“But Bill—”
“That was at Hythe,” says Bill. “That was at the very beginning. I thought she was just a kid—an awfully nice kid and awfully amusing and good fun. . . . I say, there isn’t any more bread and butter. Have I eaten it all?”
“Have some cake,” I suggest.
“No,” says Bill somewhat sadly. “No, thank you. I don’t seem to have much appetite really . . . and then,” says Bill, continuing his tale, “and then you see I got to know her better, and I began to see her as she really is. She is so different from other girls, isn’t she? She’s so innocent and good . . . she’s so pure,” says Bill earnestly. “I can’t help thinking about her all the time. She looks lovely and she is lovely. Don’t you think so, Mrs. Tim?”
He is quite right about Pinkie, of course, and I tell him so, but add that if Pinkie has told him that all she wants is his friendship it would be better to accept her decision or else to put her out of his mind altogether. Bill does not listen to this eminently sensible advice; he interrupts me in the middle and explains at length all that he feels about Pinkie, repeating that she is so different from other girls, and that he thinks about her all the time . . . nobody really knows Pinkie (except Bill, of course), nobody understands how marvellous she is—how sweet and clever and amusing—nobody knows what a sad life she has had . . . he wants to take her away from all her relations (who don’t appreciate her at all) and make her happy forever and ever.
“Yes,” I say, “Yes, but Bill—”
“If only she’d let me!” exclaims Bill. “If only she’d trust me! You see I love her so much that I know it would be all right.”
“But Bill, I don’t think Pinkie is ready yet, do you?”
“Not ready?”
“No, she’s just a child, really. She ought to grow up quite a lot before she thinks of marriage.”
Bill does not agree with this—I hardly dared to hope that he would—he says it’s quite obvious that I don’t understand Pinkie either . . . he wonders if there is Someone Else . . . perhaps young Craddock . . . what do I think about it.
At this moment the door opens and Pinkie appears. She greets Bill in a friendly manner and kisses me fondly. “Hester darling!” she exclaims, “We’ve been asked to a sherry party at the Donford Arms—we’re going to get a really proper invitation, of course, but George told me about it. The officers of the 4th Battalion are giving a party, won’t it be fun?”
Bill enquires whether Pinkie has had some good tennis, and she replies that it was not particularly good tennis, but she enjoyed it thoroughly—“You’re much better than George,” says Pinkie, smiling at Bill in her usual friendly way.
“Am I?” enquires Bill, brightening visibly.
“Yes,” says Pinkie. “Your service is so terrifying, you see. George is really better at golf than tennis.”
“But you like tennis best,” says Bill earnestly.
“Only because I’m better at it—that’s all.”
There is silence for a moment and then Bill gets up. “What about tomorrow?” he enquires. “I mean could you play tennis if I got Alister and his sister for a four?”
Pinkie cogitates for a few moments and then says that she can—though not till after tea—and Bill goes upon his way rejoicing.
THURSDAY 25TH APRIL
Pinkie and I are sitting in the drawing room waiting for lunch to be ready, when the door bursts open and Betty rushes in. I am about to reprove her for her mode of entry when I see her face and realise that something has happened.
“It’s Bryan . . .” she gasps. “He fell out of the tree . . . Bryan’s dead . . .”
Pinkie is off like an arrow from a bow and I follow as fast as I can. We arrive at the scene of the accident to find Bryan rising from the ground and dusting himself with his cap. To all appearances he is perfectly sound; my fright turns to anger—as fright so often does—and I demand in stern accents why Betty thought it necessary to alarm us.
Betty says tearfully, “But Bryan said he was dead.”
Bryan says, “How could I say I was dead, you nitwit?” Betty says, “But you did. I said, ‘Have you hurt yourself?’ and you said ‘I’m dead, I’m dead,’ so I ran to tell Mummy.” Bryan says, “I didn’t at all. You said, ‘Have you hurt yourself,’ and I said, ‘My head, my head!’” He adds a trifle shamefacedly, “It was dashed sore for a minute or two.”
I now behold a lump the size of a pullet’s egg rising upon Bryan’s forehead, anger melts into sympathy, and we take him into the house to apply antiphlogistine, which is my remedy for most ills of the flesh. When this has been done we suggest that he should go to bed, or lie on the sofa, but Bryan assures us that he feels absolutely O.K. Cannot help wishing that I shared his sense of well being.
Pinkie, who has been most capable throughout, says, “Darling, you look frightful!”
Reply that I cannot look much worse than I feel.
She rushes off and returns almost immediately with a bottle of brandy and a glass. Annie also appears upon the scene. They pour some brandy into the glass and urge me to drink it, assuring me that I shall feel better in a few minutes. Feel so peculiar that I drink it without demur. As there is no immediate improvement in my condition I am supported to the drawing-room sofa and laid out upon it and more brandy is administered. Feel queerer than before. Can hear Annie’s voice asking whether she shall ring up the doctor—voice sounds a long way off—murmur faintly, “No, don’t want doctor.” Feel glass held against my lips and murmur faintly “No more,” but it is forced upon me and I am obliged to swallow it to prevent it running down my neck.
Feel worse and worse. Faces seem to float in mid-air. Voices seem far away. Endeavour to say “Don’t leave me,” but find great difficulty in forming the words. Whole room goes up and down as if in a storm. When I shut my eyes it goes round and round as well. Begin to wonder if I am going to die.
Suddenly Major Shaw, the Regimental Doctor, appears. His face floats into my line of vision wearing a puzzled, anxious expression. He feels my pulse and asks to see my tongue. Pinkie’s face (white as a sheet with enormous blue eyes) gazes at me over the doctor’s shoulder. Make a frightful effort and say, “Don’t worry . . . feel mos’ ’strawnry . . . better soon.”
Major Shaw says, “How much brandy did you give her, Miss Bradshaw?”
Pinkie says she doesn’t know and adds, “She looked so awful that we were terrified . . . we gave her lots.”
Major Shaw says, “You’ve made her drunk.” He is struggling not to laugh. I can see his somewhat dour face quivering as he wrestles with the spasms.
“Drunk!” exclaims Pinkie in horrified tones.
“Tight as a lord!” says Major Shaw. His voice breaks and laughter overcomes him like a flood . . . he laughs and laughs.
Presently as if by magic a large cup of black coffee appears before my eyes. I am raised from my cushions and encouraged to drink it. Everyone very helpful and sympathetic; Pinkie almost tearful with remorse. Begin to feel slightly better, and assure Pinkie that no harm is done. Major Shaw is most re-assuring and declares that I shall be perfectly all right in a few hours. He writes out a prescription for a corpse reviver and Bryan is sent to the chemist on his bike. Find I can speak now and murmur faintly that, if that’s what it’s like to be drunk, I can’t imagine anyone doing it for pleasure. I never felt so awful in my life.
Pinkie says, “Are you sure she’ll be all right?”
Major Shaw replies that he is perfectly certain of it, and adds that he is a specialist in my complaint. He goes away, but promises to return later and see how I am.
I recover slowly and by dinner time I am able to eat an adequate meal, which completes my cure. Pinkie and I have a good laugh over the affair—though it seemed far from humorous at the time.
“No,” says Pinkie. “It wasn’t funny. I was terrified . . . and Major Shaw says it was a dangerous thing to do. Major Shaw says you should never give people brandy without a doctor’s permission. I s
hall never do it again, that’s one thing certain.”
FRIDAY 26TH APRIL
Receive a letter from my brother, Richard, inviting Bryan to come and spend a few days in London on his way back to school. Richard says he and Mary have not seen Bryan for ages and would enjoy having him. They will take him to the Zoo and to the Tower and give him a good time. I need not worry about air raids, as they never have any in London.
Bryan says, “Gosh, how marvellous! May I? Oh Gosh, how gorgeous!” and the matter is settled.
Bryan now wishes to know all particulars about his prospective host and hostess and I discover—somewhat to my distress—that he has no recollection of them whatsoever. When questioned more closely Bryan says, “Well, how could I know about them? I was only a kid when Uncle Richard came to stay . . . I wouldn’t know him from Adam . . . Oh yes, I know he’s awfully decent and sends me money for my birthday, but I don’t know anything about him. What does he do?”
I inform Bryan that his Uncle was in business in London, but is now a Captain in the Gunners. He is on sick leave at the moment, having fallen over a limber in the dark and broken his arm.
“How can he write letters then?” enquires Bryan instantly.
This has not occurred to me, but now that I think of it I am forced to the conclusion that Richard must have broken his left arm.
Bryan accepts this explanation, “Yes, that must be it,” he says. “Will Uncle Richard be in uniform? I do hope so. It would be so splendid to go about London with him and see everyone saluting us.”
“They would be saluting Uncle Richard,” I point out.
“What sort of a house do they live in?” Bryan enquires.
I reply that the house stands in a square with gardens in the middle and add that it used to belong to my parents and that Uncle Richard and I were born there.
Bryan says, “Oh, it’s a very old house then.”
I remain silent, hoping that the catechism is at an end, but it is only beginning.
“Uncle Richard is your brother, isn’t he?” says Bryan.
“Yes.”
“Just like Betty and me.”
“Yes.”
“Has Daddy got a brother?”
“No.”
“Well, who is Uncle Joe?”
I explain that Uncle Joe is Daddy’s uncle and therefore Bryan’s great-uncle, and add, “Surely you remember Uncle Joe and Aunt Posy—we went to stay with them in Essex. It was near the sea.”
Bryan screws up his face and says, “Oh yes, I believe I do. I fell into the stream and there was a donkey, wasn’t there? Has Uncle Joe still got the donkey?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh well, . . .” says Bryan, “and that’s all the relations we’ve got. Why haven’t I got a grandfather—some people at school have two. Edgeburton’s grandfather is frightfully decent.”
“Is he?”
“Yes,” says Bryan. “If Edgeburton wants some extra dibs he’s only got to write a letter to his grandfather and he gets a postal order for five bob by return . . . he doesn’t ask for it, even.”
“I hope not.”
“No,” says Bryan. “He doesn’t need to ask. Edgeburton just writes and says ‘How are you?’ and that sort of thing and the money arrives.”
“Edgeburton must write a very good letter.”
“Well, he doesn’t, really,” says Bryan gravely. “As a matter of fact I write it for him sometimes—he always gets more when I write, because I make it interesting. Last time I told him about the plover, and Edgeburton got a whole quid. The letter said, ‘Your handwriting is much worse and your spelling is deplorable, but you seem to have grasped the idea that a letter should be informative, and should convey to its recipient some idea of your activities.’ He uses very long words . . . we had to look them up in the dick. . . . I made Edgeburton give me five bob,” adds Bryan reflectively.
These revelations are somewhat startling and I remonstrate with my son. “But why is it wrong?” he enquires. “Edgeburton’s grandfather liked my letters and we liked getting the money, so everybody’s pleased.”
MONDAY 29TH APRIL
Betty and I go to tea with Grace. We have been invited on purpose to inspect the twins and, as Betty has not seen them before, she is full of curiosity and excitement. The twins are now seven weeks old, and are extremely attractive and pretty. They are as like as two peas and Betty wishes to know—amongst other things—how Grace knows which is which. Grace replies that they are entirely different, and are even more different in character than in appearance. Alec, although the younger, has a more forceful personality and is destined to be the leader in all their games. Ian’s nature is very unselfish.
Betty looks at them again and says, “How do you know?” and Grace replies that a mother always knows, and that some day when Betty has dear little babies of her own, she will understand.
Betty says, “I shall have triplets—three babies all the same age—two boys and a girl. The girl will be called Marjorie, but I haven’t decided what the boys will be called.”
I am pleased to see that Betty is very gentle with the babies. She is allowed to hold Alec on her knee, and sits in a large armchair with her legs straight out in front of her and cuddles him with serious satisfaction. Alec seems quite contented in her care and gazes up at her with wide-open blue eyes.
“He’s so soft and warm,” says Betty. “He’s so sweet and cuddly, I think he knows me quite well. He can’t talk yet, of course, but I’m sure he thinks things.”
Grace is delighted at this, and says that Betty is perfectly right, it is the Child Instinct. I ought to cultivate this Instinct, and not allow it to be crushed and overlaid by Worldly Cares. I ask Grace, quite humbly, how she thinks I should go about it, but she seems unable to give me any definite advice . . . “Ermyntrude would know,” says Grace, after a moment’s thought.
“I thought The Great Pyramid was her forte.”
“Oh, she knows a lot about other things as well—her interests are very wide. Child Psychology is one of the subjects she has studied. She’s given me most valuable advice about the boys.”
I am wicked enough to murmur the well-known saying regarding old maids’ children, but Grace refuses to see the joke against her latest friend—“Ermyntrude is different,” declares Grace, “and I think busy people like you and me should be glad to take advice from someone who has the time and the brains to study. Her knowledge of children isn’t just theoretical; she has practised psychology with the greatest success. She was telling me about her sister’s little boy—it was most interesting.”
“Did she practise on him?” I enquire.
“She cured him,” replies Grace. “He was very frightened of horses, and his parents were terribly distressed about it—they are great hunting people—so Ermyntrude analysed his psyche and discovered the cause. What do you think it was?” enquired Grace, looking at me with wide eyes.
This riddle is child’s play to me, and I reply instantly that he was bitten by a horse in a previous existence.
“How did you know?” asks Grace suspiciously.
“I guessed it.”
“You can’t have guessed it!”
“I’m rather good at riddles.”
Grace looks at me sadly and says it is a pity that I do not take Ermyntrude seriously, because she could help me so much. Psychology is a science, there is no “guessing” in psychology. It took Ermyntrude three weeks to discover the Cause of Fear, and when she had established the Cause, she had to Go Back and eradicate Fear by suggestion. It was a long process and Ermyntrude was quite exhausted after it. Unfortunately her sister was not properly grateful—not even when she saw the results with her own eyes. Ermyntrude said it was one of the best moments in her life when the child climbed onto his pony and rode round the paddock—her eyes were full of tears.
Grace is so much in earnest that I have not the heart to tease her any more, so refrain from suggesting that the unfortunate child may have preferred
to ride his pony rather than undergo further ministrations from his Aunt.
Betty breaks into the conversation and announces that she will now have Ian on her knee, because Ian might be jealous if she didn’t, and she adds that Alec knows her now, and she wants Ian to know her too. Grace sees nothing funny in this, and makes the exchange at once and without comment. We settle down again, and are all quite comfortable and happy until Jack arrives upon the scene, and looks at Betty in amazement and says what on earth is Grace thinking of.
Grace says, “Thinking of?” in a surprised voice.
Jack says, “Yes, what are you thinking of to allow Betty to handle the child? If Betty dropped him on his head, he might be an idiot for life!”
Betty exclaims indignantly, “But I wouldn’t dream of dropping Ian; he likes me holding him,” Grace points out that it is quite impossible for Betty to drop Ian out of the chair—as indeed it is.
This does not satisfy Jack, however. He says Betty might jump up suddenly, or let go of the child for a moment, and he gives Grace no peace until she removes the baby from Betty’s arms. This annoys everybody. Ian screams, Betty sulks, Grace is angry and sarcastic, and I am made to feel that, somehow or other, it is all my fault for consenting to the arrangement. I cannot help reflecting that Jack is a very unsettling sort of person, and very annoying at times. Jack and Grace are obviously fond of each other, and Jack is always buying Grace costly presents which he can ill afford, but they are not partners—as Tim and I are—and they pull in opposite directions.
The twins’ Nannie now makes her appearance and invites Betty to come and see them bathed. When they have gone Jack sits down and says he has had a frightful day, and he can’t think why all the senior officers at the Depot are soft in the head. Carter is the worst C.O. in the world, he is incompetent and mulish, and he is so terrified of anything going wrong that he badgers everyone to death. You never have a moment’s peace, and you can’t get on with the really important things because Carter is always plaguing you about details . . . “If it isn’t one thing it’s another,” says Jack gloomily.
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