Mrs. Tim Carries On

by D. E. Stevenson

  “Several other tanks rolled up and stopped and two more officers came over to where I was lying. There was a lot of talk and jabber. They asked me how long I had been lying there, and where my Regiment had gone, and which road they had taken, and how far ahead they were. I didn’t tell them much, and what I did tell them—most reluctantly—was quite untrue. Then I lay back and said I felt ill. There was more talk . . . I could see that they didn’t know what on earth to do with me. They were moving forward rapidly, and didn’t want to be bothered with prisoners—on the other hand I was a major, and therefore quite a valuable prize. Eventually they had decided to leave me where I was until the transport came up. The first officer, who spoke English, explained that it would not be very long—they left a man on guard, climbed back into their tanks and moved off. There were about twenty tanks—great monstrous creatures—and they made a hellish noise.

  “After they had gone it was very quiet. There was nobody about the place, because all the villagers had fled—they always did when they heard the Boche was coming—I remember a cat ran along the wall and jumped over into a garden . . . it’s funny how you remember things like that. I lay and wondered what I could do, but I couldn’t think of anything. My guard was quite young—a mere boy—and he sat on the step quite near me with his rifle across his knees. I wondered what he was thinking about—what he thought about the war . . . it would have been interesting to know. Then an old woman appeared; she was very small and old—a mere wisp of a creature—and she came shuffling down the empty street in a tottery kind of way. It looked as if she had scarcely the strength to put one foot in front of the other. My guard pricked up his ears and looked at her . . . and then settled down again. She passed quite near me, but took no notice of me at all . . . just shuffled past very slowly and disappeared into the house opposite—it was a cottage, really, and a dirty, unkempt sort of place.

  “Nothing more happened for ages. There were planes flying overhead, but otherwise it was very quiet. My guard got up once or twice and looked down the street. (He seemed a bit restless—perhaps he expected the transport to come.) Then he turned and said something to me in German. I didn’t understand, so I just lay still and shut my eyes. I wasn’t feeling too good, and I thought there was no harm in letting him think I was rather worse. He stooped and looked at my knee—I had managed to get the cartilage back into place, but my knee was like a football. He grunted to himself. I opened my eyes to see what he was up to, and when he saw I was looking he made signs—pointing to himself and pointing down the street—‘Brot,’ he said. I realised what he was getting at, of course: he was hungry and he was going to forage for food. He had satisfied himself that I couldn’t move, so there wasn’t much harm in leaving me for a few minutes. I just lay there with my eyes half shut and said nothing; so, after hesitating, and looking up and down the street, he made off . . .

  “Well, no sooner had he gone than the old woman appeared; she looked up and down the street, and then she nipped across to me—no shuffling or tottering about her—she was across that street like a flash of greased lightning, and she was waving her arms and jabbering and spluttering with excitement. I couldn’t understand a word, but I didn’t need to; I got up and stood on my good leg and, half hopping and half leaning on her, I made pretty good time across the street and into her house. She had taken up the floor boards in the back room, and I lay down under the floor. It was all white powdery dust, but I wasn’t particular—in fact I thought it was a good idea. She put down the boards and rolled back the carpet, and I heard her moving the furniture about. There was air coming in, and it wasn’t too uncomfortable, and that was lucky, because I was there for hours. I heard people coming in and clumping about, and I heard a lot of talking . . . then there was silence for a bit . . . then more clumping about and more talking . . . then silence. I didn’t know what had happened, and I began to wonder if they had got the old woman—taken her away perhaps—and I should be left there to rot. It wasn’t a pleasant thought.

  “I was just thinking of trying to get out myself, trying to shove up the boards, when I heard the furniture being moved and the boards were lifted and there was my friend, grinning all over her ugly face, and her one tooth gleaming at me . . . I was so pleased to see her I could have kissed her! By that time I was feeling pretty rotten—what with the pain of my knee, and fright and hunger—and she was awfully decent to me. She explained that the ‘sales Boches’ had gone, but they might come back, and I had better get into bed. It was difficult to understand what she said, because she spoke a sort of patois, and the fact that she had only one tooth didn’t help—my French is a bit sketchy at the best of times—however, we managed somehow. She warmed up some soup for me and helped me to undress and get into bed . . . if anyone came she would say I was her son, and I must pretend to be very ill—‘très malade.’ I nodded and said I would. As a matter of fact it wasn’t difficult because I was feeling like nothing on earth.

  “I was in bed for days—I don’t know how long, really—and there was a constant rumble of tanks and guns and transport waggons going through the village. The noise scarcely ever ceased. It was a horrible noise—horrible in itself and even more horrible to me, because I knew what it meant—all those tanks and guns—rumbling past—I knew where they were going. There was no news to be got, so I didn’t know what had happened. I didn’t know whether—whether our fellows had got away—I didn’t see how they could. I was ill in bed and I could do nothing—I nearly went mad. Honestly, Hester, it was the most awful time I have ever been through . . . and still those tanks went on and on, rumbling past; there must have been thousands of them . . . tanks and guns and waggons full of men . . . I used to get up and hobble to the window and peep out at them, but the old woman didn’t like me to do it, because they might have seen me—she was right, of course. Sometimes a Boche would come into the house and question the old woman, and she would jabber and jabber like a monkey—and they would go away in despair, not having understood a word—sometimes they came and looked at me, but by this time my beard had grown, and I looked an absolute tinker . . . I suppose they believed that I was the old woman’s son. At any rate they didn’t bother about me.

  “All this time the old woman was kindness itself; there wasn’t much in the way of food, but she managed to scrape up food from somewhere, she foraged round the empty houses in the village, and of course there were vegetables in the garden at the back. There was a couple of goats, so we had milk—it was cheesy sort of stuff, but I wasn’t particular.

  “The old woman told me a bit about her history—I managed to gather that her only son had been killed in the last war, and one of her daughters had been murdered by the Germans that was why she hated them so. She hated them like poison.

  “It was almost terrifying to hear her when she got on the subject—and it was a subject which, under the circumstances, was bound to crop up fairly frequently. ‘Les sales Boches,’ she would mutter, and her eyes would flash and her whole body would shake with sheer hatred! I asked her why she had remained in the village when everyone else had gone, and she replied that she was ‘trop vieille pour les sales Boches.’ I think she meant that they wouldn’t bother about her—and of course they didn’t, so she was right . . .”

  Tim has got thus far in his story, and I am sitting at the table, listening to him and watching him eat and enjoying every tone of his voice and every movement of his hands, when the kitchen door opens very slowly and quietly . . . and Pinkie appears. She is clad in a pale blue dressing gown, her hair is standing on end, and her eyes look half dazed as if she had just wakened from sleep.

  Tim turns round and says, “Heavens, who’s this?”

  “Oh!” exclaims Pinkie, “Oh, I thought it was parachutists . . . Oh, it’s Major Tim!” Her voice goes up in a squeak with excitement and delight.

  After that we all seem to be talking at once, Pinkie is repeating that she thought it was parachutists, but now she sees that it isn’t parachutists, she will g
o straight back to bed, because of course we won’t want her; I am trying to explain to Tim who Pinkie is, and at the same time to explain to Pinkie that there is no need for her to return to bed; and Tim is declaring with vehemence that he has no recollection whatsoever of having met Pinkie before, but that it doesn’t matter in the least because she is obviously nice to know.

  Suddenly, in the midst of all this muddle, and for no reason at all, the tears pour down my cheeks—I can’t help it, and it is a ridiculous way to behave, but it seems to have the effect of clearing the air. Tim pats me on the back and says, “It’s all right, darling. Everything’s all right . . . it’s all right, Hester,” and Pinkie cries, “Hester darling . . . and you’ve been so splendid . . . it’s because you’re hungry, that’s all . . . it’s just that you’re hungry,” and Tim says, “Yes, of course . . . that’s what it is. You’re hungry . . . and I’ve been gorging food . . .”

  It appears that we are all hungry—Tim seems to have forgotten that he has consumed half a chicken—so we raid the store-cupboard and open tins of tongue and baked beans and carrots and peaches, and we sit down to a solid meal. It is a most hilarious meal for we are all so happy. Pinkie declares that it is the nicest meal she has ever eaten in all her life, and Tim agrees that he feels the same about it. I say very little, but I look at Tim . . . and look and look again . . . I feel as if I could not take my eyes off him for a moment. He is the old Tim—my darling Tim come back to me—but there is something new about him . . . I can’t quite make up my mind what it is.

  FRIDAY 23RD AUGUST

  Now that Tim has come back the purpose for which I started to write my diary is completed, but I have decided to continue my record of events for my own satisfaction. There are days when nothing of interest happens, or when I am too busy to write, but there are other days when my pen flies over the paper without the slightest effort, and I see no reason why I should not write when I feel inclined—except perhaps the shortage of paper.

  Tim is living at home. He has been attached to the Depot and is likely to be here for some time and if it were not for the war, which lies upon one’s spirit like a black cloud, everything would be perfect. To have all my dear ones together under one roof—that is all I ask of life, and I have got my heart’s desire.

  Bryan and Betty are delighted at Tim’s return. Betty is not old enough to understand what has happened, but Bryan is just the right age for hero worship. He sits and gazes at his father with an expression of awe upon his face, and I feel sure that the story of Tim’s adventures on the field of battle will be retailed at length to Edgeburton, and will lose nothing in the telling.

  “Tell me again, Dad,” is a phrase which is frequently to be heard upon Bryan’s lips. “Tell me again about the day the Germans nearly caught you, and you had to jump out of the window . . . tell me more about the time you hid in the woods.”

  Tim is wonderfully patient with Bryan and nearly always complies with his requests. Perhaps he realises how much it means to the boy, and realises, too, that Bryan is of an age to remember all that he is told.

  There is one story which Bryan likes better than any of the others, and he declares it is the most thrilling story of all. . . . “Tell me again,” says Bryan. “Tell me about the time when you spent the night in that village which was full of Germans.”

  “But I’ve told you so often,” objects Tim. “I’ve told you about it at least three times, and it wasn’t anything much. Lots of people had far more exciting adventures than that—you can read about them any day in the papers.”

  “I know . . . but they don’t belong to me,” says Bryan seriously. “It’s because you belong to me, you see, and I feel as if I had been there myself, almost.”

  Tim smiles, “Oh well, if that’s how you feel . . .” he says, and plunges into the story for the fourth time.

  “It was in the retreat,” he says. “I had stayed behind with a small detachment from A. Company to do a bit of scouting, and as we were hurrying on to rejoin the Battalion we suddenly found that we were cut off. Some German Infantry had arrived in the village and taken it over. We walked slap into them before we knew where we were—at least, we walked slap into the sentry. Fortunately we managed to stop him from giving the alarm, and we made for the nearest house. It was a good-sized house standing in a small garden. Dark had fallen by this time and we did not know where the Germans were, nor how many of them were in the place, so Tubby Baxter took a couple of fellows and had a scout round—he discovered that we were surrounded on all sides.”

  “But they didn’t know you were there,” says Bryan eagerly.

  “They didn’t know where we were,” agrees Tim, “but they knew we were somewhere about. The only thing to do was to stay put, and to make ourselves as comfortable as we could for the night.”

  “You piled up the furniture,” says Bryan. “You made the house into a kind of fort—didn’t you? You made places at the windows for firing out of, and you kept watch all night.”

  Tim agrees that all this was done.

  “And all night long,” continues Bryan excitedly, “all night long you kept on going round the house to see that everything was all right—and you told the men that if the Germans attacked they were to fire like mad so that the Germans would think that there were a lot more of you than there really were—and one time when you went round some of the men had heard Germans talking in the garden—quite near, they were—but nothing happened—and then, in the morning, the enemy attacked you.”

  “Yes,” agrees Tim, laughing at Bryan’s excitement. “Yes, you seem to know as much about it as I do.”

  “No,” says Bryan. “I don’t, really, because every time you tell me about it you tell me a little bit more. Do go on, Dad. I won’t interrupt you again.”

  “They attacked just as dawn was breaking,” says Tim. “They attacked on three sides at once, but fortunately the windows were well protected and none of our chaps were hit. We kept up a pretty hot fire and they drew off.”

  “Did you kill lots of them?” enquires Bryan, gazing at his father with eyes like saucers.

  “I don’t know,” replies Tim. “You’ve got to kill people in war, but I prefer not to think about it . . . They drew off after about ten minutes. It seemed a good deal longer than that, but Tubby had timed it on his watch. Tubby is a cool customer. We didn’t know why they had drawn off—it might have been a ruse, or they might have been waiting for tanks, or for a gun to blow the house to bits. We just had to wait and keep our eyes skinned—that was all we could do . . . and then, while we were still waiting, we suddenly heard the sound of firing at the other end of the village, and we realised that it must be some of our own fellows—”

  “It was the Guards!” cries Bryan, unable to contain himself a moment longer. “Hurrah, it was the Guards! You got your fellows together and you unbarred the door, and you rushed out and took the enemy in the rear . . . and they thought it was reinforcements arriving . . . they didn’t know there were only thirty of you . . . they didn’t know that you had scarcely any ammunition left. You dashed into the battle shouting and firing and the enemy broke and fled,” cries Bryan. “Oh Gosh, it must have been grand—it was grand! Oh Gosh, I wish I had been there too!”

  Tim roars with laughter at this and says that there was nothing “grand” about it, and will Bryan kindly remember not to refer to it as a “battle.” It was a skirmish in a village, quite an unimportant affair, and will Bryan go and read the Wizard now and leave him in peace.

  The story of Tim’s adventures—part of which I heard on the night of his arrival—is continued in little snatches from day to day; and, putting it all together and thinking about it, I begin to get an idea of what he has been through. His bodily adventures have been grim enough, but it is the adventures of his spirit which have left the deepest impression upon him, for he has said to me several times, “the worst part of it all was when I was laid up in that old woman’s house and heard the tanks go rumbling past . . . it was
frightful, Hester . . . I nearly went mad.”

  Now that I have had time to observe Tim, I have discovered what the difference in him really is—the “something new” which I noticed in him on the night he arrived home. Up to now I have always felt that I was older than Tim—not older in years, of course, but older in spirit. I have felt that Tim was my junior partner, a sort of large child to be humoured and managed and loved, but now our relationship has changed and, all of a sudden, Tim is the elder. He has borne tremendous responsibilities; he has met and overcome desperate dangers, and in the course of a few weeks he has endured a lifetime of suffering. When this is understood it is easy to see why he seems older.