Mrs. Tim of the Regiment

by D. E. Stevenson

  ‘Shall we have coffee on the veranda?’ says Mrs. Loudon suddenly.

  Fourth June

  ‘Up the airy mountain,

  Down the rushy glen,

  We daren’t go a-hunting

  For fear of little men.’

  Guthrie Loudon and I are on our way to the laundry to make enquiries about a garment belonging to Mrs. Falconer, which has failed to return from the wash. Guthrie is acting as guide (for the washerwoman lives in a remote spot, and pursues her useful calling in the wilds). I am to be spokesman, since the missing garment cannot be enquired for by the opposite sex.

  I am aware that the garment in question is handmade, in pink crêpe de chine, trimmed with Valenciennes lace these salient facts having been communicated to me in mysterious whispers by the owner. Mrs. Falconer has spent the morning bewailing her loss, so that our expedition has been undertaken for the sake of peace. I can’t make myself believe that it really matters very much whether the expedition is successful or not; the Highland air has this strange effect upon me, that I care for nothing but the enjoyment – of the moment and the moment is exceedingly enjoyable.

  Guthrie takes up the song where I left off.

  ‘Wee folk, good folk

  Trooping all together,

  Green jacket, red cap,

  And white owl’s feather.’

  He has a nice deep bass voice, which rolls up the narrow path between the trees, and echoes amongst the rocks.

  ‘It’s a good thing we’re not superstitious,’ he says, when the last echo has died away. ‘The Little People don’t like being spoken of, you know. Wouldn’t you be frightened if they came crowding down on us out of their hiding places in the glen, and led us astray?’

  ‘What would they do to us, I wonder.’

  ‘They would bind us with silken cords, and keep us prisoners for a hundred years,’ he replies with relish.

  ‘Then in a hundred years, you and I would return to the world,’ I tell him. ‘I wonder whether we should be old and white-haired, or eternally young, like Mary Rose.’

  ‘We shall be young,’ Guthrie decides, ‘and we shall make lots of money by going about giving lectures, and telling people what a strange place the world was a hundred years ago.’

  This is the right sort of nonsense for a Highland afternoon, and we elaborate the theme with a wealth of fantastic detail.

  ‘We’ll start by telling them about meals,’ Guthrie continues. ‘People will be horrified and disgusted when we tell them that we used to sit down round a table four times every day and feed in company. A hundred years hence nobody will dream of eating in public. Each person will retire to his room once a day and swallow enough tablets of protein and carbohydrates to last him for twenty-four hours.’

  ‘It sounds a little dull,’ I protest.

  ‘That may be, but eating in public is a relic of barbarism, and it is better to be dull than disgusting. A pretty woman looks her worst at mealtimes, and a greedy man is the foulest sight on earth. I knew a fellow who applied to be transferred to another ship, simply because he couldn’t stand the sight of the owner eating soup.’

  While we are thus talking the path curves upward, and there are hundreds of little flowers in the grass – blue and yellow and white and mauve. A few gay butterflies flutter across from side to side, and the sunshine falls like golden largesse between the shadows of the leaves. We emerge from the woods on to the shoulder of a hill – and pause for a moment to admire the view. The air is so clear that the pine trees seem conscious of the lochs, and the lochs seem conscious of the pine trees, as if they were whispering to each other some secret message of their own. A scroll of smoke, from a small farmhouse, hangs in the still air like a smudge of dirt on the blue gauze of the sky. Everything is crystal clear, bright, bright like spring water, like diamonds, like the wide tear-washed eyes of a young child. Brightness seems to me the most astonishing quality of this new world. The brightness of it washes through my body and brain, until I feel clear all through, until I feel utterly transparent, and the sweet hill wind blows through my very soul cool, lovely clean wind. Every branch of every tree has a song of its own, and the note of the cuckoo echoes from the hills.

  ‘What would you say if I told you we were lost?’ says Guthrie suddenly, in a conversational tone. I reply instantly that I should be extremely angry, and cancel his pilot’s certificate.

  ‘Well, I told you the Little People would be angry,’ he says deprecatingly.

  We sit down upon the brown carpet beneath an enormous fir tree and light cigarettes. ‘You see,’ he exclaims, ‘I thought we might take a short cut. The woods are lovely, aren’t they? Are you enjoying yourself ?’

  ‘That’s neither here nor there,’ I reply sternly. ‘We were sent out upon a definite mission – to recover Mrs. Falconer’s – er – property at all costs. I am surprised and pained to find that a naval officer, of your service, has so little sense of responsibility.’

  ‘Oh damn!’ exclaims Guthrie, without rancour. ‘What does it matter about Cousin Millie’s pants, as long as you are enjoying yourself ? Can’t you see how much more important the one thing is than the other? Try to cultivate a sense of proportion – Hester.’

  ‘Certainly, Guthrie,’ I reply meekly.

  He rolls over and looks at me. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

  ‘Why should I? Everyone calls everyone else by their Christian names nowadays.’

  ‘Oh, but this is different!’ he says, wrinkling his forehead with the effort to explain. ‘You’re not like everyone, or I would have done it without thinking – and I’ve been trying to do it all the afternoon – so you see it’s different, and I’m doing it differently.’

  ‘Well, in that case perhaps I had better say “no”, ’ I reply primly.

  He looks at me quickly, to see if I really mean it.

  ‘Guthrie, do you smell a lovely smell of peat smoke?’ I ask, trying to look very innocent.

  ‘Hester, I believe I do,’ he replies gravely.

  We walk on about fifty yards through a little wood, and come upon a clearing amongst the trees. The sunshine fills it with a golden haze – it is like a bowl of gold. In the middle is a thatched cottage, and all about are lines of rope, with dozens of cheerful garments hung upon them to dry.

  ‘Why, here we are after all!’ exclaims Guthrie, and, as I follow him down the path, bending my head beneath a snowy sheet, and dodging the dancing legs of some pale pink pyjamas – are they Guthrie’s, I wonder – I can’t help suspecting that we were never lost at all.

  Miss Campbell receives us with a natural dignity. She is a woman of about forty, tall and straight, with blue-black hair drawn into a knot at the back of her shapely head. ‘Come away in and have a drink of milk,’ she says hospitably, as she squeezes the soapsuds off her hands, and wipes them on her checked apron. ‘Did you walk all the way from Burnside, then?’

  ‘We did,’ replies Guthrie. ‘It was a lovely walk. I don’t know when I’ve enjoyed a walk so much. Mrs. Christie has a message for you.’

  ‘Is that so?’ says Miss Campbell. ‘I hope it’s not to complain of anything, then.’

  I disclose my errand while Guthrie, with great delicacy of feeling, interests himself in the pictures which adorn the walls. A highly coloured oleograph of a young man offering his heart to a beautiful lady in a Grecian garden seems to claim his particular attention. I can’t help wondering whether he sees any resemblance to Elsie in the classic profile of the lady, or is taking hints from the picture as to the exact position it would be correct to assume when he pops the question himself.

  ‘If Mrs. Christie would just come into the laundry a minute,’ suggests Miss Campbell, in mysterious whispers.

  We repair at once to the laundry, a long wooden shed, redolent with the warm smell of freshly ironed clothes. A young girl tall and dark like Miss Campbell, and with the same graceful and dignified manner is busily engaged in ironing a pile of fine garments.

  ‘Mo
rag, would you be after seeing Mrs. Falconer’s camiknickers?’ asks Miss Campbell bluntly.

  ‘I would not,’ replies the girl, raising her head and looking at us with a pair of night-blue eyes.

  ‘Where would they be, then?’

  ‘You might be after finding them upon the lines,’ suggests Morag, after a moment’s thought.

  I follow Miss Campbell into the garden. ‘I suppose that is your niece,’ I remark conversationally. ‘She is very like you.’

  ‘She might be,’ is the cryptic reply, but whether this refers to the likeness or the relationship remains in doubt.

  The lines run in all directions like a gigantic spider’s web. Miss Campbell looks about her with some pride. ‘It’s a pleasure to be washing some people’s clothes,’ she says, ‘and to wash for some people is no pleasure at all. You would be surprised, Mrs. Christie, if you could be seeing the things some people wear. It’s whited sepulchres, they remind me of, and others, that you might not give the credit to, are all glorious within. It gives you a sight into human nature to wash. See what a pretty line this is! These things belong to Miss MacArbin, now. They are fine and pretty, but quite plain. I like things to be plain, for they come up so nice in the ironing.’

  I agree with Miss Campbell, and admire Miss MacArbin’s taste.

  ‘Miss MacArbin has a lot of new things lately,’ she continues. ‘I’m wondering if she will be thinking of marrying. Would you be hearing anything of that nature about Miss MacArbin?’

  I reply that I have not the pleasure of her acquaintance.

  ‘That’s a pity now. I think you would like Miss MacArbin – she is a very pretty young lady, and clever with her hands. She makes all her own clothes, for they are not well off now, though they own a great deal of property. I would not be surprised to be hearing of her marriage. It’s a pity you do not know her. There will be a baby coming to The Hall,’ continues Miss Campbell, passing down another line full of tiny garments, white as snow. ‘I like to wash baby clothes best of all.’

  I perceive that Miss Campbell – like most people who are buried in the wilds – takes a keen interest in the affairs of her neighbours, and this is her strange manner of keeping a hand on the pulse of life. It must be an amusing game, on long winter evenings, to guess at the meaning of a christening robe amongst the washing from Mrs. A, and to deduce the possibility of an early marriage for Miss B from the fact that she has invested in half a dozen crêpe de chine nightdresses.

  ‘Of course I was aware that Mr. Guthrie was home from sea,’ continues Miss Campbell, confidentially, as she runs her eyes down a line hung with gentleman’s underwear, and moves on. ‘But I could not be placing you at all. You are not so plain as Mrs. Loudon herself, nor yet so frilly as Mrs. Falconer. I was wondering could you be Mr. Guthrie’s betrothed – but then there was the little girl to account for. Is it your little girl that has the wee pyjamas with the pink collars then?’

  We have been all round the garden by this time without any success. Miss Campbell says we’ll take one more look down Miss MacArbin’s line –

  ‘Ah!’ she says suddenly. ‘This will be the thing we are looking for. The idea of Morag putting it on Miss MacArbin’s line – foolish lassie – it is not like Miss MacArbin at all, at all. Miss MacArbin has a different style altogether.’

  We retrieve Mrs. Falconer’s despised garment from the line, and Morag irons it, and makes it up into a neat parcel.

  Guthrie has made an exhaustive survey of the pictures in Miss Campbell’s sitting room, and is now pawing the ground like a restive horse. ‘You might have made the things, the time you took,’ he says crossly. ‘You don’t mean to tell me they’re in that parcel! There can’t be much warmth in them.’

  He stuffs the parcel into his pocket, and, after taking a polite farewell of Miss Campbell, we set off home.

  Fifth June

  I accompany my hostess to the parish church. We take our seats near the back, and Mrs. Loudon points out some of the notabilities of the neighbourhood as they arrive. Chief among these are Sir Peter and Lady MacQuill, to whose ancestral halls we have been bidden. Sir Peter is a square man with reddish hair and a pink face, his kilt swings in an authoritative manner as he strides up the aisle in the wake of his lady to the front pew.

  ‘She was a MacMarrow of Auchwallachan,’ says Mrs. Loudon in an awed whisper, and I conclude that this must be a great distinction. I feel glad that Mrs. Loudon has told me about Lady MacQuill, for she looks as if she might easily have descended from that well-known family the Smiths of Peckham. It is her spouse who carries all the dignity of the MacQuills, and his broad shoulders look capable of bearing it.

  We speak to them afterwards at the church gate, and they profess themselves charmed to have my company at the tennis party tomorrow.

  ‘Guthrie asked Hector if he could bring a friend of his, who is staying at the hotel,’ adds Lady MacQuill, ‘a Miss Baker, I think it was. Please tell him we shall be delighted to see her.’

  Mrs. Loudon tries to look pleased at this information, but makes a poor job of it.

  ‘I hope you are making a long stay this year, Mrs. Loudon,’ says Sir Peter, somewhat in the manner of a king inviting a foreign duchess to settle in his kingdom.

  ‘I’m staying six weeks,’ replies Mrs. Loudon bluntly.

  ‘Are you enjoying your visit here, Mrs. Christie?’ he enquires.

  ‘It is an enchanting spot,’ I reply gravely.

  After this exchange of courtesies, the MacQuills step into the car – an exceedingly ancient and battered Rolls – and are whirled away.

  ‘They’re pleasant folk when you get to know them,’ says Mrs. Loudon, as we return home. ‘If he could forget for a moment – that he was Sir Peter MacQuill he’d be easier to speak to there’s no nonsense about her. You’ll enjoy seeing Castle Quill. Parts of it date from the twelfth century.’

  Later in the day I find myself strolling with my hostess in the walled garden. This lies upon the hillside some distance from the house. It is a delightful spot with a southern aspect, where vegetables and flowers riot together in happy confusion. I remark on the strangeness of the proximity of onions and sweet peas, and point out a single damask rose amongst the potatoes.

  ‘That’s Donald,’ says Mrs. Loudon. ‘It’s a little puzzling till you get used to it. But I could never complain to the MacRaes about Donald. The man’s a poet, and you have always to make allowances for poets in practical matters. Why, there’s the man himself pottering about in his Sunday suit! He can’t keep away from his flowers – sometimes I think they’re more to him than his children. Donald, here’s Mrs. Christie wanting to know why you’ve got your sweet peas planted amongst the onions.’

  The man rises slowly from his knees, and takes off his hat with a natural grace. He is very tall and broad-shouldered, and his rugged face is full of the grandeur of his native hills. These people seem to have more bone in their faces than their southern – neighbours I can’t describe it better than by comparing them to their mountains, whose rocks show boldly through the thin covering of earth. A slow smile spreads over Donald’s face at Mrs. Loudon’s words, and he replies in a soft low voice, ‘Perhaps I wass thinking it would be pleasant to be smelling the sweet peas when I would be picking up the onions for Mrs. Loudon’s dinner.’

  ‘There,’ says Mrs. Loudon triumphantly. ‘I knew Donald would have some poetical reason for it.’

  We move on slowly in the warm air, and Mrs. Loudon begins to talk about Mrs. Falconer. ‘Sometimes I get deaved with the woman,’ she admits, ‘and then I’m sorry. There was a tragedy in her life. You’ll have noticed that in all her havering she never mentions her husband. Harry Falconer was a gem. Some of us never understood what he saw in Millie, but that’s neither here nor there. They were married, and away they went to Paris for their honeymoon. Three weeks of it they had, and then, one day, they ran after a tram they were going out to Versailles, or some such place. I don’t know the rights of it, for the poor so
ul never mentions a word about it, but, apparently, Harry suddenly collapsed – the man must have had a weak heart, and nobody knew, not even himself. He died before they could get him back to the hotel. So that was the end of Millie’s happiness, poor soul, and that’s why I have her here when I can, and bear with her as patiently as I am able – which isn’t very patiently, I’m afraid, when all’s said and done, because I’m an impatient old woman by nature. Millie was always a talker,’ continues Mrs. Loudon, after a little pause. ‘But it wasn’t until after she lost Harry that she became so – so trying to her friends. I sometimes think the shock must have affected her brain. They say we’re all a wee thing mad on some subject or other.’

  ‘Well, what are we mad about?’ I ask, giving her arm a little squeeze.

  ‘I’m mad about yon girl of Guthrie’s,’ says Mrs. Loudon in a strained voice. ‘I declare I can think of nothing else, and, if I do think of other things, the girl is nagging away at the back of my mind, for all the world like an aching tooth. Sometimes I think if I could just get him out of her clutches I’d die happy.’

  ‘He’s not married yet,’ I point out optimistically.

  ‘No, but he’s on his way to it,’ she replies. ‘You don’t think I’m wrong to try to influence Guthrie’s life, do you, Hester?’

  ‘She’s not the right person for him.’

  ‘She’s all wrong in every way. I’m not that despicable creature, a jealous mother. I’d welcome any girl I thought would make the man a good wife. Someone like you,’ she continues, looking at me, almost with surprise. ‘Yes, somebody exactly like you. And I’d steal you from that Tim of yours if I could, but I know there’s little hope of that – that’s the sort of woman I am. People must marry, and have children – and yet I don’t know why I should think so, for there’s a deal of sorrow comes to most married folks that single ones escape.’

  ‘There are two to bear it,’ I tell her.