“No, I can’t, because she is not here.”
“Not here?” he enquires in surprise, “But she promise to walk.”
“She forgot about the tennis.”
Nick shakes his head. “I do not know what mean this about tennis,” he declares hopelessly.
I feel quite hopeless too, and we look at each other for a moment or two without speaking.
“Rose Marie is not here?” he enquires at last; “She has gone out with another friend—she forgot she promise to walk with me, yes?”
“No,” I say firmly and shake my head, “No, she did not forget. She is very sorry.”
“She is very sorry?” he enquires hopefully.
I nod and say, “Yes, very sorry indeed.”
Nick sighs, “Oh dear!” he exclaims, and the old maidish exclamation sounds very droll from his lips. “Oh dear, it is pity! I cannot understand. It is like I walk in a fog . . . all the time the fog is there. You are not cross, no?”
“No, of course not.”
“I do not mind, then,” says Nick, with a delightful smile. “I do not mind that I cannot understand. It is all one . . . you permit that I talk to you, yes?”
“If you want to,” I reply, somewhat amused.
“I would like,” he declares earnestly. “We will talk about Rose Marie . . .”
SATURDAY 14TH SEPTEMBER
“I do love Bryan,” says Pinkie, producing a small crumpled piece of paper and laying it beside me on my desk. “I do think Bryan is the most engaging creature—what do you make of that?”
The piece of paper is smoothed out for my inspection. On it is written in Bryan’s well known scrawl:
KICK ATHER HARD.
HIT HIM ON THE HEAD WITH A TENIS BALL HARD.
The memo—if that is what it is—is written so fiercely and boldly that in some places the pencil has gone through the paper and left a ragged hole. . . .
Pinkie and I look at each other and smile. “Is it a threat?” enquires Pinkie. “Is it a sort of warning—like the Black Spot?—What do you think it is?”
I cannot elucidate the problem, but suggest that we should ask Bryan to solve it for us . . . “Poor Arthur,” I add, a trifle sadly.
“Not at all,” says Pinkie firmly. “I’m not the least bit sorry for Arthur. He must have done something extremely unpleasant—you can see that Bryan was furious with him—I don’t mind betting you sixpence that Arthur thoroughly deserves it.” She stands there for a few moments looking at the scrap of paper with her dimples coming and going in the most delightful way. “Dear Bryan . . .” she says, “I never knew much about boys before, but now . . . I think it would be lovely to have boys and when I’m married . . . if I ever do marry.”
This seems a good opportunity to bring up the subject of Pinkie’s young men friends—it is a subject which has been causing me some anxiety, and especially just lately. She has so many friends (their name is legion and there is safety in numbers, of course), but all the same I feel that I ought to know what her feelings are, for I am responsible to Elinor for her well-being. I have never been afraid of Bill, for he, poor soul, is merely a friend and has been told as much in so many words; I flatter myself that I know Pinkie better than he does, and am aware that what Pinkie says, she means. Young Craddock seemed a hot favourite at one time—though to do Pinkie justice, she treated him with the same friendliness which she extends to all her friends—but now there is Nick, and Nick is a different matter altogether. He is handsome and charming and has a romantic air about him—not to speak of a romantic background—Nick is the sort of young man who might turn any girl’s head . . . I have been seeking an opportunity to speak to Pinkie seriously, and here it is. I must seize it and use it to the best advantage. . . .
“What is the matter, darling?” says Pinkie suddenly. “There’s a faraway look in your eyes . . . and I’ve asked you twice whether you want me to take your watch to Mackay’s to have it mended. You had better tell me what’s the matter.”
I reply that there is nothing the matter with me, but that I am worried about her, and add that, although she may not be aware of the fact, she is playing havoc with the affections of her admirers.
Pinkie opens her eyes very wide and says, “Oh no, Hester darling. You don’t understand. I’m not that sort of person at all. I hate that sort of thing. I always have hated it—I mean at school and—and everywhere—”
“But Pinkie, I know you don’t mean—”
“They’re just friends,” says Pinkie earnestly, “just friends, that’s all. I like having lots of friends.”
“But what about them?” I enquire.
“They understand,” she replies. “They like being friends with me, you see. They ask me to play tennis or badminton, or go to the pictures, and of course I enjoy it—and they do, too. They wouldn’t ask me if they didn’t, would they?”
“Are you sure they understand?”
“I’m sure of it, perfectly certain,” declares Pinkie. “I’ve told them, you see.”
“You’ve told them?” I echo, somewhat puzzled by her words.
“Yes,” says Pinkie gravely. “I tell them all—at the very beginning—or, at least, as soon as they begin to get very friendly—I tell them that I like being friends with them, but I don’t like any silly nonsense—so they couldn’t possibly not understand, could they?”
“No-o,” I reply doubtfully.
“No, of course not,” says Pinkie firmly. “Things are different now. You can go about and have a good time together, and it doesn’t mean anything except that you like each other—and you both know that, so it’s all right. Everything is perfectly clear and—well—above-board, if you know what I mean . . . and anyhow, they’re far too young.”
I enquire somewhat anxiously whether they are all too young, and Pinkie says “Yes.” She hesitates for a moment and I have a feeling that she is going to say something else, but when she does eventually open her mouth it is only to add that they are all mere children. When she marries—if she ever marries—it will be somebody much older than herself, somebody quite old. I ask Pinkie how old her ideal husband will be, and she replies “Oh, at least thirty.”
Pinkie goes away after this, and I have just risen from my desk, and am peering into the mirror, trying to count my wrinkles and to number my grey hairs, when she comes back into the room and says in a conspiratorial tone, “Don’t let’s mention it to him, Hester. It might be—well, I mean it might be sort of private. Don’t you think so?”
“Who, what?” I ask, gazing at her blankly.
“Bryan,” breathes Pinkie. “That Black Spot affair . . . he mightn’t like it if he knew that we knew about it.”
I agree to remain silent upon the subject—though I am pretty certain that Bryan would not mind in the least—and Pinkie vanishes once more. . . . Spend the rest of the day worrying over our conversation, and trying to think which of Pinkie’s friends has reached the ripe age of thirty.
MONDAY 16TH SEPTEMBER
Tim returns from the Barracks with the news that Tony Morley has offered him a day’s shooting . . . he has managed to get leave, so that’s all right, and, if only it’s a nice day, everything in the garden will be lovely. Pinkie and I are invited too, and Tony will take sufficient food for us all. It isn’t a drive, because there aren’t any beaters, so we shall have to walk miles, but as Tim walked miles and miles in Belgium he is in excellent training and it won’t worry him. If Pinkie and I get tired we can sit down somewhere and get picked up on the way back.
Pinkie says she bets she can walk as far as Tim can, to which Tim retorts, “How much?” Pinkie says, “Well . . . a bob,” and Tim says, “Your bob is as good as lost.”
To change the subject, I enquire whether the shoot is far off and, if so, how we are to get there—our petrol ration for the current month having been used already. Tim explains that the moor belongs to a young subaltern called Craddock—or, to be exact, to young Craddock’s father—and Morley said it was about
ten miles away, but Morley is taking us in his car, so we don’t need to worry. There’s a rattling good grouse-moor and some fields where we may find some partridges. Craddock pere is a big bug, and owns a large estate, but he’s very seldom there because he’s been given some important job in London.
Pinkie has listened to all this in silence and now she enquires whether “old Mr. Craddock” is to be there tomorrow. Tim says no, he doesn’t think so. Pinkie says, “Oh, but I suppose George Craddock is coming?” Tim says yes, he believes he is, and adds—quite unnecessarily of course—that young Craddock is in Morley’s Battalion and Morley thinks a lot of him. Pinkie says, “Yes, he’s awfully nice.”
I feel that Pinkie has shown a good deal of interest in the Craddock family—but young Craddock is more like twenty-three than thirty!
Tim is quite excited at the prospect of a day’s shooting, he gets out his guns and spends the evening taking them to pieces and putting them together again.
TUESDAY 17TH SEPTEMBER
Two large cars pull up at the gate as the clock strikes the half hour—fortunately we are ready in good time and troop down the path carrying bags and guns and mackintoshes and other impedimenta.
Tony says, “Hullo, you’re all ready—good show? It’s going to be a lovely day.” Symes hastens forward to open the gate. Young Craddock leaps out of his car—which is just behind Tony’s—and salutes us smartly. There is a good deal of talking and laughing until Tony puts a stop to it by saying that time is valuable. “Hop in,” says Tony. “You can all come in my car and Craddock can take Symes. Craddock’s car is full of dogs and baskets.”
Mr. Craddock looks somewhat crestfallen at this arrangement, and says that there’s room for Miss Bradshaw in front and Symes could go in the back with the dogs, but of course if she would rather—and Tony says, “Oh, just as you like,” and Pinkie solves the problem by making a beeline for George Craddock’s car and getting in.
Off we go. It is a lovely autumn morning with a little nip of frost in the sparkling air, and the hills stand out in bold relief against the violet blue sky. Far over the sea there is a band of bright saffron on the horizon and, as we reach the top of the hill, I turn and look back and and just in time to see the sun rise out of the sea. No wonder the ancients worshipped the sun for his appearance changes the whole scene . . . before his coming the morning was painted in soft tones of yellow and violet blue, but now in a moment it springs to life and colour. The trees—all red and golden in their autumn dress—are touched with the magic flame, and their long shadows sweep across the road like pointing fingers. Our way lies north and west, first along the cliffs which edge the bounding sea, and then inland towards the rounded hills. We climb; we descend; we catch glimpses of farms, or cottages, of lochs nestling in the folds of the hills, and all the time the sun rises higher in the sky and the colours in the landscape brighten and deepen. Now we are amongst the hills; they rise fold upon fold around us, and the road twists and turns across the moors.
George Craddock’s car is leading, for he knows the way, and suddenly, in the middle of a stretch of moorland road, he signals that he is going to stop and draws on to a grassy plot at the roadside. Tony follows suit, and he has scarcely done so when George jumps out of his car and comes to the window. He explains that this is quite a good place to leave the cars. We can shoot Fingal first and, returning by another way, have our lunch comfortably and go on to the lower slopes in the afternoon.
Tony points to a large rounded hill with a jutting shoulder and says, “Is that Fingal?”
“Yes, sir,” replies George smartly.
I notice—not without amusement—that George is on his very best behaviour today and is very much the junior subaltern. I cannot determine whether George is really awed by the superior rank of his two fellow shooters, or whether he is being careful not to take advantage of the fact that he is their host.
Tony says, “We go across the moor, do we, and up over the shoulder?”
“Yes, sir,” agrees George, “and we come back at the other side of the fir plantation.”
“That sounds all right,” says Tony, “and anyhow you’re O.C. Troops—so lead on, General Craddock.”
George blushes, “Well, I mean that’s what we usually do, sir . . . you see, the birds usually fly across the shoulder of Fingal and we get another chance at them on the way back.”
By this time we have all got out and are standing in the road. Pinkie and I have no arrangements to make, so we hang about waiting for them to start. The wind has a knife-edge to it, and they take ages to settle matters . . . coats are removed and stowed in the cars; guns are taken out and examined; bags of cartridges are produced—and empty bags for the game—and Symes is loaded with haversacks. Symes looks quite dazed at all the advice he receives, and is completely out of his element. Finally, when all is ready, we start off across the moor—the three shooters in front with the dogs, and Pinkie and I and Symes behind. We have been told not to speak or—if speak we must—in whispers only, but somehow we do not want to speak. It is so quiet and peaceful here, the springy turf and the heather beneath our feet and the cloudless blue sky above our heads, and all around us the upstanding hills, peeping over each other’s shoulders. There is no sign of man, nor of man’s work; we might be hundreds of miles from anywhere. Every now and then we come to a burn, full of brown peaty water, which meanders lazily across the moor, or to a clump of pine trees, or a low stone wall. . . . Then we begin to climb the lower slopes of the hill, and here the heather grows higher and thicker, and the hoar frost, melting with the sun’s rays, sparkles upon it like diamonds.
We have been walking for about twenty minutes when the dogs put up some grouse—they fly off squawking and the three guns speak almost simultaneously. I have been expecting this for so long that I have ceased to expect it and the noise is so loud and so sudden that I almost jump out of my skin. My two companions are equally startled. Pinkie says “Oh!” and Symes drops a game bag . . . he picks it up at once and looking at me somewhat sheepishly says that it slipped out of his hand. Tim is now signalling to us to keep back until the birds are retrieved, so Symes spreads a mackintosh on a convenient boulder and we sit down.
“Does the colonel want me to fetch the grouse?” enquires Symes anxiously.
I reply that the dogs will find them, but that he will probably have to carry them.
He smiles and says, “You’ll keep me right, won’t you?” and I promise to do what I can in the matter.
“It’s grand fun,” says Symes. “I never did anything like this before. There seems a lot in it . . . and I don’t want to let the colonel down. I’ve read about shooting grouse, of course, but I never thought I’d be doing it.” Symes is so pleased with himself that I have not the heart to point out that he is not shooting grouse, but merely carrying the ammunition. Instead, I suggest that he will have to write to Miss Ebb and tell her about it. He agrees that he must do so, and opines that she will be very much surprised when she hears about it . . . “She’s having a good time too,” adds Symes. “What with Naval Officers and being taken to see over ships . . .”
Pinkie says, “I’ve never been out with guns before either. I shall write to Aunt Elinor and tell her.”
There is a short silence, and then Symes says in a thoughtful voice, “War is funny, isn’t it?”
“But this isn’t war!” exclaims Pinkie.
“It’s my war, Miss,” says Symes firmly—an oracular statement which gives me food for thought. If it were not for the war, if it were not for the fact that a megalomaniac in Central Europe had run amok and turned the world into a cockpit, Symes would be packing china in a London basement. . . .
The birds are now collected, and we are invited to admire them before they are stowed into the bag. There are three birds, two of which have fallen to Tony’s gun and one to George Craddock’s . . . I feel absurdly sorry for Tim, but manage to refrain from showing any sympathy, as I am aware that Tim would hate it.
&n
bsp; Now we are off again, the three guns in front spreading out fan-wise and keeping level with each other. It is much warmer, for we are sheltered by the hill. Symes looks very hot in his thick battle dress, but he plods on manfully and refuses to allow Pinkie or me to lighten his load by a single bag. We have now nearly reached the top of the ridge and Tim signals to us to wait, so we sit down again—very thankfully—and watch the shooters until they disappear over the top. We hear four shots and then another two—Symes looks at me enquiringly, but I shake my head, for I am aware that it is better to obey orders to the letter than to display initiative.
Pinkie asks what time it is and, on being informed that it is eleven o’clock, she groans and says, “Only eleven? I’m simply starving.”
“It’s the fresh air,” says Symes, and he produces a large slab of milk chocolate and shares it with us . . . I compliment him upon his forethought, and he replies modestly that he often feels hungry himself in the middle of the morning and chocolate is easy to carry and very filling. We talk in a desultory way. Pinkie, harking back to our previous conversation, asks Symes whether he likes being a soldier or would rather be back at his usual job, and Symes replies that he likes being a soldier. “I never thought I’d like it,” he declares, “but I like it so much I couldn’t go back—not to the packing room, I couldn’t. Gertie says the same—well, I don’t know what’s to happen to us after the war. It’s difficult, isn’t it? Gertie says not to think too far ahead, but just win the war first . . . still, you can’t help wondering.”
It certainly is a problem, and I am so interested in it that I ask Symes why he feels that he could not go back. He replies that packing china doesn’t seem important now—not the kind of job for a man—“but it’s the colonel, really,” adds Symes thoughtfully. “I never knew there could be anyone like the colonel. If you’d told me I’d be happy as an officer’s servant I wouldn’t have believed you—no menial work for me, I’d have said—but it’s a pleasure to do things for a man like him. Sometimes I wonder . . . well, sometimes it just crosses my mind that I’d like to carry on with the colonel after the war . . . if he’d find any use for me . . . but then there’s Gertie . . . it’s a problem and no mistake.”
Mrs. Tim Carries On Page 19