Retire defeated, and tell Robert that Casabianca wants to come to the picnic--which Robert appears to think unnatural in the extreme. Towards three o'clock it leaves off raining, and we start, customary collection of rugs, mackintoshes, baskets and thermos flasks in back of car.
Mademoiselle says Ah, combien ça me rappelle le passé que nous ne reverrons plus! and rolls her eyes in the direction of Casabianca, and I remember with some thankfulness that his knowledge of French is definitely limited. Something tells me, however, that he has correctly interpreted meaning of Mademoiselle's glance.
Rain begins again, and by the time we reach appointed beauty-spot is falling very briskly indeed. Robert, who has left home under strong compulsion from Vicky, is now determined to see the thing through, and announces that he shall walk the dog to the top of the hill, and that the children had better come too. Mademoiselle, shrouded in large plaid cape, exerts herself in quite unprecedented manner, and offers to go with them, which shames me into doing likewise, sorely against my inclination. We all get very wet indeed, and Vicky falls into mysterious gap in a hedge and comes out dripping and with black smears that turn out to be tar all over her.
Mon Dieu, says Mademoiselle, il n'y a done plus personne pour s'occuper de cette malheureuse petite? Should like to remind her of many, many similar misfortunes which have befallen Vicky under Mademoiselle's own supervision--but do not, naturally, do so.
Situation, already slightly tense, greatly aggravated by Casabianca, who selects this ill-judged moment for rebuking Vicky at great length, at which Mademoiselle exclaims passionately Ah ma bonne Sainte Vierge, ayez pitié de nous! which strikes us all into a deathly silence.
Rain comes down in torrents, and I suggest tea in the car, but this is abandoned when it becomes evident that we are too tightly packed to be able to open baskets, let alone spread out their contents. Why not tea in the dining-room at home? is Robert's contribution towards solving difficulty, backed quietly, but persistently, by Casabianca. This has immediate effect of causing Mademoiselle to advocate un goûter en plein air, as though we were at Fontainebleau, or any other improbable spot, in blazing sunshine.
Robin suddenly and brilliantly announces that we are quite near Bull Alley Manor, which is empty, and that the gardener will allow us to have a picnic in the hen-house. Everybody says The Hen-house? except Vicky, who screams and looks enchanted, and Mademoiselle, who also screams, and refers to punaises, which she declares will abound. Robin explains that he means a summer-house on the Bull Alley tennis-ground, which has a wire-netting and looks like a hen-house, but he doesn't think it really is. He adds triumphantly that it has a bench that we can sit on. Robert puts in a final plea for the dining-room at home, but without conviction, and we drive ten miles to Bull Alley Manor, where picnic takes place under Robin's auspices, all of us sitting in a row on long wooden seat, exactly like old-fashioned school feast. I say that it reminds me of The Daisy Chain, but nobody knows what I mean, and reference is allowed to drop while we eat potted-meat sandwiches and drink lemonade, which is full of pips.
Return home at half-past six, feeling extraordinarily exhausted. Find letter from Literary Agent, suggesting that the moment has now come when fresh masterpiece from my pen may definitely be expected, and may he hope to receive my new manuscript quite shortly? Idle fancy, probably born of extreme fatigue, crosses my mind as to results of a perfectly candid reply--to the effect that literary projects entirely swamped by hourly activities concerned with children, housekeeping, sewing, letter-writing, Women's Institute Meetings, and absolute necessity of getting eight hours' sleep every night.
Decide that another visit to Doughty Street is imperative, and say to Robert, feebly and untruthfully, that I am sure he would not mind my spending a week or two in London, to get some writing done. To this Mademoiselle, officiously and unnecessarily, adds that, naturally, madame désire se distraire de temps en temps--which is not in the least what I want to convey.
Robert says nothing, but raises one eyebrow.
May 6th.--Customary heart-rending half-hour in which Robin and Vicky appear to realise for the first time since last holidays that they must return to school. Robin says nothing whatever, but turns gradually eau-de-nil, and Vicky proclaims that she feels almost certain she will not be able to survive the first night away from home. I tell myself firmly that, as a modern mother, I must be Bracing, but very inconvenient lump in my throat renders this difficult, and I suggest instead that they should go and say good-bye to the gardener.
Luggage, which has theoretically been kept within very decent limits, fills the hall and overflows outside front door, and Casabianca's trunk threatens to take entire car all to itself. Mademoiselle eyes it disparagingly and says Ciel! on dirait tout un déménagement, but relents at the moment of farewell, and gives Casabianca her hand remarking Sans rancune, hein? which he fortunately does not understand, and can therefore not reply to, except by rather chilly bow, elegantly executed from the waist. Mademoiselle then without warning bursts into tears, kisses children and myself, says On se reverra au Paradis, au moins--which is on the whole optimistic--and is driven by Robert to the station.
Hired car removes Casabianca, after customary exchange of compliments between us, and extraordinarily candid display of utter indifference from both Robin and Vicky, and I take them to the Junction, when unknown parent of unknown schoolfellow of Robin's takes charge of him with six other boys, who all look to me exactly alike.
Vicky weeps, and I give her an ice and then escort her to station all over again, and put her in charge of the guard to whom she immediately says Can she go in the Van with him? He agrees, and they disappear hand-in-hand.
Drive home again, and avoid the nursery for the rest of the day. May 10th.--Decide that a return to Doughty Street flat is imperative, and try to make clear to Robert that this course really represents Economy in the Long Run. Mentally assemble superb array of evidence to this effect, but it unfortunately eludes me when trying to put it into words and all becomes feeble and incoherent. Also observe in myself tendency to repeat over and over again rather unmeaning formula: It Isn't as if It was going to be For Long, although perfectly well aware that Robert heard me the first time, and was unimpressed. Discussion closes with my fetching A.B.C. out of the dining-room, and discovering that it dates from 1929.
May 17th.--Return to Doughty Street flat, and experience immense and unreasonable astonishment at finding it almost exactly as I left it, yellow-and-white check dust-sheets and all. Am completely entranced, and spend entire afternoon and evening arranging two vases of flowers, unpacking suit-case and buying tea and biscuits in Gray's Inn Road where I narrowly escape extinction under a tram.
Perceive that Everybody in the World except myself is wearing long skirts, a tiny hat on extreme back of head, and vermilion lip-stick. Look at myself in the glass and resolve instantly to visit Hairdresser, Beauty Parlour, and section of large Store entitled Inexpensive Small Ladies, before doing anything else at all.
Ring up Rose, who says Oh, am I back?--which I obviously must be--and charmingly suggests dinner next week--two friends whom she wants me to meet--and a luncheon party at which I must come and help her. Am flattered, and say Yes, yes, how? to which Rose strangely replies, By leaving rather early, if I don't mind, as this may break up the party.
Note: Extraordinary revelations undoubtedly hidden below much so-called hospitality, if inner thoughts of many hostesses were to be revealed. This thought remains persistently with me, in spite of explanation from Rose that she has appointment miles away at three o'clock, on day of luncheon, and is afraid of not getting there punctually. Agree, but without enthusiasm, to leave at half-past two in the hopes of inducing fellow-guests to do likewise.
Rose also enquires, with some unnecessary mirth, whether I am going to Do