“Why should I?” I enquire.
“She’s making poor Bill miserable,” replies Grace in indignant tones.
It seems to me that Bill is making himself miserable, and I point this out to Grace, adding that I have no intention of interfering in Pinkie’s affairs.
Soon after this I take my departure, and Jack walks home with me to my gate.
SATURDAY 4TH MAY
Today is the day of the Sherry Party at the Donford Arms and as Pinkie and I have received an invitation and replied, in the usual and somewhat absurd phraseology, that “Mrs. Christie and Miss Bradshaw accept with much pleasure etc. etc.” we are now engaged in preparation for the event. Pinkie has a flair for clothes which was cultivated during her sojourn in Paris. She refuses to allow me to wear my best hat—which, to tell the truth, has seen a good deal of service—but ransacks my cupboard for something more stylish, and finding an old velour she strips off the trimming, turns it inside out, sticks several pins into it and places it upon my head. “Wear it just like that,” says Pinkie firmly.
I rush to the mirror expecting to see a figure of fun, but am utterly confounded; the result of Pinkie’s slapdash treatment is so incredibly good that I agree to wear it “just like that”. Pinkie herself is extremely smart in black and white—a truly Parisian ensemble which has the effect of making her look a good deal older than usual. The long mirror in the hall which we consult before leaving home assures us that we can pass muster.
Donford High Street is full of cars and the Donford Arms seems to have gone all Military for the evening. There are sentries outside the door, and stewards to open the door, and the hall is full of officers’ batmen dashing about with trays. Symes has been given the task of announcing the guests and he is doing it extremely well—announcing them loudly and clearly.
The large room is already comfortably full of officers and guests when Pinkie and I walk in. We are warmly welcomed by George Craddock, who looks like the advertisement of an officers’ tailor in a new and perfectly fitting tunic and a shining, chestnut-coloured Sam Brown. His face is pinker than ever and his hair has been cut so short as to be almost invisible to the naked eye. “Here you are!” he cries delightedly. “Here you are! Splendid! Two sherries, Waddell . . . that’s right . . . where are the biscuits and things? The colonel said I was to tell him when you came.”
“Where is he?” I enquire, trying to discover Tony’s tall figure amongst the crowd.
“Over near the fireplace,” replies George. “That’s a general he’s talking to—the fat one with the red face—so I don’t want to butt in. I wonder what I’d better do—he said I was to tell him when you came in.”
It is impossible to advise George, not only because I am ignorant of the proper procedure, but also because we are suddenly separated by an influx of new arrivals.
One of the new arrivals is Captain Baker; he smiles at me in a friendly manner and seems delighted to renew our acquaintance. “I feel a bit of an impostor here,” he says confidentially. I enquire whether he has gate-crashed, but he replies that on the contrary he received a very large card printed in gold letters inviting him to the feast.
“Then why do you feel like an impostor?” I ask with interest.
“Because I’m not a real soldier,” replies Captain Baker. “I was too young for the last war and I’m too old for this one. . . . Oh yes, I know I’m in uniform, but fine feathers don’t make fine birds.”
It is true that soldiers predominate here, but, whether or not they are all real according to Captain Baker’s standard, it would be difficult to say. I can sympathise readily with Captain Baker’s feelings, because I have often felt like a fish out of water in an assembly of civilians. Captain Baker seems surprised to hear this, and says that he had no idea that there was any feeling of that kind in the country. “Are you sure you did not imagine it?” he enquires.
“Perfectly certain,” I reply firmly. “I don’t say that the feeling was general, but in some parts of this country—before this war—there was a tendency to look down upon soldiers and their wives and to treat them as if they belonged to a lower order of beings . . .”
“Well, you’ve got your own back now,” declares Captain Baker a trifle grimly.
“I don’t want my own back,” I cry. “I mean I hate to see the whole population turning itself into soldiers. I’d rather be treated like a leper all my life . . .”
Jack MacDougall is suddenly forced between us by pressure from the crowd, “Hullo!” he says. “Have I interrupted you? What do you think about Norway?”
“Bad,” says Captain Baker. “We shall have to evacuate—at least it looks like that.”
A voice behind me says, “Hester, is it you?” and turning round I find myself face to face with Mrs. Loudon. It is surprising to see her here, for sherry parties are not in her line, but she explains her presence by saying that Colonel Morley asked her to come and she thought it would be pleasant to have a crack with him . . . “but I might have stayed comfortably at home for all the talk I’ll get with him,” adds Mrs. Loudon, surveying her fellow guests in great disgust.
“How’s Guthrie?” I enquire, for I have not visited the invalid lately and am feeling conscious of my neglect.
Mrs. Loudon replies that Guthrie is perfectly well and is likely to be discharged from the hospital shortly. She goes on to say that she is wearying for Avielochan and the peaceful hills, but for some reason Guthrie is not.
“Guthrie is not!” I echo in surprise.
“No,” says Mrs. Loudon. “He seems perfectly content to remain in hospital. I can’t understand it at all—unless it is that nurse. What do you think I should do, Hester?”
The room is now much too crowded to talk with comfort—or even to think—and the noise of chatter and laughter, the clink of glasses, the human waves and eddies caused by the passage of stewards with trays of tempting savouries and biscuits make consecutive conversation impossible. Before I can reply to Mrs. Loudon’s question, she is swept away and disappears behind a broad khaki back. Pinkie has vanished completely, and I am alone in the crowd. Snatches of conversation reach my ears from various directions:—
“But, my dear girl, we can’t spare more troops for Norway . . .”
“It burst in the road and broke all the windows . . . so I told the butcher that he shouldn’t have taken all the coupons, and he said . . .”
“Holland will be the next. I don’t mind betting you that’s the reason for our withdrawal . . .”
“. . . so I said well of course, if you want to go and make munitions . . .”
“I was terrified, my dear. It ran under the dresser. I said to John, you must get a trap . . .”
“. . . and I haven’t had a letter from him for a fortnight . . . no, she’s in the Wrens. She’s doing coding . . .”
“. . . but they prefer an eleven inch foot. You cast on sixty stitches . . .”
“. . . in hospital at Grimsby, but Edith heard yesterday . . .”
The crowd divides for a moment, and I have a glimpse of Grace; she is talking with animation; her eyes are bright with excitement, her hat is tilted at a becoming angle upon her neat dark head. Almost at the same moment, I recognise Mrs. Benson’s brick red hat, and realise that it is coming in my direction. I turn to flee and bump into Miss Browne Winters and upset her sherry on to the floor . . .
“But it does not matter in the least,” declares Miss Browne Winters in answer to my abject apologies. “It is merely one of those trivial accidents which have no importance in the Scheme . . . such things are only important if we allow them to disturb us.”
I assure her that it has disturbed me, and apologise again for my clumsiness.
“. . . but it has not disturbed me,” says Miss Browne Winters firmly.
This statement—and the tone in which it is uttered—leave me without anything further to say, but I am not satisfied with the conclusion and I continue to work it out in my own mind. If—as Miss Browne Winters declares�
��the accident is only important in so far as it disturbs our equilibrium, it must be important because it has disturbed mine; and is it not a trifle selfish of her to be so completely undisturbed by my distress? By the time I have reached this point in my meditations Miss Browne Winters has managed to stop a passing steward and has substituted her empty glass for a full one from his tray. I am about to congratulate her on her cleverness, when we are separated by a large fat woman saying “Excuse me” and pushing between us, and by the time we have found each other again it seems scarcely worth while to reopen the subject.
The band has now started to play, which adds to the noise. Miss Browne Winters leans towards me and enquires in a ringing tone, “What are they playing, Mrs. Christie?”
“I don’t know,” I shout in reply.
“It seems to strike a chord of memory, I wish I knew where I heard that tune before.”
A voice behind me announces, “Say it over and over again . . . over and over again . . . never stop saying you’re mine.” The voice is the voice of my host, Tony Morley, and I am aware that he is replying to the question which has just been put to me by Miss Browne Winters, but it is obvious from her startled expression that she has not grasped this fact. I therefore seize her by the arm and say, “That’s what it’s called. May I introduce Colonel Morley . . . Miss Browne Winters.”
“How do you do, Miss Withers,” says Tony. “It’s a silly tune, isn’t it? Frightfully silly . . . and yet there’s something in it, you know. ‘Never Stop Saying You’re Mine.’ I shouldn’t have known what it was called if I hadn’t happened to see the programme. Can’t keep pace with all these new tunes. Perhaps you can.”
Miss B.W. replies promptly that she does not try. She finds the past more interesting than the present, and she is about to produce reasons for her preference when Tony interrupts her by saying “It has been such a pleasure to meet you, Miss Withers. You will excuse us, won’t you. I’ve promised to introduce Hester to Lady Neckley,” and before I know where I am, Tony has me firmly by the arm and is steering me through the crowd.
Now that Tony has taken charge I feel less like an unclaimed parcel at the lost luggage office, but I still feel somewhat dazed. I am introduced to the general’s wife (Lady Neckley) and listen meekly while she tells me about her grandchild; I am rescued from her—again by Tony—and several officers of the Fourth are introduced to me; I find Pinkie and lose her again; I have another scrappy conversation with Mrs. Loudon; I speak to Herbert Carter; I run up against Grace and enquire after the twins. Suddenly I look round the room and discover that the company is thinning rapidly, and that it is time to go. Pinkie is easily found now—but not so easily detached from a large red-haired captain, with whom she is exchanging pleasantries.
As we walk home together Pinkie exclaims in rapturous tones, “Oh, what a lovely party it was! I did enjoy it, didn’t you, Hester?”
“Yes,” I reply a trifle doubtfully. “Yes, I did . . . but I don’t know why I enjoyed it.”
“You enjoyed it because you looked so nice,” declares Pinkie, squeezing my arm. She is silent for a few moments after uttering this profound piece of psychology, and then she enquires a trifle differently, “Did you notice that I called you ‘Hester’?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“That’s all right then,” says Pinkie, smiling, “if you didn’t notice, it means you didn’t mind.”
MONDAY 6TH MAY
Guthrie is convalescent and has been given a fortnight’s leave, so he and his mother depart to Avielochan. Their train leaves at 9:15 and Bryan’s at 11:30, so I spend most of the morning dashing backwards and forwards to the station and seeing people off. Bryan is much excited at the prospect of his visit to London, and listens to my instructions with some impatience, but, as I am extremely anxious for my son to make a good impression upon Richard and Mary, I continue my efforts feverishly.
We are on the platform now, awaiting the arrival of the train, and I spend the last few minutes reiterating the principal points of conduct befitting a gentleman of Bryan’s years, “They have no children of their own,” I remind Bryan, “so they aren’t used to boys.”
“Oh yes,” says Bryan. “You told me that before.”
“Be sure to wipe your feet on the mat . . . and change your shoes if they’re muddy.”
“Oh yes, of course,” says Bryan.
“Remember to wash your hands before meals,” I adjure him, “and be sure to wash them thoroughly before you dry them on the towel . . . and get up out of your chair when Aunt Mary comes in.”
“Oh yes,” says Bryan. “I know all of that.”
“Don’t throw the bathroom towel on the floor,” I continue earnestly, “and don’t scatter your cap and gloves all over the hall, and don’t forget to use your table napkin . . .”
“Oh Mum,” says Bryan reproachfully. “Oh Mum, why are you worrying? You know quite well I can behave beautifully when I like.”
As this is perfectly true, there is nothing more to be said.
Return home to lunch feeling extremely flat. Pinkie is also somewhat depressed and the meal is taken in silence save for an occasional remark by Betty between mouthfuls of food. After lunch Pinkie suggests that she and I should go to the pictures to cheer ourselves up. I enquire what Bill is doing, or young Craddock, but Pinkie says she would rather go with me.
We walk down to the Picture House and take our seats, but unfortunately the film is by no means cheering. It is an American film of the worst type, with frequent close-ups and glycerine tears. The story is centred round a small child whose father and mother misunderstand each other and decide to get a divorce. The child loves them both and is torn between them. Its poor little heart is broken, but it suffers in silence and presents a brave front to the unsuspecting world . . . we see the child growing thinner and paler before our eyes, but apparently its relatives are blind, for they go on their ways oblivious of its dwindling strength . . . eventually the child dies (I have been dreading this climax for the last two reels) and the parents are reunited over its dead body.
Pinkie and I emerge into the sunshine with blotched faces and smarting eyes. Pinkie squeezes my arm and says, “Wasn’t it beastly? I don’t know why I cried . . . it was false all through. The man was horrible. His hair was permed and I’m sure he used scent.”
Enquire with interest how she could possibly know of this depraved taste on the part of the man.
Pinkie says he was that sort of man . . . and the woman was worse if anything . . . as for the child it was positively disgusting, don’t I agree?
I agree wholeheartedly.
“It has made me feel that I need a bath,” says Pinkie gravely, “and I believe that’s just what I’ll do.”
Pinkie bathes and, emerging pink and cheerful from the steam-filled bathroom, she declares that she feels much better now and adds that nobody could commit suicide after a nice hot bath.
I enquire whether she felt like suicide before and Pinkie replies that she did, everything was beastly and the film put the lid on.
WEDNESDAY 8TH MAY
I am just changing my shoes to go out when Annie’s substitute knocks loudly upon my bedroom door and says in a hoarse voice, “It’s Lady Morley.”
“On the telephone?” I enquire.
“Naw, she’s here,” says Annie’s substitute. “She’s wanting tae see you, but she wouldna’ say whit she wanted . . . she’s gey and auld and she’s got ane o’ they furry capes . . .”
By this time I am half way down the stairs, for heaven alone knows what Annie’s substitute has said or done to my distinguished visitor. I had half expected to find her languishing on the doorstep in the rain, but luckily she has been allowed to come into the hall. I welcome Lady Morley and say how glad I am to see her, and Lady Morley explains that she is staying at the “Donford Arms” for a few days because she wanted to see Tony—and it seemed quite impossible for the poor boy to get leave—and Tony suggested that she should call on me while she wa
s here.
I repeat that I am delighted to see her.
“You stayed at Charters Towers, didn’t you?” says Lady Morley a trifle doubtfully.
I reply that I have had that pleasure.
“Yes,” says Lady Morley. “Yes, I was sure I had seen you before.”
I have managed to get her into the drawing room by this time—fortunately it seems fairly tidy—and I introduce Pinkie, who has been indulging in forty winks on the drawing-room sofa and arises therefrom, surprised and dishevelled but beautiful as ever. It is obvious that Lady Morley is struck with Pinkie; she raises her lorgnette and looks at Pinkie intently and murmurs to herself, “Very nice indeed.”
It is now incumbent upon me to invite my visitor to stay to tea and I endeavour to do so cordially, though cordiality is somewhat difficult to achieve, because there are only three scones in the house and the remains of a madeira cake. In addition I am aware that Florence has no idea where my best lace tea cloths are kept, and I feel sure that her ministrations will compare unfavourably with those of the butler at Charters Towers. Lady Morley hesitates for a moment and my hopes soar high . . . then she accepts the invitation, saying that it is very kind, and hotel teas are so unappetising. Feel even more doubtful whether the three scones and the piece of stale madeira will meet with Lady Morley’s approval.
We sit down and talk, and, while we are talking Pinkie vanishes. Her defection annoys me a good deal, for I have been counting upon her to help entertain my guest. The truth is that Lady Morley and I inhabit different worlds and have so little in common that it is almost impossible for us to find subjects of conversation. Lady Morley does not help very much, for she is used to being entertained. She takes off her sable cape and waits for me to entertain her. I enquire whether she has been out to the camp, and whether she has seen Tony’s quarters, and she replies that the hut is very draughty. I remark that Tony looks well, and she agrees—though very reluctantly—that he does. We decide that Tony’s robust health must be due to the fact that Donford is a healthy place. Now that we are on the subject of health, I enquire for Sir Abraham, and Lady Morley replies that he is better. She makes this admission grudgingly, and adds that she does not know why he is better because the Specialist said Rest Was Essential and, now that Tony has gone, the management of the Estates has devolved upon Sir Abraham. I suggest that doctors are not always right and Lady Morley agrees that even Harley Street may make mistakes. We are still discussing Harley Street—a subject upon which I am entirely uninformed—when the door opens and tea appears . . . a magnificent tea, which, to my startled eyes, seems like a vision from the Arabian Nights. I lose the thread of my visitor’s conversation completely, as I behold scones and cakes and plates of thin bread and butter—or is it margarine—being laid out upon a snowy embroidered cloth.
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