Captain Baker, who is sitting on my left, is an exceedingly pleasant person. He tells me that he was at school with Tim and had a great admiration for Tim’s prowess in the cricket field. They lost sight of each other when Tim went to Sandhurst. . . . I am quite sorry when Grace gives the signal for the females to withdraw as I am aware that I shall never hear the end of a most exciting innings in which Tim and Captain Baker piled up an immense score and saved the school from defeat.
Conversation in the drawing room is of an entirely different order and is conducted by Miss Browne Winters with an occasional remark from Grace. Pinkie and I are obliged to listen—or at least to pretend to listen—to a long dissertation upon Roman Law—a subject with which Miss Browne Winters has made herself familiar. I can see Pinkie struggling with yawns and am immediately assailed with the infection. Fortunately our male companions do not tarry very long, they come in laughing and talking cheerfully. Jack produces a card table and enquires if anyone would like some contract, and, after a good deal of discussion, he and Captain Baker, Miss Browne Winters and Captain Ledgard sit down to play. Bill maneouvres Pinkie onto the sofa at the other end of the room, and Grace and I are left to talk by the fire.
Grace enquires in a whisper who the girl is, and where I met her and adds that Bill is an extremely eligible young man. His father has a big place in the Midlands and a flat in London and his mother is one of the Winkles of Wersh. Grace is a born matchmaker and is never happy unless she is pairing people off, but I am not so reckless; I explain—also in a whisper—that Pinkie is a mere babe and that I am responsible for her, and add that I do not want any complications to arise while she is in my charge.
Grace says that is nonsense, they make a splendid couple and for her part she intends to encourage them as much as she can. Bill is a darling, but he needs a steadying influence, and marriage—to the right sort of girl—would be the making of him. She adds that it is high time we left off calling him “the child”. She then lowers her voice still further and asks what I think of Ermyntrude.
I reply that I do not know anyone of that name.
Grace glances in the direction of the Bridge table and nods meaningly.
I realise that Ermyntrude must be the name which was given to Miss Browne Winters by her godfathers and god-mothers at her baptism, and reflect that for once they have chosen well. The name suits her admirably—or she suits the name—and indeed it seems to me that I might have guessed her name if I had given thought to the matter.
“What do you think of her?” enquires Grace again.
I murmur that she strikes me as being “very intense”.
“Exactly,” says Grace nodding. “She’s extremely clever and ambitious and her Views About Life are most unusual. In fact she is the very person for Tom Ledgard.”
“Do you think so?” I ask in amazement.
“Yes,” says Grace. “Yes I do. Don’t you?”
I point out that Captain Ledgard is rather stupid, has no views of any kind and (as far as I know) no ambition beyond having as good a time as he can afford.
Grace says, “Ermyntrude will change all that.”
I reflect, not for the first time, that Grace is an optimist.
The two young people come over near the fire, and we make room for them. Pinkie says she was cold. Bill enquires anxiously whether he shall fetch her a shawl . . . or her fur coat . . . or his own scarf which is no further away than the hall, but Pinkie says she isn’t cold now, in fact she is quite warm. It was only the draught from the window. Bill asks if she is quite sure she has not caught a chill and suggests to Grace that Pinkie should be given a small glass of cherry brandy, or, failing that, a hot cup of tea, but Pinkie refuses all these offers quite firmly. Bill then insists on feeling her hand to see if she is really warm now, and holds it a good deal longer than is necessary. He is obviously head over heels in love, and the disease affects him like an overindulgence in champagne. It is said that all the world loves a lover but poor Bill must be an exception to the rule. Bill is usually amusing without effort, but tonight he makes an effort to shine and does not succeed (he is talking too much and laughing hilariously at his own jokes). I feel very sorry for Bill and wish that I could get him alone and tell him to be quiet; I wish I could put his head under a pump . . . Pinkie laughs at his jokes, for she is a kind-hearted creature, but I can see that she is not quite so amused as she would like to be . . . she is a trifle puzzled as to why she is not amused at Bill’s efforts to entertain her.
Suddenly I feel that I can bear it no longer and I rise and say that we must go. Grace is horrified and declares that the night is young but I adhere firmly to my decision.
WEDNESDAY 10TH APRIL
I hurry through my housekeeping and go down to the Barracks. Find Stella Hardford there and explain that I have heard from Tim and the Battalion wants gloves. Stella is inclined to be difficult and says that if gloves are required they should have been indented for in the usual way. Take no notice of this but begin to search for gloves.
Stella says, “How do we know they really need gloves?”
I reply that we know they need gloves because Tim has said so.
Stella says, “I don’t feel that we can take the responsibility of sending them without a Committee Meeting.”
This annoys me, and I reply that I am quite willing to assume all responsibility for sending gloves, and add that I am used to responsibility by now.
She enquires what I mean, and I point out that since the “Comforts Fund” was started I have run the whole thing with very occasional help from herself and Mamie.
Stella is somewhat taken aback—as people usually are when a worm turns—she says, “Oh! . . . Oh well . . . but you haven’t anything else to do, have you? I mean I thought you liked doing it.”
I make no reply but continue my search, and Stella, after a moment’s hesitation, comes over and helps me. We turn out all the boxes but can only find thirty pairs.
Symes now appears upon the scene and asks if I want him. I reply that I want him very badly so he takes off his coat and goes away to hang it up. While he is away Stella asks who he is, and where I found him and whether it is necessary to have him, to which I reply that he is Colonel Morley’s batman and I find his help invaluable. Symes is now ready to work so I inform him of our problem and he tackles it in his usual efficient manner.
“But we’ve plenty of mitts,” says Symes, “and they’re just as good. Why, there must be nearly four hundred pairs in that cardboard box I packed last Wednesday.”
He brings out the box and we count them and find that he is right.
Am somewhat amused at the “play” between Symes and Stella, They dislike each other at first sight and are up against each other at every turn. Stella orders Symes about as if he were a galley slave, but Symes is a match for her, and, though perfectly respectful and polite, he gives her to understand that he takes his orders from me. We spend the morning packing a large box of gloves and mittens for dispatch to France.
As we come away Stella asks if I have met “that awful Browne Winters woman”. She thinks the woman is a witch. The mere sight of the woman gives Stella cold shivers up her spine. Do I think there is anything between the woman and Tom Ledgard, because if so he ought to be warned. We don’t want a woman like that in the Regiment.
Am exceedingly guarded in my replies to these questions as I am aware that Stella is a dangerous person in whom to confide.
FRIDAY 12TH APRIL
The 4th Battalion is encamped in a meadow near the sea on the outskirts of Donford, and, having been invited to tea by Tony Morley, Pinkie and I put on our best bibs and tuckers and set off in good time. We have decided to walk along the beach because Pinkie says she does not get nearly enough exercise and adds that it is a nice day and the sea breezes will be good for us.
The tide is out and the sands are brown and firm; they stretch for miles but their monotony is broken by masses of tumbled rocks. There are no living creatures to be
seen—except the graceful white seagulls—the sun is golden, the sea is incredibly blue and the little white frills of waves splash and ripple to our feet. A day like this is a gift from God—or so it seems to me—and it seems all the more precious when it comes at the end of a long dark dreary winter. I am thinking of this as we walk along in companionable silence when Pinkie suddenly remarks that it’s glorious, isn’t it? . . . and do I mind if she goes mad? and, before I can reply to this somewhat alarming question, she takes a short run along the sands and turns three Catherine Wheels without stopping.
The spectacle of a large and beautifully dressed young lady turning Catherine Wheels upon the sands is so preposterous that I am seized with sudden and uncontrollable laughter, and am obliged to sit down upon a convenient rock to recover myself. Pinkie returns and sits down too. She is in such magnificent fettle that she is breathing no faster than usual, nor has she a hair out of place. Her hat, a plate shaped device of the latest fashion, is still resting upon her golden curls at the same angle as before—in fact the only sign of her recent activities is that her hands are covered with golden brown sand.
“Aren’t I awful?” she says, as she takes out her handkerchief and wipes them carefully. “I know I’m awful, but I can’t help it really. A day like this gets into my bones and makes me quite mad . . . I hope nobody saw.”
“Only the sea gulls,” I reply in a trembling voice.
“Yes,” says Pinkie, looking round, “and they aren’t interested. I wonder why I feel like that. Do you think it’s because I’m not really properly grown up? Are you awfully fed-up with me?”
Far from being “fed-up” I am astounded at her skill, and I compliment her upon her performance.
Pinkie brightens at once and allows that she “isn’t half bad at Catherine Wheels” but beseeches me not to mention it to anyone. “You see, darling, it’s so childish,” says Pinkie, looking at me with her wide dewy eyes. “I mean it takes me all my time to be properly grown-up and keep my end up with people . . . and if they ever suspected that I wasn’t properly grown-up inside . . . well then . . .”
I assure her that I understand, and add that I do not think there is any need to worry. Many people, far older than she is, have the same feeling—the feeling that they are not properly grown-up inside.
“Yes,” says Pinkie gravely, “but then they are properly grown-up outside, so it doesn’t matter, you see. I mean they look absolutely grown-up. . . .”
Tony Morley is waiting for us; he has provided an excellent tea in his comfortable hut, and has also provided a large pink subaltern to entertain his younger guest. Pinkie—as ever—allows herself to be entertained with gratifying indulgence and the tea party is a great success.
I can see that Tony approves of his younger guest, but is not taken in by her assumption of sophistication. There is a latent twinkle in his eye as he looks at her and he treats her with the marked respect and consideration due to a woman of advanced years.
“I suppose you’ve known Hester for years?” he enquires as he hands her the scones.
“Years and years,” agrees Pinkie, as she selects the largest. “It was at Hythe that we first met—that was before I went to France, of course.”
“You know France well?” Tony enquires.
“Paris,” says Pinkie. “I love Paris. It’s a marvellous place—but you have to know your way about.”
The twinkle in Tony’s eye becomes more pronounced, but he agrees quite gravely that to enjoy Paris it is most essential to know one’s way about. Young Craddock (the subaltern) murmurs something about “Moulin Rouge” but it is obvious from his manner that he has never been there.
Pinkie has now demolished most of the scones and is being plied with chocolate cake by Mr. Craddock. “It’s so good,” she remarks, apologetically, as she accepts a third slice.
Tony says he adores it too. His Mother sends him an enormous one every week so there is no need to spare it.
Pinkie points out that she is not sparing it, and adds that Colonel Morley would require at least three chocolate cakes a week if she came to tea with him often . . . to which Colonel Morley replies with his usual gallantry that, if Miss Bradshaw will honour him by coming to tea with him often, he will write to his mother and ask her to send four chocolate cakes a week. . . .
“Tell them about the general, sir,” says Mr. Craddock, smiling.
“Why don’t you tell them about the general?” enquires Tony.
“Because you would do it so much better, sir,” replies Mr. Craddock promptly.
“Oh well . . .” says Tony, smiling, “it was one of those things that seem funnier in retrospect than they do at the time. He was a fat pompous little general, and he came down to have a look at us—not a proper inspection, but just to see how we were getting on. He was one of those spit and polish enthusiasts, didn’t take any interest in musketry or machine gun drill, but was all out for smart turnout, shining boots and neatly packed haversacks . . . Don’t think he knew there was a war on, do you, Craddock?”
“Hadn’t the slightest idea of it,” Craddock agrees.
“Well, the fact is,” says Tony, “we’ve got one or two men in the Battalion who seem quite unable to put on their puttees in the orthodox manner. We’ve striven with them valiantly but they just can’t grasp the principle. We’ve several like that, haven’t we, Craddock?”
“Yes, several,” says Craddock, “but chiefly Fraser who is in my company.”
“Mark that,” says Tony gravely, “for on that hangs the whole sorry story, chiefly Fraser, who has the inestimable advantage of being in Craddock’s company.”
“And the odd part is he’s an awfully decent fellow,” declares Craddock earnestly. “He’s one of the best, Fraser is. He’s keen and intelligent and smart—except for his puttees, of course—he tries very hard but somehow or other he just can’t manage them. He says it’s the shape of his legs,” adds Craddock in an apologetic manner.
“Well, perhaps it is,” says Tony thoughtfully. “Now that I come to think of it his legs are a peculiar shape . . . but, be that as it may, when Fraser marches for any distance his puttees invariably descend and twine themselves round his boots.”
Craddock flings himself back in his Roorkee chair and says “Oh Lord, I shall never forget that day!”
“Nor I,” agreed Tony. “It was one of those days that live forever in the memory of man. I knew we were in for it when the general mentioned the word ‘drill’. He mentioned it at lunch if you remember, Craddock.”
Craddock says he remembers, and adds that it had the effect of making his favourite pudding taste like sawdust.
“The reason for our dismay,” continues Tony; “the cause of our alarm and despondency was the fact that the only two men who could be trusted to act as markers were in bed with ‘flu’ . . .”
“And the R.S.M., sir,” puts in Craddock.
“And the R.S.M.,” agrees Tony. “The R.S.M. tried to get out of bed when he heard what was afoot. His temperature was 103° and he had to be held down by two orderlies . . .”
“Three orderlies, sir,” says Craddock quickly.
Tony accepts the amendment. “Three orderlies,” he says; “the R.S.M. is a very powerful man and had been having instruction in unarmed combat—I’d forgotten that . . . Well, I did my best to persuade the general that what he wanted to see was a spot of bayonet practice, but to no purpose. He wanted to see the Battalion on parade, ‘and just a little simple drill, nothing very elaborate’ . . . Ye gods!” says Tony, “Ye gods and little fishes, he saw something worth seeing! I don’t suppose he had ever seen anything the least like it before. I certainly hadn’t. It was worse—much worse—than I had expected, and I had expected it to be pretty bad.”
“They started none too badly,” Craddock reminds him.
“Yes,” says Tony, “but they degenerated rapidly, didn’t they? And at last they were so flustered that they didn’t know their right hands from their left . . . the climax came
,” says Tony, and his voice quivers with laughter so that he can hardly speak, “the climax came when Fraser tripped over his puttees and fell heavily to the ground . . . and then . . . and then . . .” says Tony between his spasms of mirth, “and then the man in the next rank fell over him, and two more men on the top of him. It was exactly like a rugger scrum.”
“Nobody laughed,” says Craddock, shaking in his chair. “That was the awful part of it . . . nobody laughed . . .”
“I thought we were in for it,” continues Tony, wiping his eyes. “I was beginning to wonder where I’d stored my bowler hat . . . I was composing a letter to Moss Brothers asking what they were prepared to offer for a colonel’s uniform and equipment, camp-bed, bath and washing basin. I was doing that as we walked back to my hut where the old boy had left his scarf. There was tea ready when we got here—Symes had it all prepared—so I offered the old boy some tea. He said ‘No’ but not very convincingly. Somehow or other we got him into a chair and a large cup of steaming tea into his hand . . . but it was a near thing.”
“The chocolate cake did it,” declares Craddock, helping himself to another piece. “Nobody can resist Lady Morley’s chocolate cake . . . it’s so gooey . . . it melts in your mouth. I don’t know how many pieces the general had, I just went on feeding it to him . . .”
Pinkie and I walk home together across the sands. The tide is coming in and the waves are chasing each other, and overtaking each other, and scuttling back again. The sun is shining as brightly as ever and the sky is blue and cloudless, but Pinkie shows no desire to turn Catherine Wheels; she walks along by my side very sedately and is somewhat distrait. I cannot help wondering whether it is the effect of the chocolate cake, for I am aware that if I had eaten half as much as she has I should be feeling decidedly unwell . . . but apparently her malaise arises from a totally different cause. After a little Pinkie enquires what I thought of Mr. Craddock, and I reply that I thought him charming.
Mrs. Tim Carries On Page 7