Mrs. Tim Carries On

by D. E. Stevenson

  I rush to the telephone and clamp the receiver to my ear and murmur “Hullo!” in trembling tones.

  Jack’s voice sounds distraught, he says it has been an awful night; he hasn’t been to bed at all; he thought at one time it was all up; nobody knows what it’s been like.

  I have visions of German Soldiers, landing on the coast, and enquire in still more tremulous accents how far they have got.

  Jack says, “They’re here. It happened at five o’clock this morning. Of course we were prepared in a way, but I never thought it would be so frightful. Grace has been marvellous . . .”

  Am now so terrified that my knees give way altogether and I sink down on to the floor still clutching the telephone and pressing it against my ear.

  Jack says, “Are you still there, Hester? Oh, I thought perhaps they had cut us off. You heard the bombs, of course . . . yes, that was the beginning of it. You had better come round here and stay with Grace. I’ve got to go to the Barracks at once.”

  This is impossible, of course, for my first duty is to my own children, and their safety is my paramount concern. I point this out to Jack and add that if only I could get Betty to a place of safety I am prepared to remain with Grace and sell my life as dearly as possible. I have two shot guns and a small revolver and ammunition for a prolonged siege. . . .

  Jack says, “I don’t know what on earth you are talking about.”

  I reply, “The Germans of course. You said they had landed.”

  Jack says, “Good Lord, it isn’t the Germans; it’s twins.”

  “Twins!” I echo incredulously.

  “Yes,” says Jack, “Yes, twins. I thought Grace was going to die. I was terrified. It’s been the most ghastly night. I don’t know why people ever have children, it’s wicked—positively wicked.”

  I pull myself together and endeavour to readjust my outlook . . . but somehow or other it isn’t easy . . . Jack is still havering at the other end of the line. I can hear him saying that Ian arrived about five o’clock in the morning and his brother followed him into the world about twenty minutes later; the doctor and nurse were both there in plenty of time and showed no signs of anxiety—“Absolutely heartless, both of them,” declares Jack indignantly.

  I sympathise with him and say that I will go round and see Grace shortly.

  “Yes,” says Jack, “yes, you had better come at once. I don’t know what they are playing at. The doctor has gone home, the nurse is wolfing bacon and eggs in the dining room, and the twins are bawling their heads off. The whole house is topsy-turvy. It’s driving me mad . . .”

  Find Grace lying in bed surrounded by masses of flowers which Jack has ordered on his way to the Barracks. Grace is looking remarkably well—all things considered—and seems comfortable and cheerful; she says she is delighted to have twins because they will be such nice companions for each other. They will do everything together, of course. The only thing that worries her is that she does not see how she and Jack can possibly afford to send them both to Eton . . . and it would never do to send one and not the other.

  I suggest that she should leave the future to look after itself.

  Grace says she likes thinking about the future and making plans—even if the plans don’t come off—and perhaps if Jack’s old aunt dies in time they will be able to manage it all right. The old aunt is “over ninety and quite queer”, so Grace does not feel that it is wrong to envisage her end.

  Ian and his brother are now displayed by the proud nurse. They are exceedingly small, but seem quite lusty. Nurse says, “Aren’t they pets, Mrs. Christie?” I agree that they are.

  Grace says she thinks she will call the second one Alec . . . “Ian and Alec,” says Grace dreamily, “My boys, Ian and Alec!”

  I suggest that I must go now, but Grace says she must tell me about her dream—it was a lovely dream. She dreamt that she was walking across the field at Lords with the two boys, one on each side of her. She was wearing a new frock with pale blue ribbons, and they were in Etons with lovely shiny top hats—they looked adorable.

  Nurse now interferes and says that Grace must have a nice sleep, so I depart, but am called back and given a list of things which are wanted for the twins. Nurse follows me out to the door reiterating requests for Johnson & Johnson’s Baby Powder and the best olive oil.

  Enquire, a trifle fretfully, why these things are not already in the house, to which Nurse replies, “Well, they did come a bit before time. It was the siren did it, and the fuss of getting up, and then the bombs. Have you heard where the bombs fell, Mrs. Christie?”

  Reply that I have had no time to ask anyone.

  Nurse says, “Well, it was the Vegetable Man told me. He said the first lot were on the shore, and the second lot on the golf course. He said one of them fell just in the very place where the committee had marked out a new bunker. It’s saved the club three hundred pounds, the Vegetable Man said . . . not that I believe all I hear, do you, Mrs. Christie?”

  MONDAY 11TH MARCH

  Am sitting by the fire feeling somewhat blue when The Child is shown in. The Child is an extremely large subaltern with extremely large and innocent brown eyes. His correct name is William Taylor, and some of his intimates call him “Bill”.

  The Child says he has received a letter from Tubby Baxter and he thought I might like to hear what Tubby says about the Major, and that’s why he came. I assure him that I am delighted to see him, and that it was a very kind thought.

  “Well, here’s the letter,” says my visitor, “You can’t read it of course, because . . . well . . . because you can’t. I’ll read bits of it to you.” He produces a bulky epistle, spreads it out and clears his throat importantly.

  “‘My dear Bill, How are you, you old—er—. I am in quite decent digs and the Mess is O.K. A French cook and fizz practically ad lib. So far so good and it—er—makes your—er—mouth water—but there are some pretty large flies in the—er—ointment. You say you want Active Service—well, you ought to be here. We are active all right, digging like—er—er—moles but haven’t seen much of the—er—Boche so far. It’s funny how this sort of show affects people and shows them up for what they are. People that one thought were no—er—use are doing splendidly and people that one thought were absolutely O.K. are—er—er—awful.’”

  Bill pauses to straighten out the paper and remarks that Tubby’s handwriting is difficult to read, but we are coming to the interesting bit soon. I assure him that I am finding it all most interesting, especially the bits that he does not read, and add that I can fill them in for myself with the greatest of ease. Bill says he bets I can’t, and continues as follows.

  “‘Major Tim has arrived and seems in great form, everyone is—er—er—pleased to see him except the—er—shirkers. They know they’ll get his boot—er—er and serve them—er—right. It was about time someone gave them—er—er. Talking of girls’—no, you wouldn’t be interested in that, I’ll go on to the next bit.”

  I assure Bill that I shall be most interested in Tubby’s reaction to Mademoiselle, but Bill says “No,” quite firmly, and turns over the page.

  “This bit is all about the Colonel,” says Bill, smiling to himself. “The old boy seems to be having a pretty good time now that he has managed to get away from old Mrs. B. I don’t wonder either; Loo is a bit stultifying, isn’t she?”

  I enquire what Tubby says about the Colonel, and Bill replies, “I’ve told you most of it,” which is palpably untrue. The only other piece of news I can extract from Bill is that “the old boy sings in his bath”.

  “That’s about all,” says Bill, “except for the Limerick—there are two, really, but one of them is a bit—er—silly.”

  Tubby Baxter is the Regimental poet, and sometimes shows a neat turn of phrase, so I am all ears for the Limerick, which runs as follows:

  “‘There was a gay Colonel called Benson,

  Who said, “Now you chaps; pay attention;

  If Loo comes to Vimy

 
Please don’t let her see me,

  But just have her put in detention.”’”

  “Rather neat, isn’t it?” says Bill, chuckling. “Of course you have to say ‘Benshon’ to make it rhyme; but I daresay there isn’t much difficulty in that if the fizz flows like water,” adds Bill reflectively.

  Having given me all the news, Bill folds up the letter and stows it away carefully. There is an uncomfortable pause, and I look at him and note that he is sitting on the very edge of his chair and twisting one of the buttons on his tunic, as if his one aim in life were to tear it from its moorings.

  Bill is usually a very self-possessed sort of person and—as I have reason to know—full of initiative and resource, so I am quite astonished at this sudden attack of nerves. I ply him with encouraging conversation, but he answers in monosyllables; I offer him a drink, but he refuses. At last I come to the end of my patience and demand point blank what is the matter with him, whereupon he swallows nervously several times and says, “You know the Bradshaws?”

  I reply that I do. The Bradshaws live at Hythe and keep open house for the Army. They were exceedingly kind to us when we were stationed there. As I am aware that Bill has been at Hythe quite recently, indulging in a Small Arms Course, I put two and two together and arrive at the obvious conclusion. I enquire how Elinor Bradshaw is getting on, and whether she is doing anything warlike.

  “No,” says Bill, “she seemed all right. It wasn’t her exactly. I mean, of course, I saw her too . . .”

  “Who was it then?” I enquire patiently.

  Bill leans forward, picks up the poker and proceeds to demolish my fire. (As it is obvious that he is upset and therefore not responsible for his actions, I endeavour to bear the calamity with all the fortitude at my command.) “It’s Pinkie,” says Bill, poking fiercely. “It’s Pinkie . . . you know . . . the niece . . . she lives there. She said she knew you.”

  Do I know Pinkie? Yes, I remember her now—Elinor’s niece from India, a small mousy child with thin legs and lank hair and a gold band across her front teeth. Poor little Pinkie, of course I remember her.

  “I thought perhaps you might ask her to stay with you,” says Bill, gritting out the amazing request through clenched teeth.

  “You thought what?” I demand, unable to believe my ears.

  “Well, I just wondered . . .” says Bill miserably. “You’re always so sporting, Mrs. Tim, and there isn’t anyone else. She’s staying with a school-friend at Perth—and—well—she could easily come over here for a few days. I could fetch her if it came to that. She hasn’t anywhere else to go, so she would just have to go home unless . . . and—well, I just wondered . . .” He drivels on in this strain until I interrupt him by asking what on earth I should do with the girl if she came here. She is too old to play with Betty.

  Bill agrees, but says that he thought perhaps I might be feeling dull and Pinkie would cheer me up.

  “Why isn’t she at school?” I enquire.

  Bill says she was at school in Paris, but of course they brought her home and it is frightfully dull for her at Hythe, so won’t I please ask her, if only for a weekend, because she talked about me a lot and he knows she would like to come and he is quite sure she won’t be a bother. The conversation continues for some time and eventually my resistance is worn down, and I agree to write to Pinkie and invite her . . . I agree chiefly because I am certain that she will not come.

  “Oh, Mrs. Tim, you are sporting,” declares Bill beaming at me gratefully. “Oh, Mrs. Tim, will you write the letter now, and I’ll post it on my way back to the Barracks.”

  I write the letter with Bill breathing heavily down the back of my neck and he departs with the precious missive in his pocket.

  WEDNESDAY 13TH MARCH

  I arrive at the Mob. Store, one corner of which has been partitioned off, and here the “Comforts” for the Troops are collected and despatched. In theory the officers’ wives take it in turn to perform the necessary duties, but in practice it works out differently. Mamie Carter is to be my sole companion this morning, for Grace is exempt at present, and Stella and Evie have telephoned to say that they are in bed with colds.

  Mamie is seated by the stove, smoking a cigarette (which is contrary to regulations), she says there were so many parcels to open that she did not know where to begin. I look at the pile of parcels and realise that I shall probably be there all day. Enquire whether Mamie would prefer to open parcels or write out receipts, whereupon she replies that she would rather write out receipts, but she has not brought her spectacles, so she supposes she had better open parcels. She adds that both Stella and Evie were at the pictures last night—she saw them with her own eyes—so it’s nonsense to say they can’t come and help us with the “Comforts”; and Herbert is having a few hours’ leave this afternoon, so she won’t be able to stay very long. If anyone had a good excuse for not turning up this morning it is she (continues Mamie) because Baby is teething, but she isn’t the sort of person to let other people down.

  By this time I have opened two parcels and written out the forms which we despatch to donors. Mamie lights another cigarette and says, “Oh dear, more socks! Why can’t people send gloves or helmets?”

  Am about to reply somewhat tartly when the door opens and Tony Morley walks in. He seems surprised to see us and says he is looking for the Quarty and is this the Mob. Store, or isn’t it. I assure him that it is, and explain that we are allowed to use it for “Comforts”.

  Mamie gets up and gushes at him, but Tony hates being gushed at; he asks what she is supposed to be doing, and advises her to get on with her job (Strangely enough Tony seems to be able to say these things without giving mortal offence). Then he comes over to the table and picks up a sock and says, “Who made that? Is it intended for Fan M’Kool?” I enquire who Fan M’Kool may be, and Tony replies that he was an Irish giant who lived in the 18th century and was in the habit of eating a whole sheep for his breakfast. Tony then tries on a helmet and a pullover, and surveys himself as best he can in the cracked mirror which hangs over the stove and has “Schweppes Tonic Water” written across it in blue letters. He seems quite pleased with his appearance, so I tell him that he may have the garments if he likes, whereupon he removes them as though they were red hot.

  Mamie asks him how he is getting on and whether he likes his Battalion, and Tony replies that the men are grand stuff, but completely raw, and he would give a thousand pounds for a couple of N.C.O’s. who really knew their job.

  “How long will it take you to train them?” enquires Mamie, looking at him with large and innocent eyes.

  Tony opens his eyes wide too, and replies that if Mamie will give him five years, he guarantees to make the Grenadiers look like a Sunday School Treat . . . “Five years,” says Tony thoughtfully, “Yes, I could just do it. The last six months would be the worst, because we should be practising the hollow square.”

  I suggest that the hollow square is an obsolete formation, but Tony says it is obsolete only because of its difficulty. He will use it for Drum Head Courts Martial, and it will be the very thing for Hitler’s trial.

  Mamie is completely bewildered at all this (she does not know Tony as well as I do). “Five years!” she murmurs in horrified tones, “but surely the war will be over long before that!”

  “Oh yes,” agrees Tony. “This war will be over, of course, but my Battalion will be ready for the next war—the war of 1945—unless by some unhappy chance it is disbanded by the Peace Treaty.”

  I enquire, somewhat pointedly, whether the Battalion is capable of training itself, to which Tony replies, “Dash it all, Hester, d’you want to get rid of me? I’m waiting to see the Quarty. I want to wangle some stuff out of him. I told you . . .”

  At this moment the door opens and a small thin woman with a brightly painted face peeps in. We all look at her in surprise, and then at each other . . . none of us knows her.

  “Is this the place I’m looking for?” she asks.

  Tony, wh
o is never at a loss, replies that it all depends upon what place she is looking for. If she is looking for the Officers’ Mess or the Headquarters of the A.T.S., this is not the place she is looking for, but if she happens to be looking for the Mob. Store, this is it. Far from being dashed, the woman brightens and bridles, and, opening the door wider, she comes in, showing herself to be attired (to match her face) in brightest pink and crimson.

  “This is the place,” she declares. “Ha, ha, I can see wool! I want to make socks for the dear soldiers. Everyone should do their bit, shouldn’t they?”

  Mamie asks whether she is connected with the Barracks and has a pass, to which questions she replies in the negative, adding brightly that they wouldn’t let her in at the big gate, so she went round to the side gate “and slipped in when the soldier wasn’t looking.”

  Mamie exclaims, “Good Heavens!” in a scandalised voice, and Tony laughs uproariously. Mamie says to Tony (somewhat tartly) that she does not see anything to laugh at, and Tony wipes his eyes and declares that is the funniest thing he has heard since the war started, and he would give a good deal to see Herbert’s face when Mamie tells him about it.

  Mamie says doubtfully, “Well, he ought to be told,” at which Tony laughs again, louder than before.

  Meanwhile I am busy making up a parcel of wool for the woman (she certainly deserves it) and I provide her with a printed leaflet describing the way in which we like our socks made. The woman reads the leaflet with the help of a lorgnette and remarks, “Oh, I see you need four needles for these.”

  I assure her that socks are usually made on four needles. “Cast on twenty stitches on each of three needles,” reads the woman. She looks up and adds, “That’s what it says here, so I only need three needles after all!”

  It takes some time to convince her that she will require four needles for her labour of love, but at last she says, “Well, I suppose you must know . . .” and takes the parcel which is now ready and prepares to go. Mamie offers to accompany her—explaining in hurried undertones that for all we know the woman may be a German Spy, and Herbert would not like her to be let loose inside the Barracks and that anyhow she (Mamie) must go now because of Herbert’s half day’s leave, so she may just as well walk down to the gate and see the woman safely off the premises.