall female novelist tells me that she is a friend of a friend of a friend of mine--which reminds me of popular song--and turns out to be referring to young gentleman known to me as Jahsper, once inflicted upon us by Miss Pankerton. Avoid tall female novelist with horror and dismay for the remainder of the evening.
June 28th.--Letter reaches me forwarded from home, written by contemporary of twenty-three years ago, then Pamela Warburton and now Pamela Pringle. She has heard so much of me from Mrs. Callington-Clay (who has only met me once herself and cannot possibly have anything whatever to say about me, except that I exist) and would so much like to meet me again. Do I remember picnic on the river in dear old days now so long ago? Much, writes Pamela Pringle--as well she may--has happened since then, and perhaps I have heard that after many troubles, she has at last found Peace, she trusts lasting. (Uncharitable reflection crosses my mind that P. P., judging from outline of her career given by Mrs. Callington-Clay, had better not count too much upon this, if by Peace she means matrimonial stability.)
Will I, pathetically adds Pamela, come and see her soon, for the sake of old times?
Write and reply that I will do so on my return--though less for the sake of old times than from lively curiosity, but naturally say nothing about this (extremely inferior) motive.
Go to large establishment which is having a Sale, in order to buy sheets. Find, to my horror, that I return having not only bought sheets, but blue lace tea-gown, six pads of writing-paper, ruled, small hair-slide, remnant of red brocade, and reversible black-and-white bath-mat, with slight flaw in it.
Cannot imagine how any of it happened.
Rose and I go to French film called Le Million, and are much amused. Coming out we meet Canadian, evidently old friend of Rose's, who asks us both to dine and go to theatre on following night, and says he will bring another man. We accept, I again congratulate myself on new and successful permanent wave.
Conscience compels me to hint to Rose that I have really come to London in order to look for schools, and she says Yes, yes, there is one more on her list that she is certain I shall like, and we will go there this afternoon.
I ask Rose for explanation of Canadian friend, and she replies that they met when she was travelling in Italy, which seems to me ridiculous. She adds further that he is very nice, and has a mother in Ontario. Am reminded of 0llendorf, but do not say so.
After lunch--cutlets excellent, and quite unlike very uninspiring dish bearing similar name which appears at frequent intervals at home--go by Green Line bus to Mickleham, near Leatherhead. Perfect school is discovered, Principal instantly enquires Vicky's name and refers to her by it afterwards, house, garden and children alike charming, no bandages to be seen anywhere, and Handicrafts evidently occupy only rational amount of attention. Favourite periodical Time and Tide lies on table, and Rose, at an early stage, nods at me with extreme vehemence behind Principal's back. I nod in return, but feel they will think better of me if I go away without committing myself. This I succeed in doing, and after short conversation concerning fees, which are not unreasonable, we take our departure. Rose enthusiastic, I say that I must consult Robert,--but this is mostly pour la forme, and we feel that Vicky's fate is decided.
June 29th.--Colossal success of evening's entertainment offered by Rose's Canadian. He brings with him delightful American friend, we dine at exotic and expensive restaurant, filled with literary and theatrical celebrities, and go to a revue. American friend says that he understands I have written a book, but does not seem to think any the worse of me for this, and later asks to be told name of book, which he writes down in a business-like way on programme, and puts into his pocket.
They take us to the Berkeley, where we remain until two o'clock in the morning, and are finally escorted to Rose's flat. Have I, asks the American, also got a flat? I say No, unfortunately I have not, and we all agree that this is a frightful state of things and should be remedied immediately. Quite earnest discussion ensues on the pavement, with taxi waiting at great expense.
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