Mrs. Tim of the Regiment

by D. E. Stevenson

  ‘She won’t see much of it today and I could have taken her if she had said she wanted to go. I haven’t got a Bentley, of course,’ mutters Guthrie.

  The owner of the Bentley now appears upon the scene and asks if I am ready. I reply cheekily that he is far too early, and that anybody who was not blind could see that I am still eating toast and marmalade and drinking coffee.

  ‘Hurry up then, Mrs. Impudence,’ says Tony, with a smile.

  Guthrie glowers.

  ‘What kind of a day is it going to be?’ asks Mrs. Loudon, looking up from her paper. ‘The weather news says cloudy and unsettled, some mist locally, occasional sunshine.’

  ‘It seems a bit thundery to me,’ replies Tony, with a glance in Guthrie’s direction.

  At this moment the door opens, and discloses Annie – whitefaced and breathless.

  ‘Miss Betty’s gone,’ she says.

  ‘Gone!’ cries Guthrie.

  ‘I left her in the nursery while I took down the breakfast tray, and when I got back she wasn’t there– ’

  ‘She’s hiding from you,’ Tony suggests anxiously.

  ‘I thought she was at first,’ Annie admits, suddenly dissolving into tears. ‘But I’ve looked everywhere – and her coat and hat’s gone too.’

  Something clutches at my heart, and the room swings round – Betty lost – Betty out alone in this horrible mist.

  Tony’s hand grips my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Hester,’ he says quietly. ‘She won’t have gone far – we’ll soon find her – ’ ‘Pull yourself together, Annie,’ says Mrs. Loudon in a firm, sensible voice. ‘It’s not the slightest use weeping like that – try to think of something she said that might help us to find her – perhaps she has gone down to Donald’s cottage to play with that boy of his.’

  ‘It was kelpies she was after,’ cries Annie, wringing her hands. ‘She’s been talking about them ever since Mr. Guthrie told her that they lived in the streams – and this morning she said, “Annie, it’s just the sort of day to see a kelpie.”

  ’ Guthrie’s face is like a ghost. ‘My God!’ he whispers. ‘What possessed me to tell her such a thing?’

  ‘She’ll have gone up the path by the burn side,’ Mrs. Loudon says.

  ‘I know,’ he replies.

  The two men rush out into the hall and seize their coats.

  ‘Sit down, Hester,’ says Mrs. Loudon. ‘You’ll only hinder them; they’ll be far quicker themselves. Annie, pull yourself together for mercy’s sake – tell Dobbie I want him, and send Jean down the garden for Donald and the garden boy – ’

  The house is full of bustle, and everyone seems to be doing something except me. I wander round the house and stare out of each window in turn. There is nothing to be seen but a thick white blanket of mist; a few branches of trees stick through it in a peculiar manner as if they had no trunks. The fence has disappeared. Oh, Betty, where are you? What will Tim say when he hears I have lost Betty?

  Mrs. Falconer comes down the stairs, and corners me in the hall before I have time to escape into the dining room. By this time my nerves are frayed, and I am in no condition to cope with the woman. If she starts making fatuous remarks I shall scream; if she sympathises with me I shall weep. Fortunately for us both Mrs. Falconer does neither the one nor the other, and, for the second time in my acquaintance with her, I wonder whether she is really so foolish as she seems.

  ‘Things always turn up,’ she says vaguely, more as if we were in the middle of a conversation about lost umbrellas than as if she were condoling with a bereft mother. ‘I’m always losing things myself, so I know. Why don’t you look about yourself, my dear,’ she adds, peering shortsightedly beneath the hall table, and motioning towards the umbrella stand. ‘Things never seem so lost when you’re looking for them. I remember when I lost my gold locket which I always wear round my neck (it has some hair in it, you know, and I felt quite naked without it although, of course, I had on all my clothes as usual) I had to keep on looking for it all the time, and I must have looked down the back of the drawing-room sofa at least nineteen times before Susan found it under the mat in the bathroom but I just kept on looking for it, although I knew it wasn’t there, because the moment I stopped looking for it I felt it was so much more lost.’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply, with a slight lightening of gloom.

  ‘So just put on your hat and your raincoat,’ continues the amazing woman. ‘You won’t need an umbrella because the mist is really lifting a little (there was quite an orange patch in it where the sun is, when I looked out of my window just now), and take a turn around the garden. Poke amongst the rhododendrons with a stick or something – you’ll feel much better if you just keep on looking– ’

  And the extraordinary thing is that she’s right. I poke about the garden, and I feel better; the mist is white and thick, but it does not seem quite such a hopeless blanket as it did when viewed from the windows. So I poke amongst the rhododendrons, and peer over the gate into the woods and I wander blindly into the fruit garden, and shake the gooseberry bushes so that the mist, which has gathered on their leaves like diamonds, falls to the ground in showers.

  Hours seem to pass, and then quite suddenly I notice that the mist is thinner I feel a slight breath of air upon my cheek. Trees, that were invisible before, now loom up like shadows in my path, their dark, dripping foliage spreads above me like a drift of smoke. I grope my way back to the house, and Mrs. Loudon meets me at the door. She tries to smile at me, but her face is grey and drawn: ‘There you are, Hester,’ she says, with a nervous laugh. ‘I was thinking we’d have to be sending out a search party for you next. It’s certainly lifting,’ she adds.

  The mist seems to be flowing now, eddying a little round the house; it moves slowly past like pieces of torn cotton wool.

  ‘There,’ says Mrs. Loudon suddenly. ‘I thought I heard something what’s that?’

  We stand very still, listening, and sure enough a faint shout comes to our ears. I cling to Mrs. Loudon’s arm.

  ‘It’s all right, Hester,’ she says anxiously. ‘They wouldn’t be shouting unless they had found the wee lamb – they wouldn’t be coming back at all unless they had found her, if I know anything about either of them– ’

  It is true, of course, but I can’t help trembling. She may easily have fallen over some rocks.

  We stand there, peering out into the mist for what seems hours, and, at last, two dark figures loom up into sight.

  ‘It’s all right,’ cries Tony’s voice. ‘We’ve got them; they’re quite safe.’

  I see now that Guthrie and Tony are both carrying children.

  ‘Goodness me, there’s two of them!’ murmurs Mrs. Loudon as they come up the path.

  ‘It’s Ian,’ says Tony. ‘They went together to find a kelpie – they’re quite safe, only tired and cold

  By this time Guthrie has bundled Betty into my arms, and I feel her cold, wet hands round my neck. We carry the wanderers into the morning room, where there is a huge fire, and peel off their wet clothes. Everybody seems to be talking at once, but it is all hazy to me. I sit in front of the fire hugging Betty, and nothing matters at all except that she is safe. Mrs. Loudon bustles about getting hot soup and cherry brandy, and telling everybody to drink it up at once. ‘There’s nothing better for keeping out the cold,’ she says. ‘But if anybody would rather have whisky, it’s here.’

  ‘It was rather fun at first,’ Betty announces, sipping her hot soup, and stretching out a cold bare foot to the fire. ‘And then we got lost, and it was horrid, and then Guthrie came, and it was all right.’

  ‘It was frightfully naughty,’ I tell her in a shaking voice.

  ‘But we wanted to see a kelpie and Ian took his net to catch it fancy if we had caught a darling little kelpie, Mummie.’

  ‘Someone had better let Ian’s mother know that he’s all right,’ suggests Tony. ‘I’ll go, shall I?’

  ‘You will not, then,’ replies Mrs. Loudon firmly. ‘I’ll send Jean. Dri
nk up your cherry brandy, Ian. Yes, I know it’s hot; boys who go looking for kelpies in the mist deserve to get their insides burnt.’

  ‘They were up the burn, nearly as far as the Tarn,’ Tony is saying.

  ‘Near that big heap of rocks,’ adds Guthrie.

  ‘Loudon found them,’ says Tony, giving honour where honour is due.

  ‘It was the Major’s idea, though – ’ puts in Guthrie modestly. ‘Have some more brandy, sir.’

  ‘Thanks, I will,’ replies Tony, helping himself.

  The atmosphere is positively genial, which is most unusual, and I only hope it will last. I hug Betty tightly and rejoice silently in the feel of her soft body. She has been very naughty, of course, but I am so thankful to have her back, safe and sound, that I haven’t the heart to scold her seriously.

  ‘Major Morley, your feet are soaking,’ says Mrs. Loudon suddenly.

  ‘I know,’ he replies. ‘It doesn’t matter ’

  ‘I’ll find you some socks,’ Guthrie says. ‘My shoes will be too big, but still ’

  Tony laughs, but allows himself to be persuaded into changing, and follows Guthrie upstairs.

  ‘Those men!’ says Mrs. Loudon, laughing. ‘They’ll be at each other’s throats again tomorrow, I suppose.’

  The excitement dies down in spite of Mrs. Falconer’s efforts to fan the flame. By lunchtime everything seems normal, and I can hardly believe that anything has happened. The mist has vanished, and the sun blazes down on to a green and golden world. Betty is none the worse for her adventure, and eats largely of mince collops, a Scottish dish in which she delights.

  ‘I wish we had seen a kelpie,’ says Betty, with a sigh, as she hands in her plate for a second helping.

  Guthrie looks across the table at her with a grave face. ‘There aren’t any to see. There are no such things as kelpies, Betty, so don’t you go looking for them any more.’

  ‘But you told me – ’ says Betty.

  ‘I know – but it was all nonsense,’ Guthrie replies. ‘I shouldn’t have told you – it was just made up.’

  ‘No kelpies!’ says Betty, her lip quivering.

  ‘No kelpies!’ replies Guthrie firmly.

  ‘But we can have stories about kelpies, can’t we?’

  ‘Och, let the child be!’ whispers Mrs. Loudon.

  ‘No,’ says Guthrie firmly. ‘I made up my mind that if we found her safely – I mean I made up my mind out there on the moor that I wouldn’t tell Betty anything that wasn’t true – never again – and I mean to stick to it. If Betty wants stories we can have stories about dogs, or – or elephants, or something – ’

  Betty looks at him, and he looks at Betty, gravely, seriously; and it seems to me that in spite of Betty’s youth she understands a little of what Guthrie has gone through. Something precious has come into being between those two, something deeper and far more lasting than their former irresponsible friendship.

  ‘I think,’ says Mrs. Loudon suddenly. ‘I think it would be a good plan if we all went over to Inverquill this afternoon, to the pictures; it would take our minds off – ’

  ‘What about our expedition?’ says Tony, looking at me persuasively.

  ‘Goodness me, I’d forgotten all about it!’ exclaims Mrs. Loudon. ‘It’s not too late for you to start now. Away with you before the day’s any older.’

  I feel that I would really rather stay with Betty, but can think of no excuse that does not sound foolish. Betty will be perfectly safe and happy to go to the picture house at Inverquill with the others. While I am still wondering what to say, the whole thing is settled – Mrs. Loudon is an adept at arranging other people’s affairs, and has a strange compelling force. I can’t explain it except by saying that you find yourself carrying out her behests without intending to do so.

  Tony and I are hustled off without more ado, and are soon tucked up in the Bentley and flying along the moorland roads like the wind. The day is all golden now, bright golden sunshine pours down from the sky dappled with soft clouds.

  ‘You don’t mind going fast?’ Tony says suddenly. ‘We haven’t much time, and it would be rather nice to bathe, wouldn’t it?’

  I agree that it would be lovely. I don’t mind going fast with Tony; he is one of those born drivers who give you a feeling of complete safety however fast they go.

  He says no more, but fixes his attention on the road. His profile, only, is visible to me as I turn my head in his direction. There – is something stern and sad about this view of his face the straight nose, and the straight lips, compressed into a thin line with the concentration of his thoughts. I realise how little I know about Tony. I know him so well in some ways, but the inward Tony is a mysterious creature; kind and impish, sorrowful and gay by turns, and the mainspring of these changing moods is hidden deep.

  The car flies on, over moors, through forests, past lochs which sleep peacefully in the sun; now it lifts over the shoulder of a hill, now it winds along by the side of a river. We seem to have been travelling for hours.

  We climb a long, steep hill, and stop for a moment at the top. Far below us lies the sea, shimmering in the sunlit mist. It holds my eyes to the exclusion of all else as the sea always must. The sun is piercing the mist with golden beams, making it opalescent as a rainbow. These shafts of sunlight make pools of light upon the gently heaving bosom of the sea.

  Now we are running slowly down the hill to the sea’s edge: to our left is a pile of rocks, capped by green turf and a cluster of fir trees; it thrusts its feet out into the sea, sheltering a little bay where the sand is silvery white. Turf of emerald brightness, starred with tiny flowers, edges the bay, and stretches back to the hills, where the young larches stand in patterns of pale green flame against the smoky shadows of the pines. The sea is trembling as the mist lifts and eddies, the gleaming patches of sunlight spread and merge, and their surface is ruffled by a faint breeze from the west. Far off, and blue in the haze, float the tall forms of islands, some rugged and sterile, others crowded with trees to the water’s edge. Just at our feet a spit of silvery sand runs out into the shimmering water. It is crowned with reeds which rustle gently in the faintly stirring air. The whole scene is fairy-like in quality, there is something unearthly in its soft beauty, in its stillness, and the delicacy of its colouring; every shade of colour, from the silvery whiteness of the sand to the darkest shadows of the pines is caught and blended into a perfect whole.

  ‘This is my favourite bay,’ says Tony softly. ‘Shall we bathe here?’

  ‘I can’t believe the sea is real enough to bathe in.’

  ‘Oh, it’s quite wet, I assure you. There’s rather a nice little sandy cave amongst the rocks where you can undress.’

  He takes our two bundles out of the car and leads the way. I follow in a kind of dream – it is too beautiful to be real.

  The sandy cave is a delightful place; it has little pink flowers in its crevices, and tall pine trees leaning over the top. I undress in comfort, and don my bathing suit with the scent of the pines in my nostrils and the murmur of their foliage in my ears.

  Tony is waiting for me on the rocks. He has been in already, and his fair hair is streaked with wetness, and shining with little drops of water.

  ‘Come on,’ he says, smiling happily. ‘It’s cold at first, but glorious – ’

  The water is almost still. It is very green, and so clear that the sand at the bottom is clearly visible, and a shoal of tiny fish, some silver and red, dart in and out of the gently moving seaweed. We plunge in off the rocks. I let myself sink down to the bottom, and then spring up to the surface for a breath of air.

  The sun is quite warm now. We sit dripping on the shore, and watch the seagulls diving for fish out amongst the fairy islands.

  ‘Do you like it, Hester?’ Tony asks.

  ‘I like it so much I can’t talk about it. It’s perfect. I should like to live here always, and sleep in the little cave, and watch the dawn break over the hills, and the sun set in the sea behind
the islands.’

  We slip back once more into the clear water, and become part of its radiant life. It is so easy to float on its cool surface, to turn over like a lazy porpoise, and feel the salty buoyancy of its embrace. The waves are small and timid; they creep along the base of the rocks and fall with tiny splashes upon the white sand of the bay.

  I dress in a leisurely manner, and feel the glorious heat rushing through my body and tingling in every nerve.

  ‘Hurry up, Hester,’ shouts Tony. ‘Are you dressing for a Drawing Room at Buckingham Palace, or have you lost the feminine equivalent of a collar stud in the sand?’

  – ‘I’ve lost nothing except about ten years,’ I reply, emerging from my lair, and wringing out my bathing suit.

  ‘So you have,’ agrees Tony, looking at me in what I feel to be a peculiar manner. ‘You aren’t a day older than Betty. I’ve always thought seven was the most attractive age.’

  I beseech him not to be foolish, and he replies that he will give the matter his attention. By this time we have stowed the wet bathing suits and the sandy towels in the car, and are walking up the hill to visit the farm. I find it impossible to talk. There is too much to see, and I want to remember it all – every smallest detail – so that I may store it forever in ‘that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude’. Look where you will, a different kind of country opens up before you. Here, in the space of half a mile, you have the sea with its rocks and sands, and innocent shimmer of scarcely moving water; the pinewoods, close and tightly packed together, their foliage like drifts of green smoke above their straight boles; the delicate green of birch and larch; the meadow land, all starred with tiny flowers; and the patchwork quilt of fields spread upon the sloping hills. From the bosom of a meadowy hill, a strong young burn leaps out and rushes seaward; a little wooden bridge carries the path across the water and sets it on its way. There is a wooden rail – grey with age, and yellow with lichen – which we lean upon, watching the silver wave of water as it meets the rocks in its bed, and parts to squeeze between them, or spreads over their rounded surfaces like a fan of clear brown wine.