‘My hat!’ says Tubby wiping his forehead. ‘That was a near thing, boys. Did you see Uncle Frankie making for the window?’
‘You rolled the chair over his pet corn!’ cries the Child hysterically.
‘I feel like the Johnny whose hair turned white in a single night,’ Jack owns. ‘Wondered whether I should pretend to go potty and collar the old man – ’
‘Drinks all round, and then home in my Rolls,’ announces the Child.
‘The lies you told!’ Tubby cries, laughing helplessly.
‘Lies – I told no lies,’ replies the Child indignantly. ‘I told Captain Tim he’d find wifie at home, and so he will when he’s pushed off Uncle Frankie by the 6.55. Where are the lies? Fetch the drinks, Tubby, we can’t ring for Smithers.’
‘Fetch them yourself,’ says Tubby. He is busy with paper and pencil, and is obviously perpetrating one of his celebrated poems on the occasion.
‘My God!’ cries the Child. ‘Is there nobody in this ruddy regiment to do a spot of work but myself !’
‘What rhymes with station?’ asks Tubby unabashed. ‘Damnation, of course,’ replies Jack. ‘And it’s just what Uncle Frankie would have said – though why you are wasting your time I don’t know. You can’t put it in the magazine – there was nearly a riot in the Mess over the last muck you put in.’
‘It’s my muse,’ Tubby explains, moistening his pencil with the tip of a very red tongue. ‘The urge for self-expression is very strong in great poets like me.’ He holds up his glass and calls upon us to bear witness that the Child is a murderer, having drowned a perfectly good drink which never did him any harm.
‘What about the poem, Tubs?’ says Jack.
Tubby simpers shyly, but after a very little persuasion he reads out the following effusion:
‘Uncle Frankie.
Lost his hankie
Going to the station,
He lost his train
And was profane,
Just like the Bull of Bashan.’
(‘I put that in because ladies are present.’)
‘His journey spoiled,
His purpose foiled,
He then returned to pester.
Then Uncle Frankie
Found his hankie
And, very nearly, Hester.’
‘Dashed cheek,’ says Jack, giggling inanely.
The Child makes no comment – poetry is not his strong point – but turning to me he enquires if I will come again another wet afternoon as it has been ‘such fun’.
I reply that it is not my idea of fun.
‘Why not?’ cry all three imbeciles. ‘Is our fire not warm? Have our cocktails no sting? Is our conversation not witty? Are our chairs not comfortable?’
I reply in the words of Le Rat des Champs – ‘Adieu donc, fie du plaisir que le craint peut corrompre.’
‘That’s French,’ says Jack triumphantly, but Tubby who is more erudite – as well as being the regimental poet – replies:
‘Italian, me lad, from a poem called Don Juan by a poet called Don Byrono. The poor man was drowned in a storm while escaping from his wife in a cockleshell on Lake Como – ’
I hear no more of this potpourri of literary history as I am hustled away by the Child. Tubby follows us into the hall shouting that the second verse of his poem will be ready tomorrow and will deal faithfully with Aunt Loo’s horror at the non-appearance of her spouse, and with Hannibal crossing the Alps, and Christopher Robin’s lecture on a rear-guard action with elephants.
We hasten to the old Gun Stables where the officers keep their cars, the Child protesting volubly that I must be home before Tim so that my alibi may be secure. I am to be sitting by the fire with my darning basket when Tim returns – a picture of domesticity. (This wretched darning basket of mine is a perennial joke in the regiment.) Thus the Child babbles on, the while he tries vainly to get a kick out of his aged and battle-scarred Trojan.
‘It’s no damn use,’ he says at last. ‘I think the brute must have died in the night – we must just borrow Rex Bolton’s Alvis. Fortunately my key fits his door.’
Rex Bolton’s Alvis being more amenable to persuasion, we are soon careering gaily out of the barracks gate where two sentries at rigid attention, and one mud-bespattered figure in a service burberry waves its arms and shouts upon its gods.
‘Rex Bolton,’ says the Child succinctly as he jams the Alvis into top with a grating sound.
Thanks to the admirable speed of the Alvis, I am changed and seated by the fire when Tim and Cassandra reach home.
‘It’s a mercy you didn’t wait,’ Tim informs me. ‘Had a lecture pushed on to me at the last moment and then had to take the old man to the station –what a life! Thank Heaven we’ll be out of all this soon.’
I make sympathetic noises.
Tim expands confidentially. ‘You know, Hester, I’m certain those young devils in the Mess were up to some mischief this afternoon. Shouldn’t be surprised if they had a girl hidden behind the curtain.’
‘Whatever made you think that?’ I wonder, in a voice trembling with suppressed mirth. Having decided to make a clean breast of the whole adventure to Tim, I find these suspicions of his somewhat amusing.
Tim laughs – ‘You should have been there – they were tumbling over each other to be nice to Uncle Frankie and to get him out of the place. Jack went white as a ghost when the old man made a move towards the window. Wonder what Grace would say if she knew – I’ll get on to them tomorrow about it, see if I don’t.’
I thread my needle carefully before I reply: ‘I wouldn’t say anything about it if I were you – you might discover that the girl behind the curtain was your own wife.’
Tim roars with laughter. ‘My good soul, I know better than that. I bet the girl behind the curtain was a peach – one of the Child’s ‘specials.’ I very nearly went back after parking the old man with Morley, to have a look at her – I bet she was worth looking at.’
Tim is very tiresome sometimes.
Eighteenth January
Letter from Bryan asking why we ‘went off without saying goodbye’ and informing us that he has got his ‘remove’ and is in a different ‘dorm’. The rest of the letter is taken up with calculations as to how many days it is until the Easter holidays and ends with the pious hope that the writer may develop ringworm or some such complaint ‘like Brunton did last term’, in which case he will be sent home forthwith. Feel that this would be an undesirable occurrence especially as we have just sent him a cheque for a large sum to defray the term’s expenses.
I also receive a letter from Lady Morley of Charters Towers, inviting me to accompany Tim on the 29th January and stay two nights at Charters Towers for the point-to-point races. Great argument between Tim and self regarding the invitation as I feel I have no clothes worthy of the occasion, and Tim says that my last year’s tweeds and a fur coat is all that I shall require. Am bitterly aware that Tim is one of those men who do not understand clothes or women, but reflect afterwards that perhaps this is just as well in some ways. Men who understand women being sometimes too understanding of women other than their wives.
Major Morley comes in to tea and says that of course I must go, and that he will take us in his car.
Nineteenth January
Tim reminds me unnecessarily at breakfast that the Bensons and the McDougalls are coming to dinner tonight and asks me to tell Annie not to breathe heavily down the back of his neck when she is waiting at table. Spend half an hour wondering how I can possibly put this in a tactful manner and realise that I can’t. Decide to say nothing about it and hope for the best.
Am still in the later stages of my toilet when Mrs. Benson arrives and is shown straight into my bedroom. This is not Annie’s fault – she is merely carrying out instructions – Mrs. Benson has upset plans by arriving ten minutes early. I am aware that Tim is not ready either, having fished a stud up his back for him about three minutes ago.
‘And how do you think you will like Westb
urgh?’ says Mrs. Benson as she dabs her nose with blue powder in front of my glass. ‘I hear it does not rain all the time, and the smoke is really quite healthy.’
Tim enters in his shirt sleeves to ask me to tie his tie for him, but backs out hastily at the sight of Mrs. Benson, while I make signs to him behind her back to hurry downstairs to the colonel. Can see he does not know in the least what I mean.
The McDougalls arrive about twenty minutes late, by which time we have all come to the end of our conversation, and the colonel is pacing up and down the room like a wild beast. They are full of the most abject apologies, their car wouldn’t start and they have only just now been able to get a taxi from the garage. Smile brightly and say it does not matter at all, though I am nearly frantic at the thought of the mushroom soufflé, which I know will be like leather.
The colonel is by now in a towering rage, and dabs at his burnt fish in positive disgust. Fortunately the beef olives are quite eatable, and the pudding is a trifle, so I breathe a sigh of relief.
Grace McDougall gradually wins the colonel to a better mood by flirting with him outrageously; but this annoys both Mrs. Benson and Captain McDougall, so things are not much improved. The soufflé does not turn up at all, its place on the menu is taken by a few cheese straws which I know have been mouldering at the back of the kitchen cupboard for about three weeks, but which look nice, having been dusted thoroughly and reheated.
Colonel now laughing uproariously at something said by Grace which neither of them will divulge.
Grace is looking really beautiful tonight in red chiffon which clashes diabolically with my old dyed pink satin. Her hair is black with a blue sheen and has obviously just been trimmed and waved, her creamy matt complexion is touched with a faint pink – her eyes are sparkling with mischief.
Notice with horror that Annie is breathing heavily down Tim’s back, and am certain by the expression on his face that he thinks I have forgotten to tell her not to. Whereas my whole day has been completely poisoned by remembering it.
Make a move as soon as I possibly can. Mrs. Benson rises with alacrity but everyone else obviously surprised. Grace drops her bag and she and the colonel bump heads trying to pick it up. (The C.O.’s figure is not suited to retrieving bags from beneath tables.) Both laugh. Mrs. Benson sweeps out of the door which Tim has opened.
Find that I have left the frying pan for the fire, as Mrs. Benson will not speak to Grace. Decide that six is a very awkward number for dinner as it makes three women in the drawing room. (But as our table will not hold more I am aware that the decision is barren.) Contrive to talk to Mrs. Benson about Regimental Women’s Welfare Club and to Grace about hairdressers. Very wearing.
Am thankful to see the men, and suggest bridge. Grace and I sit out and she tells me that she has offered to have the Carter baby and nurse while the new baby is arriving. Warn her about the nurse who upset my whole household when I had them to stay while a move was taking place. Grace says her household is already in such a parlous condition that she does not think the Carter nurse can do much harm.
Jack had to turn three men out of the kitchen at 11.30 p.m. last night and the cook gave notice this morning, and what do I do about followers. Reply that Annie is engaged to Bollings and that Katie has a squint and protruding teeth – Grace says I am lucky.
Twentieth January
Nora comes in to retrieve three finger bowls which I borrowed for my dinner party. I washed and dried them myself as I was afraid to trust them to the tender mercies of Bollings – Nora is the kind of person whose belongings one is terrified of destroying. The kind of person who says, ‘Oh, my dear, of course it doesn’t matter at all. The next time I am in town I can order another one to make up the set.’ When all the time you know perfectly well she got them at Woolworth’s for threepence each. Nora talks for a long time without saying anything. Frightful wails from the nursery call me urgently to the scene – I feel sure that Betty and Miss Hardcastle have come to blows or that Betty has injured herself mortally – but Nora talks on. The wails die away into silence (they are either dead or reconciled) and at last Nora goes.
She has no sooner gone than Grace bursts in, and says she has been waiting outside for hours, as she saw Nora’s Baby Austin at the gate, and she can’t think how I can be bothered with that woman.
Reply that I can’t think how I can be, either, but it is no use quarrelling with a woman who is likely to be your neighbour for the rest of your life – quarrels in regiments are the devil. Besides Nora will be our C.O.’s wife one of these days (Neil being senior to Tim and Jack) with the powers of life and death in her hands.
Grace replies, ‘“stuff and Nonsense said the Duchess.” Jack says there’s not a dog’s hope of Neil ever getting command. He hasn’t even got the O.B.E. and he was at Dover the whole war. Besides, his Father is simply rolling, so they will probably retire if they get sent somewhere they don’t like. Jack’s got Neil down in his army list as L.R.,’ she adds with a laugh.
Reply gloomily that Neil is not nearly so likely to retire as Jack imagines and change the subject hurriedly. It’s bad enough to hear the men talking about promotion without starting on the same apparently inexhaustible topic ourselves.
Grace then says she really came in to see if I were alive after last night – isn’t Mrs. Benson the limit? – and to tell me that Jack wouldn’t speak to her at breakfast. (I am not in the least surprised to hear it as they have only been married three months and Grace really did force the pace with the colonel.)
‘Aren’t men silly?’ she says pathetically. ‘As if I cared a button for the old bear I only did it to put him in a good humour.’
I point out to Grace that it all comes of her being so disgracefully pretty, after which we both laugh and kiss each other, and she says she doesn’t know what on earth she is going to do when I have gone, as there is not another creature in Biddington who can see a joke, and do I think Jack could get a job somewhere – preferably in Westburgh.
Twenty-first January
Make up my mind I must really tell the servants about our plans today. Go into the kitchen with my knees knocking together. Katie dissolves into tears and says she would go to the end of the world with me if it were not for her mother, and will I give her a good character as she has done her best for the family, and do I think she could get a place in London as she is tired of the country, anyway, and Biddington is not what it was with Scotch regiments and no Guards now, and don’t I think that a girl ought to see life before she settles down – mother or no – mother and can she have a whole day off to go and see Drury Lane next week?
Answer all questions in the affirmative and offer to put an advertisement in The Times for her.
Return to the drawing room, feeling somewhat spent, and sit down to recover myself before speaking to Annie. Door opens and Annie bursts in demanding indignantly what she has done not to be told about our plans – and she’s been with us longer than Katie anyway – and if I think she is coming with us to the North Pole I am much mistaken (or words to that effect) and will I please take a month’s notice from that moment. Decide that the only thing to be done is to lose my temper, and do so – (at first with some little difficulty, but soon with a glad abandon that astonishes both Annie and myself in equal proportion).
Annie, completely cowed by this unprecedented exhibition, agrees to stay on as long as I want her, and do all she can to help with the packing. She even offers to come to Westburgh and ‘settle us in’.
Am so exhausted that I have to lie down on my bed to recover. Ask myself whether it would not be a good thing to assume an ungovernable temper when dealing with the servants instead of being a kind of buffer absorbing all the jars of the house in my own person. But decide that the reaction is too severe and the nervous energy expended hardly worth the result.
Twenty-second January
Meet Grace in the fishmonger’s. There is a huge cod with a gaping mouth lying on the slab. Grace seizes my arm and says, ‘My
dear, isn’t it exactly like Neil – those glazed eyes, the complete absence of forehead and chin. Yes, three whiting skinned and turned to Fairlawn. My dear, I’ve thought of a splendid plan. Why not sublet Rokesby to the Carters?’
Reply evasively, as I know that Tim will not let Rokesby to the Carters, having suggested it to him myself some days ago. Tim has a poor opinion of the Carter ménage and says with a good deal of truth that ‘they would tear the place to bits and we should have to pay for it’. He also reminded me of a previous occasion when we sublet our house to a brother officer and had a good deal of unpleasantness over damages to same.
Grace says she has been to all the house agents in Biddington and can’t hear of anything suitable for the Carters. She is so determined that there is nothing for it but to tell her that I know Tim will not sublet the house on account of unfortunate experience in the past. Grace turns away more in sorrow than in – anger and leaves me to order haddocks in peace. Am rather distressed as I am very fond of Grace, but feel that it is useless to raise false hopes – Tim quite adamant once he makes up his mind.
Decide to rush home and write to landlord at once, asking him if we may give up the house about the middle of March. Have not done so before owing to uncertainty of finding a suitable house at Westburgh, and having no wish to be left without a roof over our heads – (this has happened before and it is most unpleasant). Now, however, I feel that it is the only thing to do as I can then say with perfect truth that I have written to give up Rokesby. Reflect comfortingly that Alexander the Great was justified by events when he burnt his boats.
Coming out of the fishmonger’s we meet Miss Slingsby a sweet young thing of sixty summers who thinks that all ‘Army people are so dashing’, and is always hoping against hope to be shocked at our conversation. Grace dashes at this inoffensive woman crying, ‘Oh, Miss Slingsby, you are the very person I wanted to see. You will join the B.B.G., won’t you?’
The poor lady twitters like a bird. ‘Oh, my dear Mrs. McDougall, I simply couldn’t – I never could make a speech in public. Of course I know you don’t see your audience and they could always shut it off if they did not like it, but I feel sure that I would not be of any use – not even to read out the list of birthdays in the Children’s Hour.’
Mrs. Tim of the Regiment Page 4