Mrs. Tim Carries On

by D. E. Stevenson

  “How long will he be?”

  “Not very long. Can’t you pretend that you’re a lion in the zoo?” I enquire anxiously.

  Betty says, “I don’t think so—it’s difficult to pretend things all by yourself—and I’m so lonely.”

  It is obvious from her shaky voice that Betty is very near tears, and I decide that I cannot leave her in solitary confinement until the plumber can be fetched, so I go outside and examine the window with a view to climbing in. Mrs. Fraser follows me expostulating loudly, and declaring that I shall break my neck . . . “and that’ll be anither disaster in the hoose.”

  “We’ve had three already,” I reply.

  “Aye, but I’ve found the key,” she declares. “It wis in the pocket of my other apron . . . so there’s only been two . . .”

  It would be a major disaster if I broke my neck, but there is no reason to anticipate such an occurrence, for if the steps are brought and reared against the wall I can climb on to the roof of the wash house and from thence to the gable. The bathroom window is large enough to admit me and will open from the bottom. Mrs. Fraser is unconverted by this simple explanation, and continues to make objections—“You’ll never do it,” she declares. “It’s a daft-like thing altogether. I’ll not have hand nor part in it. We’ve telephoned auld Growther and he’ll be here before very long.”

  “He won’t be here for at least half an hour,” I reply.

  “Send the gurrl,” whispers Mrs. Fraser, nodding towards the pantry window, where Florence’s head is visible.

  This idea does not appeal to me at all, and I point out that she might break her neck, but Mrs. Fraser doesn’t seem to think that this would matter.

  The steps are brought and reared against the wall, but unfortunately they are too short for my purpose. I can reach the edge of the roof with the tips of my fingers, but am unable to pull myself up.

  “There!” says Mrs. Fraser, with a sigh of relief, “there, ye’ll no can do it. We’ll need to wait for auld Growther after all.” But by this time Betty’s sobs are distinctly audible, and I refuse to be beaten. We carry out the kitchen table, and put the steps on the top of it—they are amply long enough now—and I prepare to make the ascent.

  “I doot ye’ll fall,” murmurs Mrs. Fraser. “It’s a daft-like affair—I gave Annie my word I’d look oot for you while she was away—she’ll no be best pleased gin she comes hame and finds you’ve broken your neck—”

  By this time I have mounted the table and have put my foot on the steps. Mrs. Fraser is holding them, but, in spite of her efforts to steady them, they wobble uncomfortably. I look up and take a grip of the ivy on the wall, and assure myself that I can do it easily—

  “Here, stop!” cries a voice in peremptory tones, “Hester, come down . . . what are you doing? Wait! Hold on a moment!”

  It is Tony Morley, and he is approaching rapidly—running up the path from the gate and waving his arms and shouting—Mrs. Fraser grabs my skirt, so I am obliged to wait, and when Tony arrives at the base of operations, she proceeds to enlighten him. It is obvious that she regards Tony as an ally, and a valuable one at that, perhaps she is remembering the assistance he rendered her in weighing out the ingredients for her cake . . . “I’m thankful you’ve come,” she declares, “I’m just thankful. Maybe you can do something with her . . . she’ll break her neck, and if I’ve tellt her once, I’ve tellt her hawf a dizen times, but when she’s set on a thing, she’s needier to hawd nor to bind . . .”

  “I know,” agrees Tony gravely. “I can sympathise with you, cook. The mule has a plastic nature compared with Mrs. Christie.”

  Betty’s face now appears at the bathroom window; there are tears on her cheeks, but she is smiling through them so cheerfully that it looks as if a rainbow might suddenly spring to view. “Oh, are you going to climb up?” she enquires. “Oh what fun! I’m like the princess in the tower—you know the story ‘Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!’”

  “Well, let it down, then,” says Tony, looking up at her.

  “But I can’t, because it’s too short,” replies Betty chuckling.

  “Then I’ll have to do without, I suppose.”

  Tony has mounted the table, and is about to climb the ladder when it occurs to me that Betty has recovered very rapidly from her tears, and being of a suspicious nature I call to him to wait, and take a firm grip of his tunic to make sure that he obeys the command.

  “Why is he to wait?” asks Betty. “Oh, do let him come. It’s such fun—Oh do let him, Mummy!”

  “Is the door still locked?” I enquire in tones which will brook no prevarication.

  Betty’s face changes. “Well . . . no,” she says reluctantly. “As a matter of fact it’s open now. I put my toothbrush through the handle of the key and it turned quite easily.”

  SATURDAY 25TH MAY

  Tony Morley and young Craddock drop in to tea. The latter is in tennis kit, and asks if Pinkie will come down to the courts for a game. I am somewhat surprised that Tony does not want to play too, as he is a good player and extremely keen. The young people go off in great form, and Tony and I watch them from the window. It has now become obvious that Tony is not himself, he is grave and silent and replies shortly to my attempts at conversation and, when I ask if anything is the matter, he evades the question and enquires if I have any idea where the Battalion is. This is so unlike Tony that I feel my heart sinking . . . it is a definite physical sensation.

  “It’s no use worrying,” says Tony, “but still . . . I mean if you have any idea where they are . . .” and he adds that he wishes to goodness he was there, in the thick of it, instead of sitting here at home trying to instil the elements of soldiering into a lot of half-baked farm labourers and shop assistants.

  This is still more unlike Tony, who is really and truly very proud of his Battalion and proud of its progress and its esprit de corps. I seize his arm and demand an explanation.

  “I ought to be there,” says Tony. “They need everyone, and need them now!”

  Although I have listened to the news bulletins and read the papers assiduously, it has never occurred to me that the situation in France is desperately grave. It has never crossed my mind that our Army could possibly be defeated. I explain this to Tony, and he replies that it may be all right, but even our fellows can’t do much against such overwhelming odds. The enemy have taken Boulogne . . . he doesn’t like that, somehow . . . he didn’t mean to alarm me, but he just wondered if I had any idea where the Battalion was . . .

  “Tony!” I exclaim. “You simply must explain the whole thing. I’m a perfect fool, of course, but I believe I could understand if it was explained to me . . . I’ll get a map.” After some persuasion Tony agrees to give me an idea of the situation. We sit down at the table with the map between us, and he points out the position of the various forces engaged. The “gap”, of which we have heard so much in the last few days, has increased in width and German armoured divisions have penetrated to our rear. Unless the gap can be closed, and closed quickly . . . “but perhaps they’ll be able to close it,” says Tony without much conviction.

  I am still poring over the map, and now that I understand the position I wonder how I can have been blind to the danger.

  “How will they get away?” I enquire, and there is a horrible sick feeling in my breast.

  “Get away?” says Tony. “It hasn’t come to that . . . not yet.”

  Part III

  August–September

  THURSDAY 1ST AUGUST

  It is over two months since I wrote anything in my diary . . . two months which have seemed like two years. I do not think that any two months in the whole history of the world have been so full of terrible events. Holland, Belgium and France have all fallen victims to Germany’s lust for power. Her armies have swept over Western Europe like a tidal wave, bringing misery and terror and destruction to millions of innocent people.

  The retreat of the Expeditionary Force and their evacuation from
Dunkirk are past history now. Our Battalion was evacuated and has now reformed somewhere in England . . . but Tim has not come back. There has been no news of him—either good or bad—he seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. Sometimes I feel hopeful—I feel it is impossible that anything could happen to Tim without my knowing it in my very bones—and sometimes I am crushed with despair. Oh Tim, where are you? You can’t have gone away and left me here in this horrible, terrifying world alone!

  My heart is like a stone without any feeling in it at all. I go on doing things just the same—eating and drinking, counting socks, ordering food, talking to people in the street and replying to their questions—but it is not really Hester who does these things; it is a sort of robot who looks like Hester and carries on in her place.

  Pinkie is a great comfort to me and shows great understanding. She is kind, but not too kind. She does not worry me as some people do. It worries me when people stop me in the street and ask for news. They turn their eyes away when I reply, “No, I have no news of him . . . not yet,” and I can see that they are sure he will not come back. Letters come from all sorts of people asking for news. Some of the writers are sure that Tim is dead—they don’t say so, of course, and their conviction is hidden beneath a false veneer of hopefulness—Others assure me that he is a prisoner in German hands; they are quite certain of it, but can give no reason for their belief. There is a letter from a medium offering to put me in touch with Tim—or, failing that, with one of Tim’s comrades who has Passed Over. There are letters which urge me to be brave and face up to it, and letters which are one long moan about the causes of the war, and our unpreparedness, about the collapse of Belgium and the rottenness of France, and the incompetence of our leaders. (Pinkie says “Don’t read them, darling, they’re just silly, and they make you miserable,” but I have to read them.)

  There is only one letter which strikes the right note and brings me a feeling of relief. It is from Tim’s Uncle Joe, who lives in Essex—near Cobstead. Like all the Christies he was a soldier, but when his father (Tim’s grandfather) died, Uncle Joe sent in his papers and retired to Winch Hall, the old family place. He was a gay dog—or so says the family legend—but he never married, and his sister lives with him and keeps house for him. Perhaps the reason that Uncle Joe’s letter does not jar me, as the others do, is because Uncle Joe is very fond of Tim, so he is able to understand my feelings . . . “We are both very sorry for you,” writes Uncle Joe, “and it would be foolish to say don’t worry. We are worrying quite a lot ourselves and nothing seems worthwhile, but we both have a strong feeling that Tim is all right, and that he will come back soon. From what I hear France is in a desperate muddle, people are still drifting back in various ways, and will continue to do so for some time. You will let us know if you hear anything from Tim. Alice joins me in sending love to you and the children. It would be nice if you could all come and stay with us during the holidays—we are getting old, and we have not seen you for a long time—but perhaps before we make any plans we had better wait a little and see what Hitler is going to do next. It looks as if his Blitzkreig on England may start pretty soon, and we are in the Front Line here.”

  I pass the letter to Pinkie, and Pinkie reads it through. “That’s what I call a sensible letter,” she declares. “They must be nice—why don’t you go and stay with them for a bit?”

  “Because . . .” I begin and then I stop.

  “I know,” says Pinkie. “You can’t leave here because Major Tim might come back . . . or you might get a letter telling you where he is. No, of course, you can’t go.” She hesitates for a moment and then enquires, “but I thought Uncle Joe’s sister was called Aunt Posy?”

  “We call her Aunt Posy,” I reply, “but her real name is Alice. Tim used to go and stay with them when he was a little boy, and it was he who called her Aunt Posy. She is plump and smiling like the plump and smiling aunt in the story of Little White Barbara.”

  Pinkie does not respond to this explanation, and I realise, in some surprise, that she is too young to have been brought up on the little green books which were our delight when we were small.

  MONDAY 5TH AUGUST

  I am sitting at the open window trying to read a book when Tubby Baxter is shown in. His sudden appearance is unexpected, for, although I am aware that he came back from Dunkirk, I had no idea that he was in Donford. Tubby is an old friend of mine—he and I have shared some odd experiences—and when I see him walk in, I feel that I am going to cry. It seems such a long time since those carefree days at Biddington, and Tubby has changed. He looks older and more responsible; his round, cheery face has bone in it now, and his jaw is more in evidence. Fortunately I am able to control myself, and to welcome him in a sensible manner.

  “It’s about the major,” says Tubby, sitting down and looking me straight in the face (what a relief, after those turning-away glances to which I have become accustomed). “It’s about the major . . . only you mustn’t think I know very much, because I don’t. It was all such a muddle you see . . . but I just thought you’d like to hear what little I do know, and that’s why I came.”

  “It’s very nice of you, Tubby.”

  “No, it isn’t” says Tubby firmly. “It’s just—well—quite an ordinary thing to do—besides I wanted to see you. I saw a good deal of the major during the retreat,” continues Tubby. “We all saw a good deal of him—in fact he seemed to be everywhere at once. He was full of beans. He was simply splendid—and I’m not just saying this to you—everyone said he was splendid. We marched and marched. You got dazed after a bit and just went on marching—it was a job to keep the Jocks from falling out—some of them were pretty footsore. The major was here and there and everywhere, joking with them and chivvying them along, and when jokes didn’t work he gave them hell. I don’t believe half the Battalion would be here if it hadn’t been for the major. I could tell you more about it if I hadn’t been so dazed . . . looking back it all seems like a dream; not a very nice dream, either. Well, I’ve tried to remember the last time I saw him and I’m pretty certain it was at a funny little village; I don’t know what it was called, but it was rather like an English village, there were trees about, and a sort of green in the middle. We fell out there for a meal and a few hours’ rest. I lay under a tree on that green I was telling you about. I knew we couldn’t stay long, because the Boche was pretty close behind . . . so after I’d had a bit of a rest I got up and went round to collect the Jocks. I passed the major sitting on a doorstep putting on his puttees, and he looked up and grinned at me—he was cheerful as anything—‘Hullo, Tubby!’ he said, ‘Hullo, Tubby, are you enjoying yourself?’ Of course I said I was. We talked for a minute about the men, and then I asked him where he thought we were going. You can ask him things like that. I knew he wouldn’t mind, and I knew he wouldn’t tell me unless he thought I ought to know. I said, ‘Where d’you think we’re making for, sir, and what’ll happen when we get there?’ He smiled and said, ‘Dunkirk, and you’ll have to swim, Tubby.’ So then I said, ‘That’s all right, sir. I just wanted to know. It’ll be a change from walking, anyhow.’ He laughed quite a lot . . . So then I said something about seeing him in mid-channel—damn silly of course, but everything seemed pretty silly, somehow—and he looked up at me with a funny sort of look . . . it was a serious sort of look . . . and said, ‘No Tubby, you won’t see me in mid-channel. I haven’t got fins.’ I said, ‘I suppose you’re going to fly, sir?’ and he shook his head and said he hadn’t got wings, either. I didn’t like to say any more, but I just waited, and he finished rolling his puttees and stood up, and then he said, ‘Perhaps I’ll stay on a bit with the Froggies. I love the Froggies, don’t you, Tubby? It would break my heart to leave them in such an unceremonious way.’ . . . Of course he didn’t mean it,” says Tubby earnestly. “He didn’t mean that he loved them, because he doesn’t, but he did mean something . . .”

  I have followed the story with breathless attention, and now that it is ended, I
am a trifle disappointed and more than a trifle puzzled. I enquire what meaning Tubby attaches to Tim’s enigmatic statement.

  Tubby says, “The major talks like that sometimes, and it sounds like nonsense, but it really means something.”

  “What could it mean?” I enquire.

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” says Tubby gravely. “I think he has been given something to do—some sort of job—and he’s doing it, and he’ll come back when he’s done it. That’s what I think.”

  I look at Tubby, and Tubby looks at me—straight in the eyes.

  “Oh I know it sounds a bit fantastic,” says Tubby apologetically, “but the whole thing was fantastic—you wouldn’t believe half the things I could tell you . . . Germans dressed as British Staff Officers waiting for us at cross roads, and giving us orders, telling us to take the left fork and retake a village. Yes, it’s perfectly true. We jolly nearly did it, too, and, if we had, we’d have walked straight into a neatly prepared trap . . . But that’s a different story,” says Tubby, “I’ll tell you about it sometime. Let’s get this straight about the major first.”

  “But we can’t get much further, can we?”

  “No,” says Tubby, “but he did mean something. I know him awfully well, because he was my company commander for ages, and I know the sort of things he says. I remember one day in Mess; we were having tea, and he took my cup and pretended to read my fortune. He said, ‘Oh Tubby, I see a journey for you, here,’ and he went on and told me all about my journey—it was dashed funny—everyone in the Mess was in fits over it, and I was, too. But, whereas the others thought it was all nonsense, I knew quite well what it meant—and he knew that I understood. You see the fact was he knew I wanted leave awfully badly, and he had fixed it for me, and that was his way of telling me.”

  I am silent, for the story is so typical of Tim that it has given me a lump in my throat.