The Duchess of Bloomsbury Street by Helene Hanff Page B

there.
    â€œWell, now!” he boomed. “We can do much better than that, my dear! If you’re free on Thursday, we can drive through the Cotswolds and be in Stratford-on-Avon in time for dinner and the theater, and drive on to meet your friends in Oxford on Friday.”
    I was wildly excited, which surprised me. I’m not terribly attracted to birthplaces, to me Shakespeare was born in the Globe Theater. But when he said he was taking me to Stratford-on-Avon I shouted my excitement, you can’t help it.
    Asked if he knew a shop where I could buy a cheap overnight bag and he said:
    â€œNonsense, I’ll send a nice BOAC bag round to you.”
    I tell you it’s insidious being an ersatz Duchess, people rushing to give you what you want before you’ve had time to want it. If I kept this up for more than a month it would ruin my moral fiber.

Monday, June 28
    I’d left my number with Leo Marks’s answering service and he called back this morning. He has a beautiful Oxford baritone. (Or Cambridge. I don’t know the difference.) He and his wife will pick me up for dinner tomorrow night at seven.
    Dinner and Midsummer Night with the Grenfells tonight, so this morning I took my cocktail dress downstairs and said to the young desk clerk:
    â€œCan I have this pressed before five this evening?”
    â€œD’you want it cleaned or laundered?” he asked.
    â€œNo, just pressed,” I said.
    He stared at me blankly.
    â€œDo you want it sent to the Cleaner’s?” he repeated, emphasizing each word as carefully as if I were Russian or deaf, “or do you want it sent to the Laundry?”
    â€œI don’t want it cleaned or washed,” I said, enunciating as carefully as if he were Russian or deaf, “I just want it pressed. It’s wrinkled .”
    This seemed to stun him. He stared at me a moment. Then he pulled himself together, mumbled, “Scuse me,” and went off to consult the Office. In a minute he was back.
    â€œIf you’ll go up to Room 315 and speak to the housekeeper,” he said, “p’raps she can help you.”
    I went up and knocked on the door of Room 315 and explained my problem to the motherly-looking housekeeper. She nodded understandingly and said, “Come this way, dear,” and led me down to the end of the hall and opened the door to a little dungeon with an ironing board and an ancient monster iron in one corner.
    â€œYou can press it right here, dear,” she said. “Mind the iron, the cord’s a bit frayed.”
    I was a bit frayed myself by this time. The dress is silk, the iron was unfamiliar and didn’t look friendly. I took the dress down to the desk and told the clerk to send it to the Cleaner’s, he was very relieved. This is what comes of being allergic to chemical fabrics in a drip-dry world.
    Later
    I got lost trying to find the Waldorf on foot, overshot it by two blocks, ran back and tore into the lobby ten minutes late—and Joyce Grenfell must have been watching the door, she came out to meet me looking exactly as she looks on the screen.
    She led the way into the dining room and introduced me to her husband—”RegGEE!” she mostly calls him—and their Australian friends, Sir Charles and Lady Fitts, he’s a famous doctor. I sat down, suddenly shaken by the fact that these four distinguished people had wanted to meet me. I tell you, life is extraordinary. A few years ago I couldn’t write anything or sell anything, I’d passed the age where you know all the returns are in, I’d had my chance and done my best and failed. And how was I to know the miracle waiting to happen round the corner in late middle age? 84, Charing Cross Road was no best seller, you understand; it didn’t make me rich or famous. It just got me hundreds of letters and phone calls from people I never knew existed; it got me wonderful reviews; it restored a self-confidence