It is now half past eleven and only four parcels have been opened. I explain this to Tony and suggest that he should leave me to get on with my task in peace.
Tony says, “What? You don’t mean to say you’ve got to do all those parcels yourself! You’ll be here all day . . . hold on a minute and I’ll get Symes.”
I enquire who Symes is, but Tony has vanished.
He returns a few moments later with a tall young man in battle dress, whom he delivers over into my keeping with a few words of explanation. “This is Symes,” says Tony. “I’ve got to go now, or I would give you a hand myself, but I’ll lend you Symes. He’s my batman and driver and a most useful chap . . . You’ll give Mrs. Christie a hand, won’t you, Symes? . . . That’s right . . . Symes will see you through.” Having been used to regular soldiers I feel a little doubtful whether Symes—for all his apparent keenness—will be of much service to me, but after a few moments conversation I discover that in private life Symes works in the packing room in a large London store. I immediately take advantage of his superior experience and invite him to organise the proceedings. He organises them rapidly and efficiently. “You want method,” he says. “You want everything set out in its proper place before you begin. You want the table cleared . . . I’ll put it over here because the light’s better . . . you sit here, Miss . . . that’s right. You can enter up the ledgers and write the receipts. I’ll open the parcels and count the garments.”
In half no time the table is cleared and the ledgers are open, and the receipt forms are in a neat pile close to my hand.
We work away cheerfully—what a comfort it is to work with someone who knows how to work—I have time to glance up occasionally and see his hands flying, such dexterous hands they are. The parcels are opened, the garments sorted out into piles, and the wool which we despatch to working parties is divided up and parcelled with incredible neatness and rapidity. Symes and I are close friends by the time the job is finished. Symes has heard all about Tim and Bryan and Betty, and I have heard all about Symes’s girl friend who sold stockings at Marshall and Snellgrove’s, but who joined the Wrens at the outbreak of war and is now a telephonist at Portsmouth.
“Her name is Miss Ebb—Miss Gertie Ebb,” says Symes gravely. “Perhaps you would like to see her photo.” He produces a small photograph from his pocket, and I look at it with interest. Miss Gertie Ebb is a very nice-looking young woman with a pleasant open face.
“Pretty, isn’t she?” says Symes, looking at it reflectively. “Doesn’t do her justice, this doesn’t—she’s got a lovely skin and lovely big brown eyes.”
I congratulate him warmly upon his good fortune.
“Yes,” says Symes, “and it isn’t only her looks. She’s a little bit of all right, Gertie is. Clever and smart . . . and yet not too smart, you know.”
When Tony returns to collect his batman, he looks round approvingly and says, “Good work! I thought Symes would see you through. You can have him for an hour every Wednesday morning if you like.”
I accept this noble offer with alacrity.
THURSDAY 14TH MARCH
Betty is doing her “prep”. As a rule she races through this unpalatable duty and demands a game of snakes and ladders before going to bed, but tonight she is deeply engrossed in her work. Her head is bent so low that her curls are falling over the exercise book; her feet are twisted round the legs of the chair. After some time Betty sighs deeply and looks up, “Mummy, did you like nessies when you were a little girl?” she enquires.
“Nessies?” I repeat in dubious tones.
“I like them,” says Betty, nodding. “I like them awfully.”
“I don’t think I ever had them.”
“I like them better than sums or French or spelling. I don’t like spelling at all.”
“I know, but you must learn it.”
“Nessies are rather fun,” says Betty, smiling to herself.
“What are they, Betty?”
“Just nessies,” replies Betty. “Well, they’re sort of stories, really. Miss Clark gives them to us. She said today, ‘Write a nessy on My Fav’rite Game’, so I’m doing it.” Betty giggles and adds, “D’you know what Jane said when Miss Clark said that? Jane said, ‘But I don’t know what your fav’rite game is, Miss Clark.’ Wasn’t Jane silly?”
“She was rather,” I agree, hiding a smile, for Jane Carter is very like her mother and seems to have inherited her mother’s sheep-like nature. In addition, Betty—the little wretch—has copied poor Jane’s bleating tones with amazing success, and this is an entirely new accomplishment.
“Yes,” says Betty, a trifle smugly, “yes, Jane is silly. Of course I knew what Miss Clark meant when she said that. She meant we were to write nessies on our fav’rite games.”
Nessy is such a delightful word that I am loath to correct Betty’s mistake, but I realise that it would be the act of a foolish doting mother if I allowed her to continue in error. I explain it to her carefully.
“Oh!” says Betty, wrinkling her brows, “Oh, I see. I’ll have to remember that or the others would laugh. It’s an essy and not a nessy . . . I don’t think it’s nearly so nice.”
I agree that it is not, and add a request that she will refrain from sucking her pencil.
“Teddy always sucks it,” replies Betty quickly. “His mouth is black all round whenever we have sums—and it hasn’t poisoned him yet.”
“You are not to suck yours,” I declare firmly.
“It helps me to think . . . and I’ve got to think hard because it’s got to be a whole page, you see. Would you like to read it?”
This is what I have been longing to do for the last ten minutes, so I stretch out my hand for the “nessy” without more ado.
MY FAVRITE GAME
My favrite game issunt a game at all reelly. Its playing with my bruther. I dont mind what it is. I dont mind being a horce or a wilde beast. When I am a tiga I hide in the bushes and he storks me. He can shute me two. I dont like being a bosh, but I can bare it if he lets me play. I can clime trees two. I can clime as hie as Bryan neerly. Well I can clime as hie as Atha ennyhow. Its maw fun playing with boys even if there ruff. Girls dont have to mind it if they want to play with boys and I do. Well thats my favrite game.
“D’you like it?” enquires the author eagerly. “D’you think it’s a good nessy? Is the spelling right? I wrote it three times so as to get it neat. You see Miss Clark said the best nessy—I mean essy—would get a prize and I think it’s a little pig that you blow out and it dies squeaking—a sort of tiny wee balloon-thing—I saw it on her desk. D’you think she’ll think mine’s the best?”
These questions are impossible to answer, for I have no idea of the standard to which Betty’s form has attained. I am aware that my child is backward for her age, for this unpleasant fact has been presented to my notice by all her teachers. It is true that we have moved about from place to place in our endeavour to follow the drum, and Betty’s education has suffered accordingly, but this is not the only reason for her backwardness; most of her reports point out that “Betty could do better if she tried,” and that “Betty should pay more attention”; and one report lamented somewhat fretfully, “Betty does not seem able to sit still!”
“D’you like it?” enquires Betty again.
“Yes, I like it very much, but of course I don’t know whether Miss Clark will like it.”
“No,” agrees Betty.
“The writing isn’t very good, is it? You can write better than that.”
“But not when I’m thinking,” replies Betty promptly.
“The spelling isn’t very good either.”
“Oh dear!” says Betty, shaking her head. “Oh, dear, that’s a pity. I s’pose it wouldn’t be fair if you told me, would it?”
“Not if it is for a prize.”
“No,” says Betty, shaking her head again, “No, it wouldn’t really. It wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be fair even if you just said which of the words were wrong
and I could have another try at them, I s’pose?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
“Oh well, we’ll just have to leave it . . . I wonder what Jane will write about. I believe she’ll write about dolls. You couldn’t ring up Mrs. Carter and ask, could you?”
“No, I don’t think I could.”
“No,” says Betty sadly. “No . . . well, I s’pose I’ll just have to wait. I hate waiting, don’t you?”
“Yes, but it’s good for us to have to wait for things, sometimes.”
“It isn’t good for me,” says Betty firmly. “I mean I don’t s’pose I’ll sleep all night wond’ring about it.”
Fortunately for my peace of mind I am aware that this is an empty threat, and that my daughter will fall asleep the moment her head touches the pillow, and will not stir until Annie wakens her in the morning.
MONDAY 18TH MARCH
A letter arrives from my old friend Mrs. Loudon saying that her son, Guthrie, is in hospital at Donford and will I go and see him and report upon his condition. She is in bed with a bad attack of lumbago and can’t move hand or foot. I immediately put on my hat and coat and walk down to the hospital, and, after some little trouble occasioned by red tape, I am ushered into a small ward, where I discover Guthrie in bed. He welcomes me with cries of delight which allay my anxiety a good deal. The nurse, who is red-haired and extremely pretty, places a chair for me, warns Guthrie not to get too excited, and goes away.
Guthrie says his wounds are nothing—a bullet through his leg and a splinter in his hand—and he will soon be as fit as a fiddle. He seems in excellent form and gives me a spirited account of the naval action in which he received his injuries. “It was great!” says Guthrie with shining eyes. “Gosh, it was the most exciting thing that ever happened.”
“Were you frightened?” I enquire—for Guthrie and I are old and well-tried friends, and I can ask him anything—
“No-o,” says Guthrie thoughtfully. “No, Hester, I wasn’t exactly frightened . . . but I tell you this: it was a most awfully queer feeling when I gave the order to open fire. Somehow it seemed all wrong to fire at a real live ship with men aboard. It seemed a perfectly frightful thing to do. I’m sure the gun crews felt the same. I was standing on the deck and they looked round at me . . . I just said ‘Carry on’. Once we began to get some of their stuff dropping round us, the chaps settled down to it and did simply splendidly. There was no trouble, you know. It was just a feeling we had . . .”
“But Guthrie . . .” I begin.
“Yes,” says Guthrie smiling. “Yes, I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say it was a natural feeling, a right and proper feeling. So it was, really, but we jolly well had to get over it.”
“It seems so awful, Guthrie.”
“All war is awful,” says Guthrie. “It’s a wrong and horrible thing, war is, but we don’t need to worry about the rights and wrongs of war. We tried our best for peace. We tried for peace to the absolute limit of honour . . . but you can’t have peace when a pack of ravening wolves gets loose . . . Let’s talk about Avielochan.”
I am delighted to talk about Avielochan for Betty and I spent a holiday there with Guthrie and his mother, and enjoyed ourselves enormously, so I agree at once, and we talk about it. Guthrie says, “D’you remember the day we walked over to the laundry and got lost in the woods? What a lovely day it was! I often think of that day when I’m watch keeping;” and I reply that I remember it well, and return the ball by reminding Guthrie of the picnic at Loch Darroch when we saw the ghost.
As we talk the peaceful atmosphere of Avielochan seems to fill the bare hospital room, and once more I seem to see the upstanding hills, the placid lochs with the pine trees reflected in their bosoms, and I seem to feel the cool sweep of the hill wind, and to breathe the clear sparkling air.
Presently Guthrie asks me if I will write to his Mother for him, because his hand is swathed in bandages and he is unable to write himself, so I find a piece of paper and a pencil and prepare to take down his words.
“Oh dash it!” says Guthrie. “I can’t dictate a letter. Just tell her I’m all right—you know the sort of thing. . . . Ask her how her lumbago is getting on. Tell her not to come here—she’s a lot safer at Avielochan—and I’ll come there when I’m better. Tell her I shall probably get a fortnight’s leave, and I want her to ask Hester Christie to come too.”
I shake my head at this and inform Guthrie that it is quite impossible for Hester Christie to desert her post.
“Well, tell her, anyway,” says Guthrie, smiling.
I am most unwilling to convey the message, for I know that Mrs. Loudon will do all she can to persuade me to fall in with Guthrie’s wishes (she holds a strange and quite erroneous theory that I am “good for Guthrie”) and I know, also, that Mrs. Loudon usually manages to get her own way, for she has an extremely forceful personality.
“But why not?” enquires Guthrie in a wheedling tone. “It would be lovely—just like old times—we could fish all day long.”
“No, Guthrie.”
“Yes, Hester . . . think how nice it would be for Betty! It would do Betty all the good in the world. We could have some more picnics; we could walk on the moors. Please, Hester.”
I reply, with all the firmness at my command, that I have certain duties to perform. They may not be spectacular, but they are my small contribution to our war effort . . . and Betty must be educated. . . .
Guthrie says, “Why must she be educated? I hate well-educated women, they are always boring.”
As I have started the day by visiting the sick I decide to continue in my good works by dropping in to see Grace, and taking her a novel from the library. Grace looks comfortable and happy. I am not surprised at her air of well-being, for, on looking back at my own experience, it seems to me that the happiest and most comfortable times in my own life were after my own babies arrived. One feels one has done a good job of work to the best of one’s ability, and one glories in the rest and the attention and in all the kindness and consideration. There one lies, a luxurious prisoner, in an atmosphere of cosy comfort which nothing is allowed to disturb.
Grace’s prison smells faintly of milk, and of warm flannel, and the smell arouses memories and longings in my breast. The babies are quite adorable now, they have improved tremendously, though it is only a week since I saw them last.
I declare that Grace is a lucky woman, and she laughs and agrees.
The babies are now removed, and we settle down to chat. Grace informs me that she has gained tremendous kudos in Jack’s family by presenting it with two male representatives at one blow. Jack’s elder brother has three daughters, so Ian and Alec are the first grandsons, and costly presents have been arriving for them by every post. This is all the more satisfactory because Jack’s parents have never liked Grace, and on several occasions (to my certain knowledge) they have been distinctly unpleasant to her. Grace says that of course her sister-in-law will dislike her more than ever, but that doesn’t matter. Indeed, far from depressing Grace, the thought of her sister-in-law’s added dislike seems to give her a good deal of satisfaction. Grace is almost smug, and, because I am really very fond of her, I endeavour to bring her to a better frame of mind.
She smiles at me and says, “Darling, I know I’m hateful and I don’t deserve my good fortune, but I can’t help enjoying it.”
“But of course you should enjoy it!” I cry.
“Yes,” says Grace nodding. “I should enjoy it, but you think I shouldn’t enjoy it so blatantly. Well, you may be right, but I can’t help it.” She looks thoughtful for a moment and then continues, “Good things come in waves. This is one of the times when everything goes right . . . then there are times when everything goes wrong. That’s my experience of life.”
It is mine too, and I murmur agreement.
“If I were to go to Monte just now,” says Grace raising herself on her elbow in her excitement, “if I were to go to Monte (only I don’t suppose the
place is open) I should break the bank with the greatest of ease.”
I assure her that I believe her.
“Of course you do, darling, because you’ve had the same feeling—the feeling that nothing can possibly go wrong, you’ve had it, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I have.”
Grace sighs. “It is a pity I can’t go to Monte,” she says regretfully. “Nurse has put ten bob on ‘Thunderer’ for me, and I’ve taken a ticket in a raffle at the Church Bazaar, but I feel I ought to make more use of my luck while it’s in.”
I agree that she should.
“It isn’t only things that are turning out luckily,” continues Grace somewhat vaguely. “It’s people too. Everyone is so nice. Even Mrs. Benson seems a pleasant sort of person.”
“Mrs. Benson!” I exclaim.
“Yes,” says Grace. “She came in yesterday and admired the boys and brought them each a pair of woolly boots which she had made herself . . . the woman was really quite human.”
Somehow or other I don’t like this at all. It doesn’t ring true. I remember the Latin tag about the Greeks bearing gifts and murmur, “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes” at which Grace, who has had the benefit of a classical education, raises herself on her pillows and gazes at me. “My dear, I thought you doted on the woman!” she exclaims with quite unjustifiable exaggeration.
“Doted on her!” I echo in annoyance. “Who said I doted on her?”
“Well, you have always stood up for her,” says Grace. “You have always said that she wasn’t really such a bad old stick—”
Mrs. Tim Carries On Page 5