Mrs. Tim Carries On

by D. E. Stevenson

  Pinkie says, “Yes, he’s a perfect darling. He asked me to go to the Pictures with him—you don’t mind, do you?”

  “Of course not,” I reply.

  Pinkie hesitates and then says, “It isn’t very kind of me, I suppose.”

  I assure her that I am delighted that she should go to the pictures with Mr. Craddock, but Pinkie is still uncomfortable . . . “It’s Bill, really,” she explains.

  The situation is now perfectly clear, but I am unable to cope with it.

  MONDAY 15TH APRIL

  Mrs. Loudon arrives today. Am quite thrilled at the prospect of seeing her again and make arrangements for my family to lunch without me, so that I shall be free to meet Mrs. Loudon at the station at 1:15. No sooner have I done this than a wire arrives from Mrs. Loudon saying tersely, “Do not meet me.”

  Pinkie says why not ignore this command and meet her as arranged, but Pinkie does not know Mrs. Loudon. I decide to obey Mrs. Loudon’s wishes.

  Pinkie says, “Well, let’s put flowers in her room—she hasn’t said you aren’t to do that, has she?”

  This is an excellent idea. We go out together—Bryan and Betty too—to carry it into effect, and find that the daffodils have come in and are blowing like the bugles of Spring in the flower-shop window.

  Mrs. Macphail is quite pleasant about the flowers and provides vases and jugs to put them in. She informs us that when she lived at Troon she had a garden full of flowers “not to speak of a maggie-nola”, but that only hardy plants will grow here. “It’s the east,” says Mrs. Macphail gravely. “The east is aye colder than the west . . . excepting India of course.”

  Betty says, “India’s south. It’s south on my map anyhow, and the equator goes through it and keeps it warm.”

  Bryan says, “D’you think the equator is a hot water pipe or what?”

  Betty says, “No, I know what it is just as well as you do. It isn’t anything at all—so there!”

  Mrs. Macphail has not followed this exchange, she is still harping on about “the east.” India is east, declares Mrs. Macphail, and she ought to know, because she has a cousin who was a steward on a ship and he brought her a cup and saucer with a picture of a temple on it. “A sort of pagoda, it was,” says Mrs. Macphail. “I’ll let you see it one day when you’re in . . . I’d let you see it now if I could mind where I put it.” Betty says she would like to see it very much.

  “He’s not a steward now,” says Mrs. Macphail, referring to her cousin. “He joined up the very first day and they made him a photographer. I thought at the time it was a daft sort of thing to have a photographer in the Air Force—that’s what he’s in—but they seem to keep him busy. I never lift a paper but I see pictures of soldiers and tanks and aeroplanes and such-like.”

  Pinkie, who has finished doing the flowers, says quickly, “But your cousin will be taking aerial photographs . . .”

  “He’ll just need to take whatever he’s told,” declares Mrs. Macphail, “and he’ll do that, for he’s a sensible fellow and not one to stick at anything.”

  I can see that Pinkie is prepared to argue, but time is getting on and it would take too long to unravel the tangled skein. Indeed I doubt whether anyone could ever unravel it. I collect my family and, having warned Mrs. Macphail of the approximate hour of her guest’s arrival and given strict injunctions regarding fires, hot water bottles, and thoroughly aired sheets, we return home to lunch.

  During the meal Pinkie announces that she is going to the pictures with Mr. Craddock and will not be in to tea. She adds that it is just as well because Mrs. Loudon is coming and it will be far nicer for us to be alone.

  Betty says, “But they won’t be alone because we’ll be here.”

  Bryan says, “Couldn’t we go to the pictures too? We needn’t go with Pinkie because they wouldn’t want us and anyhow it would be far more fun by ourselves. It’s The Wizard of Oz,” adds Bryan persuasively. “All the people at school have seen it and I want to see it awfully. Betty would love it.”

  Betty jumps up and down shouting, “Oh, do let us! Oh, do! Oh, please do!”

  I am not very keen on letting them go alone, but I am aware that Tim likes Bryan to be independent. In fact Tim warned me before he left that I was not to keep Bryan in cotton wool—so, after some hesitation, I agree to let them go if they promise to be sensible. Bryan promises faithfully to take the greatest care of his sister—especially crossing the streets—and they walk off together very sedately.

  They have no sooner disappeared than Mrs. Loudon arrives. She seems to bring with her a breath of hill air. She has changed very little (except that her hair is a trifle more grey) and is as full of energy as ever. I realise afresh what a splendid person she is—blunt and downright, tender-hearted and generous. It is the pleasantest thing in the world to see her sitting in the shabby chair, to be pouring out tea for her and offering her scones and listening to her conversation.

  Mrs. Loudon says she has seen Guthrie and there seems little wrong with him. “He was sitting up in a chair daffing with a wee red-headed nurse,” says Mrs. Loudon. “Did you see that nurse, Hester? A limmer if ever there was one. She gave one look at me and fled as if the fiend himself was at her heels.”

  I reply that I did happen to see a nurse with red hair but had not realised she was dangerous.

  Mrs. Loudon says she was up to no good or she wouldn’t have fled, and adds that she is terrified of any woman who looks at Guthrie now. She had always comforted herself by the reflection that Guthrie had some sense, but ever since the time at Avielochan when he nearly married that cat-faced creature she has lived on tenterhooks.

  I assure her that there is no need for her to be alarmed, but Mrs. Loudon says it’s no use talking, if Guthrie had any sense at all he would have known from the very beginning what like the creature was—“not his style at all,” declares Mrs. Loudon.

  “It was a lesson to him,” I point out.

  Mrs. Loudon says it’s to be hoped that Guthrie’s learnt it. She is not so sure. She wishes Guthrie would find a wise-like girl and marry her and be done with it.

  To change the subject I enquire whether her rooms seem comfortable and she replies that they are very comfortable indeed, and that “the woman” seems a kindly sort of body though she talks too much. “I was not in the place half an hour before I knew her life’s history,” declares Mrs. Loudon roundly. “It appears she’s come down in the world and that through no fault of her own. Well, it’s a common enough story and I did her the credit of believing it, but if you’d asked me where she hailed from I’d have told you Pollokshields.”

  I enquire what sort of place that is.

  “Genteel,” says Mrs. Loudon. “Oh, I listened to the whole story, but when it came to diseases and operations I could thole it no longer, so I put my hat back on my head and went off to the hospital. Disease is a subject of conversation I never could thole.” She hesitates a moment and then adds, “I’ll need to think of some way of stopping her tactfully.”

  The idea of Mrs. Loudon being tactful is so ludicrous that I cannot hide a smile.

  Mrs. Loudon smiles too. “Oh, yes, I know,” she says, “I know what you’re grinning at. The fact is I speak first and think afterwards and by that time I’ve walked into the mire with both feet. It’s my nature and I can’t change it.”

  The time passes rapidly. At six o’clock we listen to the news and are informed the British Forces have landed in Norway. Mrs. Loudon says it’s to be hoped we’ll send enough troops to take the country and hold it—though she doesn’t see how we can spare them at the moment. I tell her what Captain Baker said at dinner the other night and she says, “No doubt he knew what he was talking about.” Mrs. Loudon sounds so gloomy that I enquire what she really thinks about the war, and after a moment’s consideration she replies, “It’ll be a long and weary job, but we’ll just need to go through with it.”

  Pinkie returns from her afternoon’s outing with shining eyes and cheeks like wild roses, a
nd it is obvious that she has enjoyed herself. Mrs. Loudon—who has not seen her since she was ten years old—is amazed at her appearance and says so in her usual forthright way . . . and, when Pinkie goes upstairs to take off her things, Mrs. Loudon seizes my arm in a vice-like grip and says in a loud whisper that she thinks Pinkie would do for Guthrie.

  I point out that Pinkie has provided herself with a young man and seems to have enjoyed her afternoon in his company.

  “Has Guthrie seen her?” enquires Mrs. Loudon. “Just tell me that—has Guthrie seen her?”

  I reply that Guthrie has not seen her, but that she can be taken to the hospital and shown to him if Mrs. Loudon so desires.

  “It’s all very well for you to make fun of me,” says Mrs. Loudon. “Just you wait till Bryan starts looking at girls.”

  TUESDAY 16TH APRIL

  Mrs. Loudon arrives at 10 o’clock in the morning and announces that she is on her way to the hospital to see Guthrie and she thought she would just look in and see how we were getting on. As the hospital is situated at the opposite side of the town, this statement cannot be taken at its face value. I enquire whether Mrs. Loudon would like me to accompany her to the hospital but she says no, she would not dream of taking me away from my household duties at this hour. She knows what it is to run a house, and how everything goes wrong if you’re not there yourself . . . but maybe if Pinkie has nothing special on she would like the walk.

  Pinkie says she has nothing to do unless I would like her to do the shopping . . . but Mrs. Loudon interrupts her and says, “Hester is quite capable of managing her own affairs.”

  This trenchant remark surprises Pinkie a good deal—as well it might—but, being a good-natured creature and always willing to oblige, she goes and gets ready to accompany Mrs. Loudon to the hospital. I cannot help smiling to myself as I watch the two figures walking down the road together. One is old and the other young but both are tall and straight—there is something alike in their easy gait and proud carriage.

  Pinkie returns to lunch but has little to say anent her visit to the hospital and I am obliged to wait until the afternoon, when Mrs. Loudon comes, to hear the result of the expedition.

  It is not Mrs. Loudon’s way to beat about the bush and with her first breath she says, “It was useless, Hester. The girl sat like a dummy and Guthrie never let his eyes fall upon her.”

  She is so depressed by the unsuccess of her scheme that I feel sorry for her and sympathise with her.

  “Oh well, it’s no use crying for the moon. Love’s a queer thing . . .” says Mrs. Loudon with a sigh.

  FRIDAY 19TH APRIL

  Annie asks if she can speak to me for a moment. I reply that she can and lead the way to the drawing room with a sinking heart. I know quite well what is coming; I have seen it approaching for some time. I sink into a chair and look at Annie, but Annie does not look at me. She stands before me, twisting a corner of her apron, and is obviously at a loss how to begin.

  “Well, Annie,” I say at last. “I suppose you want to get married—that’s it, isn’t it?”

  Annie says that it is and it isn’t—if I know what she means—and if it wasn’t that Bollings had been made a sergeant and got impatient she wouldn’t be standing here, but would be clearing the breakfast, as she ought to be doing this very minute.

  I listen to this and my heart sinks lower than before, for I have had Annie for years. She came to me at Biddington as housemaid and stayed on as Betty’s nurse, and now she combines the two posts and has become invaluable. In addition to this I have become very fond of Annie, and am aware that she is fond of me—we have shared many vicissitudes and understand each other’s ways. Tim has vanished into some unknown part of France and now Annie is going—I shall be absolutely bereft. “Oh Annie, I am sorry,” I murmur feebly.

  Annie says it’s very difficult. It’s Bollings being so impatient; Bollings says he’s tired of hanging about and he won’t hang about any longer . . . “and I’m twenty-six now,” says Annie, “and if I don’t take this chance I mayn’t get another, and I wouldn’t like to get left on the shelf.”

  This seems such a strange point of view that I am incapable of making any rejoinder. I gaze at Annie helplessly.

  “So that’s ’ow it is,” says Annie, and I perceive that she is very near tears.

  I dash hastily into speech and say that of course I have known for some time that she and Bollings would be getting married, and that Bollings is a particularly nice man—as well as being extremely lucky—and that I am sure they will be very happy indeed. Now that Bollings has got his promotion there is no need to wait any longer, as they will get a comfortable quarter and can settle down . . .

  Here Annie interrupts me to say in a choked voice that she isn’t going to leave me, not for a hundred Bollingses she wouldn’t, not even if he was a R.S.M. which he never will be if he lives to a centipede, and how could she look the major in the face if he came back and she wasn’t here, and she couldn’t look herself in the face neither, and anyhow there’s no saying but what Bollings won’t be sent to France next, or Egypt most likely, and most likely killed, and where would she be then?

  . . . So if I don’t like the idea of her getting married then it’s off, and Bollings can find someone else, and she’s told Bollings the same to his face—more than once she’s told him—so I don’t need to worry . . . and with that Annie turns and blunders to the door.

  But this won’t do at all, so I call her back and explain that it won’t; and presently I find myself trying to persuade Annie to marry Bollings, which of course is the last thing I desire. We are both so upset by this time, and so muddled and confused, that we talk for some time without getting any further. Annie is weeping quite openly and her aitches are flying in all directions. “Not unless I can stay” she sobs, dabbing her eyes with the corner of her apron, “Not unless I can stay . . . and that’s my last word . . . Bollings is all very well in ’is way . . . and I don’t say as what I’m not fond of ’im . . . but if it means I’ve got to go . . . and leave you and Betty . . . and the major away . . .”

  Suddenly I see a ray of light and my heart bounds with relief, for here, of course, is the solution to the apparently insolvable problem . . . and this is what Annie has been trying to make me understand. “You mean,” I begin, “you mean you want to marry Bollings and stay on with me?”

  “Not if you don’t want me to,” sobs Annie.

  Now that I have grasped the idea I cannot imagine why I have not grasped it before; I explain this to Annie and add that I had never thought of it, but that it seems an excellent plan. “What does Bollings think about it?” I enquire anxiously.

  Annie replies that it was his idea, really, and on further investigation I discover that the details of the plan have been thoroughly examined and nothing but my sanction is required. Bollings will spend his nights beneath my roof, except when he is on duty at the Barracks, and this will be an advantage, rather than a disadvantage, to me, for Bollings was Tim’s batman before we went to Westburgh, and I know him to be a steady decent creature, with a domesticated turn of mind. I enquire what Mrs. Fraser will say, and Annie replies that Mrs. Fraser has been sounded and has signified her willingness to fall in with the arrangement. “She likes a man about the place,” explains Annie, “and Bollings knows just ’ow to take ’er.”

  The thing is settled to our mutual satisfaction, and Annie smiles with delight and declares that it is a weight off her mind. It is a weight off my mind also, and I repair to the kitchen to interview Mrs. Fraser, feeling that the world is slightly more secure.

  MONDAY 22ND APRIL

  Tea has just been brought in when Bill appears; he looks round the room and is obviously disappointed to find that I am alone. I invite him to stay and share my meal, but he seems doubtful and enquires whether Pinkie is likely to be back soon. I reply that Pinkie has gone to play tennis with George Craddock, and add that there is no need for Bill to stay to tea if he does not want to.

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p; Bill says, “Oh, Mrs. Tim, of course I want to—it’s only—I mean, I’m feeling so rotten that I’m no use to anyone . . . No. I’m not the least bit ill. I wish I were. Perhaps if I were very ill she would be sorry for me.”

  As there is now no need to beat about the bush I ask him straight out whether he is in love with Pinkie.

  He says, “You know I am. I want to marry her.”

  I look at him across the table (for he has now taken a seat opposite to me and is eating bread and margarine in an abstracted manner) and I note that his face is well formed and his eyes are steady and sincere. Perhaps his appearance of extreme youth may be due to his honey-coloured hair which sweeps across his forehead in a thick swathe.

  “I want to marry her,” says Bill again; “but Pinkie doesn’t want it. Pinkie wants to go on just as we are . . . just being friends.”

  I point out that Pinkie is very young.

  “It isn’t that,” says Bill earnestly, “I mean that isn’t the reason. As a matter of fact Pinkie says I’m too young.”

  “You’re both too young, Bill.”

  “No,” declares Bill. “No, we’ve argued that out . . . I’m six years older than she is . . . and so I’m exactly the right age for her, but she doesn’t seem to see it. Oh dear, I don’t know what to do!” declares Bill, seizing the last three pieces of bread and margarine and wolfing them ravenously. “I don’t know what to do.”

  I suggest that he should have a serious conversation with Pinkie and clear the air.

  Bill says, “I’ve tried, but it’s no use. She just says we’re friends. She said that from the very beginning—she said that we were to be friends and no silly nonsense, and I thought it was a good idea—but now I don’t. I see now that it was a silly thing to agree to.”