Mrs. Loudon interests me, I have never met anyone like her before. I like her downright manner and her trenchant Scots tongue. Even at this stage of affairs I feel she may be a friend worth having. I suggest (more to see what she will say than because I disagree with her criticisms of modern life) that even in Jane Austen’s day there were those who ran after the so-called great.
Her eyes light up with humour – ‘My dear,’ she says, ‘you’re laughing at me now, and it’s not seemly to laugh at an old done woman, but I’ll forgive you it all, if you know your Jane. Come and see me some day at teatime,’ she adds as she rises to go. ‘I’ve a cook who loves nothing better than to bake and it would be a kindness to come and eat some tea-bread. I’ve outgrown my sweet tooth now, much to Mary’s sorrow. We’ll have a crack about Jane, and whether the old days or the new days are better.’
She takes my hand in a firm clasp and departs without further delay, and I count this an additional merit to Mrs. Loudon, for there is nothing so annoying to me as a long-drawn-out departure.
Twenty-first March
Visit Hillcrest School which I have been told is an excellent scholastic establishment for young children. The headmistress interviews me in a small, office-like apartment and puts me through a searching examination as to Betty’s attainments. I answer as best I can and tell her that Miss Hardcastle found Betty very quick.
‘Quickness is more often than not a sign of a superficial brain,’ says Miss McCarthy severely.
I relapse into a species of jelly, but still have sufficient strength to say that I think she will find Betty is a good child and very reasonable.
‘They’re all good here – they have to be,’ says Miss McCarthy. ‘The child seems backward, but what can you expect, living in England. We’ll bring her up to the standard, but she’ll have to work.’
I murmur faintly that Betty is very young, but Miss McCarthy treats this excuse with contempt, and decrees that Betty is to start on Thursday, ‘and not waste any more precious time’. She hands me a printed list of the school uniform, and bows me to the door – I emerge from the interview completely disillusioned as to my adequacy as a parent.
The more I reflect upon this interview, the more curious it seems to me that I should have sat there so meekly and allowed myself to be browbeaten by the woman. Her strong mental dominance has probably been engendered by years of teaching school (as the Americans say). I can’t imagine any child having the moral strength to be naughty anywhere near Miss McCarthy, and I wonder whether this is altogether desirable. If her dread presence keeps them good, what chance is there for the development of their own self-control, and what happens when they emerge from her influence? Tim says I am mad, and if she can manage the little devils without a whip he takes off his hat to her.
Twenty-third March
I am late in arriving for the luncheon, having got hopelessly lost amongst a perfect jungle of terraces and crescents and squares of enormous and affluent-looking houses. Am shown into a large room full of large women, none of whom I have ever seen before – hostess identified by absence of hat. We proceed downstairs to lunch (I mean luncheon), all talking intimately and animatedly about Hilda and Carrie and Isabel and dear Guthrie, and other well-known people of whom I have never heard. Am so dazed and embarrassed by my late arrival and friendless condition that I sit down in the seat nearest me and have to be removed to make way for a lady with a beard and an ostrich feather in her hat. (Feel untold sympathy for the unfortunate person in the Bible who sat down in the wrong seat and was asked to make way for a more important guest.)
Try to make conversation with my right-hand neighbour without any result. Discover that my right-hand neighbour is stone deaf in her left ear.
Find myself partaking of grapefruit, which always gives me a violent headache, but feel that I cannot draw attention to myself by refusing it. Left-hand neighbour turns to me and remarks, ‘I am always so sorry for army people – so dreadful to be moved away from a place when you are fond of it.’ Reply that there is some consolation in the fact that you are also moved away from places you are not fond of.
L. H. N. evidently thinks she has performed her duty to me, and resumes an interesting conversation with her L. H. N. about Alistair’s appendix.
Luncheon is long and rich I cease to marvel at the size of everybody, but am considerably impressed by the fact that sixteen plates all to match can be produced for every course.
We return to the drawing room, where we partake of coffee. Several people ask me how I like Westburgh, and add that it must be such a delightful change for me smile and nod. Hostess comes over to me and asks if I have been in Scotland before, and adds that it must be delightful to visit Scotland for the first time. Reply that I was born in Eastburgh, but find this is not to my credit.
I am introduced to a woman whose name sounds like ‘Miss Horse’. She asks me if I hunt. Reply in a moment of idiocy, ‘Only for servants.’ – – – Miss Horse if that is really her name, which scarcely seems possible – takes no notice of my levity and says I really ought to hunt, as it’s the only sport worth talking about and I should think seriously of taking it up while I am in Westburgh – adds that she can’t think how I am going to fill in my time unless I hunt at least three days a week. Promise to think about it – which is perfectly safe.
Miss Horse then says can I guess what her shoeing bill is for six months. This seems an extraordinary question to me, and after a glance at her extremely expensive-looking lizard-shod feet I evade the issue by saying, ‘They are expensive nowadays, aren’t they? Especially if you do much dancing.’
A diversion is caused by entrance of host, who is greeted rapturously as ‘William’ by fourteen female guests. He is quite unmoved by either joy or embarrassment. He is introduced to me, and says, in a deep voice without moving his lips, ‘You bin Ittly? We jus’ got back Ittly. Beastly hawt!’ Reply that I have been to Venice. (It was on the occasion of our honeymoon, but I hope that he will imagine it was quite recently.) He replies, ‘We bin Venice too. Beastly hawt. Smelly place, Venice.’
Miss Horse murmurs to me that ‘William is so English.’
Host is smoking an excellent cigarette –it smells like a Sobrani (which is my favourite brand). Realise that the smell of the Sobrani is all I am to get, and take my departure in the wake of Miss Horse. Host accompanies us downstairs, and I hear him saying to her (as I am searching for my umbrella amongst those of – the other guests), ‘You bin Ittly? We jus’ got back Ittly beastly hawt.’
Twenty-fourth March
After breakfast Betty appears, all ready to start for school. I have promised to take her and see her settled in, so I rush for my hat, waterproof, and faithful umbrella, and we set off together in torrents of rain. Tim accompanies us to the gate, giving jocular advice to Betty as to her behaviour in school towards teachers and fellow scholars. Try to point out to Betty as we walk up the hill that of course it is ‘Only Daddy’s fun’, and she must be very good and quiet and do all she is told; to which Betty replies gaily, ‘Oh yes, I never take any notice of what he says.’ Feel that this is not quite the lesson I intended to impart, but am powerless to put my meaning into words.
The moment we enter the school Betty rushes up to an unknown child with red hair and says, ‘What’s your name? Mine’s Betty,’ and is immediately absorbed into a group of children all about her own size and all dressed alike in regulation navy gym tunic and cream silk blouse.
I stand about in the passage for a few minutes, jostled by everybody who passes, until – as Betty takes no further notice of me – I decide to go home.
On the way home I reflect – not for the first time – on the strange difference between Betty and myself when a child. My first day at school was torture – I was so shy and miserable that I could scarcely answer rationally when spoken to. There was a huge lump in my throat, and I nearly fainted with sheer fright when any of the mistresses looked in my direction. No fond but misguided parent accompanied me t
o my doom – perhaps this was just as well, as I should probably have disgraced myself with tears. How fortunate is Betty, with her modern, unselfconscious attitude to life. The world is her oyster, and she goes forward eagerly to open it. Is this because her upbringing has been different – because she has not been kept in the dark, relegated to the nursery, and told that she should be seen and not heard? Will she continue to face the world full of confidence and security, or will her first serious snub shrivel up the untried plant of her self-assurance? What kind of men and women will result from this post-war generation of childhood?
Twenty-sixth March
Receive a letter from Bryan which says, ‘Dear Mum, Could you possibly send me half a crown? I got swished [caned] on Wednesday for cheeking Codfish. We went to the village on Tuesday, and I bought chocolate cigarets when the master wasn’t looking, but I had to give Dennison some because he saw me. We had rugger on Saturday and Villiers kicked me on the shin; he said it was not on purposs but it looked like it. Love from Bryan.’
Decide not to show letter to Tim as I know that Tim will merely say he never got more than five shillings per term when he was Bryan’s age, and would have been ashamed to ask his parents for more. This will lead to the usual argument as to the purchasing power of five bob then and now. Tim will not approve of the spelling, nor of cheeking Codfish (whoever he may be), nor of the clandestine purchase of chocolate cigarettes, and will end by forbidding me to send the money. This would be a pity, as I always feel uncomfortable when I do things forbidden by Tim. (A relic of Victorianism, I suppose.)
Grace has an extraordinary theory, which she has propounded to me more than once, that anyone born in Victoria’s reign is bound to have the seeds of Victorian complexes dormant in their subconscious mind. The truth being, of course, that the atmosphere of hypocrisy lay like a miasma on the land, infecting the youngest children with its poisonous breath.
Must try this on Mrs. Loudon, and see how she reacts to it.
Twenty-eighth March
Decide to call on Mrs. Loudon this afternoon. Put on my best hat and sally forth. Am absurdly disappointed when informed by the neat maid that ‘Mrs. Loudon is out, and she’ll be awful sorry to miss you, I’m sure.’ Leave cards, and return to Loanhead.
As I open my front gate a small boy rushes out, nearly knocking me over, and two other children vanish into the shrubbery. I call out to know what this invasion means, and Betty appears, looking very hot and dirty and dishevelled. ‘Oh, they’re just Sandy and Ian and Marion,’ she says rather breathlessly. ‘They’ve come to play in my garden because it’s bigger than their garden, and you see you must have a big garden for hide-and-seek.’
I point out to Betty that it is usual to have your parent’s permission before asking children to tea.
‘Oh, but I told them they couldn’t stay to tea,’ replies Betty consolingly, ‘and they said it didn’t matter. They don’t have their tea till six o’clock, so they can sit and watch me have mine. I don’t take long over it.’
This arrangement seems to me the height of inhospitality – I find it impossible to enjoy my tea with three pairs of bright eyes watching every mouthful. At last, in desperation, I ask them if they would like some tea – they assent unanimously, and fall to as if they were starving. I discover that their manners are atrocious and their speech incomprehensible – the more so as they usually choose to take part in the conversation when their mouths are full of cake. Decide to speak seriously to Betty about her unfortunate choice of friends.
After tea they all go out in the garden and make as much noise as ten ordinary children. Betty comes in at six o’clock with a crimson face, and says she is boiling and it was lovely. She adds that she suggested to her guests that they should come in and say good-bye to me, but they said they ‘wouldn’t fash’. Point out to Betty that they are not very nice-mannered children, to which she replies, ‘No, but Sandy can run awfully fast – faster than Bryan, I should think.’
I then ask what their names are, and Betty says, ‘Oh, just Sandy and Ian and Marion – I don’t know their other names. They’re all in my class except Marion, and she’s awfully stupid.’ Try to find out from Betty if there are any other children in her class who might be more orderly in their behavior, but Betty says they are all the same – only Sandy and Ian are the most fun, and they won’t come without Marion, so Betty had to have her too.
Am obliged to leave it at that, although I feel somewhat worried about the matter. It seems strange not to know the children’s – – parents. Tim when approached is very unhelpful, and says, ‘When in Rome do as the Romans do,’ adding that the Romans of Westburgh do queer things sometimes, and I need not think I am the only one to have to put up with their vagaries.
Thirtieth March
Find a telegram on the hall table it is from Grace, and says tersely, ‘Can you have me weekend?’ Immediately feel ten years younger, and send a joyful affirmative.
Rush upstairs to spare room (which is to be Bryan’s in the holidays). This room has been used as a dump for unwanted furniture from all over the house and contains rickety tables, a plant stand made of painted pottery, china vases of all shapes and sizes, several very uneasy chairs, and two life-sized photographs of Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie in which a hairy mole upon the latter’s chin is realistically portrayed.
Annie finds me gazing hopelessly upon the collection. She grasps the situation at once, and says comfortingly that we will easily find somewhere to put them. Suggest that we should restore them to their original places all over the house (as I feel they will not look so dreadful if they are distributed evenly over a large surface), but Annie says she doesn’t think the captain would stand it, he did say as how the pore lady’s photygraph gave him the shudders. Don’t I think it would be better to wrap them in newspaper and put them on the top of the wardrobe? I do think so, and Annie goes away to find paper and the steps.
We spend the morning hiding the atrocities. Find it necessary to explain to Maggie (who probably admires them) that I am so afraid of them getting knocked over and broken by Betty. But realise that this scarcely accounts for the removal of the photographs from the dining-room walls or for the segregation of the uneasy chairs.
April
First April
Morning slightly disorganised owing to Betty’s fertile imagination given free rein in the matter of practical jokes. Find the toes of my shoes stuffed with paper, and while I am removing same, I can hear Tim anathematising his daughter in the bathroom.
The key of the garage is missing from its usual hook, and Tim accuses Betty of hiding it, an imputation which she hotly denies. Tim says he would not be surprised if she had taken it, as it is just about on a par with putting salt in his shaving water. He could not think why the damned stuff wouldn’t lather. Betty points out that that was just the joke – and Annie thought it was awfully funny. Tim says his idea of a joke and Annie’s are entirely different.
At this psychological moment Annie appears with the garage key, which she found in the pocket of Tim’s other suit.
Tim then changes the subject by saying why don’t I go for a walk this morning – I don’t take nearly enough exercise. Reply that I would go for a walk if I had anyone to go for a walk with; but it is dull going for a walk by yourself without an object. Tim says we had better get a dog – and drives off to his work.
After he has gone and Betty has departed cheerfully to school, I decide that I might do worse than go for a walk, so I perambulate Kiltwinkle, solemnly, for about an hour, and do not feel much the better for it.
Look forward all day to Grace’s arrival, which takes place before dinner. She looks tired after her journey, but seems unnaturally gay and talkative. (Query Is this because I have been leading such a quiet life and have heard nobody talk for so long?)
Tim and I both hang on her words and drink in all the news of Biddington with avidity. Feel as if it were years since we left. Grace says that Mamie Carter’s baby has arrived and is excee
dingly large and fat and pink (more like a pig than a human being, Grace thinks). The nurse and ex-baby stayed with Grace for three days, and the nurse is an absolute fiend. Tim asks tenderly after the regiment, and is told comfortingly that it is going to pot. Mrs. Benson has the old man under her thumb, and everybody hates her, down to the last joined recruit, and Alec Watt is the worst adjutant we’ve ever had everybody says so. Of course if Major Morley sends in his papers, as there is some talk of his doing owing to Sir Abraham being afflicted with that new and mysterious complaint known as blood pressure, Alec Watt will get his majority.
Tim says, ‘By Jove, is he really going? Poor Old Sir Abraham and I’m next on the list of promotion. What a lark!’
During this talk I notice that Jack’s name has scarcely been mentioned, whereas usually it is never off Grace’s lips, and I wonder whether anything has happened. Has Grace been flirting with the colonel again or perhaps somebody more dangerous? Or has Jack but it is no use wondering, I shall probably hear all about it sooner or later.
Mrs. Tim of the Regiment Page 12