The Reverend Herbert Cliff-Hay’s legacy had been paid at last. It seemed almost incredible, they had waited for it so long, talked about it so much, and alas! borrowed money upon it twice already. It reached them, indeed, in a terribly diminished form, what with death duties, and mysterious stamps, and fees of which they had had no previous cognisance.

The Reverend Herbert paid back all the borrowed money, and paid the premium on little Martin's Educational Annuity Policy a whole month before it was actually due, and took out a brand new Educational Annuity Policy for little Theodore, who had reached the age of nineteen months without his parents’ having been able to afford this so necessary outlay on his behalf.

Their second child, Constance, being a girl, Herbert had not thought it necessary to do more than open a Post-Office Savings Account for her. Constance, as a matter of fact, would have been his favourite child, if he had considered it right to have a favourite child – which he didn’t – but with boys, one had to think about education. The legacy paid their debts, enabled him to put a tiny nest-egg into the bank, and caused Herbert to make an announcement to his wife.

‘We are going to have a holiday,’ he said. ‘A real holiday, Julia.’

Julia looked startled.

‘A second honeymoon!’ he cried.

‘Except for the children…’ hinted Julia, rather tactlessly, and almost indelicately.

‘Naturally,’ said the Reverend Herbert, frowning. He told her his plan…

‘What about Ethel?’

Ethel was their general servant. It was very difficult for Mrs Cliff-Hay to find a servant, and still more difficult for her to keep one. Ethel had been with them six months, and Julia’s great preoccupation in life, after the welfare of Herbert and the children, was how to make certain that Ethel would never leave.

‘Ethel will look after the house, of course.’

‘Dear, she won’t sleep here alone, I’m perfectly certain. You know what girls are.’

‘Well, well, we can settle about Ethel later, surely,’ said the Reverend Herbert rather peevishly. ‘Here am I, full of a surprise plan which I hope will be a joy and a pleasure to you, and all you can talk about is the wretched Ethel!’

It did indeed seem ungrateful looked at in that way.

‘I didn’t really mean it like that,’ said Julia – although she had really meant it exactly like that. ‘Of course it’s a glorious idea, Herbert, and so kind of you to think of it all...’

When twelve o’clock on the 15th of July came, the packing was done, the suit-case and portmanteau belonging to Herbert, and a small tin trunk containing the effects of Julia and the three children, were locked and labelled, the basket, with sandwiches and bananas in it, stood ready. The village Ford that was to take them to the station was due in twenty minutes – and Herbert, Julia and their two elder children waited anxiously for the infant Theodore to wake from his morning sleep, so that the pram could be put into its sacking and get its label tied to the handle.

‘You know how it’ll upset him if we do wake him. I'd wake him in a minute, if it didn't mean that he’ll be so cross all the way down,’ said Julia for about the seventh time.

‘That’s all very well, dear, but I can't tie the covering on to the pram all in a minute, and we do not want to miss the train.’

‘Miss the train!’ echoed Martin, aged five, in great dismay.

‘Shall I have a spade, Daddy?’ said little Constance.

‘If you’re good, dear.’

‘I can’t think why he’s sleeping so late this morning – it’s always the way when one doesn’t want them to – ‘

Julia made a hasty trip to the front door, outside which stood the pram. Theodore, inside it, still slept peacefully.

‘Daddy, shall I have a spade?’ Constance said, earnestly.

‘Yes, darling.’

‘A real spade, Daddy?’

‘Yes, yes, certainly, when we get there. I say, Julia, you must really wake the child. This is nonsense.’

‘I’d wake him in a minute, if it didn't mean that he’ll be so cross all the way down. I can’t think why he’s sleeping like this – he never does as a rule, but it’s always the way – ’

Ethel appeared in the hall.

‘The car is just coming up the lane, ’m. Didn’t we ought to wake Baby?’

‘He’ll be so cross – there! Isn’t he moving?’
‘Mummie,’ said Constance in a voice of passionate and uncontrollable anxiety, ‘can’t I have a spade?’

‘Certainly, my pet, you shall have a spade. I promise you. Well, if that’s the car, Ethel ...’

Ethel darted towards the pram.

Theodore was awakened, and cried pitifully, and Julia hurried him into the house, and changed all the clothes he had on for other, similar clothes, that were clean instead of dirty, and Herbert tied up the pram and helped the driver to put the luggage on the car.

‘Martin dear, run and tell Mother that we shall miss the train, ‘said Herbert, who had all his life suffered from train-fever.

Martin rushed in, shrieking: ‘We shall miss the train, we shall miss the train!’ And Julia said, ‘Oh no, darling,’ soothingly, and finished off Baby as quickly as she could, and ran out with him to the car.

‘Can I sit in front? ‘said Martin.

‘No, me,’ said Constance.

‘Daddy will sit in front.’

‘With me on his lap –

‘No, me!’

‘It’s Martin’s turn,’ said Julia, who had to remember these things. ‘Constance darling, come and sit with Mother and Theodore in the back.’

‘Tell me a story, Mother!’ cried Constance.

Julia immediately said, ‘Once upon a time there was a little pig who lived in a wood and – wave goodbye to Ethel, darling – Baby wave his little hand – ta-ta, Ethel! Are you all right Herbert?’

‘Quite, thank you, dear. Have you any room for your feet?’

‘Yes, thank you .... Lived in a wood and went out every day to look for acorns ...’

The story lasted until they reached the station, when Julia said: ‘Get out carefully, my pet, and wait for Mother.’

‘Am I going to have a spade for the sands?’

‘ Yes, you shall all have spades.’

On these lines, the journey proceeded. Herbert was very kind, and took his turn in amusing the fractious Theodore, and Julia told stories, and reassured Constance about her spade, and from time to time smiled her pleasure at the holiday having really begun, and received Herbert’s equally pleased and sympathetic smile in return. And it was a fine day, even if not a very warm one.

Everything was ready for them at ‘Eventide’, down to the six plain buns upon the tea-table; and the moment tea was finished, they went out.

‘To the shops, please, dear,’ Julia said. ‘I’ve got to order the things for our meals tomorrow. It’s Sunday, you know, and she’s got nothing in for us, except just the milk and the bread.’

‘And shall we get my spade now, Mother?’ said Constance in a trustful, uncomplaining voice.

‘Yes, of course. Poor little thing, you have been patient!’ cried Julia, really believing this, owing to the fabulous number of times that she had heard her daughter’s request.

‘Will you let me have some money, Herbert?’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said the Reverend Herbert, and he took Martin's hand.

‘Is the pram undone, darling? Because of Baby. It’s too early to put him to bed, and besides, I couldn’t leave him alone, in a strange room, anyway – but we ought to hurry, because the shops shut at six.’

They unwrapped the pram, and set out. Julia had a list, and they went – as fast as the pram, the narrow streets, the people, their unfamiliarity with the locality, and the short legs of Martin and Constance – would permit from the butcher to the grocer, and the grocer to the greengrocer, and the green-grocer to the baker. Everything seemed to be a little more expensive than the same things would have been at home, but one expected that, on a holiday.

When the shopping was done – and it included spades, buckets and sandshoes for all the children – it was time for Julia to go back and put Theodore to bed.

Herbert took the other two down to the sands. He was so good about the children, Julia reflected thankfully. Even at home, where he was busy, he often helped her with them on Ethel’s afternoon out. Theodore was good, and went to sleep quickly, and Julia had done nearly all the unpacking before Herbert and the elder children came back and she had to put Martin and Constance to bed.

At half-past seven Mr. and Mrs. Cliff-Hay had supper. Mrs. Parker had made it perfectly clear that when she said ‘No cooking’ in the evenings, she included things like potatoes, or even cocoa. But Julia had brought a spirit lamp, and boiled water herself, which made them independent.

After supper Herbert wanted to go for a walk, and Julia, who didn’t like leaving the children, and was very tired besides, reluctantly went with him. She was but an abstracted companion, and Herbert, disappointed, was quite ready to come in again by nine o'clock. By ten, Julia, who could scarcely keep her eyes open, having seen that Martin and Constance and Theodore were all sleeping, went to bed herself.

‘You won’t be quite so tired, I hope, at nights, after a few days’ holiday,’ said the Reverend Herbert, when he in his turn got into the double bed.

He tried to make his voice sound only kind, and not resentful, but the effort was wasted upon Julia, who was sleeping like the dead.

The days sped by, only too quickly.

The order of them was always the same.

Between six and half-past six, Theodore woke, and was taken into his parents’ bed so that he might not disturb the other two children, who seldom opened their eyes till seven o’clock. At half-past seven Mrs Parker brought the early-morning tea – without bread and butter – and Julia got up and washed and dressed and brushed the three children.

At half-past eight they had breakfast.

Then the sands – Julia doing the necessary shopping on the way. There was always some-thing to be ordered, or bought, for the children.

The weather wasn’t too bad, for an English July. Julia thought it rather chilly, but then she had to adjust her pace to that of the baby, who could only toddle about, or sit on the sands scooping holes with his fingers.

While Theodore had his sleep in the pram, the others bathed.

Julia, years ago, had liked swimming, and Herbert was ‘very good at it’. It brought home to her the fact that she was no longer very young, when she found herself secretly rather dreading the daily treat of the bathe. Perhaps it was the difference between being able to swim with Herbert, and having to remain close to the edge of the water, encouraging Martin, who was inclined to be nervous, and calling out, ‘Yes, I see, darling,’ to Constance, who was under the impression that she was swimming if she stuck her fat arms straight out in front of her, and kicked the water with her feet.

Herbert, as usual, was goodness itself.

He tried, although not successfully, to teach the two elder children to swim, and he squeezed out their wet bathing-dresses while Julia hurriedly dried and dressed them in the bathing-machine, and then he generally struck out to sea again, so as to give her time to dress herself before he sought the bathing machine. Still feeling damp and mottled, Julia would hasten out into the rather fitful sunshine, and distribute buns to the children, and try to warm her slightly discoloured hands by rubbing them in the sand. At least she kept her hair dry, for it was no longer the sort of hair that one rather enjoyed wetting, for the sake of letting it dry in the open air afterwards...

Her thoughts went back to other holiday-times, which, strangely enough, seemed not at all remote, when she hadn't been ‘Mother’, but only Julia, and Mamma had been ‘ Mother’ – the omniscient, all-powerful and ever-present universal provider.

Was it possible that Mamma, who had been dead ten years, had then felt exactly as Julia felt now?

She could certainly remember a reluctance, at the time incomprehensible, on the part of Mamma to join in delightful hill-climbing expeditions, or early-morning swims, at Weymouth.

Every year they had gone to Weymouth, Papa and Mamma and Julia.

One hadn't realised, in those days, that one was lucky to be taken to a nice hotel, where nobody bothered about ‘extras’, and there was a real meal at the end of the day as a matter of course – not just a slice of cold ham, and bread and cheese, and cocoa made over a spirit lamp.

(‘Oh, what a pig I am, to think about the food like that!’ thought Julia. ‘Though really it’s on Herbert's account – except for the cocoa, which is such a comfort when one's cold or tired...’)

Had Papa and Mamma really been well off? Julia, who had inherited their small savings, knew that they hadn't, although, of course, the value of money had altered altogether since the War. It had just been that, in the past, she hadn’t had the responsibility of any of it – hadn't known or cared how the holiday was paid for, how the plans were made, how the meals were ordered, or anything else.

She had gone on being blissfully irresponsible until she was quite grown-up. She could remember the last Weymouth holiday before Papa’s death, when she had just left school, and she had wanted to go every night to the concert on the pier, with the school friend who was staying with her. Papa had taken them, and Mamma, to their incredulous astonishment, evening after evening, had declared that she preferred to go to bed.

‘But she was much older then, than I am now,’ reflected Julia.

‘Mother, look at me!’ screamed Constance.

‘I see, darling. Wonderful!’

‘But did I turn head-over-heels?’

‘Well – very nearly. Next time it'll be quite.’

‘Mother, may I have the last bun?’

‘No, Martin dear. It’s really too near dinner-time.’

‘Then will you help me to build a castle exactly like the one we made yesterday?’

Julia got up, feeling stiff.

‘Did I nearly turn head-over-heels?’

‘Very nearly.’

Herbert emerged from the bathing-machine.

‘Daddy, I turned head-over-heels.’

‘Nearly,’ Julia inserted automatically.

‘I nearly turned head-over-heels.’

‘Did you, dear? Well, Julia, did you enjoy the water? You look cold, my dear. If you didn’t stay in the shallow water so much, but went right out of your depth at once, you wouldn’t feel cold.’

‘The walk up the hill will warm me.’

The steep ascent to York Terrace was not much liked by Martin and Constance with their short legs, and Julia always told them a story while they climbed.

Herbert pushed the pram.

After dinner, the two elder children were sent to rest for an hour on their beds, and Julia amused the baby downstairs, and Herbert read the paper.

Then they all went on the sands again, or once or twice, for an excursion by charabanc, but the children were too young to enjoy these, and rendered the whole family unpopular with their fellow-passengers, except, indeed, with those who had with them children of the same age.

But Julia, unreasonably, didn't like being told that ‘the little ones were all alike,’ and never let this opening lead to anything further.

Tea – the day fell naturally into the categorical division of time that separated one meal from another – was generally taken at their lodgings. The café in the High Street, where there was a small string band, was amusing, but it cost money, and little Theodore was really too young for that sort of place, and Constance, who was easily made bilious, was sure to eat some-thing that would disagree with her later.
Very soon after tea Theodore was put to bed, and the other two children played in the sitting-room, since it would be too much for them to walk down to the sea and back once more.

Julia came downstairs, read about ‘Little Black Sambo’ or ‘The Story of Peter Rabbit’, and then took Constance and Martin upstairs. When she came down again it was usually nearly seven o'clock, and there was only time to do the mending that always seemed to be required on one garment or another.

At half-past seven, supper – that cold and skimpy meal that was disposed of in rather less than twenty minutes.

‘How the time flies, doesn’t it? I can’t believe we’ve been here so long already. What about a little walk this evening?’

‘Yes – only I don’t much like leaving the children – if Baby did happen to wake – ’
‘Surely, with two women in the house – ’

‘Dear, I can’t possibly ask Mrs. Parker to go to him, and it wouldn't be any good if she did, either – ’

‘I suppose not. Well. You’re not tired, are you, Julia?’

‘Did I yawn? It must be the air. It’s much stronger than the air at home.’

‘It’ll do us all good. The children look quite different.’

‘Yes, don’t they?’ she said eagerly, and then immediately yawned again.

‘Julia!’ exclaimed the Reverent Herbert. The truth was, as they both knew too well, that Julia was intolerably sleepy. She was often sleepy at home, too, since she had never been without a baby in her room after the first year of her marriage, and was always awakened early in the morning – but at home she sat at her desk in the evenings, or sometimes played the piano, and kept herself awake that way.

At home, also, Herbert was busy, and took it for granted that she should go to bed before he did, but on a holiday – a second honeymoon – things should have been different.

He was kind, as ever – but he evidently didn't understand it.

Julia tried going to bed very early indeed, and getting some sleep before Herbert came up, on the understanding that he should wake her, when she would then be fresh and lively and ready for conversation.

But she wasn’t fresh or lively, and indeed it proved to be almost impossible to wake her without the employment of real, physical violence.

‘And yet,’ said the Reverend Herbert, rather reproachfully, ‘ if one of the children so much as turns over in the night, you're awake directly.’

Julia wondered, but did not like to ask, if that was perhaps the reason she was so sleepy now. She said feebly that she thought there was an instinct which woke mothers on behalf of their children. ‘When we get home,’ she said hopefully, ‘and I know that Martin and Constance are in their own nursery with Ethel next door, I shan’t wake so early in the mornings, and then I shan’t be so tired at night. Besides, it’s this wonderful sea-air. It’s – doing – wonders.’

Julia’s eyes grew fixed and watery, the muscles of her jaw became strangely set, and she tightly compressed her lips, in the suppression of an enormous yawn.
‘ Go to bed, my dear,’ said her husband forbearingly. And she looked so miserable that he added, entirely to try and comfort her for her inadequacy. ‘It’s the sea-air.’

Right up to the very last day of their fortnight at ‘Eventide’ the sea-air continued to demonstrate its effects upon Julia.

The final evening was marred by the usual discrepancy between the visitors’ attitude towards their bill, and that of the landlady.

‘Of course, I knew she’d stick it on at the end, as they always do,’ said Julia, ‘but really! When it comes to cruet, sixpence – and neither of us touches mustard or pepper, and I’m sure the poor children haven’t eaten six-pennyworth of salt, the whole time they’ve been here,’

‘Absurd! But still, if that’s the only extra –’

‘The only extra!’ cried Julia. ‘Why, the whole thing is extras. And she’s put down that hideous glass vase that Baby smashed in our room as valued at three-and-eightpence.’

‘ Shall I have her in?’ said the Reverend Herbert wearily. ‘It’s no use letting that sort of person think that one doesn't know one's being robbed.’

‘ No, of course it isn’t.’

They both of them dreaded the interview with Mrs. Parker, and knew that they had no possible chance of getting the better of her, but they felt, confusedly and miserably, that in some mysterious way they owed it to their caste to show Mrs Parker that her extortions were resented by them.

Julia, in a deprecating, apologetic voice, called Mrs. Parker.

An interview on lines exceedingly familiar to Mrs. Parker ensued.

At the end of thirty-seven minutes, the sum at the foot of Mrs. Parker’s bill, reduced by half-a-crown, had been paid by the Reverend Herhert, and the bill duly receipted by the landlady.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Mrs. Parker, her voice suddenly pitched in a more natural key.

‘I'm sure I hope you’ve all enjoyed your stay?’

‘Very much indeed, thank you. It’s done us all so much good.’

‘A thorough rest,’ said Herbert, not without a glance at Julia.

‘Perhaps we shall come again another year.’

‘I hope so, sir, I’m sure. Good night, sir, good night, ’m.’

‘Good night, Mrs. Parker,’ they replied together with amiable smiles.

The door shut behind Mrs. Parker.

‘I suppose they’re all alike,’ said Julia tolerantly. ‘After all, they’ve their living to get.’

‘It must be a dog’s life. And extortionate though she's been, she’s let us down pretty lightly over the damage the children did. I saw that ink-stain on the counterpane myself.’

‘And naughty little Constance’s hole in the wall, over the bed – ’

‘It isn’t everywhere where they’ll take children at all.’

‘No, that’s true. One might do a great deal worse than come here another year. I mean, supposing we’re able to afford another holiday one year.’

‘Now that we’ve got this legacy, Julia dearest, and that our debts are all paid, I want to afford a holiday every year,’ said the Reverend Herbert, adding, with unwonted effusiveness, for he was a reserved man, ‘You and I, and little Martin and Constance and the baby – and perhaps other little ones, if we should be blessed with them. To get right away from home cares and worries and responsibilities, and have a thorough rest and change. I value it on your account even more than on my own.’

Julia laid her thin hand upon his plump one, and her eyes – her tired eyes – filled with the easy tears of utter contentment. She thought, as she had often thought before, that she was a very fortunate woman. Her heart swelled with gratitude at the thought of her kind husband, her splendid children, and the wonderful holiday that they had all had together.

© The Estate of E M Delafield, taken from The Entertainment (1927)